CARELESSLY over the plain away,
Where by the boldest man no path
Cut before thee thou canst discern,
Make for thyself a path!
Silence, loved one, my heart!
Cracking, let it not break!
Breaking, break not with thee!
-COURAGE by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
I didn't mean to volunteer for the Hunger Games. It just kind of happened.
Why I didn't mean to volunteer: Even though I live in District 1, a Career District, going to and winning the Hunger Games was not on my list of priorities.
Why I didn't care about the Hunger Games: Growing up in District 1, you are typically praised on how likely you'd be to survive in the Hunger Games. Parents teach their children from birth about how to win, and bringing honor to your District. My parents didn't. My parents taught me sciences, and how to play this instrument called a piano. They taught me to want to learn. My mother loved music the most, out of all the things she taught me. That's why my name is Lyric.
How I volunteered for the Hunger Games (unintentionally): They pulled my name out of the bucket. On my way up, I saw my mother crying, like the mothers in the higher-number Districts do. Someone volunteered in my place—I didn't see who, I was too focused on my mother's face—but I didn't let them take my spot like I would have usually. I told the Capitol representative that I wanted to go to the Hunger Games. I didn't tell them why, though—I lied and said I wanted to bring 'honor' to my District.
Why I volunteered: When I saw my mother crying, I realized she thought I was going to step down. Let someone else take my place because I thought I wasn't ready. I need to prove her wrong. I need to prove myself. I need to prove myself to myself, not only her. And I'd rather be dead than be a coward.
What happened next that stunned me: The girls are always called first. The boys are next. The boy who was called next was a boy I'd never met before, but always recognized from afar. I could never put a name to the face, though. The boy was elusive. Now I had him. His name was Piers Stellen.
What Piers looks like: He has bronze-blonde hair, and green eyes. He is muscular, but not overly buff. The only words that come to mind are incredibly handsome, or très beauif you were talking to my mother—she has a thing for dead languages. I think he's sixteen, a year my senior.
After Piers and I shook hands: He winked at me and wished my good luck.
In the Justice Building: My mother came and said goodbye. So did my father and older brother, North. North gave me a necklace he had bought me for my birthday a few years ago—it was a music note, to remind me of name. It sparkled on my neck in the light and I hoped my stylist would let me wear it.
What my mother said to me right before she left: "I'm glad you chose to stay as Tribute. Don't screw it up by dying."
So much for caring more about learning than the Hunger Games and fighting.