I wake up to see a beam of golden sunlight streaming through my window, illuminating the dust that drifts through the air. Ah, summer sunshine. I know that I have work, but I feel so peaceful here, bathing in this glorious sunlight. Suddenly, a massive weight drops into my stomach as I remember today's date. Reaping day. I unwillingly step out of my bed and wander down the corridor to our kitchen. No one else is up yet so I throw on a top and trousers, grab my working belt and creep out the door.
Not many people are awake. They don't want to confront this date, the date that two of our children between 12 and 18 will be reaped to go into the hunger games. The date that two of our children will leave here forever, only to return about a week later in a plain wooden box. Who knows, it could even be me. Being 18, my name would only be in the reaping bowl 7 times, but like much of district 7, my family have needed me to take out tesserae and so I have 35 slips. It sounds bad, but district 7 is one of the larger districts, and most families are poorer than mine, with more kids each taking out tesserae. Luckily, my brother and sister are both 13, and as of yet, neither of them have had to take out any tesserae. I'm keeping it that way.
After a five minute walk I arrive at the edge of the forest and am over-come by the luxurious scent of pine, willow and mahogany. This scent is the one thing that makes me feel sorry for the people in the Capitol – they will never know this scent. Yeah, this scent means a hard, 10 hour work day throwing around a heavy axe for next to no pay, but when you're at the top of a tree, stretching your aching limbs, looking over the vast area of wood, all the pain recedes and you're left with a beautiful view of a picturesque, natural scene.
I walk into the woods until I find it. My tree. It's a wide, strong oak that looks impossible to climb to anyone that doesn't work in the trees. If you look carefully you can see the small groves in its bark, the stumps along its side. When you get high enough there is a ladder of thick, strong branches. I climb up to my favourite seat and gaze through the fresh leaves into the distance. Eventually though, I pull myself back into reality and slowly begin my climb down. At the bottom my initials are engraved into it. I wonder through the trees until I find a mahogany one. They're very difficult to climb, but worth the most per kilo. I find a willow near it and climb that, until I get high enough, and then I jump through the air, locking my limbs around the first branch I reach. Phew. I begin to use my axe to cut at a big branch, and then a few smaller ones for carving. My axe is lodged into a branch when I see a squirrel in the willow which I had climbed. It sat there, unknowing of my company. I slowly raised my knife and throw it, killing the squirrel instantly. Quickly, I finished what I was cutting and grabbed the squirrel. Technically it's illegal to hunt in these woods, as they belong to the capitol, but there is no-one around today so I take my prize home. It will make a nice stew for after the reaping. I run home and give my squirrel to my mother who begins to skin it. I take one of the small mahogany branches (I can sell the larger ones tomorrow when the market opens again) and begin to carve. I make a wooden spoon – not one of my best, but years of practice means that I can almost do this blindfolded. With some of the scraps I carve a small tree to make into a necklace. I thread it through a piece of broken shoelace and tie it around my neck.
"You better get ready, it's almost time." My mother warns me. I scrub myself clean in some water and find my reaping outfit. It's the same one I wore for the past two years: a pale green shirt, black shorts and a pair of earrings that have been in our family for generations. I also put on my new necklace and a pair of uncomfortable sandals that were my mothers. When I stroll into the kitchen everyone is eating breakfast. My siblings are arguing as usual but, as my mother says, most twins do.
Before I have time to sink my teeth into the delicious fruit that lies out for me, the reaping bell tolls. It's suddenly like someone has wiped a blackboard clean because all of our happy conversations and smiles disappear and are replaced with looks of horror and dread.
"Well, off you go," my dad says, his voice breaking on the last word.
"It's fine, we'll all be back here in an hour. Hey, squirrel stew for tea – your favourite!" I force a smile as I tap my sister on the head.
"Good luck!" my mother calls as we trudge towards the town centre.
Our fingers are pricked, our blood tested. Finally, we walk into our correct age and gender sections, waiting for it to start. Finally our escort Urgius Maddweirdo (or as we call her Ugly Mad-weirdo), teeters up to the stage in her high heels.
"Good morning! What a lovely day for the reaping eh?" she squeals in her stupid capitol voice. "Now, you lucky things, here is a very special film all the way from your capitol!"
We are forced to watch a propaganda film that advertises our lifestyles as brilliant, easy ones.
"Wasn't that just great! Now, the moment you've all been waiting for – the reaping!" Urgius dramatically saunters over to the girls reaping bowl with her usual "Ladies first!"
She slowly plunges into the bowl, dragging the moment out to bring on some suspense for the capitol viewers. Finally she picks a slip and shuffles back to the microphone. She clears her throat. There is silence. "Willow…" she begins, pausing. Ok Willow. That is my name, but it is also one of the most common names in district 7. I try to avoid my sister's worried gaze and watch Urius as her lips form the surname. "Dandilious!" she yells triumphantly. I freeze. No, no this is not happening. The other eighteen year olds make a path for me and give me sympathetic and pitiful glances. That snaps me back into reality. I will not look weak and have people pity me. I stroll out of my section and begin to strut to the stage, head held high.
"No, I volunteer!" shrieks Mandy, my sister. What is she doing? She begins to run to the stage but I beat her and pull her back.
"Go back." I warn her, walking up the wooden steps to the stage. The male tribute is reaped and I'm worried that my brother Oak might be as crazy as my sister and volunteer, but he doesn't. I shake hands with the male tribute, a sixteen year old, and am marched into the justice building…