"Finch Crossley!" the escort calls from the platform. Some poor girl named Finch Crossley is about to be sent into a pit of death by the snakes of the Capitol. I wonder who she is... "Finch." Whisper the people around me. "Finch, it's you." It's me. I am Finch Crossley.
My life flashes, like strangers have described it, in short snippets of conversation and action starting with this morning...
I wake about 5:00am, when the power plant security officers leave for work. Seeping through my bedroom window is the stunted, grey, morning light from outside; we rarely see the sun here in District 5. "Early to bed, early to rise." Mother used to say. Obviously, she is dead now. Father had made up a lie: she fell off a telegraph pole while cleaning it. Undoubtedly, he was lying; I am very smart, you know.
Today is reaping day; the day of which two children are selected to be sent, like pigs for slaughter, into an arena where they are forced to brutally murder one another. Father says that it is required of me to wear my best clothes. I do have some fine things, mostly heirlooms and antiques, but they are hardly worth selling for food. If I ever sold my best shoes, I would receive as much as a squirrel...maybe two. We are quite lucky though, here in District 5, as I have heard rumours about the outline districts: 10, 11 and 12. Whispers have floated through my tiny school that almost everyone eligible signs up for tesserae, they are forced to trade on the black market and most people die prematurely of hunger than of old age.
At the reaping, we are herded like livestock into roped-off areas in front of the Justice Building corresponding to our ages. I am near the furthest right where all the 17 year olds stand. I look across to my left towards the 12 year olds. They have barely begun to discover the world-or rather, our small portion of it-, they have not learned to stand on their own two feet yet, they are in ignorant bliss of what is to come...so why are they made to do this? 'The sharp knife of a short life' I remembered the quote from an ancient book that I had managed to get my hands on. Only now, after all these years, have I fully understood what it means.
"...This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future." I don't bother to watch or to listen to the propaganda video than was currently being broadcasted across Panem; I have heard it too many times. However, the last few lines caught my attention as this was the cue for the selection to begin.
"Boys!" the escort calls. She is naturally (perhaps that's not the best word; surgically engineered) like the all the other brainwashed citizens of the Capitol but as an escort, she is extra deluded so to say. "Vitas Maddox!" shouting seems to be a common theme for her. Commotion from the section with the 15 years olds is followed by a lone tribute making his way towards the stage. He looks much older than 15; Vitas is very muscular. He has very tanned skin and an engraved crease between his eyebrows-a sign of a worried life.
"Now, for the girls!" the escort seems to take forever to chose a piece of folded up paper. My name is entered 6 times this reaping. Every girl here holds their breath as she walks back to the microphone holding a name in the air. Somebody's life is literally in her hands. We all hear the crackle of the paper as she opens it. "Finch Crossley!"