Rue's story
This is when Rue gets chosen at the reaping.(I'm being Rue) My first story on fanfic (ahhhhh) please read and review probably no good. I haven't even started yet so I can't say what happens…
I stand with the other twelve year olds, praying. I'm praying for many things, of course; everyone prays on reaping day. I'm praying for my younger siblings, that they will never have to feel how I feel this minute (but of course they will) and I'm praying that my mother isn't too worried (but of course she is). And I'm praying that my fear doesn't show on my face (but it probably does.)
And, of course, I'm praying that the unthinkable will not happen. It's unthinkable, for sure, but it could happen. My family's first reaping since my mother survived her 12-18 years. If the unthinkable happens, it will tear apart so many people. Our first reaping, and I'm gone. We would have signed up for Terressae only to have one less mouth to feed. In some ways I'm comforted. Even if…it happens, at least they'll all be more comfortable. And there's no way my name could come out. Out of all those thousands of slips, my name is on how many? Ten, if that? The odds are in my favour, I tell myself, more than they'll ever be. You can enjoy your Terressae, there's nothing, nothing to worry about.
I hate myself so much for trying to cover my thoughts up with such a weak lie. And I hate the unthinkable. I hate a lot of things but there's not much I can do. Maybe I'll be doing myself a favour by being picked? Maybe my life will get better. Maybe my death will be better than my life.
Is death is the most comforting thing you can think of? I ask myself. Well, yes it is. That and the unthinkable not happening.
I glance over at my mother who gives me a weak smile. I glance at the other twelve-year-olds. Some are crying. Some are completely still, looking petrified. Others look different. Almost relaxed...no not quite.
The reaping bowl is spinning. I fix my eyes on it, praying again. Then I stop myself; what's the use in praying? Who am I praying to? Not the Capitol, that's for sure.
The bowl speeds up. I bite my lip, turning every possibility over and over in my mind. I have never felt so tense. It's almost ironic the way a dark cloud covers district 11 in those seconds. I look up at the grey sky. Now even the sun has gone, everything seems so, so miserable.
'Good luck to you all and may the odds be…'
'For-ever in your favour,' I mimic our tiresome escort's words under my breath before she has said them. I think half of the rest of district 11 did, too.
The bowl slows gradually and the next few moments seem to edge by at a snails pace. My eyes are shut and I feel a drop of water n my cheek. I hope I'm not crying. I open my eyes and realise it has started to rain. Lucky. As lucky as I'm going to get, I think.
And the worst thing is, I'm right.
I hear my name echo through the crowds and I drop to my knees, breathing heavily, taking everything in. I feel every head turn towards me but all I can do is shake my head in my knees and whisper 'no…' over again. I rock on the floor for a moment before my legs force me to straighten up. I stagger mechanically up to the stage my face pale. The crowds are murmuring. With sympathy? Maybe; nobody thinks it's fair when a twelve year old is chosen. I catch a glimpse of my mother: she's as still and pale as me. Her expression is unfathomable.
A heavy gust of wind suddenly blows across the stage. Our escort holds onto her turquoise hair (undoubtedly a wig) and makes a cheerful explanation. She shakes my hand and babbles in my ear, but I'm not listening. I'm looking at my family; I know this is the last chance I'll get to see them. There's no way I'm coming back. We all know that. Because I'm not going to kill anyone. I promised myself that, years ago, when I watched the Hunger games on the district screen for the first time. It was so horrible, so unfair, and such a despondent experience that I swore: if ever I was chosen, I would not kill a soul. I would hide somewhere, anywhere, for as long as I could before I was killed. I told my mother and she smiled and whispered something. I wish so much I could remember what she said.
Now, though, I am reconsidering my promise. I want to come back. I want to come back to my District 11 of backbreaking agriculture, long hours, cruel loops of barbed wire. Brutal peacekeepers. I want to return to the place where you can be whipped for eating your own crops instead of giving them to the capitol. I'm spending my last moments there and already I'm aching for it.
The male chosen is Thresh. I only know him briefly, but we exchange weak smiles as he climbs on stage. He looks nearly as worried as I do. And he's got a chance of winning – a good chance. I hope he wins, but I don't want him to kill me. I hope I'm killed by someone I never get the chance to see beforehand.
Our escort makes another announcement but my ears are still blocking out any sound other than the wind. I feel my hand lift and give a small wave. Something grabs my arm and begins to pull me away, as if in slow motion. And as I walk, I cannot year my eyes away from my family, my home. I know I will never see it again. Anyone again. I wonder if anyone is noticing me leaving. I can hear Thresh's name being called from all angles; he's a good worker and everyone will miss him. I strain my ears for anyone calling my name, but nothing comes. Even my own family are silent, unfathomable as ever. I wonder what's going through their heads? Probably a mixture between grief and relief. And even that hurts.
And as the district gets smaller and smaller and the crowds in it begin to leave, I find myself wondering if maybe it's for the best that I'm the one walking into my death sentence.
And that hurts too.
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