R is for rebel, and Emi was the greatest

- Brooke

Everything in life seemed so wrong. I can't put the words together that make it understandable. I sat on the countertop in the shady, dusty room of my house in district 13.

When Peeta was shot to death, my mother would say, no one understood why. Only very few people took extra precautions, by going into the safety hatch. It seemed like Peeta was emitting a warning to us, the people of District 13.

It turned out he was right. My mother, by the name of Primrose Everdeen, brought down her cat, my father, Gale Hawthorn, and a bunch of sick people from the hospital unit.

The rest of the rebels of 13 stayed upstairs. Katniss cried. Beetee hacked the Capitol. Broughts bombarded and killed the entire remnant of the district.

I was born 7 years later, a few months after my father and mother got married. They couldn't decide a last name, so they decided to use Hawdeen. The Capitol rebuilt District 13 and changed it to the district of mining. Because District 12 was non-existant. A few years later, when I was 10, they also rebuilt District 12 and made it the graphite district. They switched up 13 and 12. I wonder.

A thumping came from down the creaky stairs of my small house. I jumped down and looked down at my little sister, Catnip, who was a mere 5 years old.

"Hey, Catnip," I said, smiling down at her. She frowned and crossed her arms. She knew a lot for a little girl and I felt like she knew what tomorrow was.

"Emi, I don't want you to go into the Hunger Games." She frowned. I sighed and got on one knee, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Catnip, it's only my second year. And there's no chance of me volunteering. It's not like little Catnips can go in, right?" I looked into her deep brown eyes and she sighed, nodding a little.

"'Kay."

I nodded and stood up, leaving her to run off to her little plastic doll in the corner. I coughed a little, breathing in some dust, and headed upstairs.

A lot of people had called me rebel for the things I would do. Talk badly about the Capitol even though I was being publicly whipped by a Peacekeeper. Or maybe screaming at the top of my lungs every night when a Peacekeeper walked past our house. Yet, I didn't do it for people's entertainment. I wasn't here to look good for everyone else.

I was here to live life like nobody was watching.

I opened the door to the open closet that I slept in. It wasn't a punishment, it was because I wanted my sister to have to comfort of the nice bedroom. I wanted her to have a life of luxury. I gave it up last year, actually, this same day. Because I thought, because I had extreme rebel blood, I would get Reaped. I didn't. Instead, the rebel reaped was my aunt. She was 18. Her name was Posy. My uncle Rory had taught her well how to survive. She died in the final three, bringing devastation to my family.

I laid in my bed. I decided that tonight, I'd go to sleep on curfew, which was in 5 minutes. I closed my eyes.

"Goodnight, Panem," I whispered to myself.

The next morning I was shaken awake by my mother.

"Mum…"

"It's reaping day." I nodded and looked up into her eyes, identical to my sister's. Deep brown. My sister got her eyes. I got her hair. My sister got my dad's hair. I got his eyes.

I got up and my mother left, closing the door softly. I grabbed a grey sweater and a black shirt, my favorite, actually, that I had found in a forest. It was a shirt from a long time ago. It had a blue handprint on it and in white letters, it said 'Sick of It.' I put it on under my sweater, which covered a little bit of one shoulder but fell to my mid-bicep on the other. I pushed my curly blonde hair from my eyes and started outside, skipping breakfast and only saying "I'll see you later" to my family.

The streets were empty. Reaping day was the only day that I got up early because usually the district had a ton of people always outside. On reaping day, District 13's tradition was for the children to go, then the families. And I liked being alone, too. The cool May wind blew against me, making my hair move to the opposite side. I pushed it back and stood in the town center, waiting for people to start setting up.

A few more kids like me showed up, keeping their distance from each other. We waited for about an hour before the woman came with a folding table and put some colorful balloons next to it, saying "Happy 96th Hunger Games." I got in line; first, actually, and had my finger pricked.

"Emi Hawdeen. 13. You may proceed." I walked into the 13-year-old section and waited for what seemed like hours, until the final stragglers showed up. We were the last district to be reaped. The 13th day. It always seemed unlucky. May 13th. And today was a Friday, wasn't it? I looked down, but quickly looked up as the video started playing.

"Two terrible wars that tore apart families and districts. The 75th Hunger Games was a recitement of the horrid deeds completed three quells before. Once the rebels were defeated, the Hunger Games began again, Districts 12 and 13 brought back up and alive."

Worst video ever. I always hated that. My foot tapped as the girl was reaped.

"Allison Tru!" My eyes looked over to the 12 year-old section, where a girl, who was taller than me, slowly walked to the stage. She had short, caramel-brown hair that followed her jawline. Deep brown eyes and a protruding chin. She had deeply tanned skin that looked like it belonged in District 4. I watched her as she stepped up on stage, staring out into the crowd.

The escort, the wind pushing her florescent green-and-purple hair from her eyes, walked to the boy's bowl. Nervousness dawned on me. This year, I had an extra slip and I had taken more tesserae. I waited impatiently as the name rung out across the silent district.

"Emir Hawdeen!" No one would know who that was except for my family. No one called me Emir. I approached the stage, looking from the corner of my eyes at the dead silent crowd. Only two families watching dared to make a peep. Mine, who was tightly hugging Catnip, and the family I guessed who was Allison's. I shook her warm hand, warming up mine. I nodded to her gently, and we raised our hands up in the air. The escort announced,

"Ladies and gentlemen of district 13 - Your tributes, Emir Hawdeen and Allison Tru!"

After that we were rushed to two steel rooms that felt like prison cages. I sat silently, waiting for my family to burst through the doors. I looked at the pictures on the wall. Each one was a picture of the male tribute who was in the Games, starting with the 76th Games. A small, frail boy with wide blue eyes and a skinny perplexion. It was the headshot from the Training Days. So simple, yet it showed so much. I remembered how my mother used to talk about how the rebels were always strong throughout the Games, sometimes as silent as an assassin, sometimes mumbling hopeful quotes. I looked at the one frame that was encrypted in gold of a victor. Our only male victor. The other one was a girl. Our male victor had been in the Career pack. He was accurate with a bow. He had grey eyes and dark brown hair.

His name was Rory Hawthorne.

A year later he was killed in a freak flooding accident in his Victor's House. Some freak accident.

A moment later my family burst in, hugging me and crying. I reassured them.

"Dad, I'll make it out like Uncle Rory."

"Mom, I won't end up like Aunt Katniss. I promise."

"Catnip, learn how to use a bow. Just ask Daddy."

I tried so hard, feeling tears wanting to escape me, too. They wouldn't stop. They screamed when they were dragged into the hallway. I heard screeches of goodbye and please let me stay longer. I knew the Peacekeepers wouldn't let up.

A redhead Avox walked in, handing me a paper silently. I read it.

"My father knew Peeta. I am Darius' son. Good luck, and the odds be in your favor."

I nodded. I knew who he was. I gave him a silent hug and waved him goodbye.

Then, I was taken to the car to bring me to the train ride.