The scream echoes across the woods the moment the axe touches my hands. Without hesitation, I let go of it and run in the direction of the scream. Frantically, I search through the dense forest for the source of the voice I heard. As I come closer to the sound of raspy breathing, a flash of red catches my eye. I run toward the girl lying on the ground and quickly recognize her face.
"Briar!" My voice catches, but I continue. "Wha- what happened?"
She's coughing up blood and barely audible, but I can hear her whisper, "I think a Peacekeeper told me to freeze, but I didn't hear him." She doesn't need to continue. We both know what happened next.
I gingerly brush back her beautiful long black hair, now matted with blood. Taking one look at the damage, I know nothing can be done. She coughs one last time, trying to say something- my name, I think –and I turn away for a time before turning back to close her eyelids.
I stand up, contemplating what to do, when suddenly I hear a click. "Freeze!" a deep voice shouts. "Back away from the body!" I thrust my hands up and begin to step backwards, now seeing the Peacekeeper. "Go home, girl," he now says, no more gently than at first. "Work in this zone is now closed for the rest of the day."
As I turn around and head back, I begin to think about what just happened. I didn't know Briar very well, but she was in my grade at school, and a life is a life. She had a family and friends who cared about her, but she was brutally murdered for no reason. But, I think, this is the world I live in.
As they tell us in school, our country, Panem, long ago used to be a place called North America. After a series of famines, wars, and natural disasters that nearly destroyed the land, it was rebuilt into Panem, thirteen districts ruled by a city in what used to be the Rockies called the Capitol. But the Capitol ruled cruelly, living prosperous lives while leaving the people in the districts to live in poverty. So eventually, the people in the districts rebelled. It was a hard-fought war on both sides, but in the end, the Capitol came out on top, defeating twelve districts and destroying the thirteenth. As punishment for the rebellion, the Capitol came up with the Hunger Games….
But before I can finish my thought, I approach the entrance to my district. District seven. Principle industry: lumber. As I walk in, I try to decide what I should do next. I want to tell Briar's family about what happened, but I don't know where they live, much less how I would tell them, so I decide to just go home. Then I realize that since my zone closed early today, the rest of my family is probably still working out in the forest, so I head for downtown instead.
I don't have any money to buy anything, so I let my feet just wander and take me where they want to go. Soon I am outside the butcher's store watching Conlan Ballantyn negotiate with customers through the window. Conlan is one of the butcher's sons. Eighteen years old, tall, and strong, he is the exact opposite of me, which makes me not have to wonder why I admire him so much. He shakes his chocolate-brown hair and walks out of my view before I head off.
I walk through the rest of the town, now forgetting about Conlan, which is good. I have more important things to worry about than guys. I stop by the bakery to admire the decorated cakes in the window. My family would never be able to afford one, but I tell myself wishful thinking never hurts.
We're not the poorest family in district seven, but that isn't saying much. People die of starvation here every day, and since all five of us in my family are old enough to work in the forest, at least after school, we're lucky enough to not be in that situation. I look at the position of the sun in the sky and decide it's probably about time to head home. I head toward our little home in the average part of town.
The first to arrive after I get back is my brother Scorpi. He's seventeen years old, with dark brown hair like mine, and eyes like the color of evergreen trees blending into the color of their trunks. He doesn't smile much, especially since his best friend was killed two years ago in a way much like Briar was.
I tell him about what happened in the woods today, and all he can do is shake his head and grit his teeth. Looking into his eyes, I can tell there's a lot he wants to say, about the Peacekeepers, about the Capitol, but we both know he could be in serious trouble if he does.
My mother comes home next, beaten and tired from a long day's work. I decide not to tell anyone else what happened today. I don't want my mom to worry.
Finally, my dad and sister come home together. Wren looks tired too, but excited to see me as she always is. Wren and are twins, and my parents always say it's a miracle that twins were born safely here, without any medical care. Wren has some sort of mental retardation, but I've never cared about that. I love her more than anyone else in the world, and we share a bond nothing could ever tear apart.
That evening, Wren and I sit together on the bed we share, when Wren looks at me, fear shining through her sky-blue eyes and whispers, "I'm scared, sis."
I'm about to ask what for, when suddenly I remember: tomorrow's the reaping. I try not to let fear come through my own eyes as I say, "Don't worry, Wren. Your name's only in there three times. They won't pick you."
"But what about you and Scorpi?" My eyes water at the thought of my sister's selflessness before I think about this.
"I'm sure we'll be fine too," I lie, picturing the thirty-six pieces of paper with my brother's name printed on them.
Well, it's not entirely a lie, since my name will be in the ball only three times, just like my sister. But I'm really worried about Scorpi.
When you are twelve, your name is entered once into the Reaping ball. When you are thirteen, twice, and so on until you are nineteen and free from being chosen for the Hunger Games forever. But there's another twist. You can choose to enter your name in more times in exchange for tessera, a small year's supply of grain and oil. And the tesserae entries are cumulative. That's what Scorpi has done, so though he would have his name in the ball just six times, with five in his family to feed, it all adds up to thirty-six. And he refuses to let Wren and I take some of the tesserae. Thirty-six. Thirty-six. The number won't stop playing over and over in my head.
The next afternoon, Wren and I sit on our bed again as I French-braid her silky brown hair up to look nice for the reaping. She looks beautiful in a sky-blue dress that matches her eyes; I am in a violet one, my hair in a bun.
District 7's reaping is as four, so my family heads down to the square together at three. Wren clutches my hand tightly and I give her a reassuring squeeze. As we make it to the square, the two of us make our way over to the fourteen-year-old girls. As Scorpi walks over to the guy's side, I catch his eye and give him a reassuring nod. He nods back, obviously as nervous as me.
Still holding Wren's hand, I hurry over to find my friends. I first see my friends from school, Hardy, Terra, and Vibia. All of them have the same odds as me, except for Terra, who is the oldest in her family and has taken all of the tesserae. I talk to them for a while, and then spot my friend Columbae a way off looking down at her feet, a very sobering expression on her face. I know her because she works in the same zone as me out in the forest. Her older brother was reaped for the Hunger Games two years ago, and now she can hardly stand to be near this place.
The rules of the Games are simple. Every year, a girl and a boy between twelve and eighteen from each district are selected by the reaping. They are called tributes. The tributes are then shipped to the Capitol, where they are primped and fattened up and trained for the Games. They are then transferred to a vast outdoor arena where they will fight to the death (on national television, no less) until only one remains. The victor is crowned and showered with riches, and their district gets many gifts, mostly of food.
It's a sick and cruel thing that we are not only required to watch, but to celebrate. And the most sickening thing to me is that for the people in the Capitol, The Hunger Games are something to celebrate. A sporting event. As if the tributes were never worth keeping alive in the first place.
Closer to the front I spot first Eustacia, then Blye. They're both sixteen-year-olds that also work in the same zone as me. The three of us have become pretty good friends, even though they're both quite a bit older than me.
Finally, a girl in the seventeen-year-old section catches my eye. Her name is Laurel, and I know her from school because she's in Scorpi's grade. She's often very encouraging to me, and today is no different. She gives me a genuine smile (hard to do on a day like this) and a nod that tells me everything will be alright.
Up on the stage the cameras are being set up and three people walk up to the stage and sit on three chairs. One is our overly upbeat district escort, Otillie Keene. She has that weird, Capitol look about her, which most of us district people hate. Her skin is dyed light pink, and she wears a horrific purple wig that must be two feet tall! The second is our district mayor. At least compared to Ottilie he looks relatively normal. The third is our district's most recent victor, Johanna Mason. She won the Hunger Games four years ago when she was twelve by pretending she was weak and helpless when really that was far from the truth.
At exactly four o'clock, the mayor walks up to the mic and welcomes everyone to the 64th annual Hunger Games. He then gives the long, boring speech he gives every year about the history of Panem and why the Games are in place. Finally, he hands it over to Otillie. In her energetic but weird Capitol accent, she gives the introduction again.
"Welcome, welcome!" she pipes, "To the 64th annual Hunger Games! All right, let us begin! Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor! Ladies first!"
My heart is pounding as she walks over to one of the two giant glass balls on the stage. She sticks her hand in, rustles it around a bit until she's satisfied, and pulls a small piece of paper. As she prepares to read it, all I can do is hope that it's not Wren, that it can't be Wren, it's not Wren.
And it's not.
"Valeria Spottswood."
It's me.