A/N: OKAY GUYS! I'M REALLY REALLY REALLY SORRY! BUT I HAVE DECIDED TO RE-WRITE THE ENTIRE THING! I JUST...I'M SORRY! BE ANGRY IF YOU MUST! HECK, I WOULD BE MAD TOO! Though in all seriousness, I wrote this story about a year ago, and I just took a glance at my old writing, and it wasn't the best. PLEASE FORGIVE ME! I love you all!
This the story about my life, and it is no fairy tale . . .
The ice-cold wind tumbles through my window, waking me from yet another dream of fantasies. I really wish they were real; life would be so much better.
Today is the day everyone in the Districts dread. The Reaping. Today my name is in there twenty-two times, as I am only sixteen; I need the tesserae to support my family.
The creaking of our wooden floor and the padding of footsteps disrupts me from my thoughts; I quickly identify the sound as my brother. Soon enough he opens the door, making it slam against the wall. "Hey, careful with that!" I warn my brother, "I don't want you to—oh no, Landon."
Tears are streaking down his face, and his lip is quivering frantically. I stretch my arms out and he runs into them. "You're okay," I whisper, stroking his short hair, "you're okay." I feel his tears start to soak my shirt. "I don't want to go!" he sobs. It's his first year.
"I know, I know, but like it or not, we have to. It's priority. Remember the kid last year that didn't want to come and he got beaten in front of the entire District?" I ask, trying to persuade him to come. I know it seems kind of cruel, but it's probably the only way.
I feel Landon nod his head. "B-But I'm so scared." I nod my head as well, "I know, me too." I eventually tug him off me and tell him to get ready, as I start to do the same.
Once he leaves I look in the mirror and flinch, pain hits me like a ton of bricks, I see that my hair is absolutely horrendous. I try to run my fingers through it, but they get tangled and stuck. I grimace at the disaster looking at me in the mirror.
I look away and grab a bucket and thrust it through the open window. With the last nights rain the bucket quickly gets full from the constant pouring of rainwater from the pipes.
When it's full I carefully pull it back through the opening and slowly get out of bed, trying to balance the water to avoid spilling it. Walking throughout the house the floorboards creak under my weight, soon enough I am outside. Suddenly a little more alert from the icy wind.
Without thinking about it too much I pour about half the bucket of water on top of my head. It slides down my body and soaks my clothes. I then grab a nearby soap and squirt some in my hand. Rubbing them together until bubbles start to form I lather it into my hair and my clothes. I know this might seem strange, bathing in your clothes, but it's an easier way of washing them in District 3, also I'm not too fond in exposing my body.
Thinking that I'm about as clean as I'm going to get I pour the rest of the water, making the suds and bubbles slip off my body and clothing and sail with streams of water on the concrete.
I quickly yank off my shirt and ring it out the excess water in the bucket. Quickly grabbing a towel from the clothing line I eagerly wrap it around myself, shivering. Now that most of my body is covered I slide off my shorts and ring them out as well. I hang both of the garments of clothing onto the line and carry the bucket inside the house.
I shove the bucket into the sink in the small kitchen and head off into my room. I can hear the faint rustling of my mother making her bed in her room. My father doesn't like it when things are messy. In fact, usually it feels like he doesn't like anything at all.
I slide the towel around my body, capturing all the little droplets still clinging to my body. Wrapping it around my body once again, I walk over to my drawer and begin rummaging through my only drawer of clothing. With it being an antique it can have its flaws.
My mother then walks into my room, slightly startling me. "Want me to help you pick out your clothes?" she asks. I nod, letting her continue our ritual that we have been doing from years, and dwelling in sadness because of today's events. Two innocent people will have to go in the Capitol, and probably never come back. Most of us call it 'The One Way Trip'.
She quietly rummages though the small selection of clothes I have and picks out a white blouse and a black skirt. This is what my sister wore to her last Reaping, I wish she was here to see us now.
Easily slipping on the clothes and shaking the damp towel through my hair I look into the mirror and see a better version of myself compared to this morning. From what I realized, aside from this morning, I haven't looked at myself in a full year. I have gotten taller, my blue eyes stand out easily, my mother says they're like sapphires, just like my sisters'.
My hair has especially grown out since the last time I have seen it. Last year it was down to my shoulders, now it's lays at the middle of my chest.
Examining the rest of my body I see that I have gotten thinner, probably from not eating as much. I can tell because my collarbones are more prominent than I have ever seen them.
My eyes then land on something in-between my collarbones, a necklace charm. The chain runs along my neck and the charm is hooked around it. The charm is a very very, very old antique, as this one does not have its flaws. It has been passed down through generations.
It is even older the Panem itself—or what I have been told. This was way before the Dark Days,. This charm is a typewriter key, it has a dash and a question mark hovering above it.
My mother passed it down to my sister—Candace, and when she died, it was given to me. Even though it is very old, and I am honored to have it placed around my neck; I wish more than anything that Candace still had it, because it hurts too much. Even to look into the mirror, that's how bad it is. Because every time I look into the mirror I see her, my twin sister, not me.
We enter Town Square saying nothing; my brother is clutching my hand very tightly, if he squeezed it any tighter I would be ninety percent sure I would lose circulation in my fingers.
We easily get caught up in the swarm of paranoid and scared children. A lot of them have heavy bags under their eyes, some even shaking, and others having mental breakdowns. I hope they don't get picked; it is stressful enough as it is.
The line is long, but we move along gradually. Landon is behind me and is squeezing my hand. He knows after this we will have to be separated, he'll have to go where the twelve-year olds go, while I go in the sixteen year old section.
Once I am up at the front the Peacekeeper gestures for my hand. I give it to him reluctantly. He roughly jabs the needle into my finger, I suck air through my teeth. He grabs my bloody finger and smears it on the paper. He then grabs the scanner and it beeps, "Lynn Dylan," he says, "you can go."
I turn and quickly give my brother a hug, I kneel in front of him, and about to give him words of wisdom when I feel a hand on my shoulder that is now roughly escorting me away from the line. "Lynn!" I hear him shout, panic in his voice. "You'll be fine!" I yell back reassuringly, "It'll be okay!"
I honestly hope it will.
The Peacekeeper escorts me to my designated section; before he leaves he gives a respectful nod and walks away without a word. Once he disappears I look around and see if I can find my brother, and I do. He is up at the front—as where the younger kids go—and his body is faced in the other direction so I cannot see his face.
The mayor then walks onto the stage. That makes the tension that was already there even more heightened. He recites the speech he announces every year. Since hearing it, and actually memorizing it, I tune it out.
Then the escort is standing on the stage. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Her voice causes shivers to run up my spine, no ones voice should be that high pitched. "As always," she continues, "ladies first!"
It is so quiet that you could hear a pin drop, but when she said that I could sense the entire District holding their breath. As I look around I see girls holding each other's hands, their heads are tilted downwards and tears trickle down their faces.
Laila then begins to step toward the Reaping ball. She swirls her hand in the millions of names and takes a good minute before she plucks one out of the bowl.
We are dead silent, the only sound is breathing and the clicking of Laila's' monstrous heels. She stops and grabs the body of the microphone. I'm now praying that my name isn't written on that slip of paper. She then carefully unfolds the slip and reads it; she opens her mouth and announces the victim, "Lynn Dylan!"