Prologue
The sunlight is harsh as it filters through the small holes in the thatched ceiling, every ray of warmth lights up the dawn of a new day; a terrifying and exceedingly horrible day. It begins to rise, from the East as usual, yet the shabby foundations of my hut on the beach do little to block it from my view on the bed. Although I love my home and chose it for a reason not even two years ago, today I loathe the early morning sunrise. If it were any other day, it would be enchanting to watch the darkness night brought be cast away in strokes of red, orange, pink and yellow. Unfortunately, this is no ordinary Monday, no ordinary June 24th, no ordinary school day's morning.
Yes, if it were any other day than today, I would be delighted to be awoken as per usual by the gentle light; nature's perfect alarm clock. Just yesterday morning I had went through my normal routine of scrambling through my given weekly rations to find a jug of milk to pour a little glass while I watched the sun rise. If it happened to be a windy day or maybe even a summer shower, I remain indoors and lean against the windowsill in perfect harmony with the silence. I love my home as it is the Eastern-most hut in our section in District Four, meaning I am always the first to greet a glorious new day. Many others appreciate and envy what this house gives me, but no one else would have dared to choose it except me.
It had not been used since it was built perhaps a few decades ago, mainly as there were no fish left in the lake merely a few yards away, there was only tranquillity and other various wildlife which would do nothing to fill the Capitol's fishing quotient they rely on us to provide. I was still very young and at school, no need to find a job in the fishing business yet, so I didn't mind the lack of food just outside my door. Perhaps it was also because the huts around here weren't spacious enough so people searched elsewhere for a home. I also knew mine wasn't too sturdy to begin with, as a few storms that came and went over the years had nearly destroyed it, and the Peacekeepers could care less about fixing it, so that was another reason why it was untouchable. For whatever reason, it was left abandoned even before I was born. I like to think it was fate or some sort of force that left it just for me to find.
The carers in charge of me were certainly pleased with my choice, as it was so cheap it was practically free -provided I did the repairs. As soon as I was of reaping age, I opted to live here. If I repaired everything it gave me the option for them to provide me with weekly rations and the odd gift every once in a while. As soon as I was out of their hair, I got started with tightening up the frame of the thatched and woven beach hut with anything from seaweed to a form of rope the net makers either gave me, or I found. It didn't take long for it to be in good shape, and there were always the mornings which had attracted me so. Many people are indeed jealous now, that at 14 years old I have the best home in all of District Four, and it wasn't even the size of some of the boats I'd seen.
It's a shame that today brings so much horror across Panem's Districts, as the morning was shaping up to be a flawless day for going about your hobbies; whether it was swimming, fishing, collecting insects, material finding, net crafting -anything! As if it can whisper in my ear, the sky tells me that the clouds that were there would come to pass within the hour, leaving a brilliant warm day filled with sunshine. The kind of day where everyone takes the time to appreciate the weather, and refrain from any major work to take the time to relax and bask in the glow of the rays buried in the sand or the water. I watch the sun rise a little further from the view I have sitting in bed. I hardly have the energy to do anything different considering I have only closed my eyes, finally drifting away into sleep's embrace when they fluttered open again to see the morning.
I have had hardly any sleep throughout the hours I've lain across my covers, sprawled out in agony thinking of the scenarios that today brings. Sometimes I was thinking about whose name will get drawn out of each large ball, filled to the brim with multitudes of slips with fellow children's names scrawled across each of them in very careful handwriting. When I tried to keep my thoughts succumbing to the scenario where my name is drawn, I tried to calculate the odds of people in my class. If you're 12, it's placed in the spheres only once, 13 and it's twice. With my birthday having passed in April, my name is in there three times. I reassure myself, the population of District Four is relatively large at around 17,000, which means there will be possibly nearly 10,000 slips between the girls ball and the boys ball. If I'm just 3 out of 10,000, the odds are so slim it's barely worth worrying, I haven't taken out tesserae thanks to the weekly rations, besides, District Four is a Career District and we've won quite a few times in comparison to others. This means we're all generally well fed and we know some basic survival skills, so we have something of an advantage. No one needs tesserae, no one needs their name in there more in exchange for food, yet some still opt for it in the hopes that they'll get the splendid honour of visiting the Capitol.
Even the children in my classes at one of the many schools across Four have the sick aspiration and need that only being Reaped will satisfy. I'm 'delirious'. Apparently also 'weird'. 'Strange' even, sometimes. I have my views, they have theirs. I wish it could be left at that. Yet despite my nonchalance to their opinions which the vast majority of Four share, I cannot be left alone with my own. I find what happens today to be despicable, and what follows that is nothing short of incredibly horrific. The boys in our year don't seem to mind as much, they just leave me be as the girl who sits in the back of the classroom, who says nothing to them at all. However, the girls often drag attention during discussions about the Hunger Games to me and why I should be over the moon that I could have the honour and respect of being a Tribute, whereas I would rather tie myself to an anchor and drown whilst a shark finds me to be something of a tasty treat.
Hmm, when I think about it, there's not much difference.
They often make a point about how they've opted for tesserae, and they're absolutely dying to get up on the stage in their silly dresses alongside Nova and Mayor Rowntree, plus all the rest of the people sitting safe and sound upon their high chairs, smiling down at us like they find us particularly interesting, as if they're studying us like one studies a good quality fish or a net; trying to see strengths, trying to see weaknesses. In our physical activities or outdoor lessons, we may learn a trick or two about something that could help us if our names are drawn, and the very same people will take joy in it and express their prowess. Some part of me always knows that when I remain silent and walk away, there's another part of me that longs to pick up a trident or a fishing spear and show them all that there is more to be than an unchanging, expressionless face.
I tend to be cold and untouchable when people who are so high and mighty and believe they are so much better than others attempt to talk to me. I put on a mask of boredom and hatred, and it echoes in my voice.
The real me finds beauty in everything, the real me is the girl who chose this little hut because of its promise, not what it was to begin with. They don't understand, and nobody has ever known me to be myself around them unless they are young, strangers, social carers, neighbours or local adults who own shops. I'm very much polite and happy around them, but not to the people who target me and insult me on a daily basis.
All this is running through my head -actually, sprinting through my head as when I stop being trapped inside my own head and come to my senses again, the sun has barely moved two inches from where it just was. Jumping out of bed, I turn around and pat the soft mattress, taking extra care tucking in the corners to try and avoid thinking about today. I place my childhood bear just on top of the pillow, and smile at the comfort he's always brought me. My next task is to move a single metre forward to reach the basket which holds the food and drink for the upcoming week. It seems that when they delivered it yesterday, they were a bit more generous considering today is what today is. I mentally kick myself as I notice a little vial of the sleeping stuff they used to give at the orphanage to calm restless sleepers and the children who have nightmares, if only I had an appetite yesterday I would've checked and been able to sleep as well as one could last night.
Unfortunately, I have let that opportunity pass me by and so I settle on some bread with some of the cheese they gave me infused with cranberries, alongside my usual glass of milk as well. My breakfast is little, yet satisfying. It's all I can manage yet it gives me the healthy nutrition the orphanage always make sure to prescribe to those of us counted on to live on their own. I could probably be even better fed if I still had my parents or any known relatives, but the only person I know of in my family is me. Besides, I'm sure fish gets tiring after 70 years or however long you hope to live.
Stepping outside is quite a nice feeling. My bare feet feel the soft tickling sensation of the sand, and my restless mind and heart are numbed by the warmth coming over me. I take bites out of my breakfast as I walk towards my little place in front of the lake, and focus on the relaxing sensations I'm letting the day give me. I then take small sips from the glass I have dug a little cup-holder for in the sand, and try to think of everything except the haunting and looming possibility of my name getting picked. Today could be the last sunrise I see in District Four, so I hardly blink and simply watch, not missing a second of it.
When the pretty colours are starting to fade and turn into a perfect blue, I close my eyes and hope for maybe a small nap, but I know the chance is that I will oversleep and miss the Reaping, and probably get killed. Also, if someone were to find me I'd look a mess in my nightgown. You have to at least attempt looking presentable on Reaping Day. Instead, I take my dishes back inside my hut and close the door gently behind me, just as next door's door opens. It'll probably be Mrs McCarthy putting the laundry out to dry under the sun. I feel sympathy for her, knowing that both her children face their first reaping today. They're twins, and lovely boys too, facing their first year. I didn't want to ask about tesserae because I knew it was both a private matter and a heart-wrenching one. My suspicions said perhaps yes, as Mr McCarthy had passed away from a disease probably this time two years ago, when I faced my first Reaping. She did well, bless her soul. She continued on despite mourning and did most of the collecting jobs for many of the shops nearby.
I would have normally said hello to her, but after shutting my door in need of privacy I suspected she'd want privacy herself. Instead, I walk to my tiny attachment to the hut which is the bathroom. After selecting some clothes I received for my birthday, I get changed. It is quite a nice dress, I suppose, it's a pale pink colour just like the sunrise I had watched. It has long sleeves, but the fabric gently falls around my slight frame in a way I think is attractive. After all, you have to look nice if you're going to appear on TV for a few weeks. Despite wearing sandals or being barefoot most of the time, I do have some nice boots for special occasions or for when the weather requires sturdy footwear, so I choose them and slide them on. I have to walk for a little while, getting used to the way they felt again as the leather nips my toes. I haven't worn them since April. Afterwards I return to stand in front of the mirror and attempt the annual task of making myself look like somebody I am not.
I begin by combing through the dark waves framing my face but the smile I've been working on begins to fall. I hate doing this every year, as if I care about looking pretty for the audience. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, I persevere on through my frowning, and move over to the most important piece of all; my mother's ornate hairclip. I will admit, it is the one thing I take pride in wearing on Reaping Day. I never knew my parents, yet I always knew that this was the only thing left of my mother. It's a beautiful butterfly, and in its wings are pink gems of which names I do not know. I let my hair fall forward, and take the two longer layers at the front and tie them behind my head, onto the back of my hair. The clip keeps them in place and I think I look nice, but it doesn't show in my eyes. Speaking of which, I do actually think are pretty without all this pretending. They are a deep green, just like the foliage surrounding the lake. It's common in District Four to have fair hair and blue or sea-green eyes, so it's a subtle thing that marks me different from the rest of them.
Standing around now that I am finished isn't doing me any favours. We are to be at the incredibly large courtyard outside the Justice Building in under three hours. I have to leave now or I probably won't make it on time, especially as I must go on foot. I begin uncontrollably shaking, however, at the prospect of leaving the sanctity of my house. It is possibly nearly 20 minutes later when Mrs McCarthy and her boys leave. This drives me to get a move on, no matter how unprepared I am. Even last year, I wasn't too bad, but seeing how nervous I am currently just gave me a terrible feeling today. A terrible feeling that I am not coming back home after some unfortunate child gets Reaped and then someone volunteers in their place. I just don't know why at all I should be worried, because the chances are already slim and there are always volunteers to take my place.
Still feeling ill, I burst out of my door in a run and glance back to shut the door. I take one last peek at my tiny hut on the lakeside before catching up with the families ahead trying to make their way without boat or car access. Each step feels torturous, and feels extremely important.
After all, I might get murdered in a few days time and never walk these paths again.