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Haymitch's Point of View
I glanced at all the different teenagers, from the young age of 12, to my age of 16, and to the oldest of 18 that surrounds me. Some of them are my friends, but most of them I hardly know other than polite nods outside of school. And today four out of us are going to have our life changed forever. The odds are 47 out of 48 that the four chosen are probably going to die, but there was a slim chance that that change could be for the better. One of the four people called by Effie Trinket could survive, and then District 12 would be showered with food and other rare gifts, and that one person would live in a grand mansion and never starve again. But as I said before, it is a slim chance. The mayor of District 12 steps up to the podium and tells us the same story about the history of Panem, and a bunch of other stuff that I hear every year. I learn to just tune it out; in fact I fall into a sort of blank daydream for a while, until Effie Trinket's annoying high pitched voice breaks me out of it.
"Happy Hunger Games, and made the odds be ever in your favor!" She announces cheerfully, as if the slaughtering of 48 boys and girls is just ever so delightful. She is wearing another ridiculous get up, but last year was worst. Last year she wore a rainbow colored wig, with rainbow lipstick, and some sort of sparkly dress. At least this year she stuck with a solid color. Of course, I am not even interested in breaking down her outfit, but it keeps my mind busy, if I were not thinking about Effie then my mind would inevitably slip to the horror of this day.
"Ladies First!" She says in a bubbly tone and practically skips over to the girls drawing ball. Every body watches, frozen, as she takes out one slip of paper, than slowly another.
She reads the first one, "Floral Mayhatter."
It is a girl that I have never seen, I can tell though that she is younger than me and she steps up shakily to the stage shaking for all she is worth. I feel bad for her.
Then Effie picks up the next slip, "Maysilee Donor."
Oh. I know her, she was actually one of my friends, and I know later, I will be very hurt later once this actually processes into my mind.
Next Effie crosses over to the boy's tank. The first name she reads is a kid named Turnip Saber, I do not register him even walking up onto the stage, I am so intent on that next slip of paper. I stare at it, willing it to not be mine. But I do not think I need worry. After all, there are thousands of slips of paper in that tank, and only 16 are mine. In fact, I have entirely convinced myself that that slip couldn't possibly mine when Effie Trinket reads out, "Haymitch Abernathy." And I feel my legs numbly walking up the stage, quickly I mask my face, I do not tremble, I do not fear, I am a mixture of stone and ice and rage. At least for the camera, on the inside I am begging for someone to take my place. No one volunteers. I could not hope that someone would.
I have no siblings, and any friend would have to be on a suicide mission to actually give themselves to the hunger games in place of a friend. So I am still standing on the stage when the Mayor makes us shake hands with the other people, the friends that are now forced to be enemies, I am still standing on the stage when the anthem plays, and I am still standing on the stage when I vow to win. No matter, what, I am determined to win. And the thought brings a smile to my lips, which I leave there because, after all, the camera's will pick it up, and it will look like I am already ready to kill. And I am.