'Deep in the meadow, hidden far away
A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray
Forget your woes and let your troubles lay
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away.'

A clock ticked somewhere in the dark. Time was moving, but everything else was still and distant. There were moments before all this- moments of nightmares and waking. There was only darkness and the steady ticking clock now. Sleep was flowing through my veins like summer ivy. I breathed, bit I didn't want to wake...

There are two sides to a coin. They look out in opposite directions and they never see each other, and yet the coin would not be completed without both sides.

I watch the metal coin spin on the smooth, wooden table, watching a stamped face of president snow face me and then turn away in rapid succession. The coin makes a deep rolling sound and the spinning slows down and collapses on the table, Snows face staring up at me. I'm hunched over, my chin resting on the edge of the table as I wait for my father to finish making breakfast.

Quickily, I slap my hand over the coin and drag it closer to me. Holding it between my thumb and index finger, I stare at the solemn face of president Snow. I have never met the man personally, but that doesn't mean I don't hate him. Usually, I am indifferent to the president. He lives far away in the Capitol where anyone in the districts can only see him on the television screen. But today is the Reaping and every child in the district, from twelve to eighteen, as well as their families and friends harvests some sort of hatred for the president of the Capitol.

"Here."

My father places a metal bowl of steaming oatmeal in front of me. I lift my head of of the edge of the table to peer into the unimpressive grey-brown mush of oats.

"Spoon," I said.

Normally, my father would tell me to get the spoon myself, but today is the reaping day, and incase my name gets pulled out of the bowl, he decides to be nice. I hear the sound of him yanking open the kitchen drawers and the rattling of silverware. Then he passes me the spoon. I take it, without looking at my father, and begin to eat the oatmeal.

Each bite is slow and forced and my only thoughts are on the glass bowl with thousands of others. Most of them put in over ten times. I'm only fourteen and my names in their seven times. Though thats seven more times that I want in there.

"You have to smile," said my father

"Why?"

"So they can't see you."

My fathers words make no sense to me, but I don't want him to elaborate. In the mornings before the reaping each year, I always want absolute silence. I would rather curl up under the covers of my bed and never come out or dive into the sea and swim for hours in the calm of the ever-morning ocean. But escape isn't an option. I have to be present for the reaping or the peace keepers will come and probably destroy our small house that always smells like the ocean.

"You know how to use a trident," explained my father. I could hear him pacing around the kitchen, the floorboards squeaking underneath him. "They don't have tridents in the Games. But you could probably use a harpoon- that's the same as a spear. And you can tie knots like no one else, as well as making snares."

Unlike me, he likes to talk to me before every reaping. I think he just likes to remind himself that I might be capable of winning.

"Are you going to do something about your hair?" asked my father.

I drop my metal spoon into the bowl of untouched oatmeal and turn to scowl at my father.

"Everyone likes my hair better this way. It suits my attitude."

"And what is the Capitol don't like you attitude" asked my father. "How are you going to win then?"

I glower up at my father. He's worried. His face is covered with signs of taunt. He stood over me, towering, with a curling black beard that was stiff from seawater.

The only thing I inherited from my father was height. I was my late mother's son- which, according to a market woman, was a blessing.

"Your not going to get chosen." said my father, finally.

He didn't know that. I didn't know that. No one knew. Unless someone decided to volenteer (which was known to happen in District Four), I could very well be in the Games this year.

The thought terrified me more than I care to admit.

"Are you going to eat?" asked my father. He peered over my shoulder at the untouched bowl of oats.

I shook my head and pushed the dish away. "I'm going to get ready."

As I made my way towards my room at the back of the small, damp hous, my father called after me,

"Make sure to wash the salt water out of your hair, Finnick."

With that, I firmly resolved to keep the salt of District Four in my hair forever.