What A Lovely Nightmare

"Whatever you do, just don't fall asleep."

If absolute power corrupts absolutely, does absolute powerlessness make you pure?
- Harry Shearer

"Okay Rhys, off to bed." I sighed contently, closing the old leather book, patting my little brother on the head as I made my way to walk out of the bedroom door.

The 12 year old scowled at me, clearly not understanding the importance of sleep." But what happened to Cinderella?" Rhys whined, his doe-eyes not entirely interested, and not at all curious - he'd heard this story time and time again - in fact, I had a suspicion that the boy 5 years my inferior was using the story as an excuse to stay up, although a I knew he'd much rather be spending his time downstairs, on our tattered couch, watching some mind numbing show about the Capitol on the TV.
I put on a smirk for the pouting little brunette.

Chuckling slightly, I replied "Enough Cinderella for one night, Little man! It's a big day tomorrow!" Carefully dodging the toys littered around the room, I put the book back onto the book shelf, showing him I was not going to give in that easily.

Rhys did not like this one bit. "I'm not a 'little man' ... I'm a grown up!" He whined, eyes showing clear impatience, before adding thoughtfully, "And grown ups stay up all night. It's only 10:30, Eva!" Arms folded, he let out a huff, stomping a little before making his way to the wooden book shelf, his intention clearly to bring the book out again.

Now laughing, I pointed out "That's 2 and a half hours later than your normal bed time. You'll be tired in the morning. And you get cranky when you're tired. Do you want to be cranky for the celebration after the reaping?"

I silently noted that he was always tired in the morning, because what my brother didn't know was that I fathomed that he sneaked out of bed most nights when he suspected I was asleep, watching re-runs of the previous games, a smile on his face. He didn't need to worry about my parents finding out - they were away frequently, at parties and pubs and whatnot. I, however, often had seen the blare of the light coming from the living room, or heard the the insistent droning voice of Caesar Flickerman from the small TV, when I went downstairs to get a glass of water or something of the sort.

Rhys gave me an irritated look, making me feel a pang of guilt. I had always been a push over where my little brother was concerned, and I could not stand the mere thought of the boy being mad with me. To my misfortune, that lead to him becoming more and more spoilt by the day, and he seemed increasingly content with playing the guilt card over me to get what he wanted.

"Can you at least tell me the story of how Finnick O'Dair won the games before you leave?" He pleaded, his last attempt and ploy to stay up, looking like butter wouldn't melt. Oh yes, I knew he loved that story.

I sighed a dramatic sigh , pretending that it was a hard decision to make, even though we both knew that Rhys had won. "Okay then, but you need to get to bed as soon as I've finished! Comprende?"
My little brother nodded vigorously, satisfaction gleaming in his face, plopping down onto his beanbag chair.

I'd memorised this story long ago, when I was about my brothers age; It was the story our headmaster would tell us proudly in each assembly, either not realising or simply not caring that he'd told the story thousands of times before. A story of a young boy who defied all odds, a boy that had been reaped for the games and had came back alive with a great story to tell. A story that, when drummed into kids for long enough, made them believe that the Hunger Games was exactly that - a game, and a glorious game, at that. It wouldn't be long before we'd be having volunteers from our district like in 1 and 2.
However, right now, the eligible contestants were terrified.

Every time the headmaster told us the story of Finnick O'Dair, we would humour him with all the right noises, adding a little nod in all the right places, but our thoughts would always be the same. This just isn't right.
Of course it was crazy to even dwell upon the thought that any of us could meet the same fate as Finnick O'Dair. Annie Cresta, possibly, but not the districts golden boy, Finnick O'Dair. It was more likely we'd end up like all out district tributes for the past 4 years. Dead. Just like Tristan.

Tristan had volunteered for the games. My sweet brother and I had been trained by my father, just in case our names ever came out of that damned glass ball. However, Tristan became too self assured, too confident in his abilities, and recklessly volunteered in the place of another boy. Never made it past the bloodbath, our Tristan. Dad stopped training me at 15 years old, when Tristan had died, and I knew I could never follow in his footsteps. 7 years of training with my father didn't make me even an obstacle in the path of the true careers, District 1 and District 2. If I ever went into that arena, I'd never come out, and I knew it.

Soon I realised the story I was telling had turned more into a ramble. Rhys looked at me and rolled his eyes, probably thinking that this wasn't worth staying up for tonight. "Maybe you should save the story for tomorrow night." His face held an expression of boredom, like he wasn't interested any more. Something surged through my chest, because I knew this would be the look I'd be getting more and more often. Soon we'd be two different people - District 4 was creating an academy to train our children, and I knew Rhys would be in there like a shot. I had started to suspect he was already pestering father for an application form, much to his dismay. In a matter of years, he'd be just like Tristan, and the thought made my chest ache.

He jumped off of his chair and walked over to his bed, hinting that I should get out of his room. I sighed inaudibly.
It was only a few months ago where I could go up to my brothers room, read him a story, and have him snuggle in my lap, eyes wide with excitement at the story unravelling - and I could pretend, in that moment, that I had a perfect family.
I could forget that our parents were going to come back at a unpredicted hour, alcohol still practically floating at the back of their throats, and presumably, they would pass out swiftly after getting through the door, trying to forget the pain of Tristan. I could forget that my Grandmother would be crying in the next room for the sake of our broken family.
As long as I had my moment with my brother, I would be okay.

However, small as this incident that night was, I knew this was signalling the crumbling of my relationship with my brother - Our mutual knowledge of what the games could take from us was the only thing that had kept our bond strong - without it, what did we have?

Pushing down the icy, sinking feeling in my gut, I laughed shakily and nodded to him, before heading out of his door. Looking back tentatively, I saw him slide his hands under his pillow, rummaging for an object that was revealed to be his pocket knife. Swallowing, I hollered out to him "Goodnight Rhys, Love you!" I waited for a second longer than needed, observing his fingers delicately twisting around the knife, like it was just as natural as breathing.
My heart stung a bit as I got no response. His love of bed time stories was the only thing child-like about my little brother.
I just didn't want him to grow up. Especially into a monster like most of the careers were.

I walked to my room, slumping on my bed in defeat. This was it. Sighing, I thought that maybe, just maybe, entering the Hunger Games and being slaughtered would be best for me. Maybe then Rhys would be reminded of just how much the games can take away from you.
I shook my head violently. How dare I let something like that even enter my head? What a horrifying thought. The mere reminder that the reapings were tomorrow made me want to vomit.

I slipped out of my clothes quickly, shuddered at a slight chill, and slipped into my nightdress. It was a pale blue, flimsy little thing that had belonged to my great grandmother. It wasn't as fancy as some of the clothes in district 4, but it was a reminder of when the Hunger Games were fresh, and everyone wasn't so complacent with it's existence.
Apparently it had always been to just slightly too big for her - from what I've seen from the photo's of my beautiful great grandmother, she had been around about the age of 16 more or less, at the time she wore it, and still had the body of a prepubescent; much shorter than myself, and less developed too.

I heaved myself off of my bed, about to close my open window, when I caught a sight of myself in my full length mirror. When my grandmother first saw me in her mothers Nightgown, she told me I looked nothing like her, but just as beautiful, if not more so - I begged to differ, however. No one could be as beautiful as my great grandmother, the woman that had been executed because she fought for what was right.
My great grandmother was certainly beautiful, as was grandmother, from what I had saw from the black and white pictures.
My mother looked as if she could have been beautiful like them, but a few years of alcohol abuse and late nights, and lord knows what else (I had seen strange bottles of pills that I recognised to be from district 6 in her drawer) had deteriorated her looks - she looked ghastly, more so each and every day. She had never accepted Tristan's death, and most likely never would.

She appeared rough on the edges, her hair was dyed bleach blonde, and was straw-like and lifeless. Her dreary brown eyes were framed by thin black lashes, clumped together with coats and coats of cheap brand mascara (a luxury, even in a district like District 4). It was apparent that her partying lifestyle had not done her well - more and more wrinkles seemed to show up on her yellow tinged, foundation-caked face daily. I loathed her for not being strong, as did my Grandmother.

As for me, My brown hair fell in loose curls around my face - brown was such a dull colour in a world where the capitol girls could dye their hair all sorts of bright and vibrant colours. However, it was shiny, had body, and I was proud to say it looked miles better than my mothers.
I had deep green eyes that I inherited from my father, only his eyes looked increasingly tired from lack of sleep, as you can probably gather, with him and my mother being out constantly.
While I looked every bit 17, I was very short, and a tiny 5 ft 2 - I was never allowed to slouch, as ordered by my Grandmother. She had raised me with manners, even if my parents didn't.
I guessed my breasts were nicely sized, although in District 4, none of that mattered, which I was deeply grateful for, as if I kept scrutinising myself because of every flaw and every imperfection of my body and personality, I'd surely go insane. After all, the capitol judged us all on crazy standards enough already - you only had to look at district 4's escort, Elizabeta Button, to see it. She was less of a person, and more of a walking piece of art that no one would want to buy. It riled me up to no extent when she bigged up these games like pageants whilst teetering in those humongous heels she'd wear. We were children, not animals.

A moment passed. Then another. I hesitated, before making my way to my window. Something rose in me, and instead of closing the window as I previously intended to do, I peeped my head out to look out into the inky night, dotted with twinkling stars. "Please show our brother the truth about these games, Tristan." I whispered, smiling a small, tired smile. "Before he follows in your footsteps."

I fell into a fitful, dreamless, sleep that night, anxious for the day to come.

If Tristan had heard my prayers that night, he had sure answered them in the most twisted way possible.

The sun beat down on the fishing district, the sea was unusually calm, and you could hear the sounds of the song birds in the surrounding trees. Ordinarily this district was a heaven - the day would have seemed perfect , the whole town gathered for what could look like a celebration, if it wasn't for the solemn look on everyone's faces. Yes, even a supposed 'Career' district like ours was still no match for the wrath of the Capitol. The peace keepers were everywhere this afternoon, ready to make a move in an instant if anyone stepped a foot out of line. I frowned to myself, my brows knitting together. Peace Keepers truly were the lowest of the low around here, for they didn't keep peace at all - they were more like Fear Spreaders.

Seeing the whole district crammed into the small area outside of the Justice building like sardines had never failed to unnerve me, all the faces varying shades of worried, aside from the young Career hopefuls like my brother, who looked almost ... proud. Rhys had practically been bouncing on his way here. I asked him if he was afraid, to which he replied with a vigorous shake of the head.
If he'd been anyone else's brother, he'd have disgusted me. 12 years old and wanting to go into a bloody contest like the Hunger games - it was enough to make me want to retch.

He must have seen the expression on my face. "Don't worry, Eva." He grinned in a way that would be infectious if it was any other day. "Your names only in there 5 times. There's no way you'll be picked." I smiled at him weakly. If only he knew that it wasn't me I was worried for.

Even as his finger was pricked and he was ushered to the group of 12 year olds at the back, I could see the small smile gracing his features. It hurt me to know someone I loved so much could love a game like this. How could he forget what we'd lost? Who we'd lost?

I rubbed my throbing finger in attempt to soothe it, and turned my attention over to my grandmother, who seemed to be scolding my parents for something or other - how ironic that it was probably for turning up to such a sober occasion drunk - before making my way to the roped area for the other 17 year old girls.

Inside the ropes felt even more daunting than last year. It was almost claustrophobic, everyone touching shoulder to shoulder, the smell of sweat, fear and sea salt dank in the air. No one spoke for the longest amount of time, and I kicked the earth underneath me uncomfortably, suddenly finding the ground very interesting.

It had been approximately 10 minutes in this condition before the young started getting restless. A low murmur escaped the crowd, though I stayed silent. I could hear all the whispers were along the same line of "Where's our District escort?" and "I hope she's not coming this year," with a girl in the row in front of me commenting darkly "I hope no one comes this year."

It was another 5 minutes before I was being jostled up to the front, no one wanting to be the closest to the stage and violated by our late district escorts loud clothing choices when she arrived. I wondered if our districts escort was considered to be beautiful in the capitol. Even if she was, beautiful definitely wasn't the word we'd use to describe her here.

Speaking of the devil, there she was now, teetering out of the Justice Building in vivid blue high heels, and attire to match. I guessed she was going for the colours of our district this year - it didn't make her appear any less hideous.

"Hello, hello, hello!" Elizabeta Button beamed, her voice as fake as her long, pastel lilac wig. "And welcome to the 74th annual Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!"

I tuned out when we were shown a short film, 'a gift straight from the capitol' as Elizabeta liked to put it. I felt truly uncomfortable watching the film - it was the same film every year, and the message was clear - 'this is what you get for questioning us'. I couldn't help but wonder if the Capitol Citizens actually thought it was noble of President Snow to send 24 children to the slaughter every year for a rebellion that barely took off about 3 quarters of a century ago.

When the film finally ended, I let out an audible sigh of relief with the rest of our district. However, I knew the worst part of the games had yet to come.

"I think we should get to naming the tributes, don't you folks?" A shrill giggle followed the moronic question. This woman was really beginning to get on my nerves, and I could tell from the slight falter in Elizabeta's expression that she could feel the ammunosity for her oozing from the audience. Still, she continued like nothing was wrong.

She shuffled to the big, gleaming glass bowl, before flashing a smile at the audience. "This always is one of my favourite bits."
I hate her with every fibre of my being.

Elizabeta sure made a meal of choosing a name, dipping her fingers into the glass ball daintily, before swirling them around. It was a full minute before she even thought about choosing a name. I wondered if she knew the full extent of her power - she held everyone's lives in that delicate glass ball.

And then, between finely manicured fingertips, she pulled out a name. Two words on a piece of paper. Nothng special by itself, but right now, those two words meant everything. She called them out in a booming voice, as if announcing a winner of a beauty pageant.

"And the lovely lady tribute is .." The crowd was silent. No one moved a muscle, breathing hitched. It seemed the surrounding ocean itself went silent for the announcement. My toe was tapping even more impatiently, wanting this to just be over and done with, so we wouldn't have to worry about it for another year. I truly hated this part. Watching as someones life was taken away in a moment , seeing the colour drain from their face as they realised their fate - it just made me feel sick. And never had I felt so sick at hearing a tributes name being spoken in the vile, sickly sweet capitol accent that belonged to Elizabeta Button. It honestly felt like some horrible joke.

"Evangeline Tidswell!" I knew her.
She was the girl who's brother had died in a hunger games not too long ago, with a grandmother that brought her and her younger sibling up in the place of her part time parents. The girl was me. "Evangeline? Come on up, dear."

My face was up on that big screen in an instant, and although I was shocked, it didn't register on my face. In fact, no emotion expressed itself at all on the outside at all. Inside, however, I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry - I wanted to drag Elizabeta Button around that damn stage by her fake lilac hair.

All the girls in the group we'd been herded into - much like cattle, may I add - had turned their heads towards me, with looks of sympathy of their faces that didn't quite meet their eyes. Better me than them, they must have thought. My nails bit into the palm of my hand, making them feel raw. I tried to remain stoic as I made my way through the crowd, my head held high. Climbing up the stairs carefully as to avoid tripping, I stared down our escort, and watched as she shifted almost uncomfortably in her ridiculous aqua coloured stilettos , making her matching assemble making a slight noise as the sea green ruffles rubbed against each other. She regained her composure quickly, before chirping "Do we have any volunteers?" No one volunteered for me, of course. I had friends, but friendship only got you so far when it came to the Hunger games. "Well then, welcome to the games, Evangeline!"

Then she made her way to the male tributes ball, picking out another name, faster this time, it seemed. I swear I heard her say "Levis Macauley!", but she couldn't have. It'd have been to cruel to take away the two only apprentices away from the elderly Mr. Owens, a local fisherman. It would have been too cruel to take such a good friend with me.

I didn't pay attention to any more of this horrible ceremony, making an effort to look directly into the camera before searching out my family in the crowd. I didn't even tear my gaze off of my brothers grief-stricken face as Elizabeta Button ushered me and the district partner I hadn't even bothered to look at into the Justice Hall.
I sighed shakily as the wooden doors closed behind me with a deafening boom, only one thought in my mind.

I'm going to die.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything used in this story, such as the characters.

Okay, here is the first chapter, a prologue if you will (sorry for re-writing it like 117534434 times). How is it? Bad? Good? Okay? Please review. Reviews motivate me, even if they are bad. So please tell me what you think, and if there are any mistake, please inform me. Tell me what you think. That means please review. I love reviews, even if they are flames.

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