Selected
A Hunger Games FanFiction
Lauren Fletcher
This morning is one of two in the entire year that we do not have to work.
One is Christmas day, an old festival that the Capitol celebrates, even if we do not. Our own festivals are not granted days off, so we have to 'party' while we work.
Today, however, is not Christmas. It is Reaping day.
Today, two of our own will be betrayed by the District and voted for to compete in the 25th Annual Hunger Games. The first Quarter Quell.
My stomach turns as I look at the meagre, spoilt portion of food in front of me, so I slide it forward and allow my siblings to tear at it and add it to their own tiny breakfasts. Chewing like animals, grunting like beasts, the bunch of them are pale faced as they eat quickly, knowing that at any moment their plate could be snatched away from them.
At the head of the table sits Papa as he oversees nine of his eleven children's eating. At the other end sits Mama, who simply stares down at a bare table with her mouth slightly ajar. Immediately I look away from her, the sight of her in this state making me feel even sicker than I already do.
"I've laid out your best clothes on your beds in your room," We all share one room, and my parents sleep on the floor in this room, the multipurpose kitchen-bathroom-living room-bedroom, "Dress properly, you'll want to make a good first impression if…" His voice trails off, and I can't say that I blame him for not being able to get the words out. No Father wants to face the reality that one of his children could be sent off to their death today.
Chair legs scraping against the wooden floorboards, I push my chair back and stand up, dropping my week's wages onto the table in case I forget to do it later. It's only a few dollars, but it'll be enough to buy a small bread loaf, or maybe be put towards paying for the tax that's collected for keeping the well in order. Before I leave the room I look in the barrel in the corner that we keep our tesserae in, (everyone in the age range to be reaped takes out two lots of tesserae, so that's 12 lots in total), and see it is now empty. This year, because the tributes are chosen by the districts, no one could take out tesserae. Everyone has suffered for it, but as the twins were this year able to take full time jobs for the first time, we have managed to get by with the extra money from that. But we know many families who just weren't that lucky.
Throwing the lid back onto the wooden container, I walk out of the room, dragging my feet on the floor and ignoring the piercing stare in my back from Papa. Before I manage to slip away from the room, he says,
"The reaping is in an hour, Aoife. You need to be ready by then, so…" He doesn't say it, but I know that sentence should end 'so don't go out looking for Lyssa,'.
Lyssa is my eleven-year old sister, the one who completely doted on me, and who I returned the affection too. Since she disappeared whilst looking for her dog three days ago, I have done nothing but search for her and work (inevitably meaning the skipping of school and a public flogging yesterday). Papa has already given up hope on her. I suppose it was the sight of Mama falling even deeper into her depression after Lyssa's disappearance that took the spark out of his fight.
Nodding, I leave the room and slam the door shut behind me. For a moment I stand there, teeth clenched, fists balled, and let the tears start to stream down my face.
Anything could have happened to her. She's probably dead. Or maybe she was picked up by one of the creeps that live in the sewers. Or maybe she ran away and is halfway to the ruins of District 13 by now.
Sniffing, I use my sleeve to wipe away the tears and trudge heavily to my bed stand. On it lies a dress, short but modest, sporting a pale blue colour. I recognise it as belonging to my older sister, on whose bed is a similar dress, just slightly bigger, indicating that she must have got the tailor's son to make her another one.
I begin to strip, modesty something that's completely lost on me, and stare at the school photo of Lyssa that I stole from her teacher after she went missing, which now sits in a homemade frame of flimsy sticks of wood and a few flowers picked from the fields. In the photo she's smiling, but it's forced, not at all like the natural one that literally lights up her face. Behind her is the emblem of the Captiol, and I have to remove my eyes from the frame just to stop myself tearing it apart at the sign.
An hour from now I will be standing in the square, along with approximately half of District 11's population, watching as our district escort reads out the names of the two people who have been voted to participate in this year's Games. The mere thought of it terrifies me. I wish that I was one of the other half of District 11, the ones who don't have children of reaping age or aren't of reaping age, who don't have to watch it live, rather just see snippets of it on the catch up.
After the reaping the District will be forced back to work, but the rules are normally laxer on reaping day. We're allowed to sing, for one thing. They will sing songs in the tributes' honour, songs of victory and songs of sorrow.
It's all I can do to hope that I will be there to sing along with them.
After the worn yet soft fabric of the dress sooths my skin and the buckles of my shoes are done so tightly that the circulation is cut off to my toes, I turn around to face myself in the mirror, biting my lip. Hastily, I run my fingers through my hair so that it looks at least somewhat looked after, but more for Papa's sake than out of vanity.
"Aoife!" Papa shouts, and my heart begins to thump in my ears as I realise that this is it. I remember how we voted for people in our District to take part, how I shamelessly put the name of a twelve year old kid into the mix, a kid that I barely even knew, just because I had no other option.
Shivers run through my spine.
"Next!" A stern, tight faced Capitol woman beckons for me, the Peacekeeper uniform shining in the brilliant sunlight of District Eleven. Cautiously, I edge towards her, holding out my finger and flinching when she pricks it with a sharp nice. Forcefully, she prods it down on a piece of paper, sending a spike of pain through my finger. Then, she uses some kind of fancy device I can't name, even though this is my fourth year in the reaping, to read the blood fingerprint, confirming my name.
"Aoife Gaiten?" She asks, and I nod quickly before snatching away my hand and running towards my pen.
"You OK?" A voice makes me jump, and I turn to the side to find whoever spoke to me. Immediately, I catch his eye, and turn away again.
"Hello, Aoife?" He asks, waving his palm in front of my face. Rolling my eyes, I push his hand away from me, and shake my head.
"Go away Travis," My voice is cool and calm, but sweat is already collecting on my palms. The fight that we had yesterday was loud enough for the whole District to hear, but he is the kind of person who gets over that kind of thing quickly. I, however, haven't forgotten how he told me to get over Lyssa's disappearance.
"Come on, Aoife. Don't be like that. I'm sorry, OK?" Ignoring him, my well trained eyes flit to the stage, and I watch as the bubbly Capitol woman clips across it in her high heels, towards a microphone. On a huge screen to the stage's left, I can see all of our faces, including those of the Peacekeepers pushing guns in the backs of those unlucky enough to be in the hind end of the pens, making sure that there's no disorderly behaviour.
"Be quiet." I murmur through gritted teeth as the woman finally makes it to the microphone.
"Welcome District 11! My name is Laurel Rankine, for those of you who don't know!" A somewhat sarcastic whistle comes from a boy in the eighteen year olds' pen, making me grin and sending blood to Rankine's cheeks.
"It's time," she continues, somewhat less enthusiastically, in her sickening accent. My nails dig into my arm as my eyes flit to the glass balls, with one name slip in each, "To announce the tributes to represent District Eleven in the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games! As you know, you have this year chosen who you think will bring pride to your District! And without further ado, I will announce the names! Of course, ladies first." A peppy smile spreads across her face, and the pit in my stomach lurches as she fishes the name out of the glass ball.
"Please," I murmur under my breath. Laurel's mouth opens.
As the name hangs in the air, a ripple of shock mingled with confusion runs through the District. Laurel's face falters, and the Peacekeeper woman who signed me in stands up from her position at the desks.
"Is there a problem?" Laurel says, and the Peacekeeper makes a gesture at her. More of the uniforms close in on us.
Because it wasn't me.
It was Lyssa Gaiten.