My Little Mockingjay:
My heart pounds. It feels as if it will pound right out of my chest. I hope that no one hears it, pounding so furiously and loudly. But mostly I hope that the slip that Effie Trinket pulls from the glass bowl won't be my name. Primrose Everdeen. Katniss, my older sister tells me, that it's almost impossible for me to get picked. That I was as safe as Madge, one of the richest girls in district twelve. That comforts me, only for a moment though. Then the cold hand comes back, the invisible hand, that seems to strangle me every time I think of it. Getting picked. God knows, that if I do get picked, I'll die. I'll perish like the twenty three unlucky selected tributes. Katniss squeezes my hand, and I can't understand, why she could be so calm... when her name is in their more than me. More than many of the girls.
Katniss leads me into the group of girls, of all ages, and I stagger backwards, tears streaking down my face, at the sight of the girl's glass bowl. I'd never seen something so, so, ugly. So destructive. So agonizing. So painful. But, mostly, so fearful. I had never seen so much fear wrapped up into one place. I could feel it, I bet if I had a knife I could slice it through the air. Everyone's silent. No one speaks. Not one word. That somehow makes it so much more worse, if that makes any sense. I breathed in the silence, and desperately wish I could throw it back up. The taste of the silence is bitter and agonizing, like hot steel.
My hand is suddenly empty. Bare. Cold. I bring my hand towards my pin, my little Mockingjay pin. It will bring you good luck... Katniss's voice echo's around in my mind, and I feel a surge of warmth as I touch it. It brings me hope, and light. I glance around, and I knew I lost Katniss in the crowd. I bite my lip down so roughly, that it cuts it, and I feel the taste of salty blood all around my mouth.
"Hello, Prim." I glance, towards the boy next to me, astonished that he could speak at this time. I suddenly recognize him as Ritto from many of my classes. His black hair is messy as always, and his endless brown eyes watch me. His eyes analyze me for a moment, and then he looks sorrow-filled.
"You okay?" I glance back up at the ugly bowl, and slowly shake my tear-ridden face. He places a hand on my shoulder, and it lingers there for a moment. I would normally blush, if it wasn't the circumstances. "You won't get picked." He says so firmly, that I feel myself suddenly believe it. I nod once more, and look towards the bowl once more. There's nothing more that I hate, right now, other than that bowl. I want to run up on stage and shatter it, break it, destroy it. A small hitched breath, escapes my throat and I know that I can't. Because the peacekeepers simply wouldn't allow it.
"I hope not." I find myself speaking, surprisingly. "I wish the best for you." His pale cheeks suddenly shimmer with redness and he leans forward and kisses my cheek. "Good luck, Primrose." Startled, by his sudden affection is all I can do is mimic what he says.
"Good luck, Ritto." His eyes flicker down to my pin, then meets my eyes. "Bye." I swallow hard, not wanting him to leave. "Goodbye." He disappears then, and the fearful, anxious air makes it seem like it never had happened. Like it was whisked away from the wind.
I feel the braid's prescience on my shoulder and I tug the end of it, more tears coming from fear, stroking my face. I feel Effie begin to play the video and I let out a soft, high-pitched whimper. So close now, so close to the time when the glass bowl chooses it's victim. It's messiah. I despise that bowl. But yet, I also fear it. I pay no attention to the video, only worry. Only be afraid.
"Now it's time to select for the girl tributes." My quiet whimper becomes a full on sob. I choke it down, and Effie's heels slowly walk over to the side of the stage. So little time now... so little time. I look around for Katniss, just to see her, but she is nowhere to be seen. I give up in the search and divert my attention towards Effie Trinket and that horrifying bowl. Her pink gloved hand strokes the edges of it, not entirely going in with all the slips. Like she's taunting us. Making us wait. If she is, the wait is agonizing. Her fingers finally dip in and reach to the right, then the left, then the right. Then stops at the middle. Then moves to the right a little. I bite my lip again and the pain aches, as more blood fills my mouth.
The bowl then picks it's victim. Effie grabs the slip, and it suddenly seems like something is wrong, something is terribly wrong and I know from my intuition that it's me. My name is scrawled across that sliver of a slip. And that bowl I despise chose me.
But there's still hope in me, and I desperately wish that it's not me, or Katniss, for that matter. There are no tears left. The fear chased them away. Her heels click towards the microphone and I know that there's only a tiny piece of time left.
On the last moment I rub the little Mockingjay, back and forth, feeling the warmth on my fingertips from it.
"Primrose Everdeen." That's me. The little Mockingjay.