The Hunger Games universe belongs to Suzanne Collins, not me.
District Four-The Reaping
Today is a solemn day. A day of reflection. A time to think about your life, and what it's meant up until now. A day when you are extra nice to your family and friends, because you're not sure if you'll see them tomorrow. Today is reaping day.
District Four pretends to celebrate Reaping Day, but it's hard to celebrate when you know two faces from the crowd will disappear for eternity. But we are not distraught. We do not give up. We train, we fight, and we conquer. Victor's Village is not squalid and empty like the other districts. One of the most famous victors, Finnick Odair, lives there.
I've seen him around the docks. He sits with another victor, Annie. Annie is a house of glass, and the world is inside with a bucket of stones. Anything and everything can remind her of the games. When something sets her off, she is dragged down into a hole of nightmares.
My teacher tells us that Annie is a role model. She won the games, and Victors are idols. Even if you come back crazy, you still came back, and still brought District Four glory. Annie is almost considered a martyr. Her determination and loyalty to her district cost her sanity. That is something any great tribute would be willing to risk.
I'm not scared of the games. At least, that is what I tell myself. It is an honor to be chosen, to fulfill a great duty. All year, kids twelve to eighteen can be seen swimming, running, and building muscle to be prepared as much as possible when the inevitable reaping day rolls around. Some kids hope to be chosen. Most just don't want return to District Four skewered. Sometimes tributes come back, richer and more well off than ever. If they die, they die in service to District Four.
I don't want to think about dying. What if I got chosen? What if I was killed? I have a family that needs me. Rather, I need them, although I'm sure they would miss me if I didn't come home. My mother, gorgeous with her chestnut hair and sea-green eyes, would need my help with the bread-making. My handsome father wouldn't be there to ruffle my hair and call me 'kiddo'. And who would my older brother tease? I couldn't imagine not seeing Rowan again. I couldn't imagine what it would be like for him to see his little sister on the screens in the square. He would be proud of me; I am sure, but also worried. Terrified, even.
The year I turned 12, my brother's girlfriend, a fifteen year-old named Kate, was chosen to be a tribute. The terror I felt for her was absolute, encompassing. They told us she would come back; they told us she was strong. I knew she wasn't. She trembled so baldy when they called her name I was surprised she had the strength to straggle onto the stage. As she climbed the rickety wooden stairs, Rowan's face shone whiter than the Peace Keeper uniforms that surrounded us.
The air was suffocating after the capitol left with our unauthenticated cheer, bright festive banners, and two scared faces we would never see again. Rowan locked himself in his room after the reaping. When he emerged that night his eyes were dull and red. No one spoke.
I couldn't take the charged silence; the undeterred screeches of forks and knives scraping against almost empty plates. The thankful eyes of my mother and father; their children would last another year. Kate wouldn't.
Then there was the mandatory viewing of the Reapings. Children were separated from their families, from well off District 1, vicious District 2, all the way to poor and starving District 12. Three small and shivering twelve year olds were chosen that year.
When everyone finally fell asleep that night, I snuck out the back door and ran away as fast as my feet would carry me, as if I could outrun the games and the terror and the misery that was about to ensue. The only thing I managed to outrun was the crabs that scuttled across the sand. I fell to the ground, sobbing in a heap, and sat there for what seemed to be hours, staring out at the waves, wondering if there was a better place across the sea. Or at least someone who could get us out of this mess.
When I saw Rowan's tall silhouette approaching, I thought he was coming to comfort me. Instead, he was so furious he shook. His face was almost a darker red than his auburn hair, and his fists were clenched so tight I could tell his knuckles were white even in the moonlight.
"What do you think you're doing?" He managed to hiss. "You know it's forbidden to be out past curfew." He stole a look over his shoulder for the Peace Keeper uniforms, but there was only glittering sand.
He was right. If the Peace Keepers found us, we'd be whipped. In my dazed fury, I couldn't listen to reason. All I knew is I couldn't be back in that suffocating house. So I just said, "I'm sorry they took Kate." I could feel the tears burning my eyes. I tried to hold them back for Rowan, but they slipped away and trickled down my cheeks.
Suddenly, the anger melted out of him. He crouched down and wrapped his arms around me.
"Everything is going to be okay, Laurel," he said in his bravest voice.
"How do you know?" I asked him. And because I felt extra daring that night, I continued, "And even if Kate wins, will everything be okay next year? The year after that? You have two more reapings, Rowan." I didn't want to add that I had just begun. The fear of being picked paralyzed me.
"I know because I know Kate. She's smart. She knows what she's doing. She'll…"His voiced cracked a little as he tried to control his slipping composure, "She'll make it."
"And next year?" I whispered.
"Don't worry about next year. This is now." Just like a big brother should, he knew that didn't make me feel any better. "Don't worry Laurel, the Capital couldn't separate us if they tried."
Later, we watched Kate get stabbed to death by a scared tribute from District 9. Rowan has never forgotten.
The house this morning is cold and still. Mom, Dad, and Rowan are still asleep. It is only Kate's ghost and I—or rather the memories that have haunted me for the past two years. I grab my worn down pencil and tattered notepad, then sit down on a rickety stool in front of our back window. I like to draw here because the view is full of the ocean's frothy tide, going on forever and ever, encompassing everything until it comes back to the other side of Panem. Now I know no one else is out there; no one who will help us.
Usually I sketched the Ocean's careless play, but on Reaping Days all that comes to me is Kate's soft face. Somewhere in the last two years the little details have become lost, but I still remember the smile cemented to her face when she was with Rowan. I'm not sure if her lasting effect on me is because she was Rowan's girlfriend, and was around me quite a bit, or if she's the closest person I've lost to the Games. Either way, I find the grey graphite outlining her wild blond hair and her sharp face. I'd always wanted to look like her.
I'm lost in the drawing for who knows how long. Slowly the mess of lines begins to look like her. They become more and more realistic as time goes on, until I'm almost convinced I'm staring her in the face. Suddenly the cold house is too much.
"Drawing again?" I jump so violently I almost knock over the stool.
"Rowan!" I exclaim, as I hasten to flip the picture over before he can see. By the hurt look on his face, I know it's too late. The picture hangs between us like a raincloud. We stand in utter silence.
"You'd better get ready for the Reaping. You know how frazzled Mom and Dad will be today," he mutters. I nod and start to leave. "Laurel, can I have the picture?" He asks with downcasts eyes.
"Sure, Rowan." I gingerly hand it to him, as if it might break. "Good luck today. It's your last Reaping!" He just smiles at me before he becomes lost in thought. I give him a quick hug, and then leave him alone with Kate.
The rest of the morning goes by in a haze. I remember putting on my only dress, which is light blue and falls just above my knees. Mom always told me it brought out my cerulean eyes. I left my long, brown hair alone. It falls in gentle, familiar sheets halfway down my back. I am wearing my mom's lucky locket, the one her mom gave her when she had to be in Reapings. It's worked the last two years, and hopefully its luck will not fail me this year.
Rowan is wearing his nicest shirt, accompanied with Dad's old tie. Even though he is two years older than me, we almost look like twins. Well, except the fact he is half a foot taller than me.
Then we are herded to the town square for the Reaping. It is filled to the brim with potential tributes. Surely I will not be chosen with odds like this. I notice I am absent-mindedly fingering the silver locket. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I will not be chosen. I will not be chosen. I will not be chosen. For good measure I add, Rowan will not be chosen. Rowan will not be chosen. Rowan will not be chosen. Then I feel a tiny bit better.
All the fourteen year old girls are packed so tightly we are shoulder to shoulder. I can feel our collective shaking, smell the cold sweat that has begun to break. I suddenly have the desire to draw us like this, the perfect picture of fear. I should remember to bring my pencil on Reaping Days. It would give me something to do besides strangle the life out of my good luck charm.
Quiet ripples break through the crowd as a tall, well-built man takes the stage. His short hair is redder than the roses that grow in my front yard, and his skin is a deep shade of ebony. He has a cocky smile with teeth whiter than lightning. He is Titan Spencer, District 4's escort.
Finnick Odair takes a seat behind Titan, and then old Mags ambles onto stage and lowered herself next to Finnick. These are District 4's mentors, the people who will be helping two young tributes in the arena. Annie would have been a mentor, but in her state of mind she'd go completely crazy. Lines of cruel, white-suited Peace Keepers line the stage, ready to take anyone who bolts or fights back. They won't be needed. We have too much dignity and too much sense to let that happen.
I'm sure by now I've begun to wear away the seagull engraved on the front of the locket.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Reaping of the 66th Hunger Games!" Titan says this like we should be ecstatic. The crowd sounds enthusiastic enough. But I know that many of us clap just to put on a good show for the Capital. We are not as bloodthirsty as them.
He quickly launches into the history of Panem; how we used to be a peaceful state, until the districts rebelled. When the Capital restored peace, they instated the Hunger Games to remind us all of that bloody rebellion. I used to think about what Titan was saying when I was little. I cursed the rebels for being so drastic and praised the Capital for stopping the war. I didn't realize then that the killings were still going on. They only had a different name.
Now I just watch Titan's enthusiastic facial expressions. He over pronounces every word in the silly Capital accent, moving his fat lips like a fish. His eyebrows manage to reach heights unachieved by any other human I've ever seen. But then again, he is from the Capital.
Eventually I get bored even from this. I begin to pick out my family's faces from the crowd. Mom and Dad are in the very front of the spectator's area, holding each other anxiously. My poor mother almost dies every year when the reaping rolls around. Only after the ceremony does she un-hunch her shoulders and unfold her tightly wound arms.
Rowan is standing with the eighteen year olds. His face is silent and stony. He does not even let boredom flit across it. I can barely make out the piece of tattered notebook paper sticking out of his shirt pocket.
The girls around me, my friends and classmates, barely acknowledge each other. We are too frightened for each other's safety. But mainly we just worry about our own safety. I doubt there will be any volunteers this year. Even though we train for the Games all year long, no one wants to chance getting speared in the gut.
I have started rubbing the necklace again when Titan finally winds the speech down. He just smiles broadly and holds his hands out like he wants applaud. He is rewarded with a weak smattering.
"And now it's time," he shouts, "It's the moment you've all been waiting for." I'm surprised he has enough energy for theatrics after the facial acrobatics he did during his speech. "It is time we select this year's tributes!"
He strides to the two glass bowls filled to the brim with paper slips. One is full of girls' names, and the other boys'. What are the chances he'll draw my name? Rowan's? It must be a thousand in one. Rather, I hope it is a thousand and one.
Before he plunges his hand into the girls bowl, he says, "Good luck District 4, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"
He makes a show of grabbing a slip, as if there weren't hundreds in there already. He finally chooses the lucky one. In slow motion, he opens the slip and says, "For the ladies… Laurel Reeds!"
Laurel Reeds. Laurel Reeds. Laurel. That's me. I must have misheard them. They must have said somebody else's name, because how could I possibly become a tribute in the Hunger Games? I almost don't hear him call for volunteers, which doesn't matter because of course the world is silent anyway. Then the applause breaks out and I am practically pushed to the stage. It's a feat that I make it more than a few strides because my feet are paralyzed.
And suddenly I'm on the stage next to Titan and I don't know how I got there. Titan is shaking my hand; mine is so cold and clammy his almost burns me. Then I'm looking out into the crowd, looking at my friends and neighbors for what could be the last time. They are wearing the same plastic happiness they wear for every reaping.
I wish I could draw this moment, to remember how betrayed I feel. They don't even seem to care about me.
I pick out Rowan. His face is blood red. His classmates are struggling to hold him back in the crowd, to avoid Peace Keeper notice. Suddenly I flash back to that night on the beach when he was quaking with anger. I remember his exact words, "Don't worry Laurel, the Capital couldn't separate us if they tried."
Well Rowan, you were wrong.
But maybe he wasn't so wrong after all, because the next slip Titan reads is "Rowan Reeds."