It takes Haymitch's mother multiple tries to get a signal for the TV, and when she finally does, a slight undertone of static still hisses through the living room. A man - no, the man - appears on the screen just as he strides to the mahogany podium, his chin high and shoulders pushed back as a porcelain blue coat brushes the floor behind him. His blonde beard is woven into multiple braids, most of which go just past his collarbones, while the curled tips of his moustache push upwards as he smiles. President Coriolanus Snow looks into the camera, and Haymitch can feel his blood turn into ice.

Your turn, his eyes speak.

Your turn

His mouth is suddenly flooded with the taste of iron, and Haymitch realizes that he's gnawed off a layer of his cheek.

The sound of clapping and cheering radiates from the TV, almost shaking the small living room. Haymitch, his mother, and father closely huddle together, while his brother sleeps soundly next to them. Each of the three have their own way of expressing panic: his mother has a death grip on Haymitch's arm with one hand, but the other gently strokes her younger son's hair, parting his curls and re-arranging his fringes. His father's eyes are locked on the screen before him, his jaw set and his knee jumps up and down. Haymitch is biting his fingernails until they bleed, and he concentrates on the pain as opposed to the fear.

President Snow, escorted by two well-armed guards, bows to the crowd of people who chant his name as though it was a prayer. Hands clap, handkerchiefs are waved, flowers are thrown on stage. He lets them cheer for a minute or so, fueling their own passion and excitement for the Games. It's terrifying how quickly the mass grows silent when he lifts a large, white-gloved hand in the air.

It's so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Snow's intimidating smile grows even wider after he clears his throat. A voice, both thick and pure flows from his lips as he thanks everyone in the audience for joining him on this marvelous occasion. Snow speaks a bit about the Rebellion, reminding everyone about the Capitol's victory over the districts, then goes on to repeat the rules of the last Quarter Quell:

"On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it."

The way he says it is sickening. As though the lives of innocent children don't matter. The crowd cheers in agreement, and Snow smiles even wider. Haymitch swore he could smell the thick odor of the deep red rose that has been ever so delicately tucked into Snow's coat pocket.

A young boy walks up to Snow, carrying a small box filled with letters, each one the color of thick cream. Snow drags his fingers over their rims as if he was casting a spell, and victoriously plucks out the first one. He elegantly waves it in a circle a few times for emphasis, snickering as everyone leans forward in anticipation. Haymitch can feel his mother dig her uneven nails into his arm and clench her jaw.

The echo of a wax seal cracking muffles out the world, followed by the slick sound of a letter coming out of its envelope. Snow unfolds the paper, clears his throat, and begins:

"This year, I proudly announce the fiftieth anniversary of the Hunger Games! For the Second Quarter Quell, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district will be required to send twice as many tributes."

The world spins. Haymitch chokes. Every moment afterwards is a blur.

-Two Weeks Later-

Chirping birds. This should be a wonderful time to reflect on nature, but it's 5 AM.

I bury my face further in the saliva-stained pillow, fighting back the urge to chuck a rock out the window. Everything hurts as I twist my body in an attempt to block a slit of sunlight that has, of course, managed to fall directly on my face. I spent the night, like all the ones before it, in a half-daze, tossing and turning, trying to get a wink of sleep and failing miserably. After being awake for almost three nights straight, I'd managed to wear myself out to the point where I'd gotten far too tired to sleep. I'd find it funny if I didn't feel like death.

Well, at least I'm not the only one with insomnia. Who can close their eyes, knowing that they, their children, siblings and best friends have twice the chance of going into the Arena?

No, I didn't sleep. Instead, I entertained himself with the mind-relaxing activity of calculating my odds of getting reaped. Eight thousand people in the district, about five hundred boys, my name is in there twenty times, times two...

48

The damn symbol is hammered into my mind. If someone told me two weeks ago a stupid number could scare me, I'd call them downright crazy. Guess the joke's on me though, here I am, biting my nails to the bed and plucking my hair like there's no tomorrow.

Well, for me, there might not be.

The sound of metal hitting the floor, followed by my father swearing under his breath snaps me out of my thoughts. Despite my muscles groaning in protest, I force myself to sit up, letting a cold breeze sweep through the holes in my shirt. As I watch the grey-skinned man put a rusted pot back on the old shelves, I wonder how I didn't notice him earlier.

"What are you doing?" I ask, furrowing my brows. My old man is fully dressed in his miner's outfit, minus his coal-stained boots, which lay next to our fireplace. He pays almost no attention to me as he finishes off the last of his drink, wiping his unshaven face with the back of his palm and setting his cup down.

Even though he's in his forties, my father - 'Mr. Booker Abernathy' if you will - looks like he's about as old as dirt, and then some. Wrinkles are etched into him, making it seem as though his mouth is sewn onto his face; his hands are shriveled down to nothing but skin, bones, and grime. His eyes hold the color of fresh ashes and his hair further thins with each passing day. I mean, yeah, the guy looks like a scarecrow, but I gotta give it to him, he's one of the tougher men I know. As far back as I can remember, he's been putting food on the table by working as a cole miner - also known as the shittest job in the district.

Even though no one really lives past fifty here, the Seam's geezers tell me I'm the spitting image of my father when he was my age. Oh please, to hell with 'em! I mean, sure, I guess a few things are the same, but nothing really that big. Our hair is kinda the same color - an uneven mixture of brown and yellow, not unlike that of dried grass - we both got high cheekbones between which peaks a pointed nose, and our eyebrows arch at the same angles.

Every time I try to imagine my father as a young man, though, I keep on drawing a blank. It just seems so, I don't know, unreal. My father, smiling with his friends as he sipped beer and told jokes. My father, picking up my mother as she squealed at him to put her down. My father, getting down on one knee and asking Annabelle Cathrow to be his wife. My father, having ambitions, dreams of a better life that shriveled away when he'd bought his first pickaxe. All of those scenarios seemed non-existent, no more real than the fairy tales my mother would read to me when I was still a kid. Hell, for all I know, my old man was born with black under his fingernails and a pickaxe in his hand.

Dear God, do I mourn the day that this is gonna be me.

"What does it look like?" father snaps, rolling his eyes. "And for the love of God, be quiet. You'll wake your brother up."

Alfie? Wake up before nine? Ha, when pigs fly. The kid was always a deep sleeper - I bet I could parade a marching band around him and the little guy wouldn't even flinch.

Springs sing as I throw my legs off the bed, resting my forearms on my thighs. "In case you don't remember, it's reaping day." my voice sounds way more pathetic than I want it to be "I thought you'd at least take today off."

My dad scoffs like I just told him the sky was green. "Yeah, well, not everyone gets that luxury," He says, ending our conversation as quickly as it started.

Fine, whatever. I don't say a word as he laces up his boots and puts on his coat, scowling when he misses a button. "I want you to chop some wood and set a cup of tea for your mother. I'll be back tonight."

And with that, he's out the door.

I huff, rubbing cracked palms over my face and running them through my hair. Of course, what did I expect? He's worked on reaping day ever since I could remember, why should this year be any different?

Because I have twice the chance of getting reaped

I sigh through my nose, forcing myself to stop thinking about it.

I lie back down in my bed, not planning to get up for the next few hours. How can I? My arms and legs feel like there are weights tied to them, I have to fight to keep my eyes open, and the ghost of a headache is slowly growing stronger and stronger. I feel like I've been run over by a truck. Repeatedly. Pff, as if the peacekeepers give a rat's ass about how I feel. About how anyone feels. Every child between the ages of twelve and eighteen is expected to be at the reaping, and those white-coated bastards accept no excuses.

Don't believe me? Let me tell you a little story. Last year, a thirteen year old boy by the name of Jon and his mother were publicly executed because he hadn't shown up to the reaping. Why, you ask? Simple: the poor bastard was terminally ill with leukemia, and he couldn't move a single muscle if he'd tried. I got a glimpse of him through his bedroom window when I was passing by his house one day, and let me tell you, I've never seen anyone look so… empty. Jon's hair had thinned, his skin was the same color as his bedsheets, and you'd think he was a pincushion with all those needles in him, each hooked up to either a machine or a bag with clear liquid.

The day after the reaping, Jon was dragged to the stage by his collar, his mother by her hair. As weak as he was, he'd tried to kick the peacekeepers off, but a shock from a taser calmed him down. Oh man, I can still hear the mother's pleas as a peacekeeper brought a gun to the base of Jon's head, taking his sweet time to load it. She'd managed to break from the grasp of the other soldiers just as a bullet went through her son's head, ending what little life he still had in him. Red splashed over the stage an-and…. Oh, God almighty, her scream was the loudest noise I'd ever heard. The powerful voice, however, died in her throat as she met the same fate.

… what a wonderful thing to think about this early in the morning.

Think about something else. Anything else. I run through the reaping statistics again until I can't stand to be in my own mind anymore. I force myself to stand up, knowing that sulking about the reaping can do nothing but make me feel even worse. When I stretch my arms, my palms graze the ceiling, staining my fingertips in a murky shade of brown. In a few short steps, I find myself in front of our stove, throwing two logs into the old metal box and kindling them.

I won't lie to you, our house is pretty small. It's made up of two rooms: a 'larger' one where we sleep, eat, play games with makeshift cards and watch TV on the rare occasions when there actually is electricity; and another, much smaller one, that could almost be called a kitchen. The house itself is made of a concoction of materials: bricks, cement, rocks and hay can be found in the walls and ceiling, while the floor is a pattern of uneven cobblestone.

I gotta admit though, as unglamorous as it is, I like the house for its familiarity. I can lie in my bed and tell the time of day by the angle of the sunlight pouring through the window. I know how far the door can open before it's hinges creak, and how you need to push the knob upwards so that it can lock. I know every angle and crack in each of the fifty-two rocks that make up the floor, and can find various shapes among them. Knowing that you'll wake up every morning in the same place is one of the few comforts of life.

The sound of a mattress creaking shakes the air, and I see the faint silhouette of my mother as she rises from the bed. First, the curtain of dark brown hair, followed by a grimacing face, eyes pinched against the sunlight. She pushes her left hand outward, reaching for her husband and groaning when she noticed he isn't there. Sheets slide down and pool on the bed as Annabelle pushes herself upwards, making an effort to soak in her surroundings.

She blinks a few times and rubs her face, smiling when she turns to me.

"Morning, honey." she yawns, scratching the back of her head. "Did you sleep well?"

I feel my hands tighten around the kettle's handle as I set it on the stove. I know it's a question you ask out of courtesy, but it sets me on an edge. No, I didn't sleep well. I haven't been 'sleeping well' for the past two fucking weeks, actually, and neither has anyone else in all the twelve damn districts. How the hell am I supposed to 'sleep well' when my throat could be slit open in a few days?

I force it all down. "Of course." I smile, kissing her on the head.

Putting it simply, my mom is the polar opposite of her husband. Short, thin, and always smiling for no reason, I'll never understand how she can be so full of life. I'm a bit of a reckless kid, I gotta admit, but her patience with me knows no bounds. She was never too tired to read me bedtime stories as a child, she never ran out of bandages to wrap my cuts and scrapes with, she never scolded me when I'd fight with someone and come home with a black eye, begging her for something cold to put on it. Everything she does is done with care. Her love is a debt I'll never be able to repay.

"What time is it?" She asks, dimples forming on her cheeks as she smiles. I know she hasn't forgotten it's reaping day, but she's doing a marvelous job at hiding it.

I look out the window. "I'd say around ten."

Mom nods, thanking me as I hand her a cup of tea. "Okay," she says to herself, her voice so soft a light breeze almost muffles it out. She stares at the leaves that have piled on the bottom of her cup, as if lost in deep thought. I don't interrupt her as she thinks, and the two of us share a comfortable silence.

"I'll get you a bath ready, honey." She finally breaks it, lifting her eyes to me, "Could you set up breakfast for us?"

I nod. Honestly, 'set up' might be a strong word for it. Our breakfast consists of a cup of tea, a slice or two of bread (sometimes with a thin layer of strawberry jam, usually bought from Layton Everdeen), and a few apple slices from a tree out back. I put everything over a stained tablecloth and bring over a sweating pitcher of water too, just in case.

Before we sit down to eat, my mother reminds me to wake up my brother. I do so by flicking his ear so hard he yelps.

"C'mon, breakfast is ready." I say to the lump under the blanket. He responds by murmuring something along the lines of wanna more sleep and pulls the covers up even further.

If that's how he's gonna play it, it's time to pull out the big guns. "If you're not up in a minute, I'm pouring a bucket of creek water over you."

That gets his attention. A head full of curly brown locks springs up, eyes suddenly widened. "You wouldn't dare", Alfie says, and it almost sounds like a threat.

I lean closer so that our foreheads are almost touching, an evil smirk on my face. "Try me." I mock his tone, and he gives me a sharp look that would make me laugh if it was any other day. Of course I'd never do it, but teasing him is somewhat of a hobby of mine. I ruffle his hair as his yawn echos through the room, and he sluggishly gets up.

Alfie is definitely his mother's son, both in physical appearance and personality. Maybe it's just because he's young, I don't know, but he definitely shares her cheerfulness towards life. His brown eyes have the same twinkle as hers when he talks, they have the same curly, chocolate hair, cheeks dotted with delicate freckles and small button nose.

It's too early for Alfie to go upon his normal rambling, and I'm far too nervous to say anything, so breakfast is spent with my mother making small talk. What else could we do? "Today might be the last day you see me alive. So, how about that?" hardly seems like a good conversation starter, and neither of us can bring ourselves to mention the reaping. No, this morning, we talk about the weather. We remind each other how this winter was unusually short, and how mom can't wait to see how her garden will turn out. The early spring is reviewed, their neighbors tulips are complemented. Tension hangs in the air, both of us ignoring it as best we can. After all, who can muster up the courage to talk about the elephant in the room?

When the meal is finished, I take away our dishes and place them in a water-full washbowl as mom fills up my bath. I waste no time stripping myself and collapsing into the tin tub, savoring the warm sensation. Beads of water drip from its edges and darken the floor as I grab a bar of soap, cursing when it almost slips from my fingers. I scrub off yesterday's dirt and last night's sweat, watching the water turn darker and darker with each warmth is undeniably pleasant, and getting out seems like a miserable chore. I swear at a cold breeze that flows by me as I put on last year's reaping clothing: a simple, white, button-up shirt, black pants decorated with a brown belt, and my usual boots.

I find Alfie standing in front of our mirror, knuckles on his hips and a grin on his face. Despite not being old enough for the reaping - thank God - our mom has dressed him up quite fancily, at his own request, of course. She even agreed to let him wear father's bowtie, as long as he doesn't tell him. I, on the other hand, don't bother to look at myself in the mirror. I know what I look like.

The sound of ringing can faintly be heard in the distance, a sign that the reaping will start in less than an hour. I notice the worried expression on mom's face - actually, 'panic' would be the more accurate word. Her eyes grow wide, her mouth scrunches in, her jaw tightens, and she sucks in a sharp breath. By the time she lets it out, she's returned to her old, smiling self. With a warm expression, she nudges my brother and tells him it's time to leave.

Wordlessly, we exit the house. My mother, just as she has on all reaping days before this one, doesn't say a word. Other families march with us to the square, and I keep an eye out for two red pigtails - the trademark of the woman I'm proud to call mine, Amelie.

How we meet is a rather cheesy story, I gotta say, but she just loves it. On her first day at our school, a good number of years back, some jerks from our class teased her mercilessly about her hair color. They went as far as to pull on her braids and call her a freak, saying that they looked like carrots. I told them I'd feed them their teeth if they didn't back off, and I ended up keeping my promise. One black eye, two bloody knuckles and a detention slip later, we introduced ourselves, and ended up becoming great friends.

My family arrives at the square rather quickly - either because I'd lost myself in thought or we walked twice as fast, most likely both - and I notice that it's almost full. The stench of evaporating sweat mixes with the dust, giving the air a disgusting, pasty feel. I turn to my mother, who hasn't lifted her gaze from her feet since we've left the house. She notices me staring and looks up, a faint, fake smile on her face. She stares back at me for a moment, as if to memorize my features, then pulls me into a hug.

"I love you." She says, even though I already know that. Her voice is muffled by my hair. I let my hands wrap around her upper back, holding on to her shoulders. She's shorter than me by a few inches, and rests her head on my collarbone.

"I love you too." I say, even though she already knows that.

We stay like this for a moment before finally breaking away, and I hug my younger brother too. Thankfully, Alfie doesn't seem upset by the slightest. He cheerfully waves to me as I walk into line, waiting for the peacekeeper to prick my finger and take blood as proof that I wasn't stupid enough to ditch the reaping.

The square quickly grows more and more crowded. I find myself standing a few rows back from the stage, along with all the other sixteen year old boys. Everyone around me seems to be talking, their murmurs vibrating the air. I scan the crowd for familiar faces and spot a redhead. My redhead.

"Amelie!" I shout her name, waving to her over a small sea of people. She looks around for a bit, confused as to who called her, but her face lights up when she sees me. Amelie waves back just as enthusiastically, her green eyes and freckles shining like crystals from the sun. She sends me a kiss just as a tall girl stands to her left, blocking her out of my view. I curse under my breath, but decide to let it go. Oh well, I'll probably take her out somewhere when this is all over, anyway.

If neither of us get reaped, that is.

I mentally smack myself. Stop it. Stop thinking like that.

More and more children pile up into the square, pushing and shoving against each other like sardines. I trying to look for my own friends in this sea of people would be useless. The smell of sweat is almost painful by now, and I'm tempted to lift my shirt over my mouth and nose. Chatter vibrates the air, and I feel my headache growing stronger.

Suddenly, a high-pitched sound pierces from the speakers, causing everyone to cringe and fall silent within moments. I hadn't even noticed Mayor Evelyn Parrish appear on the stage, patiently waiting for everyone to pipe down.

Her figure is covered in her normal attire: a sharp grey suit, knee-high skirt and black heels over stockings. Now that I think about it, I don't think I've ever seen her wear anything else. Her blonde hair is oiled back in a short, tight ponytail, and her left hand holds speech cards.

All eyes are turned to her as she smiles at the crowd. I brace myself to hear the same, stupid, boring story that's repeated every damn year. She talks about the history of Panem, the creation of the Capitol, the Dark Days, yada yada yada. Everyone in the districts know this story by heart, seeing as we're mercilessly forced to listen to it every year, and don't even get me started on school. She's required to read it, I know, but I'd be tempted to yell at her to get on with it if that didn't mean getting a bullet to the head.

When she finishes, a faint, forced applause comes from the crowd. She takes a bow, then extends her hand to her left.

"Thank you, thank you." She says, a tight smile on her face. "Now, if you would, please welcome our own victor, the winner of the twenty-seventh Hunger Games, Emory Lowery!"

Ahh, yes, the great Emory Lowery! In reality, she's the most miserable person you'll ever meet. Some of the younger children are convinced she's a witch, and in all honesty, I almost believe it myself. Even though she was seventeen at the time, her hair went white soon after she came back from the Games due to the stress. The scars on her almost non-existent forearms follow no order, no pattern, looking as though a child had scribbled them on. Her skin color almost matches her hair, making her harsh black eyes jump out so much it's scary.

Emory limps on the stage with one bony, white hand tightly wrapped around her mahogany cane. Her limp leg is another blessing of the Games - way I hear it, a career tribute lodged an ax into it. She wears a simple black shirt and slacks, and with the half-dead way she walks, you'd think they weigh a ton each.

Emory waves at the crowd in a 'yeah, yeah, yeah, lets just get this the hell over with' sort of way. She slumps into her seat and throws her head back, not bothering to say a word during the entire event. Good to know I'm not the only one excited for today.

The next person though - damn, now that is a freak show. The Mayor introduces her as Vivienne Allsew, the Capitol's new escort. A short woman in sky-high green heels struts on the stage, and I swear I can smell her perfume from five rows back. Her puffy dress is made of so many swirls of neon pink and lime green it makes my head spin just by looking at it. Her hair is puffed into a sphere and dyed in the same hues, decorated with a colorful selection of bows. Her teeth, bleached to the point where they can't be whiter, are surrounded by bright orange lipstick. Crystals are dotted delicately over her eyebrows and eyelids, and the shine from them almost makes me squint. When she steps up to the microphone, I notice that her skin has been covered in some sort of glittering powder. Lord almighty, is there even a human being underneath all that? Right now, she scares me more than the Games do.

She half struts, half hops up to the microphone, her orange fingernails wrapping themselves around the metal pole as she flashes a brilliant smile.

"What a be-autiful crowd! Happy Quarter Quell, dear chi-ildren!" Vivienne speaks the way a bird chirps, randomly talking in higher tones, "I'm sure you're all as excited as I aaa-mm!"

Even though no one cares, she goes on to lie about what an honor it is to be here. District Twelve is a laughing stock to the rest of the nation, and she knows it. Still though, her bubbly facade never once slips as she announces "La-adies first!"

I didn't think they could they send a bigger airhead then the blue-skinned man we had last year.

I stand corrected.

She trots to the bowl on the right, and I feel my breath stop in my throat. I look over to Amelie, who looks over to me, and I give her a reassuring nod. Over half a thousand slips lie in there, her name is in seven times. What are the chances?

Vivienne waves her fingers above the paper slips, finally plucking one a bit to the left. She unfolds the paper as though it will break at the touch and clears her throat.

"Ottilie Patel!" she says, waiting for someone to join her on the stage. "Ottilie, darling wo-ould you come up here?"

Nothing happens for a few moments. I finally hear faint footsteps behind the wall of girls. Ottilie slowly walks up the stairs, her tall figure slouched to almost half her size. From her ragged clothes, olive skin and dark hair, I can tell she's from the seam.

Vivienne stretches and arm out to the girl, ushering for her to walk quicker by waving a hand. Everyone is dead silent, and I can hear her softly crying. Her tears reflect the morning sun off her face, and I feel my gut clench. Right after running for the hills, crying right now is the absolute worst thing you can do to yourself. When the other tributes review the reapings, especially the careers, they immediately rule you out as an easy target, and you're usually the first to die.

Vivienne shakes Ottilie's hand, says something about honor I don't quite catch, and goes back to the same bowl. Once again, she picks out a slip, reading the neatly-written name with a smile. I feel a weight drop off my shoulders when I hear it's not anyone I know.

"Maysilee Donner!" she says, and sighs of relief fill the air, including mine. Okay, at least all the other girls are safe. Phrases like 'I told you so' and 'See? You're okay!' can be heard from them as they exchange hugs.

They seem to have forgotten about Maysilee until she practically shoves her way through the crowd. She doesn't take a moment to hesitate at the steps, proudly marching up with her head high and shoulders pushed back. If she's put off by this at all, the girl's not showing it. Hell, admire her. I can't remember the last time I saw someone go up there so... bravely.

"What a pre-etty little thing you are!" Vivienne talks as though Maysilee is a dog wagging her tail. The girl keeps a straight face though, and seems indifferent when Vivienne ruffles her blonde hair.

Even though I'm relieved that Amelie is safe, even though I've never met Maysilee before in my life, I can't help but feel a pang of grief at seeing her stand there. The Games themselves are bad enough, but seeing a girl that doesn't look a day over thirteen up there makes it even worse.

The airhead speaks again: "And now, for the gentlemen!"

She doesn't even ask for female volunteers, knowing all too well that no one will answer. I feel my heart skip a beat and I grow tense. Vivienne strides to the boy's bowl, and pulls out another slip.

"Rhys Hogan!" She reads into the microphone. Once again, someone pushes their way through the crowd. Rhys looks to be about my age, with hair as dark as his button-up shirt. He's about the average build, maybe a bit taller. Vivienne enthusiastically welcomes him, though he looks unamused. Well, maybe 'unamused' is putting it lightly. More like contempt. I don't blame him.

"And now, for our final trib-ute!"

One last slip. One last slip and I can breathe again. One last slip that doesn't have my name on it, and I'm free. Please, Mrs. Birdbrain, do me this. The escort gives a devilish smile that she, for some crazy reason, thinks is helping.

The very air holds its breath as she picks it up, unfolding it slowly and rolls the name off her tongue:

"Haymitch Abernathy!"

And here I stand, knowing all too well what an unlucky bastard I am.