Hello! this my first fanfiction! I really don't know how good it is so please don't shoot me in the face. please excuse any spelling mistakes and such. I really don't know how often I can update but I will try to as much as possible. PLEASE ENJOY!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hunger Games

I woke up with a start. It was the same Terrible Dream I had been having every night since I was a child. The same thin hands grabbing at me while disembodied voices wail with pleading cries. My mother and school mates standing above snarling, telling to ignore them, ignore the weak for they are nothing, throwing stones at the small childish hands as they snarl, shrieks of pain filling the air with each throw, sending a smile to the thrower. But the end was always the worst part. It ranged from me trying to climb to my mother but being ripped apart by the hands, me becoming one of the weak and being stoned to Death, or me joining The Strong and killing the weak, which I could see were children when I stood above them. I looked around my room, my body slowly shaking and sigh, trying to calm my frazzled mind.

Today was the worst day of all, I think with a moan. The day that death stands in front us of and we all watch as the trained idiots win honor through barbaric killing. The reaping. Since childhood the word has given me chills. That word that has created so much excitement in my class mates only brought forth horror in me.

My Stylist enters, the one that my mother had assigned to me since I was 12, and looks at me with a fake smile. I had long since stopped trying to avoid the stylist, because she went straight to my mother with everything I did. I already disappointed my mother enough. My stylist puts me into a strange green dress that looks more like a piece of modern artwork than a piece of clothing, and doses my hair in a strange beehive like fashion. I am small for my age and the large dress does not help to hide that. My plain brown hair looks strange in the hairstyle and overall, I look completely ridiculous.

I walk down stairs and find my younger sister already there in a similar dress to mine. It might look strange on me, but on her the dress looks gorgeous. Her curling blond hair, slim frame, and bright blue eyes make her look like a movie star and the perfect Panem citizen. She is the exact opposite of me. She looks forward to the Hunger Games and has been training since she was little. She is beautiful and popular at school. And like the rest of district one, she either doesn't know of the pain of the other districts or doesn't care. I should hate her. But seeing her so utterly brain washed makes me want to fight even harder for her.

We leave after she eats, though I cannot stomach any food. I have never been able to on this day. When I think of the games, the thought of my sobbing teacher rushes back into my mind, a crumpled letter in his fist, and I cannot help but shudder. I push the thought out of my mind and follow my sister out the door. My family lived in town square since my father was part of the government of District One, so all we have to do is step out the door and walk to the designated areas for girls. An overly excited woman in a modern artwork dress walks onto the stage. "Welcome to the 74th Hunger Games..." after that I disappear into my own thoughts.

I come back when I hear the high voice sing "Ladies first!" the manicured hand reaches into the bowl and pulls out the piece of paper. "Sapphire Clair de lune!"

My heart races and I see my sister look around in triumph, a fierce look on her face, as if she was daring anyone to volunteer. Tears well up in my eyes and my body begins to shake. Images flash through my head of my sister killed, or even worse a savage killing machine, and I cannot bear. I can't volunteer, she would hate me! But another side of me tells me that I must. I know that if I don't others will, but I am too prideful for my own good. As her older sister, it is my duty to protect. I must save her from the world of terror that she has entered, even if it is through her own will.

My hand shoots up "I volunteer and tribute!"

The crowd grows silent. The girl tribute had just changed from the best and strongest to the smallest and frailest of the possible choices. I shakily walked up to the stage. I was an outcast, many people e even said that I belonged in district 3, and that my teacher corrupted me. I glance in the direction of my sister, which is a huge mistake. Her eyes are daggers and burn with the hatred. She will never forgive me and I know that. When I die I will die I will not be mourned, but I rather I die than she. I take my place on stage, my head down not wanting to see any of the other glares that are directed at me. The woman clears her thought and continues, seemingly oblivious of the tense atmosphere that plaques the square.

"Gentlemen's turn!" her manicured hand reaches in, but the name doesn't matter. Everyone knows who will be the male tribute. Sure enough the deep, sweet voice rings through the square.

"I volunteer and tribute." With that Ares Douleur walks onto the stage. A shiver runs through my body. Ares is ruthless and cruel, and anyone else that had wanted to try for the 'Honor' of the games was threatened with promises that were sure to be kept if they stepped out of line. He bright blues eyes and short blonde hair matched his handsome face, and all in all he looked to be a hero, but inside he was rotten to the core. The only thing that showed the horrifying side of him was the long scar that ran from the right tip of his right eye to the right tip of his mouth, a scar earned while he was torturing a bird that he had caught. The bird, in a panic had cut a huge gash in his face with its talon. The adults were told a different story, something about an accident during training.

He comes and stands next to me and smiles as he leans in and whispers "ready to die midget?"

I stay silent but I know that I am, and I have been for a long time, and inwardly might as well have been. If I had not volunteered I would have continued my life an outcast of society, there but ignored and unloved. We are led to the town hall where I know that no one will come to see me off, proving that I am just what everyone says, an outcast in my own district.

I sat in the town hall waiting. What I was waiting for was unknown even to me. I felt nothing. No anger, no hate, no sadness, not even resigned. I felt absolutely nothing, as if my soul had already left the hollowed shell of my body.

The door to the room where I waited opened. I wouldn't have noticed at all had the figure that came in not stood right in front of so that my down cast eyes could see their shining black boots. The familiarity of the boots shook me to the core, raising the last feeling I ever expected. Hope. For the shoes could belong to none other than my mother. Had she come to hug me and tell me that although she had been cruel to me she loved me? That she regretted what she had done when she had made an outcast of her own daught? That I wasn't a total failure? That perhaps I could win? Knowing my eyes were full of the hope I felt, I raised my head to meet my mother's gaze, hoping, no needing to find some compassion there.

Scarcely had I raised my head that her hand came down, her finger nails biting into my cheek. I was foolish to think that she would ever accept me. I lowered my head back down to its original position, my eyes again downcast.

When she finally spoke, she did not yell or scream. On the contraire, no emotion could be felt in her voice. "I see you have failed me once again." She said, her voice never faltering. "You really had us all fooled. Saying you hated these games and refusing to learn, only to take your sister's glory. To think that such a selfish, stupid weak creature came from my womb makes me sick. You are a shame to me and your father." I saw the boots turn and walk away. I heard the footsteps stop and looked up to see my mother slowly turning around, an amused sneer plastered across her face. " I sincerely hope that you make it past the first blood bath," she sneered, the first bit of emotion since entering the room reaching her eyes only to be complete malice. "The later deaths are always a lot more painful and terrifying." With a small laugh she turned and left the room, leaving me once again empty, if even possible, emptier than before.

A few minutes later, guards came and escorted me to the train that was to take me to the capital.

SO what do you think? PLEASE REVIEW!

P.S.

Claire De Lune means the moon in french

Douleur means pain or distress in French