"Silas Rove," reads Demetrius from the steps of the Justice Building. My heart sinks into my stomach. For an instant, the entire world is frozen. Silas Rove, I think. I didn't know anyone else had that name here in District 8. It's seems strange that there are two of us, but that has to be the case; my name could not have been pulled for the Hunger Games. I have never taken tesserae. My name is only in that globe seven times. There must be a mistake.
As the realization of my fate sets in, time starts to move at its normal pace again. My moment of hesitation is rewarded by a peacekeeper grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the stage. My first inclination is to break free of his hold; however, we all know how that would end. Last year, a tribute from District 7 fought back against a couple of peacekeepers. They shot his father right in the town square.
I manage to get my feet moving, and am no longer being dragged to the stage. It's more like an escort now. As we walk toward the stage, I see a mixture of relief and pity flood the faces of the other eligible boys. Some of them are classmates, and some of them are from the far reaches of the district. I dare not look behind me toward my parents. I know what their reaction must be. My mother is a teacher, and my father works in a factory that makes peacekeeper uniforms. He also works a four-hour shift at another factory. They work so hard in order to protect my brothers and me from the tesserae. My brothers.
Griffith and Rowan are safe. They aren't old enough to have their names in the globe yet. My brothers are 6-year old twins, and the most innocent young boys in all of Panem. Both want to be teachers like Mom. They love helping people do things. Both follow me around anytime I'm home. They…they are going to be crushed. They may be safe from the harm of the games, but will still have to sit there night after night watching the horrors unfold on screen. I need to be strong. They need to think I can win. I need to think I can win.
To be honest, it's not like I'm an invalid. There isn't much to do in District 8 except go to school. Once we turn 16, we can pick up a four-hour shift at a factory. Even with school and my factory job, I have plenty of down-time in the day. I like to go for a run every night, which keeps me in pretty good shape. I lift heavy replacement parts at the factory when a machine breaks down. I'm not ripped like those tributes from District 1, District 2, or even District 4, but I'm probably in better shape than a lot of the tributes.
I finally reach the stage. Demetrius, District 8's escort, shakes my hand. I also shake hands with Serra Clinn, the female tribute. She can't be more than 14. I turn to face the crowd. My district. All I can see is despair. No one smiles. All eyes are on either Serra or me. Demetrius addresses the crowd, "Ladies and gentlemen, Silas Rove and Serra Clinn: District 8's tributes for the 13th Hunger Games." He turns toward us and adds, "may the odds be ever in your favor."
At this last remark, the crowd moves. All the citizens of District 8 raise their right hands, place them on their left shoulders, and bow their heads to us. We consider this a gesture of luck. District 8 has only had one victor in 12 games: Nick Polis. He won the 4th Hunger Games when he was only 14. Early in the games, he was stabbed in the left shoulder by a District 1 tribute wielding a vicious knife. He managed to last through the grueling 30-day games, but walked out grasping his shoulder.
I smile as best I can, and return the gesture to the crowd. I turn away and enter the Justice Building with Serra and Demetrius. Once inside, I am led to a secluded room. The room is vacant apart from a few wooden chairs. Everyone calls this room the deportation room. I dare not sit down, because I won't have the strength to stand up again. Instead, I wear a track into a five-foot section of the floor.
I hear the door open. "Silas." I've heard my father say my name every day of my life, but I have never heard it said in such a remorseful manner. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from this," he continues. I start to shake. Doesn't he know that I can't handle this right now? If I break my composure, I won't get it back.
"Dad, there's nothing else you could have done," I reassure him. As I turn to face him, I see that my mother and the twins are here as well.
My mother is overcome by emotions and can't speak. I walk to her and embrace her, possibly for the last time. Everything she is feeling can be felt in the vice-like hug. Love. Fear. Sorrow. Pity. Rage. I recognize them because I feel them, too.
The twins won't stop crying. I break my resolve from earlier, and kneel down on one knee beside them. I wrap my arms around them both, and rest my head on both of theirs. "I love you," I tell them.
"I love you, too," I manage to hear them both reply through the sniffling.
A peacekeeper comes in to the room and tells me that our time is up. Thankfully, I managed to make it through this without breaking down. As I start walking out of the room, I hear Griffith's voice.
"You have to come back!"
"Or we'll miss you forever," adds Rowan. They both start crying again.
This is the straw that destroys me. A single tear streams out of my right eye down my cheek. I have always despised the games, but the harshness only now sinks in. The Capitol will not take me away from my brothers. I refuse to let them know the pain of loss. Conviction and determination flood my voice as I promise them, "I will."