The entire district is gathered in the town square, watching, watching the stage with wide eyes. It's just another reaping day, the fourth I've been entered in so far and, although I didn't know it then, it was to be the last. It's all thanks to your daughter, Mrs. Bellamy, that I am still breathing, and if I hadn't been so selfish back in the arena, you wouldn't have received this letter. I know a letter cannot make up for two dead children, a life alone, but it is not the worst I could do at your current hour of need. You need to know what happened in the arena, the parts that weren't televised, or you'll never understand your daughter's final moments. It may not make you any happier, but I'm sure Ayecara would have wanted you to know. And, though it may seem inconsiderate, I have to start with my story.
I am an orphan. Growing up without a dad may have been hard enough, but when I was barely 10 my mother caught a disease from which she never recovered. I quit school to work in the fabric factory earning a meagre wage. The day before my first reaping, an elderly woman named Elada came up to me at the market and asked if I'd like to run her clothes stall when she died. It was the strangest and luckiest of circumstances, so of course I said yes.
Maple Dunstan takes the stage in her usual, rather revealing outfit. A few of the older boys, for whom this would have been their last reaping, wolf whistle, and Maple tosses her hair about, grinning. I have worked at the clothes stall for two years now. I have learned how to make stitches so small you can barely see them, I have moved on from hats and bags and miniskirts, to big ballgowns with petticoats and lace. My work is something of legend throughout the district, and | attract so many customers because, although I am soon to be 16, I look barely a teenager. I am not boasting, although I am proud of my work. It's the only thing I am proud of. I spent months stitching a white blouse and grey pleated skirt especially for the reaping. I hate doing pleats, but I sewed tirelessly, covering my plain blouse with tiny flowers around the collar. I needn't have bothered, I only wore that outfit once.
She struts along the planks that hold her up and gestures to the two reaping balls with the funny little nod and bow she always gives, and then she puts her place hand into the girls reaping bowl. She pulls out a name, and then, after pausing dramatically, reads. "Carlmy Dwell" She reads. I don't go up, and it's not because I don't want to. She clears her throat and speaks again. "Car-Lemmy Dow-ell" And then I know it's me. I shiver as I pass her, well, it's not the most pleasant of experiences, having your own death sentence announced by a woman who can't speak properly. She waits for volunteers and then whips out a slip of paper, blushing ever so slightly. And announces, not any clearer the boys name. "Ay-denne Sof... Sof-Sy"
A boy with wild red hair cries as he takes his spot. I look back into the crowd one last time before I'm led into the justice building.