This, as it was suggested to me, is a detailed account of the 225th Hunger Games from the point of view of a tribute from District One.
"For the ninth Quarter Quell, as a reminder to the rebels that the Dark Days lasted for four deadly months, the Games will take place in a series of four rounds, the victors of each round facing off with one another until one remains. A... tournament of sorts."
My mother, listening from another room, squeals in delight.
"Oh, I love the Quarter Quells! You know, I was your age when the last one occurred. So interesting. There was no victor! They killed off the last tribute standing with a flock of bird muttations. She screamed for at least half an hour straight..." she rambles on and on, like our Capitol escort, Shrill Sweden. She never shuts up.
I've never understood my mother's fascination with the Games. She actually enjoys them, bets on them even. I bet anything it's the main topic of the pillow-talk that takes place after she's done disgracing our family with one of her lovers. My father is too busy packaging and shipping District One's exports to notice her sexual betrayal. But I notice.
Of course, who could blame the stumbling fools who have the great honor of laying in her bed. She's a beauty, my mother, that's for sure. Long locks of copper hair, full red lips, long legs, big grey eyes. My brothers share these same characteristics. But me? No. I look like my dad. Short, slightly heavy-set, with straight ugly hair, small lips, and green eyes. Oh, I do have curves, though. My mother always comments on my figure, how I got it from her and how I should thanks her for the way the boys stare. Not at my face, though. Lower. But why should I thank her? I have no interest in them. And their only interest is in the fullness of my bottom, the size of my breasts. My mother tries to dress me in more provacotive clothing, but I prefer my sweatshirt and jeans.
One day, things will be better for me. I'll move out, get a job, and live life happily. Just four more years. Four years until I turn eighteen, and then I can escape this fortress of lies and brutality. I will live on the other side of the district, where I'll never have contact with my mother or three brothers. My father, I can handle. We have much in common. We both despise the Games more than most in this district, and share the same interests; such as literature and science. He gets to weigh and polish the luxuries that get sent to the Capitol; even sneaks a few jewels here and there for his only daughter. Maybe, when my mother is dead and he is too old to care of himself, I might even take him in.
But for now, I clench my teeth and barrel through life, drowning out my mother's groans of pleasure with Bach, walking my father home from work, tolerating my brothers' taunts and pranks.
It's dinnertime, so I set the table just as my father comes home. My mother gives him a half-hearted kiss, but he's too fatigued to notice. He slumps into his chair and pokes at the spaghetti with little interest.
I clear my throat, seeing an opportunity to bring up a conversation. I never miss a chance to talk with my father.
"Anything exciting happen at work?" He stares at me blankly. I've seen that look before. It's that state of mind where you can only focus on one thing at a time, so you don't rush, or speak, or sometimes even move. I sit back, disappointed. Whenever my father drops into this heavy-eyed mode, the only thing that can bring him back is sleep. So I'll be dealing with my mother alone, tonight.
My father's hand moves toward his torn pocket. It's not a big tear, but I remember how it got there. It was right after I learned of my mother's miscellaneous guests. I begged my father not to go to work, not to leave me alone with her. Of course, I didn't tell him that. I told him I wasn't feeling well and I wanted him to take care of me. He told me my mother could do that. But I grabbed his jacket as he left. My grip was one of steel, but he's stronger. With one mighty tug he freed my hand from his coat, but not before ripping it.
He never let me repair the tear. He'd always say, "No, it's something to cling to when things get pretty bad." I know the feeling. When I get nervous, I brush my hair. He stares at the hole in his pocket. My brothers play pranks on me. My mother, being the whore that she is, defiles random young men. We all have our ways of staying sane.
I expect the hand to stay there, hidden away, safe from the world. But it crawls back out, this time holding something. As soon as I see the light glinting off the surface, I know what it is.
"A charm bracelet!" I squeal, and he closes the clasp around my outstretched wrist. "Oh, thank you!"
His mood disappears and the smile breaks out on his face. It seems he has tricked me. He's in no other state of mind than his own. "Anything for my little flower."
My mother rolls her eyes. He used to bring her gifts, before the extended hours at work and new overseers made any slip of merchandise into his pocket impossible to go unnoticed. After about a month of waiting for him to return in the dead of night, only to see him empty-handed, she got bored.
Eventually, the demand for these products slowed and many workers were laid off; including the new overseers. So my father began bringing gifts home again, only she didn't accept thim. Their flame had burned out. As our relationship grew, however, he brought these gifts to me.
I examine each bead, each charm on my wrist. Clear-cut diamonds, pearls, emeralds, and dots of sapphire decorate the wire where the sentimental charms do not take up space. There's a heart, to represent his love for me. A flower that stands for what I can only assume is my name. I count fifteen charms in all, things he must have been collecting and made himself. As I slip it over my hand to examine it in my fingers, my mother decides to go to bed early. More likely, she has a lover waiting for her upstairs.
My dad- I mean, my father and I spend the rest of our evening watching a rerun of the Victory Tour that happened not too long ago. I remember it all so well. The girl who won last year was from District Four. She'd killed both the tributes from One. They were the last two to die. But it's nice to see the poorer districts not celebrating, giving unconvincing claps and cheers as she accepts her plaque and gives a speech. I give a silent thank you to districts Five, Six, Nine, Eleven, and Twelve.
Days, weeks, months wiz by with nothing but a few memories left behind. In no time, the date of the reaping approaches. My mother is given a lovely dress from none other than the lad that appears in her bed most often. I think his name is Shadow, but I can't be sure, with all the "guests" we have. But this guy is definitely her favorite.
My father spares a few extra coins for my dress, a lovely pale purple dress that falls just above my knees. It's strapless, and the skirt, which begins at my hip, is decorated with small diamonds. I slip into the tall silver heels given to me by my mother. They're a little tight, but I can manage. My hair, usually straight and boring, falls in a waterfall of ashen brown ringlets, framing my frail face. I apply a light coat of lilac eyeshadow to bring out my green eyes, and outline them with a thin application of eyeliner.
My lips, thin and unremarkable, are more distinguished with the glossy pink color I've added, and my nails are filed to near perfection, painted pure white with little purple orchids painted on. My mother and I got manicures yesterday just for the occasion. I smile at my reflection, admiring - no, admitting my beauty.
"Honey, come on! The reaping starts at eleven," my father calls. I sigh. One of the disadvantages of being from District One is we have the earliest reaping.
"Coming, I'm coming," I reply and slip on my charm bracelet, which I always wear now.
The drive to the reaping is short; about ten minutes. We find a parking space and walk to the square. My brothers depart to go to their respective sections; one is sixteen, another seventeen, the third nineteen. He doesn't live with us, but he's here today.
I slip next to my friend, Shine. She gives me a quick hug for luck before the mayor begins his speech.