I trudge down the alley, kicking discarded chips and wires out of my path. That's what you get behind abandoned factories where only the occasional family lives now. Abandoned factories, where anything can happen. An abandoned factory, where I just left.
They say life is supposed to be glorious, being beside the Capitol, neighboring their people. But what's the difference, really? Here in District 3? Nothing. Even the number system of the Godly skips us. Everybody who's anybody knows about the Careers; the people who are from the districts cherished by the Capitol; the people who gladly train their kids to become tributes for their slaying. Districts 1, 2, and 4. But where's 3? See? Nobody cares about us.
We here in 3 have our fair share of torment and misery; people hungry, people dying - people being executed by electrocution for stealing food. That's what our district's made for, isn't it? Electricity. Yeah. Our own products are made to kill us off.
I, meanwhile, am being killed off by something else. As I slog past the old gray and blue buildings; all these thoughts scattering through my head; something else weighs on my mind. I pick at my shirt, unbuttoned and ripped inside out. My hair looks as though I myself have been given an electric shock.
Who will believe me?
No one. Of course, nobody will listen, because he is the son of a Peacekeeper. Important. Official. A keeper of Peace. And men who enforce peace don't…well, they don't let their sons do what just happened.
What does it matter? I say to myself. I turn right at the upcoming crossway and make due for the more inhabited outskirts of town. What does it matter?
At the main sidewalk, I begin to slow my pace. Home isn't that far away now. And I'm not sure I really want to be there. Not sure I'm ready. Do I have to go home? Can't I just run away?
Mom is opening the door. I can see her a couple dozen yards away, brushing out the dust and grime of the shoe store we own.
Tomorrow is the Reaping.
My mind isn't spinning anymore. I've figured it out. Tomorrow is the Reaping. Tomorrow is the day. The day all the children of 3 will fall victim and stand vulnerable before the town square, wondering and praying that their name is not chosen from the glass ball. The Reaping, where a boy and girl tribute will be chosen for the Games.
And the Reaping, where I am going to be that girl.
Yes, I will be that girl; because I'm going to volunteer.
