I can't help but feel as if I've seen those eyes before. I shake away the memory as much as possible as I step out of bed and onto the cold floor. My eyes widen as I realise the reason for the nightmare. I've had similar nightmares every night for the last four years. The reaping. For four years my name has been placed on a piece of paper and put into a glass bowl, my fate left to chance. The first time I was entered once, then twice, then three times. This year, at fifteen, I've had to sign up for tesserae, in exchange for my name being placed in the bowl an extra time, my family will receive an extra years ration of grain and oil. My name will be placed seven times in a bowl of thousands of girls from District 12. I can't ignore the increasing odds.
There was something in his eyes this year, an almost urgency and desperation that hasn't been there before. Over the years, I've grown to love the boy of my nightmares as I try to discover what ails him in each scene. Although nameless, I feel I know him. The first year, he came to be surrounded by a soft orange glow, much like the sunset. His face was calm and natural, and he was sleeping in a bed of moss and leaves. Suddenly, his eyes widened and he leapt to his feet holding a knife. I could see he was badly injured, and could read the terror on his face as footsteps approached. In an instant he's on the forest floor, blood pouring out of his chest, his eyes stone cold. The nightmare ends with a cannon being fired, and a capitol hovercraft appearing to take the boy away. I saw the arrow that ended his life, but I never saw his assailant. I woke that night with a pain in my heart so real; I thought I'd never be hole again. The next two years of nightmares feature the same event. The same boy is chosen for the Capitols Hunger Games, and the same fate awaits him. Every year, his death is more gruesome then the last. This year, I watched helplessly as the boy of my dreams is in a cell, screaming in both emotional agony and pain. He writhes uncontrollably on the stone floor as if he were on fire. His fingers are bloody, and his hands are gripping his head like he's trying to stop his thoughts, and he looks as though he hasn't eaten or slept in weeks. This dream is tormenting me more than the others because he didn't die, I left him while he was still insane with rage.
"Good morning, mother, father." I say as I bravely face the day by opening my bedroom door and sitting down to breakfast. Meals have been tense in this house lately. My mother is worried because my dad hasn't been working in the mines for nearly two months because of an injury to his leg, and he's shown no interest in returning to the dangerous job. When my father's father died in a mining accident, he received a medal of valor, but it never healed his hatred of the mines. I quietly push my breakfast of hot grain around in my bowl until my mother drops her spoon.
"Please bathe yourself, Nevi. I've left warm water for you. We must all look our best today," she says. Her voice says she's trying to be soothing, but her face tells me it takes a great effort to pretend nothing is wrong. I don't bother to ask and silently leave the table. I slip off my clothes and slide in the tub, the bath water feels good on my skin and refreshes me for the day. I sit and hum the lullaby my parents used to sing me when they put me to sleep. It's a simple melody, but nobody in District 12 has the heart to sing anymore. Combing the tangles out of my hair, I go over the days coming events in my head. The children will be roped off according to age, the oldest in the front, and the youngest in the back. I'll be with the fifteen year olds this year, right in the middle of everyone. My thoughts are cut off by the sound of my mother scolding, "It's hard enough to keep food on the table as it is. You cannot throw away the last of what precious little we have on a stinking bet. I won't have it!" I sink under the water for as long as I can hold my breath, take another deep breath, and go right back under. When I arise a fourth time, I see my mother has placed my dress for the Reaping on the stool. A simple thin dress, trimmed with lace. Last year it was white, this year mother has rubbed solution into the fabric and turned it a very pale green. I step out of the tub, examine the colouring and slip it on over my head. As soon as mother is done arranging my hair, I ask if I can go explore the Seam where we live for the afternoon before the Reaping and she nods, "Yes, but be at the square by 1:30, meet your father and I at the ropes. We'll see to it that you still look presentable for the cameras." I rarely venture out of the Seam except to go to school, and even then, I remain quiet and speak only when I'm asked to. I don't bother making friends. Ever since my twin brother passed from pneumonia when we were eleven, I've felt completely alone, and no amount of company can take that pain away. My only refuge is along the fence of District 12, where I can sometimes catch a glimpse of wildlife scurrying by.
The Seam is quiet while everyone awaits the Reaping. The animals must sense the coming event too, because I don't see a single one. I stop to smell a wild flower that's made its home under a small tree. Before long, people are starting to stir inside their homes, and a steady stream of people are heading for the Town Square. I fall into step with the crowd, and I can hear the voice of my father somewhere ahead. I hurry through the crowd until I can see his recognisable mop of hair and slow myself.
"I'm betting on the Hawthorne boy," he says to another much more wealthy looking man. "Yes, that's right. It's all I have." I get closer, hoping to hear more of the conversation, this must have been the bet my mom was so furious about. "I heard he has 40 something entries this year, poor bastard doesn't stand a chance." Just then, a sturdy young man puts his hand on my dad's shoulder.
"Actually, it's 42, and good luck on your bet," the young man says. He must be the Hawthorne boy, because my father looks to the other man with an embarrassed expression on his face. I shuffle with the crowd, keeping my head down and decide not to catch up with my dad; he doesn't need to know I overheard him disregarding my mother's wishes. As we pass, I see rundown house after rundown house in the Seam until the crowd steps into the market place. The market place is usually a lively place, with family owned shops and things my family can't afford anymore. I don't come this close into town anymore because I'm afraid I might be spoken to. "Sorry for your loss," and "Oh that poor dear," "she must be heart broken," "She never did get well, that one." People think their muttering is harmless, but over the years it wore me down to the point of despising being in the brightest and most beautiful place in District 12. I guess that's why I like the animals so much, they don't judge.
"Nevi, Nevi." My mother's voice cuts through the sea of people and I stand on the tips of my toes until I spot her. She's near the center of the square, a few feet from the ropes that will confine me for the Reaping. I hurry over to her, making no mention of my dad and his whereabouts. "Come now, let's fix your hair up." I can see tears forming in her eyes as she fears this might be the last time she fixes my hair.
"Mom, just seven slips in thousands have my name, tell me it'll be alright." I plead, mostly because I need her to say it, but partly because she needs to say it for herself. Just seven slips.
"It's almost two, slip under the ropes there," she points to the area roped off with kids my age. I lower my head and take the few steps to duck under the fence. Just then, the mayor begins his speech. He tells us the history of Panem, of the Dark Days, and then Haymitch Abernathy interrupts him as he drunkenly stumbles onto the stage and finds his seat in the victors chair. Somehow, he won the Games once. It's Effie Trinkets turn to take the stage. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" She sings. Effie says a few quaint things about District 12 and begins the Reaping by pulling out the first slip of paper, the female tributes name. "Primrose Everdeen," she says.
I sigh with relief when suddenly, there's scrambling and a voice in the crowd shouting, "I volunteer. I volunteer as tribute." There's more scrambling as she tries to get to the stage. I can't see who she is until she takes her place beside Effie and is introduced to the crowd of shocked onlookers. When Effie asks her name, she answers "Katniss Everdeen." I stare in awe at the young girl who's captured the attention of everyone in the District. All eyes are on Katniss Everdeen.
"Everdeen," I mumble. Everdeen is the name of the woman who couldn't save my sick brother, I'd recognise it for the rest of my life. She was too weak when we came to her door, she couldn't do a thing to help us. "Poor woman lost her husband," mom had said. And now we 're going to lose someone too, I thought. This girl won't win these games, no, not if she's anything like her mother was. My thoughts are cut off by the announcement of the second name read aloud by Effie. "Peeta Mellark."
Well, at least that name means nothing to me, I sigh. Except we might not eat for a while, it's a good thing I signed up for that tesserae. I look towards the stage for a glimpse of the chosen boy, and catch just a second of his face passing when someone much taller shifts and blocks my view. The second was enough. I gasp loudly and start pushing through the crowd, wildly trying to get a good look at Peeta Mellark. I finally get to the front of the crowd and stare up at him. Him. It's him. "Peeta," I hear myself say. He looks down at me just in time to see me fall to my knees in agony, holding myself together as unrecognisable noises escape my throat. No one notices, and no one knows that the boy from my dreams was just sentenced to death.