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I hate him. He walks around like he owns the place. Not bothering to care about what anyone else thinks about him. His short, auburn locks fly freely in the breeze, his foamy green eyes not bothering to look at anything, pretty much. He has olivey skin, but that's a very common thing in Four. Girls giggle and whisper about him, ever since he won the Hunger Games, five years ago; but I don't see it. At all. To me he is a snotty, good for nothing victor, who I couldn't care less about. I wouldn't dare say that to anyone, though. Most girls would go on rants about how brave he is, or strong, or handsome. I can't exactly figure out why I hate him, probably because he is so cocky, and like I said before, acts like he owns the place.
Sitting in the sand, watching the waves flutter over one another, my fingers dig into the sand, I'm very nervous. I'm usually not this nervous, I would be calm; if today wasn't the day of the reaping. I hear a slight noise behind me, jump, then turn my head around, to see Finnick Odair, running in the sand past me, kicking sand clouds up. I barely have enough time to jump up, before the sand pelts my face, and hair. I hang my head, rubbing the sand out of my mouth, eyes, and shaking my hair slightly. After I finish, to the point where I feel un-sanded, I sigh, get up, and run home. It'll take a while to wash the leftover sand out.
I reach home, and my mother and father still aren't awake. I slip into a warm bath, and instantly begin rubbing my scalp. My mom left out a soft violet blouse, with a white, pencil skirt. I put them on, no questions, and begin to brush my wet hair. Later, I blow-dry it, then pull it up into a bun, letting some hair hang down my back, in long curls. I examine myself in the mirror. My chocolate brown curls, that hang out of the bun, accent my blouse perfectly. My freckles give me a friendly look, and my eyes, make me beautiful. I slip into dark purple heels, and I feel completely dressed. I slowly walk downstairs, and into my parents room.
"Mama, papa, it's time to get up," I say into the air, as my mother begins to stir. I flick on a lamp, and leave the room. I head into the kitchen, and eat. I sit down at the table, as my Mother and Father walk in.
"Hey sweetie," my father says, kissing the top of my hair. "You look beautiful," he says, sitting down next to me.
"Morning Papa," I say, taking a bite of a strawberry.
"We have to go in ten!" my mom says, throwing a bit of a fit, "Eat up," she says, patting my head, as I shove down the rest of my food. I get up and head outside, followed by my parents. Reaching the reaping, I get kind of claustrophobic.
"Mama, Papa, I can't!" I say, stopping in my tracks.
"Annabelle, you won't get chosen, don't worry. You'll be okay," my mother says, kissing my cheek.
"Of course you won't be chosen!" my father chimes, kissing my forehead. I sigh, then walk to my age group. I stand towards the aisle, watching as everyone else gathers. While we are still exchanging firm nods, our escort gets on stage, gives a speech, then we are forced to watch a clip, then the picking begins. First it's the girls, and my hand finds its way to my hair, and curls a lock around my pointer finger.
"Annabelle Cresta!" the man on stage annouces. I catch my breath, letting it sink in.
I was just chosen for the Hunger Games.