A/N: I do not own the beautiful creation of Suzanne Collins's known as The Hunger Games.
Please review. I can handle harsh criticism, so if it's bad please let me know.
My alarm goes off. 6:30. Later than usual, but hey it's Reaping Day and I deserve extra sleep now and then. I quickly rise out of bed, grab a change of clothes, and head off to the shower. Here in District 2, Reaping Day is considered a holiday. Everyone is always in a good mood. Always. Even the parents, who are never fearful of their child being reaped. No, it's more of an honor acually. There's a copious amount of pride every District 2 citizen has. You can feel it in the air. If you're ever in District 2, you'll know it. Everywhere you go there's banners hanging all over sporting the District 2 seal. District 2 is known as the Masonry district, but we are also the ones manufacturing the weapons and training the Peacekeepers. Maybe because as a district we are the only ones trusted by the Capitol not to rebel.
After my shower I head downstairs and to the kitchen. I fry up some eggs and bacon. My father walks in just as I finish eating.
"Somebody's running a little late today," my father jokes. He knows it is Reaping Day, so I don't have to be anywhere. Well, yet at least.
We don't say anything else as I put my dirty dishes in the sink to be washed and my father puts his breakfast together. My father is one of the districts many Peacekeepers. He was allowed to stay in the district unlike most Peacekeepers trained here because he had a child. When I was very young I never thought of asking why he was allowed to have a child when Peacekeepers are not supposed to be allowed childern or even to marry. When I was eight and I learned about being a Peacekeeper in school I had to ask my father why he was given this special privelage. He told me it was because I needed a father, so he made a promise that he now regrets. I pressed further, I asked him what the promise was, and for the first time I asked him if I had a mother. I never thought it important until then, because there were other childern I knew without mothers, some without fathers. He looked down at the mention of mother, a deep hurt in his eyes, but when he looked back up at me it was replaced by a serious look and he said, "No, just a foolish father." I accepted his answer, maybe too readily, but I didn't know any other way. I still don't. I asked him again about the promise he made and why he regrets it, but all he would tell me was that I would find out one day and that "sometimes the present danger feels too unbearable that you underestimate the power of the future consequence." Before I could say anything else he distracted my attention by giving me some new knives to try out, which I eagerly did. As a Peacekeeper my father has access to many weapons and so he became the instigator of my 1,093 knife collection. And now I always carry a knife on me. But I won't tell anyone where. That's for me to know and some unlucky person to find out. The Hard Way.
I go down to the basement, which is basically a range. There are several dummies, some sationary, some that move, and they're all at different heights and distances. I spend some time throwing knives at the dummies. I feel in tune with the knives. They're part of me. And I'm part of them. Nothing is more natural to me. I hit all of the targets exactly where I aim, heart, head, lungs, knee, etc. I'm enjoying the practice. The Art. But I feel like it's not enough. I need something to satisfy me. To satisfy my thirst. The thirst I've grown to have. Grown to know. Grown to crave. So, I head out and walk outside of the village I live in within the district until I come across three birds perched on a small tree. Wrens by the look of it. I look around to see if there is anybody in sight. There's no one. They're small birds, but I'm a good shot, so I take out three knives that I have hidden on my person. Illegal? Yes. Do I Care? No. Sure most people caught doing this would be pubically hanged, but I'm one of the few exceptions to the rule. If I was caught, then the people would turn a blind eye. After all they want to win the Hunger Games and I'm the best female in the district. I pick up a rock and toss it at the birds to scare them into flight. I give them a second before I toss my knives. One. Two. Three. And they're down.
Each bird is about five feet from the next. I move the birds next to each other and take the knives out of their lifeless bodies. I slice the necks open and cut the wings and legs off each wren just to watch them bleed. A sadistic smile spreads across my face as I watch the blood drain from the last wren. Blood, the sweet, sticky sap of life. A truely wonderful sight. My favorite color. My favorite sight. There's something about killing that's so attractive to me. Knowing I was the one to end a life brings me a sick pleasure. Joy. My district is the one to blame, though; because I've been trained for the Hunger Games, it has caused me to associate blood with happiness. They do try to train us to separate the Games from life, though, and if they didn't this district would have a bunch of sadistic kids running around, which would be problematic. I wipe the blades off on my black pants and head back to my house to ready myself for the reaping.
I wash off any sign of blood and outdoors on my face and arms. I put on my reaping clothes, which is just jeans, a black shirt splattered with red that stands out in the sunlight, and black fingerless leather gloves. It's not fancy or anything, but if I get reaped, I wanna look fierce. Intimidating. Not like some weak girly girl. I wanna be the tribute no one wants to mess with.
After eating a quick lunch I go to the district square where I meet up with my father briefly. He is in his Peacekeeper uniform and tells me good luck. I head off to the spot designated for seventeen year olds. Luck is exactly what I need, too. Already the square is buzzing with excitement. Attendance to the Reaping is required by law, but no one here would miss it anyways. Behind me stand all the younger children who are more of spectators, since an eighteen year old will quickly volunteer if any of them are reaped. As for me, my only chance of being a tribute is if my name is drawn. I plan on volunteering, but not until next year. But, since I am the best female in the district anyone who volunteers for me will be immediately booed and their family literally treated like shit. It will be viewed as an act of treason, as if volunteering to fight for our district is betrayal. Here we want our best to be in the Games. We want victory. Next year I will be expected to volunteer if I'm not reaped. That expectation is still here today, but I have one more year. One more year to get Better. One more year to get Stronger. One more year to Win.
Once the clock strikes one it is time to start. The mayor of the district, a large man with white hair and a white beard tells us about Panem's history. I've heard it so many times before, studied it in school, that I zone out and stare at one of the glass balls containing the names of all the twelve through eighteen year olds of a specific sex. Eventually he gets to reading the names of our 22 past victors, but I don't notice. It's all just noise to me. One of our past victors, Enobaria, introduces Mace Medallion who simply says, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor," with exaggarted joy. With that he saunters to the glass ball containing the male names. In District 2 our male tribute is always selected first. He selects a name near the bottom of the ball before sauntering back over to the podium. He opens the neatly folded slip of paper and exclaims, "Toby Martson."
Toby Martson, a younger tribute somewhere behind me, probably doesn't even move before an impatient eighteen year old male shouts, "I volunteer," and rushes to the stage. "My name is Cato Colt and I volunteer as tribute."
I know Cato and it's no surprise to me or anyone else that he has volunteered. However, since we try to be pretty formal with the volunteering concept in District 2, Mace Medallion has young Toby Martson, who looks about fourteen, come up to the top of the stage just to ask him a question with an obvious answer before Cato is officially a tribute. "Do you, Toby Martson, accept Cato Colt as your replacement as the male tribute for District 2?"
"I do."
The crowd erupts into hoots and hollers; they're pleased with the volunteer. He's exactly who they want. Mace Medallion tries to quiet down the crowd, but it is evidant that it won't work; so he waits it out.
Once the crowd quiets down, Mace Medallion saunters over to the other glass bowl, the one containing my name six times. All I can think is please don't be me, please don't be me. I want this, but not this year. No, next year. He selects a name on the very top, almost as if he were selecting a specific one. He saunters back to the podium, unfolds the paper and announces, "Clove Coleman."