Author Note: Ok, so this is my first story, which I've been planning for about a year, but never got the guts to actually write like all you beautiful inspiring writers out there. It's basically just an other tributes story, of her games and her life. Romance will be included further as well as some violence. I know this seems like a 'déjà vu', but give me a chance? English is my second language, so I happily accept all you suggestions on my writing skills... As well as your comments and critiques about the story in general, I really want to get better in narration. I hope you like it and review! Enjoy!
Disclaimer: The characters which you don't recognize from the books, are mine, the others are Suzanne Collins'. I do not own The Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins does.
Chapter 1 - Reaped
Drip. Drip.
Silent is the sound of the buzzing rain that hits my warm skin. Still, I can hear every single drop, forming a constant rhythm, almost matching the beating of my heart. These rainy mornings have always been the greatest. Well, they were always the same, here in district six. Dim and cold, my eyes get lost in the fog that surrounds the larch trees standing weak, like bones on a field. Having hopeless expectations, I would be lying if I said that I'm happy. I am not and I don't think I will ever be. I always had a reserved and unusual character, but never did I think I'd turn out to be this bad. I never cared for others, since they never bothered with me. I never believed in love, since the ones that I loved didn't have the same feelings.
"May… Get your ass back in here… I don't want you to be late." says a grunt voice from the kitchen. I don't flinch nor respond, standing still and soundless in the doorway, listening to the rain that is pouring from the grey sky.
I live alone, with him, the man I once considered as my dear daddy. He used to be one handsome young man, blonde hair blown by the wind, like a prince coming from the sand of our dreams. I don't recognize him anymore, not since my mother, Gemini, died. She didn't wake up, when I jumped on her bed, on my tenth birthday. I still remember the needles on her bedside, as well as the rough way my father tried to put his hand over my mouth, as I screamed out my lungs. My tears fell for her, until I realized that they were useless, that she wasn't coming back. I was never going to see her tired smile again, when I was trying to braid her light chestnut hair. Since then, father always got wasted. It was usually over mother's death or my lackadaisical attitude. Father always used to say that my spiritless personality was driving him sick. But he eventually got used to it, judging it was better for me to stay silent. A simple way to keep my mouth shut about things I wasn't supposed to mention.
"I know ya heard me…" he shouts a little bit louder. I can hear the slight drunken haze in his voice. Predictably, he is hangover. As bad as I don't want to leave my spot, I still get back in. Our house, full of mold, is an antiquity, which my grand-parents bought, when their first and only child was born. Eventually they both died of heart attack, leaving the house, as well as their decent money, to mother and her 'family'. She didn't make good use of it.
Climbing up the few stairs to the level above, I make sure to walk on tip-toes, not daring to take father's attention from the cup of tea towards which his eyes are intently staring. I am not scared of him in any sort, I just don't like being around him. The less we talk; the better.
The rooms are small and few, me sleeping upstairs on the dusty bed, while father sleeps downstairs in the living room, on the holed couch. And that is only on the best nights, since he usually doesn't even come home. He passes most of his nights out in bars, smuggling or even just hanging out with random women. Not that I care. He once slept outside on the porch, too drunk to find the handle of the door. I didn't bother with him, leaving him to shiver in the darkness. It was his choice after all.
We don't even act like a family anymore. We work to feed ourselves, and only spend equally to pay the rent. The rest is all separate, as if we don't even know each other. Not that it bothers me; I always thought that it was better this way. I didn't want to get involved in his illegal businesses. Therefore, I didn't get in trouble for the past few years. I'm not even sure that somebody would ever recognize me in the district. It's not even assured that I have a future waiting ahead of me. What am I even supposed to do in this pathetic life?
According to the Capitol, district six is supposed to provide transportation, constantly building and repairing hovercrafts, cars, trains and all the engines you can imagine, but will never ride, unless you're a conductor. But under the shadows and poverty of the district, everybody knows that six is one of the greatest places to supply you with morphling, drugs and other medicine. It is black market, but people can't prevent the desire to need the medication they rely on. Almost everybody here will fall in that trap once in their lives. Mother did. Hopefully, I didn't follow her path. Still, her life seemed so much more exciting than mine.
Today, with my lack of social skills, I don't have any friends or anybody else. The only thing that can make me smile is probably dancing at the music in my head, as my toes get sore because of the rough ground under them. Mother loved music, always playing on her broken piano, singing wicked lyrics. Father loved her voice filled with lush and pouting lips. I barely even remember it. I can only recall some of the melodies, as she lusciously harmonized the tones, while I silently danced, my feet matching the rhythm of her rimes.
Still, time for dancing is rare, as I always have to work, ten hours a day, as a mechanic, repairing train and hovercraft pieces. I left school at fifteen. After mother died, father didn't have enough money to feed both of us. School was full of bullies and working is boring, still it keeps me alive. But it isn't enough; with my slim pay, I have to take out a bunch of tesserae each year, increasing my chances of getting reaped. This year isn't different. Today isn't different. There are at least 15 slips with my name, Esmay Warpmond, in the girl's bowl. It's still a slim chance, considering that most of children have an average of 25 slips. Not that I care. I wouldn't be much of a lost to this world if I died. My father would slightly struggle to pay the rent and the tax, but he wouldn't care less.
As I get upstairs, I tug out a powdery skirt from under a pile of clothes that lay on the chair near my small bed. I do not own a wardrobe. Not that I need one. All my outfits wickedly smell gas, while my boots are always covered in dirt and fuel oil. If mother would be alive, she would lecture me about my hygiene. But she isn't. I miss her, but I won't even admit it to myself. She wasn't the perfect mother; still, she was good enough for me. Sighing, I pull up the skirt with difficulty, matching it with my usual reaping white blouse. I have the same outfit for years now. It begins to get small, with my height of 5'8. Ruffling my long dark hair to make it dry faster, I stumble down the stairs, pick up my boots, before running outside.
"See you there…" I mutter rudely to father, before harshly closing the door. As the rain drops flow on my freckled skin, my cotton shirt sticking to my flesh, I begin to walk, the black leather on my feet stomping on the muddy road.
Reaping days are always the same, here in district six. Wet children hurry to the square, dreading for two names to be called, only to return safely home. Unfortunately, there are always two kids who are sent to the Capitol, along with twenty-two others, to slaughter each other until only one is left. I never complained about the games. They are unfair for most of the districts, but everybody has to accept the fact that we don't live in an ideal world, therefor; there will always be leaders and underdogs. Still, Panem earned the Hunger Games when they rebelled in the Dark Days. The games seem logically structured; you go in, charm the Capitol, play by the rules, kill your opponents, give them a show and survive. Truthfully speaking, the games would be quite simple if it wouldn't include the gamemaker's tricks. Not that killing human beings wouldn't affect me. That's why district six only has five victors; we are quite sensible to the challenges of life. More than half of the citizens here use drugs to ease psychological pain. In fact, the only time district six got a little attention was when, a couple of years ago, a tribute resorted to cannibalism to survive. Father used to work with Titus, the boy seemed perfectly sane. Since then, district six didn't have any victors. Not even a slim chance of winning.
Arriving at the square, head down, I slowly walk to my assigned place in the seventeen olds section. Not daring to look up at the girls chatting silently around me, I let the rain stream on my cheeks, not minding the mess I became on the road. As the strident sound of the mike rings, silence settles in the crowd.
Mayor Hone climbs on the stage, followed by the few victors and of course, Daphna Bloom. She has been our escort for a few years now. Still, she seems quite young, almost ageless, always dressed in the softest colors possible, not matching the dark landscape of district six. I've always admired her. Shy of nature, with a fairy like shaped face, her smile always succeeds to ravish us. It is evident that she doesn't enjoy reaping children that are sent to death.
"Greetings district six. Welcome to the reaping of the 68th annual Hunger Games." she speaks up with her smooth anxious voice, nervously turning the handle of her baby pink umbrella. She then hands the mike to the mayor, her movements as gracious and slow as a swan's.
As usual, the mayor reads the Treaty of Treason about how they invented the games, to remind us of our uprising against the Capitol in the 'Dark Days'. I don't even look at the stage or the screens, almost dreading the moments that are to come. I wanted to volunteer a few years ago, knowing that I wasn't any use to be in my father's path, as well as to take the place of a girl whose life could be more eventful and interesting than mine. But I didn't, judging it would be better if I didn't get in the way of fame and possible death. Besides, volunteering is considered as suicide in district six. There is no way someone is trained and ready to fight to death here.
As silence settles again, Daphna slowly walks to the boy's bowl. Breathing out heavily, she picks out a small slit between her lavender nails, as the rain begins to pour harder. Stumbling in her white sky high heels, she reaches for the mike, before giving out the name of the unlucky boy.
"And the male tribute is… Daviel Frisch." she says, before flashing a concerned smile to the boy's section. Instantly, a tall boy from the sixteen year olds steps on to the stage, the water from his messy brown hair dripping on his jaw. As he turns to face the crowd, I can immediately see the smug smile on his lips, as his eyes dart back and forth between Daphna's cleavage and his friends, probably. Rolling my eyes, I can already see Daviel die in the bloodbath. Acting like the games are a joke won't bring him far. But who am I to judge? It's better to smile than break down and cry in front of the whole nation.
As I hear Daphna's heels clack on the wet stage, I realize that she is already heading for the girl's bowl. Dropping my head, looking at my legs, I can hardly hear any breaths around me, as our escort noisily unfolds the paper. Clenching my teeth tightly, heart beating fast, I look up as her fine coral lips open, her platinum long blonde hair fluttered by the wind.
I hope it isn't me, even if a part of my consciousness tells me that being reaped is probably the best thing that could happen to me. I could be free, even if it would be just for a rare glimpse of liberty, before dying. I could abandon this hopeless home and never come back. District six isn't where I belong. Still, there is a frail voice that tells me that I could never make through the games. I would be a desperate prey.
"And the female tribute is…Esmay Warpmond." she chirps sweetly, before looking at our section, searching for the unfortunate face.
Looking around myself, I can only wonder what the others are arching their heads for. Daphna said my name. The name of the doomed child is mine. I am the female tribute of district six for the 68th Hunger Games. Swallowing hard, I can hardly realize that the interrogative faces around me, are actually searching for me. They don't recognize me, of course. Sighing, I know I can't stay anonymous for long; the peacekeepers will finish by looking for me. And I'll be in trouble. Stumbling slightly in my black boots, I walk securely, getting out from the row, feeling every piercing stare on me. Back arched, chin up, I unemotionally look at Daphna's feeble smile, as I reach the stairs to my faith. Seeing my face on the screens, I barely fall apart, as I register what truly happened. Confusion emerges in the lightness of my grey eyes as I struggle with my sudden fright.
"Your tributes for the 68th Hunger Games! Shake hands…" chants Daphna in a sing song voice, playing her role. Daviel and I shake hands, as he gives me a wink with a vicious smile. Almost raising an eyebrow, I keep my mouth in a firm line, not willing to display weakness. The hand shake lasting a little too long for my taste, I pull away, facing the crowd, as I don't recognize any familiar faces. These games will definitely be my downfall. Nobody will mourn me.
