AN: Hi! This is my first ever proper fanfic, and since i love the world of hunger games so much, I decided to write about it! I hope you like it, reviews are greatly appreciated! :D
All hail Suzanne Collins, who made the amazing world of Hunger Games.
She owns it entirely.
(but this story idea is mine)
I wake up to the hum of mechanics, watching as the shades on my window slant, letting in bright sunlight that signifies the start of a new day.
Only this isn't just a new day.
It's reaping day.
"Pixella!" The hammering on my door is loud and impatient, evidently from my mother. She, unlike me, loves reaping day.
Every year, she laughs when they're called out, commenting on them like they're animals, saying how likely they are to win the games. I used to enjoy it, too, and only really realised the weight of the Games when I turned 11, and I'd asked my mother if they really had to die. She turned to me, with an expression as hungry and inhuman as the mutts the Capitol create, and said, "They don't have to, but we'd rather they did." As a little afterthought, she added, "Brings a little thrill into our lives."
It dawned on me how sick and twisted this was, and since then, I've hated it. Part of me was glad I was a Capitol girl so I was in no danger, but the other part of me wants to get out of this place.
I know I can't.
A few years ago, there was a story of a Capitol girl who tried to run away to the other districts with her brother. They got as far as District 12 before a Capitol hovercraft shot a spear through the boy, killing him, and captured the girl, keeping her as an Avox.
A reminder.
Rebels, no matter where they come from, will be punished severely.
Still, that girl served as an inspiration, a dream to get further than she did, to really be safe, away from the Capitol. I'd always wondered: if it was me, could I have done better?
They broadcasted her face on television after the incident, I remember her worn, exhausted, yet determined face staring straight at us. Her striking red hair just added to her remembrance. She portrayed the look of someone who had been beaten, but would not show that they had defeated her. She had been beaten, but only by a little. She could've succeeded. She was close to fleeing the Capitol.
The knocking becomes more insistent, and I manage a croak in her direction. "Getting up, Mother."
I toss aside the silk sheets on my bed and pull on a comfortable black turtle-neck, but as my mother always, always sent me back if I didn't wear something to keep up with the ridiculous fashions of where I live, I put on a pair of bright yellow trousers. I balk at my refection, but I also force myself to wear a matching yellow jacket just so to make sure I don't get put in something even more ridiculous.
The floor is icy cold under my bare feet, so I slip on a pair of fluffy slippers that have three-inch platforms as the sole- another stupid fashion trend- and totter into the living room. Already, a glass of sweet orange juice and a plate of delicious smelling breakfast greets me on the side table next to a chair.
"Pixie!" My mother struts into the room with her own even higher platform slippers. Her skin is a light shade of blue, her eyelashes so long and multi-coloured that they hide her eyes from view. She audibly gasps when I turn to face her, and runs to me with a shocked expression. I know what's coming- I didn't put any makeup, it isn't my thing, but in the Capitol, you never go out with out makeup. A lot of it, too.
"Pixie, hun, we can't spend reaping day without really dressing up!" She takes a stick of sharp blue eyeliner out of her pocket and removes the cap. I sigh in relief when I see that it's a metallic blue, not the neon orange she forced me to put on last year. Blue is fine with me- it's a colour that at least seems peaceful compared to the sharp, fashionable colours here in the Capitol. "And what is that black colour you're wearing?"
"Mother, I've put on a neon yellow jacket and trousers. You can't ask more than that, you know i'm not into these things!" I protest as she puts on countless layers of that eyeliner. She just shakes her head, distracted because my sister just entered the room.
My sister is just like my mother, making me the outsider in the family, the only one who didn't have the same accent as they did, didn't like the trends the Capitol had, and the only one who didn't enjoy watching the tributes be reduced to insanity. It's cruel. Full stop.
"Oh really, Pixie? You're wearing that?" Another thing I hate: my name. I would have rather had the names of some of the tributes- something normal like the victor of the 71st Games, Joanna. My parents decided to call me Pixella because I was small and light, like a pixie, and because there were too many 'pixies' around, they added 'ella' for fun. I'd told them umpteen times to call me 'ella' but either to annoy me or just because they were stuck in that narrow world of 'that's not in fashion' , they continued to call me 'pixie'.
My sister's called Bellaneria, which I feel suits her. She's beautiful, but much of her beauty is fake and Capitol-ized. She's wearing a very puffed up orange dress, and her makeup is thick, just like my mother. They hug and kiss, and I'm not surprised that my mother favours my older sister over me; she agrees with my mother in everything, whereas I contradict and question.
Before long, my father comes in, his hair dyed purple for the occasion, and turns our television on. We're just on time, the reaping of District 1 is just starting. We sit on our chairs, eating while watching at the same time. District 1's escort is different this year, and it's not long before two people, a smallish girl and a large, fierce looking boy charge onto the stage to volunteer.
"That boy looks like he'd win," My father comments, and my mother and sister nod in agreement. He does look like he would do anything to win, but he's looks so brutal, inside, I hope he doesn't.
They're whisked off the stage and the next reapings are played. I tune out for most of them, but I look up in interest when we get to District 12. A small girl, very much like the female tribute from District 11 had just been reaped, but for the first time, there's a volunteer. A skinny girl about my age runs out.
My mother gasps and leans forward, all of us very much interested to see who this volunteer is.
Effie Trinket, the escort for District Twelve for a very long time, cheers. "Well, bravo!" She gushes. "That's the spirit of the Games! What's your name?"
The girl steadies herself before answering. "Katniss Everdeen."
Primrose Everdeen was the girl who was originally reaped. This must be her sister, though they don't look much alike. I'm struck by how strong she looks even though she's just volunteered herself for almost certain death- District Twelve has barely any victors. Even though after, Effie says that she doesn't want her sister to "steal all the glory" I know it was an act of love, not wanting the small child to go to her death. I feel a pang in me, realising how difficult it must have been to make that desicion.
By now, my whole family is applauding for her, excited at this new twist. "She's going to be interesting," my mother says. I hate that use of that word. It's like she's an object, a thing.
I expect the polite applause from the audience blow the stage, as they had from the other districts when the volunteers went up, but this time, there is only stony silence. A silence that goes on for a while, before the crowd, not unanimously but one, then another, then the whole audience put three fingers to their lips and hold it out to her.
I'm stunned, this has never happened before- it seems like a sort of salute, and there is an uncomfortable silence after, broken by the stumbling of Haymitch Abernathy, the only living victor of the games, towards her. He's drunk, like he is every year since he became the only mentor left. He makes us all laugh with his blunders. Afterwards, the reaping of the male tribute, a strong, stocky, pleasant looking boy who accepts his fate without a sound, and the anthem playing all flies past, and while my family are chatting and passing opinions on the tributes, I only nod and smile, one tribute making a lasting impression on my mind.
Katniss Everdeen.
The first volunteer from District Twelve that I've seen, the only volunteer from another district that wasn't 1, 2, or 4. It would take guts to do that, and she's proven that she has guts.
I cross my fingers and hope that she's the one my parents choose to sponsor this year.