Beautiful valleys. Crisp, clean streams of water, carefully flowing through the forest. Large, tall trees hiding the abundance of animals. It seemed like a place of glory, of beauty.
Truly, it was too bad this was something only read about in books.
Rather than be blessed with the beauty of nature, District 8 was a place riddled with smoke stemming from large factories. Within these factories, various garments were stitched together – some clothes were even for the peacekeepers, who beat them into submission.
How quaint. It had always seemed ironic to him that they created the clothing of their own enemies. They stitched together the fabrics of the Capitol, the bright, perfected fabric only for the citizens of the ruling area.
For the Districts, there was very little, and District 8 was no exception.
Despite creating the clothes for people they would never meet, District 8 had very little clothing. Each person had perhaps two sets of casual clothes, and one special set used only for Reapings or marriages.
Food could be scarce at times, and many people would starve to death during the winter months. No one would aid them; the peacekeepers would merely shrug and turn a cheek, while the other citizens were fending for their own food.
There was no room to care for someone other than yourself.
Ken, age 17, knew better than to hope for help from a Capitol that took relish in watching the lives of children being helplessly cut short. The Hunger Games were required watching for all in their District, and they would all carefully and quietly gather in the town square to watch as their friends, their classmates, their children be mercilessly slaughtered.
The day of the Reaping had come too quickly for Ken. It was only last year when his older sister was sent into the arena, and he momentarily recalled the moment of her death. She had managed to survive several days, but the group of Careers from District 1 and 2 found her.
He shuddered, willing the awful images away. He couldn't think about that, not right now. How he wished that, one year ago, he could have saved his sister.
Now, all he could do was think of her in passing, trying helplessly to purge his mind of the pictures of her cold, lifeless body bleeding onto the soil below.
Ken used his hand to push his hair away from his face. He hadn't cut the hair framing his face since the last victors came tumbling through their District, invading their homes.
Of course, it was a Career tribute from District 2 who came away victorious. He was buff, sturdy, and rather intimidating. Seeing one of the people who had a hand in his sister's death riled him up. Oh, how he wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around the man's throat, forcefully making him feel what his sister had to endure.
He never did.
He eventually left his room and wandered into the family room, where his father sat in a chair, looking at the floor somberly. His mother had died shortly after his birth, leaving just him, his father, and his sister to fend for themselves.
Without his sister, his father fell into disarray. Sure, he worked and made sure Ken had everything he could need, but there was no communication.
Not a single uttered word.
Ken hadn't expected today to be any different; if he were to be honest with himself, he would know that today his father would be more likely to stay silent.
He wanted to scream.
However, he swallowed the urge and returned to his room, dressing in his single pair of nice clothes – the pants weren't ripped or coming apart at the seams, and the shirt was slightly heavy for the weather, but he didn't mind much.
The fear of this day would distract him from any heat spurred on by his wardrobe.
He left their home, with no words spoken to his father. At this point, Ken was fairly sure that he couldn't eat either; the nerves were doing their job of eating him.
He feared he would be eaten alive.
Like when watching the Games, the Reaping would take place in the town square. Ken walked towards the square, his eyes downcast. He did not want to speak with anyone at this moment.
When he arrived, peacekeepers had booths set up, where they checked the children of age for the Games in. He knew the routine by now; they would prick his finger, take a little blood, and then he would move into the square, lining up with the other boys his age.
The other boys, who were scared of this abhorrent roulette landing on them.
Ken flinched when the peacekeeper pricked his finger; he was always a coward when it came to pain.
It didn't matter whether it was pain of the physical kind, or the pain of watching his sister slaughtered.
He stood in the square with his classmates, chattering mindlessly, thinking of the atrocity of these Games. He thought of his poor sister, his sweet sister, who died horrendously because the Capitol citizens wanted to punish them. For what purpose? He knew that the Districts rebelled, but that seemed so far in the past; it seemed obsolete.
It was too bad that a country kept such a grudge.
Ken wanted something to change; he wanted a revolt. He desired nothing more than for the Capitol to relinquish the Districts from the strict control of these games.
What a thought; it was too bad nothing of the sort would occur.
A man walked up to the stage created by peacekeepers in the morning. His hair was a putrid pink color, spiking up in all places. His formal suit matched his hair color, with the fabric shining in the light.
"Welcome one and all!" The man's voice was filled with a kind of happiness – something that belied the truth of this awful meeting.
Because of this meeting, one boy and one girl would die.
"It is now time for the 74th annual Hunger Games," he declared, a grin painted upon his face, with his teeth whiter than anything Ken had seen before. "First, however, we have a very special video to watch."
Everyone turned and the usual video discussing the uprising from 74 years ago began to play, the sound emanating throughout the silent square.
Rather than focus on the video, Ken looked onto the makeshift stage. There, sitting with the jubilant man and several town officials, were two victors of the games.
One was a woman named Cecelia; she was a wonderfully kind woman, Ken recalled. She had helped them after his mother's passing, his sister told him.
The other was a man named Wolf, and he was quite old. Ken wondered how he could still be journeying to the Capitol to help the tributes.
That's right. These two victors would be mentoring their tributes while in the Capitol. It had been years since the District had a victor, and he wondered if this created a burden upon their shoulders.
The video faded out, and the pink-clothed man exclaimed, "Now it's time to select one man and woman to represent District 8! We will start with the ladies." He wandered over to a ball filled with slips containing the names of the girls eligible for the Games.
He put his hand into the opening and fished around, grabbing a uniform folded slip. It was taped shut, and the man carefully pried it open, and he walked over to the microphone.
"Claire Phillips."
The sound of shuffling was heard next, and Ken saw her. He remembered her from school several years ago; her mousy blonde hair was pulled back into a bun on the top of her head. She usually looked severe, but now her eyes were widened, and Ken was certain her lower lip was trembling ever so slightly.
She walked out of the box where they kept the girls her age and walked up onto the stage, her moves almost robotic. She did not look up from the ground, even when she arrived at the stage.
"Now for the boys!" The man walked over to the second ball filled with slips, and Ken's stomach tightened. He did not want his name to be called. He did not want his friend's names to be called. He didn't want Claire's name to be called.
He didn't want anyone to go through this horrifying experience.
As the man reached into the opening of the ball, Ken thought of his sister. She must have been so frightened when she heard her name being called, to know that she would likely never make it home.
How he wished he still had his sister there, to comfort him, to laugh with him, to assure him this would be okay.
The man had grabbed a slip and pried it open, returning to his spot in front of the microphone.
"Kenneth Tran."
His breath seemed to catch in his throat.
This was not happening.
There was no way this was happening to him.
He looked around to see his friends, the people surrounding him, backing away, leaving a space for him to walk through to the stage.
It seemed such a long ways away, the place where he would stand so the entire District would know that it was him being sent to the slaughter.
How they would talk, mourn over him and speak of the ill luck of their family, and how his father would be the only family member left.
As he walked towards the stage, he wondered if his father would even survive this. His legs seemed to be made of jelly, and he knew his arms were shaking violently.
No matter how much he could try, he knew he couldn't help it.
He reached the stage, climbing the stairs and holding onto the banister, afraid of falling to the ground in front of not only the District, but all of the others and the Capitol.
Ken stood there on the stage, looking one last time at the citizens of his District, and he looked over at Claire, who had tears pooling in her eyes.
Once more, he thought of his sister.
I guess it won't be long before I'm joining you, huh?