My name is Danica Mellark. I am 15 years old. My mother is Katniss and my father is Peeta. I have a 12 year old brother named Rye. Today is the reaping. Effie Trinket has called my name. I am going into the arena. I knew this day was coming. Mother warned me of it. I must be brave for my family. They will be watching.

I swallow my tears. They cannot escape my eyes as I walk to this stage before me.

I knew this day would soon become reality. I just didn't know when. When the districts lost the rebellion, it was decreed that the Hunger Games would continue, more brutal than ever. District 13 must also participate. Every year, as punishment for the breaking of the Treason Treaty, three people from each district, between the ages of 12 and 18 would be chosen to be locked in an outdoor arena to fight to the death. The last two remaining will crowned victor, however, they must be from separate districts and of the same gender. Otherwise, only one can survive. The games are no longer a form of entertainment. There is no special treatment of the tributes, not fancy clothes or interviews. Just the games. We get thrown into the arena as we are, starving and weak. No training, no mentors. You either have the wits to survive or you die. There are no grantees of the tributes gender. Everyone's name, boy or girl, is thrown in the reaping ball together. There could be all girls, one boy and two girls, all boys or one girl and two boys. In total, 39 tributes are reaped and 37 will not come out alive. Sometimes, even 38 will lose their lives fighting for no reason at all. I have sat in front of the old television in our living room year after year when only one person would survive to return to their families. Uncertainty is how the Capitol keeps us in control. It's sad for the districts become so much of our population was wiped out in the bombings and wars. You are more likely to know the person being reaped because there are so few of us to begin with. Because of my parent's roles in the rebellion, they knew that the Capitol would rig the drawings so that one of their children would be reaped. As their own personal punishment for the damage they caused. What a show it would be for the daughter of the Mockingjay to be a tribute? Well, the day has arrived. I have heard the stories of how Mother volunteered for Aunt Prim, who was sadly killed in the war. The odds are not in my favor of someone standing up to take my place. That is forbidden. No one volunteers. If you are reaped, you have no means of escape.

Despite my heart almost beating out of my chest, I take deep breaths as the peacekeeper approaches. Dressed in his white suit and helmet, he finds me in the cluster of other 15 year olds. His hand grips my arm pulling me into the clear path separating the boys and the girls. I notice that every eye is on me. Everyone knows my name. Everyone knows my parent's story. Except for me. I know some things about how they won the Hunger Games twice, and started a rebellion. But they will not tell me what happened after that. What happened to them after the rebellion was lost and Panem continued to be a dark, sorrowful place.

I can feel the sorrow and pity the people of District 12 feel for me, for my family. No unhappy whispers flood the air. The Capitol stopped that all together. There's no talking during a reaping. It is too big of a risk of planning and spreading of discontent. I walk in silence at a steadily pace, staring at particularly nothing in front of me. I keep my eyes straight, my head high. My fists are clenched at my sides. I can feel two peacekeepers as they tread right behind me, hands placed on my back to make sure I don't try to make a run for it. I've seen that happen. You know what happens to them? They get a bullet in the head. As I near the stage, I look at my future. Effie Trinket, known as a sad depressed woman, stares at me, tears threatening to overcome her. She was once beautiful, bright and bubbly, not having a care in the world. Or so I am told. My parents are the only surviving tributes from District 12. They had a mentor, Haymitch Abernathy who had won the Quarter Quell. But he was executed shortly after the war on conspiracy charges. Why didn't they kill my parents? Simply because they wanted them to live, to suffer and see their children reaped and killed. The Capitol wanted them to see the aftermath of such violence, and be examples of how even the strongest cannot outsmart the Capitol. They stand there beside Effie. My father cries as my mother screams. She has never been one to care much about rules, so she doesn't even stop herself when she begins to cry, "No!" She tries to rush towards me, but three peacekeepers push her against the wall behind them and pin her there as she thrashes. This earns her a slap in the face from one of the men restraining her. She spits in one of their faces, and she gets taken away, probably to be beaten bloody. No, the odds are not in my favor today.

I feel a tear begin to slide down my cheek at this sight. No this will not do. I have to be brave. Even if my parents are not. I quickly wipe it away with one swipe of the back of my hand. I reach the steps and two more peacekeepers are there to retrieve me. As they grab my arms, they pull me up on stage. I expect them to restrain me, hold me off to the side. However, they release me and I give one a questioning look. His cold expression remains as his deep, almost growling voice says, "Run to Daddy, little girl."

It takes everything inside of me to not slap him.

I calmly walk and stand by my father's side. I look at him, his puffy blue eyes, blonde and grey hair combed neatly over to the left side. He's wearing that hideous white shirt with blue stripes. But I am thankful he chose today to wear it. It will help me on the dark train ride to the Capitol. The lines on his face tell stories of the sadness and despair he experienced over the years. The corners of his mouth now point down as he tries to hold it together for his daughter. I send him a message with my eyes; It will be alright, Dad. I'll come home. He nods, almost as if he read my thoughts. He lifts one hand, placing it on my shoulder pulling me in close. He plants a kiss on the top of my dark brown hair that mother had braided so delicately this morning down my back. She worked so slowly, almost as if she were trying to remember what my hair looked like, how it smelled; because she knew that it was only a matter of time before it would be her last chance to style it.

This is when I look over for the first time at one of my fellow tributes. I had forgotten she was even up here. She had been called just before I. It's Meybell Garson. She's a year older than me; awfully mean and unpleasant. She has sleek red hair and those same blue eyes as my father. Freckles cover her entire face and she's rather pale compared to me. She sticks out like a sore thumb with the rest of us, but the story is that her family got mixed up with the other refugees in 13 and was sent to District 12 instead of District 5 from where they had came. However, the Capitol had better things to do than worry about minor mix-ups like that. So they were forced to stay. Her family is used to different traditions and ways of thinking than ours so maybe that's why no one really likes her. No one really associates with me either, though. They are afraid that any relation to me would cause harm to themselves and their own families. The Capitol would punish them to get to me and my family, or punish them just because they can. Either way, it is safer to stay away from the Mockingjay family. But they still continue to feel sorrow for us from afar. This is one of the main reason's my father's bakery business failed. Everyone was afraid to buy his bread. They only feel safe eating the food provided by the Capitol, ironically. Meybell looks at me from the corner of her eye, then looks away shaking her head to the crowd. Like this is all my fault. Okay, technically it is. Well, my parents fault anyway. Still, it's not our fault that the Capitol is so cruel and vicious to begin with.

Since I am the second to be picked, there is one more person to be reaped. Now that I have been chosen, I can now relax for Rye. I know that he will be safe for another year. Hopefully, after my reaping, we will be treated like everyone else. The Capitol will have its revenge on my family and they will feel less blood thirsty against us. Maybe after I have competed, they will be satisfied enough to let us live our miserable lives like everyone else in District 12. Meaning Rye would be less likely to end up in the spot I am in now. I finally spot Rye, way in the back with the rest of the 12 year olds. He is crying abundantly, his blonde curls are flying furiously in the wind. I can see one of the boys beside him risk comforting him, even though is a quick pat on the back. Still, it's a step forward from before. I am not listening as Effie continues with the program, reaching into the glass ball for the third time. I just keep my eyes locked on him, urging him to be strong. Please be strong.

"Rye…Mellark," Effie is crying now. I don't know why. Rye and I have only ever seen the woman on reaping days. Never have I spoke to her. So her emotional distress is confusing to me. She doesn't know us, we mean nothing to her. Do we?

Wait, what?

Suddenly my heart stops. I seriously believe it stops. My breath is becoming quick and painful and suddenly my vision blurs a little. I think I am hyperventilating. No. No no no. She didn't just call Rye did she? No she couldn't have. I must have heard wrong. The tributes can't be brother and sister can they? There's a rule against that isn't there? I look to my father, who now sheds no more tears. His eyes are wide with disbelief, staring at Rye from the stage we stand on now. The alarm in them are so real and intense. Did he mishear Effie as well? He must have.

My fear however, is confirmed as I see him. His face drained of blood, eyes wide with the same terror my father is showing now. He looks around, almost like he's questioning, Did they just call my name? Is this real?

Sometimes when we were little, mother would play a game with father. We didn't understand why they played it. But I know that it calmed him down when he had an episode. He would go into bouts of rage and throw things around the house, telling mother to get away from him. Sometimes he called her a mutt. Whatever that is. She told us the episodes are from things he experienced during the war and the games. She never went into detail. I had always just accepted that explanation and she seemed thankful I didn't ask more questions. Whenever these episodes would occurs, I would just take Rye by the hand and lead him to his room. We would stay there and play with toys until mother would come knock on the door telling us that Daddy was okay now and that he wants us to wash up for super.

One night, Rye woke up screaming from a bad dream. Our rooms are right across the hall from each other and I would be the first to reach him. He had been having several nightmares at the time because it was when I had just turned 12. It was the first year I was eligible for the games. I know where he gets it from. Our mother is notorious for nightmares that wake up everyone in the house. I would rush to Rye's side, stroking his blonde hair and he would cry and tell me about the dream. Dreams of me dying in the games, dreams of mother and father blaming him for my death, dreams of him being reaped himself.

"They seem so real, Danica," he would whimper.

That's when I got the idea to begin playing the game with Rye that mother uses with father to calm him down. If is helps him sort through what real and a lie, maybe Rye can benefit from it as well.

"Let's play a game," I said, "You tell me about something that happened in one of your dreams. I will tell you if it is real or not real."

"Like the games Mommy plays with Daddy?"

"Exactly," I answer, "So tell me about it."

"You were reaped for the games. Real or not real?"

"Not real. I wasn't picked at the reaping yesterday."

"Mommy and Daddy would blame me if you were picked. Real or not real?"

"Not real. Even if I was picked, it wouldn't have been your fault."

"You love me, real or not real?"

"Unfortunately, I'm stuck with you as my little brother. So, real."

I earn the giggle out of him that I was hoping for.

I would do anything for him to wake up from this nightmare now. To be able to tell him it's just a dream, its not real. He stands there, the peacekeepers waiting impatiently outside of the roped off area. Everyone is watching him, waiting to see what he will do next. He too is breathing heavily, looking like he is on the verge of passing out. Effie repeats his name, telling him to make his way to the stage in between sobs. I watch him as he walks to the peacekeeper who angrily grabs his arm and pushes him towards the stage. His terror is slowing his pace and when he walks too slowly for their taste, they push him again, harder. He falls to the ground, dirt particles flying in the beams of sunlight. I see a small red dot on his chin where a scratch has began to bleed. I cannot stop the screams that come from my body. I begin to cry, screaming my head off as I make my disapproval known.

"No! Leave him alone! Take me, just leave him alone!" I prepare myself to jump right off the stage, run to my baby brother and console his pain. I am right on the edge as a pair of arms wraps around my waist and pull my back. They belong to my father. I am kicking and screaming now. This can't be happening! They were only supposed to reap me! Not Rye! They were supposed to get their revenge through sending me to games. Just me. Isn't that enough? Wouldn't that be enough punishment for just one of my parent's children to be sent to death? This isn't fair. My father whispers in my ear, "Stop it Danica, calm down." I don't listen. I continue to fight and scream which only causes Effie to cry more. I expect them to kick and hit him because knowing Rye, he will curl into a ball in the dirt and cry. I have to get to him, to protect him. Cover his body with mine to soften the blows. Why won't my father let me go? And where the hell is my mother? So much for being brave.

I am expecting them kill him, beat him to death because he won't get up. He's so sensitive. However, Rye does something that is both terrifying and calming at the same time. He gently gets to his feet, brushes the dirt from his shirt and wipes his chin of the blood. He straightens his shirt and fixes his hair before he begins to walk, ever so peacefully. As if it is a surrender. This is what terrifies me. What is he thinking? Why is he accepting death so easily? He isn't planning on giving his own life so I can come home is he? I can read him like an open book. Well two bad. I'll fight him every inch of the way. I will keep him alive, so he can come home. If one of us should come home, it should be Rye. He's younger and so much smarter than I am. I couldn't live with myself with I came home without him. No, I will protect him until my last breath. Before, I had believed I had a chance. I believed that perhaps I had the common sense, the wits, and the survival skills to make it out of their alive. That I might possibly get to come home when this whole thing is over. However, now I am accepting that I must protect Rye, keep him safe and send him home alive. Accepting that I must make sure he is fed, that he stays warm and stays safely away from the careers. I am accepting that I am going to die.

While lost in these thoughts, Rye has had time to ascend up the steps and take his place beside Father and I. I look at him, tears and fear in my eyes. His face is sorrowful, his eyes glisten in the sunlight, full of tears as he mouths four simple words.

"Real or not real?"

After I pause, I mouth back.

"Real"