The Boy with the Bread

The only window in the room is a worn antiquated old thing with yellowing panes of uneven glass. I grasp the handholds and ease it open, the weathered wood squeaking in protest; I know its tune well, and while I glance around out of sheer reflex, I know the sound will not wake my brother who is sound asleep in the other bed in the tiny room that we share. I shimmy the frame up a couple more inches, and wriggle through the opening out onto the fire escape. I don't bother to close the window behind me; though it is pre-dawn early, the air is already heavy with promise of a hot day. I make my way along the ancient rusted steel frame which I both hear and feel complain against my every step. I know which areas I can step and which to avoid, but still find myself holding my breath a bit as if it's going to make me lighter and not tempt the whole thing to come crashing down around me. It's a game I play most mornings, and have only a few scars here and there, mostly around my ankles, when I've been wrong about a certain rusty spot that has instead given way. I make it to the end without incident this morning, though. The cinderblocks bite into my fingers as I grasp the edge of the roof above my head and easily hoist myself up. I kneel at that spot a moment and brush my hands off on my pants. I crunch my way across the roof and settle down with my back to an old chimney that as far as I can tell, hasn't been used as long as I've been alive, and probably longer. From where I am atop our two storey shop and living space, I can see the majority of rooftops that make up the Merchant area of the village. To the west lies the outer fringe of the poorer Seam housing; beyond that I have a clear view of the Meadow and the fencing that encircles my home of District 12.
This is my favorite time of day; I get these moments to myself while the rest of the town is still asleep. Of course, my family will be up soon to stoke the fires in our bakery and I will start my day in earnest, but I savor this. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the rough stonework, breathing the crisp, still slightly cool early morning air. It hits me that this may be the last time I do this, it is Reaping day after all. At noon, the whole of District 12 will be gathered just a few blocks from where I sit now, in the town square, to decide who gets to die. Or, more correctly, who gets the honour to compete to live. Being from the unfavoured District 12, the likelihood of returning home is slim to none. I dismiss the thought, for the time being anyways.
Tendrils of red sweep their way into the sky to the east. My hands itch to be able to recreate such splendour, capture not just the colours or the scenery, but the very feeling of life that a new dawn brings to each day. It is a shame that there is so little beauty left in our lives, it was long ago stamped out by oppression. When you're as poor as we are, as the whole District is, value is placed on necessity and anything frivolous is condemned as waste. My artistic talents are limited to decorating the few sweets and cakes that we display in the front windows. Well, that and the few pieces of paper that I've salvaged over the years, of which every square inch has been covered and re-covered in drawings of this or that. I look down to where my right hand has been tracing a design into the fine coal dust that covers most of this town. My gut wrenches when I realize what I've drawn - it's a scene from one of the more recent Hunger Games recaps we've been forced to watch. I quickly brush the image away with my hand, trying to do the same to my mind.
The sky is now alive with colour. The birds start up their songs, their melodies intertwining to become a single choir. Movement catches my eye and I can just make out her braid in the distance, bobbing along down the path in the Meadow. My heart leaps into my throat; my choice of vantage point isn't exactly arbitrary. Just as soon as I see her she's gone, melting into the forest that is more her home than the whitewashed shack on the outskirts of the Seam. I feel myself blush even as I think of her; I feel something stir in my chest. It seems silly, but I suppose I've always known that I love her. She first captured my heart when we were young, too young to know what love realy meant, other than saying it to your faimly, robotically, unable to grasp the true meaning behind those three powerful words. I shake my head to clear it, banishing thoughts of her; today is not a day to think about the future. No, today is a day to be thankful that you haven't been chosen, and hope that you are safe another year.
The sun is climbing steadily along the horizon casting brilliant colours into the sky; the sunrise is truly spectacular this calm morning. Below me the streets are eerily quiet as families try to enjoy the morning as much as they can; more than a lifetime ago, the Capitol deemed this day to be a National Holiday. The universal feeling of dread is almost palpable. In just a few short hours we will all gather in the city square as required by law to attend the Reaping.
The Capitol lies on the other side of the continent that was once known as North America, whose ancient borders are long forgotten, lost in a great war that almost ended humanity as we know it. The countries were replaced by one, which is known as Panem. The borders were redefined into a Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, and each District was deemed responsible for providing an essential good or service to Panem's rulers in the Capitol. For District 12, in the area known long ago as the Appalachia, our main industry is mining for coal.
Twelve Districts remain to this day; the thirteenth obliterated almost three quarters of a century ago in the last Great War. My grandfather survived the war and the Dark Days following it. My father has told me some of the horrific stories that my grandfather told him about war ravaged lands, what he and others had to do to survive. When Panem was all but on the brink of complete destruction, the Capitol – in a final desperate offensive move – destroyed District 13 who was thought to have instigated much of the uprising that had led to the war.
The bold move brought victory to the Capitol, which has never been known to forgive and forget.
In a show of total power, they devised the Hunger Games. I can almost hear the District Mayor's voice as he reads the Treaty of Treason as he does each year at the public Reaping, where a boy and a girl from each District are chosen at random to participate as a Tribute. The twenty-four Tributes from the twelve Districts, all between the ages of twelve and eighteen, are shipped off to the Capitol where they are thrown into an arena to fight to the death. The final Tribute standing, or rather alive, as most are badly injured themselves, is crowed the Victor.
There is an upside to being a Victor, which somewhat justifies becoming a murderer; they are showered with gifts and money, and every month for an entire year every person in their District is delivered packages of food and other essential supplies.
Some of the richer Districts have embraced the Games. Districts 1, 2 and 4 had always been favored by the Capitol, so it was really no surprise who they sided with during the war. They were therefore favored even more after the war, the Capitol providing them with ample resources and food. The disparity between the have and have not districts grew, causing even more of a rift in the already divided country. In the well-to-do Districts, becoming a Victor is so revered, and the Districts so rich that they have set up centers for the kids to train in to better their chances in the arena. Each boy and girl of age has their names in the bowl a cumulative number of times for each year they have been eligible. To further skew the numbers and add in another element of terror, the Capitol devised a system where you can gamble your life in exchange for a meager supply of food and oil. By creating this arrangement, the Capitol has created division even within the Districts, and has ensured that the population is ever-aware how dependent we are on them. Being from a Merchant family, at sixteen my name is in the draw a scant six times. I can see a hint of jealousy in some of my friends from the Seam, the poorest area of District 12, who have their names entered thirty, forty, and even fifty times. Words of comfort are worthless coming from me. The Capitol has succeeded in creating unease and distrust even within the Districts themselves.
Suddenly restless, I jump up and bounce on the balls of my feet to get the blood flowing in my legs again. I stretch my arms skyward, flexing my muscles as my shoulders pop in protest. Twisting side to side I limber up my back that has seized up from the lack of movement. My brief respite is over; I can hear my father starting on the pile of logs that need to be chopped up for use in the stoves. It's a mind-numbingly mundane task, and I welcome the distraction from my thoughts.
Grasping the ledge with my left hand, I swing over and land on the fire escape as lightly as I can. I'm by no means a bull of a man, but generally having enough to eat, combined with years of lifting heavy bags and hard physical labour have hardened my body into something I'm more or less proud of. One thing I am not is light on my feet, which plays out as a disadvantage when the structure you're vaulting onto may very well just fall off the side of the building. My muscles bunch and ripple as I touch down on the fire escape. I breathe out in relief when the structure holds firm. I can just barely make out the sounds of yelling emanating from inside the building. My brother, Raff, is on the early morning kitchen duties with mother today. She has a short temper at best, and it is clear by her tone that he has done something to anger her. Most families put aside whatever differences they have to in order to get through today as emotionally unscathed as possible; my mother has never been the sentimental type.
I join my father at the side of our building which has become a small compound for chores. He smiles at me as I approach, but doesn't stop. I return his easy smile and grab an axe. I'm taller than my brothers but not taller than our father, who does fit into the bullish description.
I set a log on the stump, and pick up the axe, tensing my muscles for the swing. I quickly lose myself in the rhythm, effectively losing track of time as well. My back becomes drenched in sweat and my back and arms burn with effort. With each swing of my axe, I try to forget those six slips of paper that my name is written on.