My hands shake. I stare down at my feet, my smart black shoes are caked in mud from the walk to the square. It's raining, but I'm used to the water. I spend my days swimming in the lakes, watching my father while he goes fishing. He's taught me a few things; about fish hooks and spears, and he was the one who taught me how to swim.
I look up as the strange lady on the stage finishes talking. She wears her blue hair, if you can call it hair, in two high tails either side of her head, her lips are painted bright pink, and the skin on her face looks so tight that she can barely make an expression.
'Ladies first, I think,' she speaks with her weird Capitol accent. Her hand reaches into the bowl of girls' names; the names of all the girls in our district between the ages of 12 and 18 who are elligible to be a tribute in the Hunger Games. This is it's 9th year. I remember the first year it started, I was 5, and my 12 year old brother got reaped, and consequently killed in the games. District 4 has never had a victor. Being 14, my name is in the bowl 3 times. My younger brother, now 12, has his name in the boy's bowl only once.
Her hand grasps a piece of paper, from somewhere in the middle. We hold our breath as she takes to the microphone again.
'Maggie Cohen,' the name rings out. People all around me shuffle nervously out of my way as I step, in a trance, towards the aisle.
I walk past my brother, Samuel, and he reaches out for my hand. I stop and turn to him, and nod, he lets go. I carry on to the stage, up the stairs, and stare out at my district.
'Ok, now the boys,' she smiles, sickeningly, and reaches her hand right to the bottom of the boy's bowl. When she approaches the microphone, hush fills the square.
'Samuel Cohen.'