Chapter 1
Dawn is just arriving when I wake up that morning, the sky cloudless, pale pink in the first rays from the sun. We're opening up shop early, as we have to close just past noon for the Reaping, and downstairs I can already hear the sound of fires being stoked, my mother instructing Aedan to fetch something for her. I dress quickly and go down into the shop, trying to quell the uneasy feeling in my stomach that I grows inside me in the run up to this day each year. The worry is pointless, really. My family are hardly well off, but we do not rely of tesserae to live. As far as these things go, the odds are as in my favour as they will ever be. Aedan, being nineteen, is exempt from the Reaping, which takes a little of the weight off my chest, but Feb, like myself, is in the running for tribute, although he's finally reached his last year.
It's not just myself I'm worried for, in all honesty, it's those who rely on their tesserae to live, and by the time they reach my age or older have their names in maybe over fifteen times. District Twelve has the largest percentage of people applying for tesserae in all of the districts, I'm told. It's understandable. We are the forgotten district, growing dusty in a forgotten corner of the Capitol's mind, left at the wayside to rot. And rot we do.
My father, jovial as always, does a good job at keeping the dark clouds from hovering over us as we go about our duty, serving those well off enough to be able to buy from us, and it's this I'm thankful for. My mother acts as though today is no different from any other, but there's an added sharpness to her attitude today which lets on that she's more worried than she'd like us to know. She's not one to wear her feelings on her sleeve, but she worries like any mother.
There's a knock on the back door at about seven, and my father goes to answer it. I listen as he talks quietly to the visitor. I recognise the voice. Gale Hawthorn, an older boy from my school. He's alone. After a couple of minutes, he thanks my father and leaves.
"Who was that?" my mother inquires once the door is shut once more.
"Eldest Hawthorne kid," Father answers her, holding up a squirrel by the tail, a perfect puncture mark straight through the eye that I can see from where I'm standing. "I gave him a loaf in return for this."
My mother tuts disapprovingly, the way she always does when Father makes overly generous trades, but says nothing. We've heard the number of times Gale has his name in for the Reaping this year, and this trade feels like our family's way of showing that even if the odds aren't in his favour, we are. And that's the best we can do.
My mother gives me a long look when I come back downstairs, after the work surfaces have been cleared and the sign on the front door says closed. I force a warm smile to my lips, and she says nothing. When Feb joins us, she chastises us about being late, though the square is right outside our door.
People have already begun to gather, ordered into two halves, boys and girls, and then divided by age. I join a few of my school friends, and we all smile weakly at each other, fidgeting. Hands drum against legs, feet tap, no one speaks. The sight of Effie Trinket catches my eye. It would be difficult for her not to. She's District 12's escort from the Capitol, in charge of selecting and caring for the tributes before they're sent to their almost inevitable dooms. Her hair's pink this year, her suit a vibrant green, contrasting horrifyingly with the washed out blues, faded browns and the coal dust of District 12.
The clock strikes two and my gut clenches, hands balled into fists at my side. I try to keep my expression neutral, but I'm certain I'm grimacing.
Mayor Undersee's familiar face appears, stepping towards the microphone, looking morose. He speaks of the time of our ancestors, in North America. He speaks of the beginnings of Panem, the Dark Days and the New Dawn brought by the Treaty of Treason. He speaks of the Hunger Games. The rules are simple, and known to ever child old enough to talk. A boy and a girl from each district, between the ages of twelve and eighteen, to participate in a fight to the death in an enormous arena with the tributes from the other districts. Only one child comes out. This is the punishment for our wrongdoings. This is our penance for disputing the Capitol.
I'm pulled back to reality as Undersee says in a low voice, "It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks."
It is then traditional in the Reaping ceremony to read the list of the District's own victors. The Hunger Games have been an annual event for seventy-four years, and in all that time we have won just twice. Our first victor was many years ago, and is deceased now, leaving us with Haymitch Abernathy, winner of the second Quarter Quell, the 50th Hunger Games. He's been absent until this moment, but chooses to stagger drunkenly onto the stage as his name is spoken. This kind of entrance is by no means unusual for him. After so many years, we have taken it into our stride.
Effie totters forwards, her bright smile adding to just how much of an outsider she is here. The crowd looks back at her, sullen.
"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in you favour," she intones. I notice more than one mouth mockingly repeat the sentiment, satirical smiles plastered onto their faces. With a pronouncement of "Ladies first!" she trots over to the large glass bowl on her left, filled with hundreds of slips of paper, each carefully inscribed with someone's name. Her skims over the top layer of names briefly, and I take a moment to wonder at the wildly impractical adornments on her nails, before she plunges them right into the centre of the bowl, catching a name from somewhere near the bottom and drawing it out. There's a heavy pause as she opens the slip, glances at it for a moment and then says in a cheerful tone, "Primrose Everdeen!"
I am frozen. Ice creeps along my fingers, up my arms, and my jaw drops a little. The young girl, her fair hair in two plaits over her shoulders, the back of shirt untucked, steps forward, stunned, her blue eyes wide and afraid. She walks towards the platform, seeming as though an invisible force was nudging her forwards. No, I think. Because somehow I know what's going to happen right before it does.
"Prim!" The strangled cry comes from the section of teenagers opposite mine, the girls from my school year. "Prim!" There's scuffling as the girl pushes her way out from between her class mates, pushes her sister behind her. "I volunteer!" she screams at Effie Trinket, her voice cracking, eyes wild, "I volunteer as tribute!"
A dead weight settles in my stomach, another one on top of my chest as I look at the girl who's stepped forwards, offering her self up to death. A strand of her black hair has fallen from her braids, and clings to the edge of her mouth, and her chest heaves with wild panic. I hear Effie chirping brightly about protocol, and the Mayor interrupting her, but I feel as though I'm underwater. No.
The younger girl's scream cause me to surface. She clings to her sister. "No, Katniss! No, you can't go!" I try to swallow past the lump forming in my throat, my nails digging deep into my palms.
"Prim, let go." Katniss hissing, pain briefly showing behind her eyes that she quickly shuts off. "Let go!"
And then Gale's there, scooping Prim up and muttering something to Katniss. He carries the struggling girl away. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest as the dark haired girl makes her way up the steps to the platform that I hope those around me can't hear it. My eyes are fixed on her, willing myself to wake up again with pink light in my room, ready to start Reaping day, baking for a few hours before a girl I've never met is chosen as tribute, a girl I don't-
Effie is chatting away, saying some rubbish about Katniss not wanting Prim to take the glory of being in the Games. No one says anything, and when she asks for a round of applause for District 12's newest tribute, no one does as they're instructed. Around me, everyone is still, everyone is silent, and no one applauds. Slowly, people begin to lift their first three fingers to their lips, pressing them to them before lifting them to the girl before us, the girl who stands with her back straight and eyes forward as she awaits her fate. It is our gesture of our district, reserved as a farewell of love and admiration. The spell of our unity is broken as Haymitch throws an arm around Katniss slurring his approval of this particular tribute. She has spunk, he says. He points at a camera set up before the front of the stage. "More than you!" he shouts. This address seems to be directed at the Capitol. He must be incredibly drunk. Just as he looks as if he's about to continue, he stumbles, and keels over the edge of the stage, landing, unconscious, at the bottom. I glance at Katniss, just as she seems to let out a small sob, perhaps grasping the moment that the cameras weren't focussed on her. I admire her courage. I've always admired her courage. As Haymitch is discretely removed, I'm reminded that all is not over yet. Effie moved over to the second glass bowl.
"It's time to chose our boy tribute!" She doesn't hesitate this time, she simply grabs the first slip her hand touches, pulls it out swiftly and reads "Peeta Mellark!"
A/N: Thanks for reading! If you want to know how each chapter is coming along or you have any questions, just head over to my Tumblr (theaquatruck(.)tumblr(.).com) and I'll be happy to talk to you.