Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with the hunger games, just my own characters in the story
Once again, the day has come about. With never-ending consistency the reaping day for the Hunger Games comes around every year. Like every other year for the past four years I am sure that this will be the day that I am reaped. While this has yet to occur in any of the previous four years, I feel certain that this time I will be unable to avoid it.
"Arb, hurry up and come have breakfast you lazy dope."
That was my darling big brother Felix calling me to breakfast. And while he calls me Arb, it's actually short for Arbor, which literally means tree. You can see that I am the youngest-third- of my brothers and by that point my parents didn't care. Felix is now 23 and has long since aged out of the reaping with my middle brother Alder being 18 and in his final year of the reaping. Overall, we are wealthier than most families in District 7, with both my parents pulling the easier and better paid job of paper-making. They often complain that it's monotonous but they do acknowledge that it is far easier than a job as a lumberjack.
Due to this extra wealth none of us kids had to get Tessera to help feed the family and so I have 5 slips in the reaping bowl this year and Alder has 7. This has likely been a huge factor in why I have not been reaped the past 4 years. With many of the poorer families' kids being forced to take out Tessera, the chances that I will be picked is very low which means I should theoretically be more relaxed. This remains theoretical because it reality I am a nervous wreck.
"Come on honey, your breakfast is getting cold." My Mom tells me as a way of greeting.
This day always brings her stress, I think as I watch her babble on to my Father about nothing in particular. I know she worries about us and as we grow up and obtain more slips in the reaping bowl it gets worse for her. When Felix graduated from the reaping she broke down in tears and hugged everyone in the family.
I look down at my breakfast and see that it is two slices of stale bread that Mom purchased at the shop a week ago. I can even see some parts where she has cut off what was likely the beginning of mold. While we are one of the wealthier families this does not mean that we eat like kings, more like the kings servants on a bad day really.
"So Alder, this is your last reaping, are you ready?" My Dad asks.
"As ready as I'll ever be I guess." My brother responds
My mother puts on a strained smile "Yes, well even in your last year, the chances that you get drawn are very low, same to you Arb."
"I'm not too worried Mom" I lie
"Well we've got an hour until we need to go down the reaping so why don't you two clean up and get ready?"
My brother and I trudge off to our rooms and he decides that as the oldest, he should have the privilege of taking the first cold-water bath. We currently do have continuous running water for the Hunger Games and so this is not the big deal that it can be in other times of the year.
While he takes his bath, I wander around my small room, my reaping clothes laid out on my bed. I consider what my Mother said at breakfast, it's true that the odds of me being reaped are very low or-as the capital would say- 'the odds are in my favour'. Yet, I can't help this feeling that it is my turn to be reaped. I examine myself in the mirror and conclude that if it is indeed my name that is called, I will be in a lot of trouble. While I am fed better than most, I still lack any real muscle that would give me an advantage. I am quite intelligent, one of the top of my year at school, but not in the realms of the district three victors who use the environment to win the games on smarts. I'm also reasonably decent looking, but we are coming off the year that Finnick Odair won his games due to his good looks (and a deadly bloody trident) and in comparison, I will look like a dead slug. I can't think of a single advantage that I would have that could help me. Thankfully, I am spared having to think more on this depressing subject as my brother has finally finished his bath, graciously allowing me to take one myself.
An hour later and we have all migrated down to the town square for the ceremony. I am standing with the other 16 year old boys from the district, nervously peering up at the platform where our escort is having a conversation with the town mayor and our most recent victor: the winner of the 59th Hunger Games, Elizabeth Boury. The escort himself is a middle aged man named Marcellus and he looks like a kid on Christmas morning with how excited he is. We wait for what feels like eternity until the clock ticks over and the reaping can begin. First, our mayor comes up to the microphone to give us the annual hunger games speech. Our mayor is an older lady who is maybe a little plumper than the rest of us. She looks tired and worn out and there has been speculation that she will resign in the near future. The speech she gives us is the usual one where we hear about how we horrifically rose up against the loving Capitol and how after losing said uprising, we were granted mercy from the gracious Capitol by being presented with the Hunger Games, an annual event that would remind us of the Capitols mercy. We have all heard this speech so many times before that any of us could go up and deliver it rather than the mayor, yet that doesn't stop the Capitol from graciously repeating it every year. Finally, the mayor finishes up and requests Marcellus to come up to the microphone to officially begin the reaping.
"Hello there everyone, I'm just ecstatic to be back here in district seven where I see many worthy kids here who could proudly represent this great district. Sadly though there can only be two selected so why don't we begin with the girls?"
He makes a big show of delving deep into the bowl before picking out a slip of paper.
"Cassiah Krick."
I don't recognize the name and when I look up I see a girl who looks about 15 walking up the stairs steadily, her face determinedly blank although I can see a twitch every now and again on her left side. She's quite pretty, though not enough to provide much of an advantage and I can't help but think that she's unlikely to be a contender"
"Lovely, lovely and now on to the male tribute."
Again, he makes an annoying spectacle of reaching right into the bottom of the bowl to find the right slip and after what seems like 10 minutes he re-emerges with a satisfied grin.
I remember quickly about the bad feeling that I will be reaped, but before I can really think about it Marcellus is already reading out the name on the paper.
"Arbor Schooler."