Chapter 1:
I wake to the familiar sound of my mother's teapot whistling.
We always started our day with a fresh cup of mint tea, since we had it growing around our gardens like a weed. Mint was a comforting thing to me, it was the essence of our home, it was familiar -however, today was not comforting: It was the day where I find out whether or not I live another year, or get my death sentence.
It was my third year with my name in the raffle of the Hunger Games, where the so-called "jack-pot" was certain death. There's a reason nobody from District 11 has won in over 80 years - as the last victor from here died decades ago.
My mother greets me with a fake smile. I can see the worry behind her eyes - it's not the first time she's lost a family member to the Hunger Games.
I often hear her sobbing at night, crying out her sisters name, begging: "Don't leave me, don't leave me!"
Her sister had been reaped at the age of 12, her first year. One slip out of hundreds of thousands had her name on it, and she was chosen. The idea of her own daughter receiving the same fate terrifies her, and I can hear it in her voice as she says: "Come on Sammy, eat up, you've got a big day ahead."
"Im not hungry" I reply quietly. I have too much on my mind to swallow down the tiny morsel of groosling my mother had prepared. Taking a sip of tea out of my mug instead, I walk upstairs to get changed into my reaping clothes
After putting on my favourite dress, I make my way down the stairs again, giving a disheartened goodbye to my mother as I walk out the door.
Striding nervously down the gravel footpath leading to the town square, I join the queue for third year girls.
After what seems like hours, I finally got to the front of the line and looked away as the Peacekeeper pricks my finger and dabs it on the piece of paper with my name on it.
"Thank you," she says monotonously, as she hands me a sticker with a number on it, "Hold on to this until the end of the reaping. NEXT!" she yells. I walk past the desk and into the square where a mass of children are standing fearfully, as they wait to learn their fate.
A few minutes later I see District 11's bright and bubbly escort, Nina Buckley, walk up the stairs in an outrageous mauve wig, orange pencil skirt and royal blue blouse. She trots across the stage in pink stilettos and speaks into the microphone in an excited voice: "Hello District 11! As you know, today is the day where one handsome young man, and one gorgeous young lady, get the honour of representing your district in the annual Hunger Games! I guess we'll go with the ladies first?"
Silence hung over the entire square as we watched her hand reach into the glass sphere which held the names of all the girls.
As she opens the folded piece of paper, she reads out a name. I didn't catch it at first, but after she repeats it, my heart stops. My stomach sinks. My body chills as I realise that noone else is crying. They dont need to - it isn't them.
It's my name she's reading out.
"Samantha Lilly?! Where are you?"