"Mitchie, are we really going out there?" I guess that Cassia had thought that I was kidding when I said I wanted to show her my tree in the woods. In the woods beyond the District. The 'dangerous' woods. The woods that had helped me to faithfully feed both myself and my three little brothers since our mother died, back when I was nine. My father taught me how to hunt, and when he died four years ago, I took up his bow.
I look at Cassia and smile. "Of course. I said we would, didn't I?" I had. Several times, in fact. Not knowing if I had been serious, Cassia played along. Now that it was apparent that I was quite serious, she seemed a little nervous.
"Yeah..." She's still looking for my face to reveal my long and elaborate joke, but my expression does not change. I glance around to check that no one is watching me and get down on my stomach to show that I'm going into the woods. A bit of dirt is blown into my eyes from the light breeze. I rub it out. "Coming?"
She nods and quickly gets on the ground, same as me, and we both crawl under the bush that stands guard over my entrance to the woods. "Mitch, I'm scared," she breathes, her voice a barely audible over the rustling of the leaves in the wind.
"I'll protect you," I whisper back. I lay my hand on top of hers and give her a warm smile. "I promise."
That night, I didn't even care that we didn't go into the woods.
Imagine that. Only one year before, I stood in the crowd that I now peer out across. Only one year before, I'd become the second champion from District 12. One year before, I killed and I outlasted. I'd almost died several times myself. And now I'm a mentor. The mentor, really. The only one left alive.
Sarenoa, the middle-aged woman who had been my mentor died a few months ago. It saddened me, as she'd been quite helpful during the Games, even if we butted heads at first. But now, with her gone, there is no time to break me into running the Games for our tributes. I start today. Now.
I stare out into the crowd, the teens' anxiety contagious. I know what they feel. And I know what the two unluckiest of the group will go through. I've been there. I've done that. Now I have to do it again ever year, perhaps until I die. At least until we have two more victors.
But this time, it's different. I have little danger of being killed. I don't doubt that it will be equally trying; it has to be horrible to be in charge of two people—people my age—knowing that at least one will die, knowing that you're their last connection to life.
Now I'm wondering as to the age of the tributes. Suppose they draw an eighteen-year-old? Or even one who's seventeen? It would be odd to be mentoring those older than me. What if they don't respect me? Not that it matters. I make a quick promise to myself to help them as best I can no matter what.
I tune out the garbage that Mayor Undersee is required to spew once a year about the history of the Hunger Games and Panem and the Capitol, but I watch his face as he reads the propaganda. The middle-aged man distractedly tugs at his beard as he speaks, and he glances from the speech to the bowls of names and then out to the crowd where I know his eyes try to find his son's. Not even the mayor's family is safe. There is not an at-ease face in the crowd, aside from those who are past reaping age and without family that is eligible to be shipped off to the Capitol.
Half-hearted applause marks the end of Mayor Undersee's speech. Our district representative seems to be the only enthusiastic one in the entire square. He bobbles up to the podium grinning. His bizarrely spiked blue hair does not move a fraction of an inch the whole time, as though it is made of wood. Most of the people in District 12 wouldn't think so, but, from my experience, Skyeton Halesey is possibly one of the most normal people from the Capitol in existence. He lacks the oddly colored body pigments or tattoos and occasionally has actual moods, unlike the cheery facades that the others always seem to wear. He's okay to talk to, if you're desperate.
At the microphone, he clears his throat and proceeds to butcher the English language with his silly Capitol accent. "Such an honor it is to be back in last year's winning district!" He pauses for the crowd to applaud, but it was so quiet that you could hear the anxiety. I fidget, feeling several hundred pairs of eyes on me. My cheeks burn. Not bothered, Skyeton continues on.
"Ahem, yes. Well, perhaps we can have another victor this year!" To my horror, he glances back at me, and I know what's coming. "Give it up for Haymitch Abernathy, our District 12 champion!" He waves me up to the podium, ignoring my best attempts at my pleading don't-make-me-go-up-there look. He literally drags me up to the podium by my wrist.
To my relief—though my whole face has to be a bright red—I do get some applause. District 12 is not normally even considered as a contender in the Games, but I managed to win. I guess that gives me some sort of standing, even as anti-Hunger Games the people in my District are. I wave to the crowd—and the cameras—then hurry back to my seat. Some applause. Skyeton steps back up to the microphone. Applause stops.
"Yes, thank you Haymitch." Pause. "Let us not delay the Reaping further, hmm?" You would need something sharper than a knife to cut the tension in the square. Skyeton makes a big show of walking over to the two spherical glass bowls filled with names on paper. Two glass bowls filled with death.
With a very fake expression of excitement and suspense, Skyeton goes in for the kill. He practically sticks his whole head in the bowl as he mixes up the thousands of names, and I wonder for a brief second if the glass would shatter if his lethal-looking hair made contact with it. With agonizing slowness, he carefully extracts a single name.
This same intentionally drawn-out process is repeated as he pulls a second name out of the other sphere. A turtle could beat him back to the podium. My stomach has tied itself into a knot.
"Congratulations to our tributes..." The pause is an eternity. Just say the names, Skyeton, there's no need to draw this out. He pretends to struggle unfolding the paper. What ever happened to not delaying the Reaping further? He takes a deep breath.
"Deak Oreman and Cassia Rawes!"