50th Annual Hunger Games
Haymitch
Reaping day. I hold my little brother, Tomas' hand and look up to my mother. She looks queasy, as you would if your child's name was entered 24 times into the reaping bowl. And your other child, 14. I guess she would rather one of us die than all of us starve.
Tomas is 13. Too young to die, old enough to fight for his life. It only works one way.
I'd be less worried if the odds were more in our favour today. As it goes, four tributes will be picked from each district as it is the second quarter quell. Which means both Tomas and I could both be leaving 12 today, never to return. Sick, really. But that's life.
I swallow hard and use my other hand to straighten my shirt. Loose cotton, worn to threadbare day after day by my late father. I take a step forward and open the front door. Clara is there, smiling at me. My girlfriend. She takes my other hand.
"Ready?" She asks. I can see the grimace in her eyes.
"No!" I smile back. "But hey, what have we got to lose?"
It takes a second for her to reply.
"Our lives."
I grin in her direction. I want to keep things upbeat for her, especially because the odds are really not in her favour. Her name is in the reaping bowl fifty one times to feed her ever growing family. I will smile. For Clara.
This is my last year in the hunger games. One last chance at life before the only thing that can make me bite the dust is hunger. Or thirst. Or coal. Or pneumonia.
Tomas, Clara and I walk together, with my mother slightly behind, into the town centre. It is cordoned off, as usual. I hug my mother, tell her I'll see her soon. Kiss Clara lightly. Squeeze Tomas' hand. I take my place in the boy's section and turn to the stage.
Stood on the stage is Rora. She's our... I guess you'd call her our district representative? She announces the tributes.
The Capitol seal appears on the big screen and the anthem plays. Rora steps forward to the microphone.
"Good afternoon! And welcome to a special year of the hunger games! This year it's the Second Quarter Quell. The fiftieth annual games!" She breaks off and stares into the audience. Nobody so much as moves a muscle. "This year promises to be an exciting year! As there will be one hundred percent more tributes involved in the games!"
The square is no longer silent. There are muffled cries, weeps from mothers and a gasp from an old man in a wheelchair near me.
"That's right! Four tributes will be reaped from each district. Four! I don't doubt most of you have heard this already. But how exciting!" Rora turns to the screen and waves a hand towards it. Her ginger hair that falls to her ankles blows softly in the breeze.
The anthem plays again, then the film. The same film, every year, saying the same thing. About how it's for our own good. The death of our own children is for our own good.
And then it ends. Rora claps and turns to the reaping bowl.
"Ladies!" She grins. Reaching her hand into the bowl, she closes her eyes tight as she digs about. Opens one eye for effect. Still squinting, she opens the first piece of paper.
"Maysilee Donner!"
Silence.
No one volunteers, but a girl with long blonde hair steps up to the stage. Rora grins and sticks her hand in again. She doesn't close her eyes.
After a moment's fishing for the fate of another dead girl, she brings out her hand. "Violet Hornby!"
The square is silent again, and all eyes watch a young girl, no older than 12, climb the steps to the stage. Rora shakes her hand, and the girl almost trips in bewilderment.
"Boys!"
Rora crosses the stage to the huge bowl full of paper slips. Twenty four pieces of paper with Haymitch Abernathy written on them swirl about with her hand. She catches one and brings it out.
Clearing her throat, she reads; "Tomas Josef!"
My heart almost stops when I hear it's not my brother. He is almost safe. She reaches into the bowl again.
"Haymitch Abernathy!"
My jaw drops. I look around. Point at myself. Shake my head. It's me. I'm going to die.
My eyes find Tomas' eyes. He's blinking back tears. I find Clara. She is doing the same. Then a cry brings me to my senses and I start moving for the stage. Another cry sends me whirling round when I realise the sound belongs to my mother. Two peacekeepers hold her back but she screams my name. Tomas races through the crowds despite being chased after to reach her. I can hear her yelling "I volunteer!", but it's no use. No one will listen to her now. The shouts die down as I reach the stage and I look into Rora's eyes. They glisten. She swallows before she speaks.
"Well, here we have it! The tributes of the Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games!"
There is muted applause. Then it's over.