I smooth down a piece of paper and begin to write:
I remember looking round the crowd. I looked about the crowd to see my broken family scattered about: my sister near the front, my brother near the back, my father standing distant and my mother battered herself, carrying my little brother amongst other parents. People say that families should stay together forever. They say that nothing is more important than family. I disagree. Apart from blood, we really have nothing in common. And after the first four years of my life, when I wasn't independent, we've kind of just gone our separate ways. I don't remember many things but the moment I decided to leave is burnt into my memory, perhaps to discourage me from ever going back. But a good thing about a dystopian society, such as district 12 is that you can just leave home at the age of four and no one bothers to stop you. Everyone else is fighting and dying and has other problems to deal with, as supposed to a 'lost cause' like me. And I turned out alright, I guess. I still went to school, I hustled for my own meals and I just got by- better than I would if I stayed.
The brightly orange escort walked out onto the stage and my stomach flipped. I remembered one thing. There is one thing that nothing I can say or do that could save me if I got picked: THE HUNGER GAMES. She clicked up to the first bowl after saying some crap about "fifth quarter quell- 125 years of sacrifice and pride. May the odds be ever in your favour, blah, blah, blah". It's disgusting that this horrible tradition has survived 125 years. Thanks to school, I have managed to figure out the exact number of victims of the games. 23 dead tributes every year, excluding year 50; where twice the tributes were reaped. I almost didn't believe it when the numbers added up; 2,876 dead at the capitol's expense. This time next year it will be 2,899 deaths. All because of the rebellion and the stubbornness of the Capitol wanting us to forever endure punishment. And let us not forget the victors "honourable victors, pride your victors. You too can be as lucky as them" bathed in jewels and money. Also bathed in the blood of those they killed. Their lives ruined with the burden of death following them. It's sick.
The escort was at the boys bowl 'wanting to mix it up from tradition a bit'. It sickened me how anyone can find this enjoyable so why did she look so happy? From the bowl , she so elegantly plucked a strip of paper out the bowl then opening it at the microphone:
"Darius Westwood"
I clenched my fist around my wrist. I tried not to exclaim any enjoyment but a little wimp managed to escape. I threw a hand up to my mouth instantly and tried to play it off as a plea of sadness on his behalf. Wiped my fingers at the corners of my eyes to pull of the sad look whilst thinking "oh no, not poor Darius. The dickhead bulkier than a sack of coal. Not him, oh please he's too innocent". I stared at him for a while. I wondered how it was possible for one guy to have so much sculpted muscle. His face set in a smile at the cameras. Dickhead I think to myself. How can anyone make themselves happy about being reaped for the Hunger games?
"And now, it's the girl's turn"
She trotted off to the girls bowl and picked out a piece of paper from the middle of the bowl and retrieved it to the microphone. She unpicked it and read out the paper:
"Polly Westwood"
The crowd ahead parted leaving the tiny 12 year Polly. On the stage, Darius's face dropped. No. I thought. Not Polly. She may be the little sister of the arrogant twat that is Darius Westwood but she is not a twat. She is the embodiment of innocence and adorableness and the thought of her being killed or killing just-
"I volunteer as tribute" someone shouted. It takes every face staring at me to make me realise that someone is me. "Oh crap" I whispered to myself.
By the time I got on the stage I pulled myself up. I looked about the crowd once more and saw two scattered families this time: mine, looking distraught, and the Westwood's, also looking distraught. In front of me my sister was a supporting a broken down, sobbing Polly. Her face looked at me almost torn between relief and red sadness. I glanced over my shoulder and Darius had his lip curled back into his face and he looked angry. Why the hell is he angry? His head shook like he was trying to stop himself throwing a tantrum.
"Here we have our two tributes from District 12: Darius Westwood and..." the escort stammered
"Lily Fox" Darius interrupted. After that I didn't feel much, or remember much. I snapped out of my airy dream land later and I felt like everything was real. Things felt more real than they ever did.
I stop writing.
"That's about it I reckon," I say to myself. "My death note basically written on one piece of paper. And now..."
I look around the room and lock onto the window. No that will never open, stupidly flawed if it could open. I lock onto the ensuite bathroom and walk up to it. In my hand, I tighten my grip on the paper, screwing it up and throw it into the toilet. The ink bleeds into the water and I watch the paper degrade in the toilet. I throw my hand at the flush button and watch it disappear. The sad thing is I want that paper to be me; easily escaping and not having to suffer the games. The bedroom door opens. Oh crap.