Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games
District 8 - Sara Brier
The birds outside of my window wake me up with their screeches. I look around my room, vision blurred by sleep, and remember where I am, and what day it is. I'm in my bedroom, and it's reaping day. Perfect. I stretch and get out of bed with a sigh. If I was a normal kid, I'd have a day off school. But I'm not normal.
At the age of 7, after multiple IQ tests, it was discovered that I was a genius. Immediately, my parents pulled me out of school and hired the best private tutor available in district eight. They were so happy that they had a daughter who would (apparently) follow in their footsteps and become wealthy and successful (at least, as wealthy and successful you're allowed to be in the districts).
I was significantly less happy than them. Because I don't go to a normal school, I know hardly anyone my age - I have zero close friends - plus, I'm with my tutor for 10 hours a day (which doesn't allow for much free time), and today is no exception.
I've been instructed to get ready for the reaping as soon as I wake up, and I'm scheduled to have 3 hours of lessons until the reaping. The reaping will take around 2 hours, but my parents refuse to let me miss out on two hours of learning - so I'm going to work two hours later tonight. I can't wait(!)
I expect you're wondering why my parents are so obsessed with my education. If I'm already a genius, then surely I don't need to work as hard as other kids, is probably what you're thinking. Well, it's because of the Capitol. My parents have connections in the Capitol because of the business they run - a lot of the clothes they manufacture are transported to the Capitol to be sold in shops over there. Over the years, they've built a large following of loyal clients. One of these clients was informed of my intellect, and happens to be a professor of one of the most prestigious universities in the Capitol. He asked the higher-ups if, on account of my intelligence, I'd be allowed to attend the university.
What followed was a months-long court case, that caused a lot of controversy, but which was eventually approved. If I keep up my current grades, me and my family will become fully-fledged Capitol citizens.
Now you can understand why they're so hell-bent on giving me a ton of tutoring. I don't blame them, of course. I want to be a Capitol citizen too - I'd love to get away from the poverty that constantly surrounds me in the districts.
Ruminating on this, I open up my wardrobe and take out my reaping dress. My parents designed it themselves, and one of the reasons I'm wearing it is as a sort of advertisement for my parent's shop. Some kids would be annoyed by this, but I don't mind. More money for them means more money for me, and the dress is stunning, I must admit.
Now, I bet you're curious what this dress looks like, considering all the build-up I've given it. It's sky-blue, with a beautiful pink and white floral print covering the skirt part and the front of the top. The sleeves are made of a translucent blue material, and flow down to my wrists. Strands of flower garlands are carefully woven into the sleeves, and join together at the end.
I carefully slip the dress on, loving how light and soft the fabric is, and make my way downstairs. I elect not to eat until after the reaping - if I stain the dress in any way, there'll be hell to pay.
I make my way to the study, treading lightly on the carpeted floors. I knock lightly on the door and wait until I hear my tutor say "come in!".
I enter the study, and sit next to my tutor at the mahogany desk. My physics book lays open before me, and I pick up my fountain pen, poised to write. "Good morning, Claude." I say, smiling slightly.
"Good morning, Sara. I see you're already prepared for the reaping. Shall we begin with your physics? Now, weren't we onto the theory of Schrödinger's cat?" My tutor asks. He's in his early 20s, and has light brown hair, and grey eyes covered by delicate grey glasses. He's from one of the richest families in district eight too - a family friend.
"Yes, I'm already prepared, so I don't have to have my lessons interrupted unnecessarily. That's right, we were onto that. Let's begin."
The lessons carries on for three hours, without breaks. An alarm goes off, signalling the end of the session, and the beginning of the reaping.
I stand up, and say goodbye to Claude. My parents are at the door, waiting for me. My mother wears a dark blue dress, my father a matching suit. Wordlessly, we leave the house.
We own a car, but my parents always insist on walking to the reaping. "It shows solidarity, Sara. That we're an ordinary, relatable family. If we took the car, many people would think we were showing off our wealth, which would be alienating and ultimately bad for business. I know it's beneath us, but on reaping day we must appear equal to all the others in district eight, and since they don't drive cars around, neither do we. On reaping day, it's important not to put on airs and graces. With many people at their most vulnerable, they'll be looking for something to pounce on and blame for this country's apparent corruption. That won't be us." That's what my Father said once, when I asked him why we had to walk over an hour to get to the reaping. You can probably tell that he's very elitist - he thinks he's better than anybody else in Panem. It's one of the things I hate most about him.
After what feels like hours, we get to the reaping. At the place where parents and children are separated, we all put on a show of affection for the masses. Eyes turn to us in envy, as we try to convince the district that we're the perfect family. I smile and hug my parents in turn, kissing them on the cheek. "I'll see you after the reaping. I love you both." I say as I beam. They smile back, smiles that don't quite reach their eyes. "Of course, honey. We love you too." My Mother says, taking my hand in hers and squeezing it. Then, they turn and walk away.
I walk to the entry tables, and quickly get my blood taken. Then, I move into the 17 year old section, and stand silently, waiting. I have a neutral expression on my face, looking pleasant enough but not talking to anybody. After all. I don't know any of them. I hear snatches of conversation around me. "My parents had to put my name in 12 times this year, since we've been really struggling lately. I hope I don't get reaped." One girl whispers to a friend, tears filling her eyes.
"That's nothing," the friend says in return. "My name was in 20."
I glance at the girls, who immediately make eye contact with me. "Oh, hey, it's the Brier girl." The girl who's in 20 times says. She has dark brown hair, and wears a faded dress, second or third hand. She looks angry. "How many times is your name in?" I open my mouth to respond, but she interrupts "Don't bother telling me, I already know. It's in the minimum amount of times. Most of the 12 year olds have a higher chance of getting picked than you. My family thinks it's disgusting. Just because you're rich, and you're going to a fancy Capitol university, you think you're better than us." Her and her friend look at me with contempt.
"How do you even know that? That's confidential information." I say, struggling to keep up a polite tone. This girl's really pissing me off - it's not my fault I'm smart, not my fault my family's wealthy.
"Oh, everybody knows. It's common knowledge that you and your family can't wait to get out of here. You have all your life - that's why you only cater to the richest people in this district, and those Capitol bastards. You're gonna grow up, and marry one of those bastards, and have stupid children, and live your corrupt little lives in the Capitol!" She's shouting now, and people are staring. I don't respond, hoping her friend will calm her down. "Cynthia, stop, please chill out!" The friend begs, but this just angers the girl more. She reaches out and shoves me.
I try to keep my balance, but I topple over anyway, my shoes skidding on the dirt floor. I fall heavily, but luckily haven't seemed to hurt anything. "There. On the ground where you belong." The girl laughs and is immediately pushed away from me, back through the crowd of people, by her mortified friend. I quickly get up and dust myself off. My dress seems to be intact, thank God. People are still looking at me, but I ignore them, pretending like my face hasn't turned bright red. Luckily, District eight's escort, Glitter Dayrock (ridiculous name, I know) starts to talk.
"It's an honour to be here in district eight for the reaping of the 67th hunger games!" She exclaims, walking to the centre of the stage and shaking hands with the mayor, who looks vaguely bored.
Glitter is wearing an absolutely hideous outfit. Her dress is gold and silver, with a pannier skirt. It's covered in glitter which shines in the sun, and is temporarily blinding a good three quarters of the audience. I duck behind a taller girl to be spared from its wrath.
Her hair is dyed silver and gold to match her dress, and there seem to be miniature birds in it. Honestly, I don't understand how she could possibly go outside looking like that.
"Without any further ado, let's get on with the show!" She says, trying to evoke a laugh. It doesn't work. Not even the mayor gives her a pity smile.
She walks over to the boy's side, and shoves her hand into the bowl of names. "The make tribute for district eight is... Basil Jones!"
A boy of around 16 emerges from the crowd, and walks up the stage. He looks absolutely terrified. His dark blonde hair contrasts the brightness of Glitter's, and makes him look totally out of place up on the stage.
"Do we have any volunteers?" Silence.
"Ok. She smiles, and walks over to the girl's side. I hold my breath. The odds of me being chosen are tiny, but I'm still scared. "The female tribute for district eight is... Sara Brier!"
I stand completely still. I'm so confused. This wasn't meant to happen. I've basically received a death sentence. I was supposed to be successful in the Capitol, not die at 17 in some stupid death match.
People start to push me towards the front, eager to finish the reaping for another year. On unsteady legs I walk to the front of the stage, briefly catching a glimpse of the girl who pushed me over earlier. She's grinning. Of course she is.
I walk up the steps of the stage, and by some miracle I don't trip up. In the back of my mind, I think 'my parents are probably pleased- this is the best advert their dress can get.'
This is what's going through my head as I shake hands with Glitter and am guided off the stage and into a room by a group of peacekeepers.
I'm told to wait for my family and friends to say their goodbyes.
I collapse onto the sofa and shut my eyes, trying to block reality out but failing. I've been selected for the hunger games.
I'm dead.
