We all stand in silence, common behavior for the reaping. The sun is hot, melting our clothes onto our skins with sweat as thick as glue. My hands are tingling the way they do when I burn them on the oven rack.
"Welcome, welcome," the district escort, a woman with pink hair, purrs from the stage. Her eyes take in the sea of possible tributes, and I can't help but feel ashamed: we're nothing special.
No particular talents, no extraordinary skills. Hardly any among the crowd has wielded a weapon, and our "training"—if you can call it that—is mine work, a task issued only to those who've escaped the chains of reaping age. We're all underfed, all underestimated, a patchwork quilt of blonde, tan, and gray skeletons.
If Panem was a painting, we'd be a blank spot on the canvas, everywhere else studded with diamonds, reflecting the flavor of their district. If Panem was an ice cream shop, we'd be vanilla, set against chocolate chips and electric mint and play dough rainbows.
This poor woman, I think. Stuck with us, the least desirable district, the one without victors.
As if he can read my mind, Haymitch Abernathy, winner of the second Quarter Quell, stumbles drunkenly onto the stage. He's clearly intoxicated, with red-rimmed eyes and tie askew. Quickly, I take it back—we're still the most unpleasant, but without proper victors. The lucky one who makes it out ends up losing themselves in the aftermath, plagued by haunting thoughts and terrifying flashbacks from the arena. 12's other victor, an 18 year old female in her games, has since passed away, but according to my father she was just as bad as Haymitch.
"Welcome." The escort says once more, bravado gone. The mayor stands, reads the Treaty of Treason, and babbles on regarding Panem history for a minute. I've heard it so many times before, I've learned to shut my ears off. Before I know it, however, the escort stands again, adjusting her wig. "Ladies first?"
The females in the audience breathe in all at once. Out of the corner of my eye, I see several girls cross their fingers.
To the ball she goes, trotting like a horse in her high heeled shoes. She dips her fingers into the bowl, hovering over the envelopes in a fear-provoking, worry-inducing way. I feel like I'm going to throw up, watching her hand roll around and around against all of the slips. Relishing in our paranoia, she takes her sweet time, already acting for the show. She's probably touched the name of every child in our district when she finally pulls one out.
She waits for all eyes to train on her before calling out "Primrose Everdeen."
My heart sinks: Katniss's little sister. Everyone loves Prim.
I crane my neck, searching for her in the crowd. I see her standing in a gaggle of tiny blondes towards the back, her face completely bloodless. She's wearing the outfit Katniss wore to her first reaping, a white blouse tucked into a skirt. She looks nice enough by Capitol standards, which gives me hope: she should have no trouble pulling sponsors. Being related to Katniss, Prim is a pretty girl. Although the colors are different, the features themselves are all similar—fragile, doll-like, the classic definition of beauty.
Prim begins the trek to the stage with clenched fists. She's just about to mount the steps, about to seal her fate, when the voice of the girl I love breaks the collective silence.
"PRIM!"
We all turn to stare at Katniss, who's thrown herself out of the crowd into a clearing. She charges for her sister, her nimble feet kicking up dust as she runs.
"PRIM!" One look from the escort sends several Peacekeepers towards her, who grip her arms in restraint. She breaks free with a cry of "I VOLUNTEER!"
My heart stops, my train of thought spewing out possible explanations.
I heard her wrong.
This is a joke.
I'm dreaming.
The Peacekeepers immediately take a step back. Katniss rights herself, assuming a commanding stance.
"I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!"
I can't breathe.
Not Katniss. Please. Anyone but Katniss...
The escort furrows her brow with a slight smile. "Well! Isn't that nice," she says, "but, I believe there's a small matter of…introducing the reaped tribute, and then asking for volunteers…" her voice falters—the protocol for volunteering here is so rusty, she shakes her head dismissively, letting it slip. "Oh, nevermind. Come on up."
Prim is in hysterics. "NO, KATNISS, NO!" She clings to her skirt like a small child, unwilling to loosen her grip. "YOU CAN'T GO!" Gale Hawthorne, Katniss's best friend, appears out of nowhere to lift her from the stage. As he carries her back towards her mother, Prim pounds on his back with tiny fists, attempting to beat her way free. It's no use, and Gale doesn't let up until she's secured in Mrs. Everdeen's arms.
Long after he returns to the group of eighteens, I find myself watching him. Tan skin, gray eyes, dark hair. Strong enough to handle the work in the mines, handsome in a way I'd never achieve. Not to mention Katniss was closer to him than any girl here: that was just the icing on the cake. I grit my teeth—oh, how I hated Gale.
Katniss mounts the stage, and the escort's snaky arm wraps around her shoulder. "I bet my buttons that was your sister. Can't let her have all the glory, can we? What's your name, dear?" "Katniss Everdeen," she says, in a tone that makes her seem more confident than she actually is.
I feel dizzy as reality sinks in—Katniss Everdeen, the girl I love, is a tribute in the Hunger Games.
The girl I love, however unrequited.
Although she doesn't know me, I know her. Stuffed far back in her memory, maybe subconsciously she remembers having a class with me, or sharing a crayon in art, the stuff that doesn't matter in the end. One thing she couldn't possibly remember, however, is what draws me to her.
My life.
My life, however sad, however ordinary. The one she took a beating to save several years ago with an act anyone else would have overlooked. Whether I'm memorable to her or not, Katniss has given me something I'll never forget—a second chance, a reason to exist, and hope, however dangerous.
This is the only thought in my head as the escort makes her way towards the other ball.
Katniss Everdeen saved your life. Katniss Everdeen saved your life.
All I can do as she unfolds the paper is pray it isn't me: after all, I could never kill the girl with the bread.
ANNNNND CUE THE CLIFFHANGER.
REVIEW IF YOU WANT ME TO FINISH. ;D Evil, isn't it? *laughs manically*
No but seriously, please review. I love them. If you want me to finish I'll update this as a one-shot; I'm no good with chapters. Thanks for reading guys! :)