Routines are important. They help us set presidents and make us more comfortable. Routines are a great way to maintain a schedule and assure balance in our lives. My family has a morning routine. We wake, we eat brunch and we discuss the popular culture. A lot of the time we discuss fashion trends and last year's Hunger Games. Especially since the death of rebel leader, Katniss Everdeen. Mostly we discuss how corrupted and insane she must have been to see anything wrong with the capitol. We talk about the boy who followed her every whim, Peeta. Peeta, who's been missing since Katniss' death. Peeta who always seemed more inspiring than Katniss. But I don't say anything.
This morning, however, is different. This is the day of the reaping. Today, we will gather in our sitting room to watch as the children from the districts are selected at random to fight in this year's 76th annual Hunger Games. It shoots shivers down my spine to think about. Today, I will watch my peers dive head first into a battle they cannot win. I can't say this though. I can't tell anyone what I feel. Here, at the capitol, if you don't fit in, you disappear. Just like Peeta, just like Finnick.
I sit next to my mother, who is donning a new, red wig that reaches for the sky. She's a heavier woman, with two bright blue eyes. Mine are a contrast to hers. One is Brown, the other is Grey. I like to showcase them by tucking my hair behind my ears. Since I'm still young, the hair on my head is still real, though it's dyed and my white blonde roots are peaking out of the pasty pink that my hair is supposed to be. My mother's hair is then and damaged, like many of her peers, but none of them talk about it. They all just buy more wigs. My mother even has a wig specifically for sleeping. She reaches out and takes a strand of my hair. Shaking her head in disapproval.
"I wish you'd let them color your hair again. The pink is fading and I can see the yellow at the top of your head." I shrink out of her grip.
"I like myself the way I am." She snorts like I've just made a joke.
"Nobody likes themselves, darling. You won't let me fix your nose or eyes. At least let me fix your hair." But I shake my head.
"No. Thank you, mother, but no." My mother moves her hand to my cheek and cups it. For a moment, she looks the way I'd imagine a mother from the districts to look during the reaping; terrified and helpless. But the look is gone when I blink and her hand slips away.
The projector flickers and I hear the familiar erie anthem as the live broadcast begins. I watch as a fourteen year old girl from 12 is picked and my heart sinks. It's Prim, the sister of the rebel. We all know her, she's so kind hearted and gentle. I look at my mother who is shaking her head.
"Can't say I'm surprised. That family doesn't seem to have much good luck." My mother takes a tart from the table in front of us, still shaking her head. I want to tell her that I doubt luck had anything to do with Prim's reaping, but I stay silent, watching as a Dark haired boy by the name of Rory is reaped from the crowd. He glares into the camera, as if to say "I will raise hell." But I can tell he is young, and if the other tributes are any older than he is, he won't stand a chance.
From district eleven, a tall slender, dark skinned boy by the name of Rogen is reaped along with a slight, pale girl with a boy's haircut and piercing blue eyes. Her name is June and I find that it suits her. From 10, a girl with wispy black curls named Lenna Harlem, and her twin brother, who volunteers, Micah Harlem.
I watch as two more districts are reaped from. In nine, a burly looking girl, named Santana is reaped along with a short, chubby, red haired boy, named Marcus. If I were to place a bet, so far, I think he will be one of the first to die.
I lose interest in the reaping and find myself staring at the plants that rise on the counter beside the screen. I want to forget about the games. I want to push away the fear I feel from my stomach. I want to run for the first time in my life. But I don't. Instead, I sit deathly still as the fear I feel for these tributes rises up my throat.
"Mira Mortimer." My eyes flick back to the screen as the tall man from district one announces the name of the female tribute.
"Mira Mortimer?" He scans the crowd. It's not unusual for the tribute to be hesitant from the other districts, but in district one…
"Mira Montreal Mortimer." I look at my mother, as the man donning an evergreen colored wig looks out at the crowd of children waiting for Mira to step forward. But she won't. Mira is here, sitting in a room decorated with plants and fountains. Mira is forgetting to breathe and watching her mother's every move.
"My heart, darling, we weren't going to tell you-" I hold up my hand in hopes to silence her. This doesn't make any sense.
Mira is me.