Hi, I am Fangirl4ever100. This fanfiction is about genderbender Klaine. I don't like the lack of lady Klaine on .net so I decided to make this Hunger Games version for the readers. Enjoy and review.
When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Britt's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our father. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.
I prop myself up on one elbow. There's enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Brittany, curled up on her side, cocooned in my father's body, their cheeks pressed together. Brittany's real name is Primrose, but when she was a year old, my mother called her by her middle name because 'she looks like a Brittany'. This memory made me laugh internally. In sleep, my father looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. Brittany's face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she was named. My dad was very handsome once, too. Or so they tell me.
Sitting at Brittany's knees, guarding her, is the world's ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, big belly, eyes the color of rotting squash. Brittany named him Lord Tubbington and I couldn't think of a better name for the demon cat. He hates me. Or at least distrust me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket (a big one) when Britt brought him home. Lazy kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I need was another mouth to feed. But Brittany begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My Father got rid of the vermin and he's a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Lord Tubbington the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.
Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.
I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots. Supple leather that has molded to my feet. I pull on trousers, a shirt, tuck my long chestnut braid up into a cap, and grab my forage bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from hungry rats or cats alike, sits a perfect little goat cheese wrapped in basil leaves. Brittany's gift to me on reaping day. There was also a letter that she left a letter for Santana, her 'lady lover'.I put the cheese carefully in my pocket and letter in my bag as I slip outside.
Our part of District 12, nicknamed Dalton, is usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour.
