Reaping day. Great. I can hear Effie's voice in my head, "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour!" The 72nd annual Hunger Games. It's a wonder they kept it going for so long. Feels like it will never end.

I drag myself out of bed reluctantly, and then walk downstairs. Mum and dad are already up, as usual, except they're not sewing or arranging the fabrics that we sell in the shop window.

"Morning, ma. Morning, da," I say sluggishly, rubbing the sleep dust from my aching eyes. They both nod at me solemnly, as bright and cheery as everyone else in District 12 on reaping day. Knowing that one of their children could be dead within a few days.

Drata appears at the doorway, her fair hair tied up with a ribbon, already brushed. She wears the dress that our parents made for her this year - pale pink, knee length with a white sash, and embroidered daisies growing from the bottom that are, in my opinion, a little over the top. Her pale blue eyes match the colour of the ribbon holding her hair in place perfectly, and dimly reflect the little light in the room. The black leather shoes, of which our brother Hrota and I have identical pairs of, shine weakly like moons shrouded in cloud.

"Morning," she mumbles. I feel sorry for her; it's her first reaping, the worst of all. "I tried to get Hrota up but he doesn't want to. Will you get him up, Fiara?"

"Sure," I reply. "Make sure you get something to eat." I give her a hug, and she smiles appreciatively.

"Fiara, I'm scared," she whispers.

"It's okay. None of us will get chosen. I promise." I whisper back, desperately hoping that I'm right.

I walk back upstairs lazily- we have hours before the reaping, so there's no need to rush - and turn to the door on my immediate left, pushing it open slowly.

"Hrota," I whisper. "Hrota. You have to get up."

Hrota grunts, and throws a pillow at my head, which I swiftly dodge.

"Hey, get up lazy bones," I tease.

"I don't wanna," he growls. "Leave me alone!"

I see this as an opportunity to get my brother back after he tied my shoelaces together and I fell face first down the staircase last week.

"Okay then, if you don't want any pancakes, that's fine by me."

Hrota sits up sharply.

"Pancakes? The ones that the Mellarks make?" He eyes me suspiciously. "Why would we have pancakes?"

"It's Drata's first reaping. Mum and dad want to make her feel better." Hrota seems to believe me, since he leaps out of bed and charges down the stairs. I race after him, suppressing a giggle. He charges through the door to the kitchen, almost detaching it from its hinges. Shocked, our parents walk towards Hrota, who is panting heavily from exerting energy so early in the morning and somewhat resembles a crazy grizzly bear. His mud coloured, shoulder length hair hangs scruffily in front of his face, covering his brilliant blue eyes and nose that is still crooked from the time that he got into a fight with one of his friends at school. Drata starts to laugh, which sets me off as well. Soon enough everyone is laughing except Hrota, who has realised that I lied about the pancakes and is sulking in the corner.

After eating a relatively normal breakfast of bread and cheese, I head upstairs to change into my dress. As I open the door, excitement fills me; mum took it up to my room whilst I was still eating, and I haven't seen it yet. But when I remember the reason for which it was made, and the enthusiasm leaves again. Then I see it.

The most beautiful garment I have ever seen; the same brilliant blue colour as my eyes, with a paler blue sash, made entirely from a smooth material that could not be silk, as we cannot afford to wear silken clothing ourselves, but is so similar that only a tailor could tell the two fabrics apart. Shiny metal buttons line one side of the dress, that look slightly out of place, but tastefully so. As I examine it more closely, I see small, white beads sewn into the neckline, all unique and all beautiful. And for a moment I feel like the luckiest girl in all of Panem.

Mum comes in as I button up the dress. It fits me perfectly, of course, and hangs just above my knees. She smiles as I run to hug her. Then, without a word, I sit on the bed and she brushes my long, wavy blonde hair, as she does every year. And we just sit there, silently, thinking about the thing that nobody in Panem will be able to take their minds off this morning.

The Hunger Games.