DISCLAIMER: This was written only as fanfiction. All rights etc. go to the amazing Suzanne Collins!
I wake up with a ringing in my ears. My cheeks are wet from tears and my chest burns. Today is the day of the Reaping. It is the first time in history that children of the Capitol will be the sole competitors, so naturally I dreamt only of the games and the terrors that may await me if I am one of the twenty-four to be reaped.
I manage to coax myself out of bed and into the shower. I stand in the water without bothering to wait for it to warm up. When I come out of the bathroom, I find a small stack of clothes waiting for me on my bed. My mother must have put them there for me.
Despite the fact that citizens of the Capitol seem to gravitate towards very extravagant clothing, the things my mother wear always tend to be quite plain - that's how I'm sure that the pale pink linen dress she left for me must have been hers. There's something beautifully elegant in the simplicity of my mother's outfits.
I walk downstairs to the kitchen once I'm dressed, running my fingers over the smooth fabric as I go. I find my mother resting on the windowsill at the other end of the room, a mug of hot coffee in her hands. Her hair is pinned up behind her ears, framing her face and her long blonde curls cascade down her back. I'm sure she is beautiful to those her age - she is to me. She glances up when I walk in, her eyes settling on my outfit. She smiles.
"I've always wanted to see you in that dress," she says. Her voice is smooth and calming. I try to return the smile, but my lip quivers and I'm suddenly afraid I might burst into tears. I don't want to leave her. I can't leave her.
I sit at the table and my mother sets a plate of food in front of me. My eyes scan over the fruit and toast. My appetite is close to non-existent, but I try to swallow a few pieces of apple anyway. As I eat, my mother combs through my hair. It's brown, unlike hers, but it falls into the same, soft ringlets. I don't look much like my mother. Her face is soft and rounded and she has a long slender nose. I have a small nose and my cheekbones stick out at harsh angles.
We spend the next few hours waiting. The Reaping is not something I'm keen to be early for. My mother sits in the chair by the fireplace, humming quietly, and I sit on the edge of the chair opposite her, tapping my foot nervously. I watch the hands of the clock move around so intensely that my vision becomes blurry.
One o'clock.
Gently, my mother rises from her chair and takes my hand. She gives it a reassuring squeeze as I stand, but I still feel like I might crumble under the weight of my own panic.
Once we reach the City Circle, my mother takes me in her arms.
"Just be brave, darling," she says. "I love you, remember that." She releases me and kisses me between my brows before disappearing into the crowd. I can feel the moisture gathering in my eyes. I close them. Not here, I think. I bat the tears from my eyelashes and take a deep breath. From here on, I'm alone. I glance around nervously, trying to figure out what I'm now supposed to do. I see a cluster of children in brightly coloured clothes gathered around a desk. I guess that's where I should be. Roughly, I stand in the queue and watch the other children pass. As I get closer to the table, I see the line of peacekeepers sat on the other side. They seem to be pricking everyone's finger with a small needle. I think the boy in front of me is crying.
"Next," a peacekeeper calls. I lean over and the peacekeeper takes my hand. He pricks my finger and I wince, even though it didn't really hurt.
I squeeze my finger into my palm as I search for my place in the crowd of children. The City Circle has been divided up into 7 sections, each with a sign labelled with an age group, twelve through to eighteen. Eventually, I find the group labelled "17" and stand next to a girl I recognize from school. She looks tense and doesn't acknowledge me, so I turn my attention to the stage.
Since there are no districts in the Capitol, only one Reaping will be taking place. They decided that because of this, there is also no need for escorts. Therefore, Caesar Flickerman, who usually hosts the interviews for the Games, will be the one to choose the tributes. Caesar walks onto the stage and stands behind the podium, between the two large glass balls containing the slips of paper with each child's name on. His hair, which changes colour every year, is dusty-orange. He clears his throat and begins to address the crowd.
"Happy Hunger Games!" he begins. He says it with a smile on his face, but it doesn't travel to his eyes and his voice isn't as crisp as usual. I wonder if he has any children of his own. "As you are all aware, this year, the Capitol itself has the pleasure of being the sole participants in the seventy-sixth Hunger Games."
"Pleasure" I repeat in my head. It's almost sad how much effort has been put into making these games seem like any other. Caesar goes on to explain how this year's games will work, since there are a lot of rule changes to adapt the games for the Capitol.
His voice is barely a murmur in my ears and I focus my attention on the glass ball that sits to Caesar's left. That is the ball containing the girl's names. Since children of the Capitol have much better living conditions than those of the children from the districts, there is no need for tesserae. Nevertheless, being seventeen, there are five slips of paper in that ball with my name on.
Slowly, Caesar makes his way to the glass ball on his right. He hesitates briefly before pulling out a slip of paper.
"Rodegen Wardell"
Heads dart around the crowds to find the first tribute. The screen behind Caesar's head focuses on a boy. He doesn't look particularly strong, but he's tall. So tall in fact, that his head sticks up above everyone else's. He has striking facial features which appear to have been emphasised by dark makeup.
Since the decision to have Capitol children compete was only decided last year, after the rebellion, there are no Careers this year. Nobody has the unfair advantage of being trained their whole childhood, like many children from districts 1,2 and 4. The most anyone can hope to do to seem intimidating is to alter their appearance. Judging by Rodegen's glowing red eyes, he's already put this idea into full effect.
Once Rodegen has positioned himself on stage, Caesar moves to the other bowl to pick the first female tribute.
"Satia Poytler"
A sigh shudders through my body. Even though there's still eleven names to be picked from that ball, I feel relief that I'm at least one down.
Satia has her eyes fixed on the floor, so intently that I'm almost curious about what she's looking at. Her hair is pale pink, like my dress, and has been braided down her back. Thin strips of glittery, periwinkle ribbon are woven throughout her hair and she has a matching dress that flows from the waist down and stops mid-thigh. Her small build suggests that she isn't more than fourteen. I'm not sure if it is intentional, but she reminds me of some kind of fairy.
Caesar moves back and forth between the two glass balls, each time pulling out a new slip of paper containing the name of a child that most likely won't be alive in a month. I've trained my eyes on the floor, trying to block out my surroundings and forget where I am. I listen as Caesar walks back towards the boy's ball for the final time.
"Jasper Adkins"
My head springs up. I don't recognize the boy walking out of the "18" section, but for some reason his name is familiar to me. Jasper shakes hands with Caesar and joins the line with the other tributes. His brown hair falls in short waves over his brows, casting a slight shadow over his honey-brown eyes. He's handsome.
I'm so engrossed in figuring out why the name "Jasper Adkins" seems familiar to me, that I don't even notice Caesar move back to the girl's ball until he calls her name.
Until he calls my name.
"Elliana Fortrim"
My whole body becomes heavy. Someone behind me nudges me forward and the crowd begins to form a path for me as I move toward the stage. My palms are sweaty and I start to shiver, even though it's mid-July.
"Be Brave" my mother said. I need to be brave, otherwise I will be seen as an easy target. Not like it matters, I think. I'm dead anyway. I lift my eyes from the ground and raise my head. I try to look confident, but my legs feel like they're going to collapse with every step. I take my place at the end of the line. Caesar congratulates me and I try to say something back, but there's a lump in my throat that blocks my words and a distorted noise somewhere between a whimper and a grunt escapes my mouth instead. I search for my mother in the crowd, but my eyes are blurry from tears and all I can see is a swirl of different colours.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," I hear Caesar say, "I give you the Tributes of the seventy-sixth annual Hunger Games!"