This is my very, very, very first story, so don't go hating on it! I tried my best.
Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own the Hunger Games. I wish I was the author, but... All rights go to Suzanne Collins the amazing person who did write it.
Chapter 1
Long ago, a promise was made. They would keep us safe. We would be safe. It was a new age, a new nation, a chance for peace and happiness. Panem, the country of forgiveness and justice.
That was a lie.
Even before this happened, a world war erupted from chaos. Entire masses fought for what little remained. Populations were ruined like never before. And out of this rubble, this destruction came Panem. Its government was promising. It was a relief to the suffering families. But it backfired. The president was oppressive, the officials secretive, and while the rich were enjoying, the poor people so very far away from this were starving to death, yet no one cared but them. The feelings of anger solidified into action, and the people fought back. They fought with bravery, but a government is not so easily overthrown by some country folk with bricks. The rebellion was squashed as easily as a grape by the president, and the iron grip grew even tighter, with greater consequences than ever expected. This is where the Hunger Games were born. As a punishment to the rebels, they were forced to send their children, one girl and one boy every year, to an arena to fight to the death for their viewing pleasure. Pleasure! Pleasure, while people starve? Pleasure, while they live in fear, while they watch their friends slowly die in a horrible way? See, this is not safe at all. The promise they made to us, it was all fake. They are forcing horrors on us as a cruel punishment, not helping us. And it took seventy-five years for them to realize this enough so as to take action. Long ago, a promise was made. And long ago, a promise was broken. Now, this must be righted. The final rebellion took place, in even greater numbers and strength. There was much fighting, plenty of death. I remember the fear I felt as I peered out the window and watched the arrows fly. The black arrows. And all of that shouting, the screaming… I shiver to think of it. But finally, it worked. The Capitol government was overthrown, and the people won. They took the government. Yet they have proven something. They are not all about peace either. I fear for myself! It's terrible, what they have done to us…
I break off as a knock sounds on my door. My pen is shoved under my low bed along with my journal and other things that should be kept secret. My father enters the room and sighs as he looks at the rough wooden furniture and the bare walls.
"Cladia." His voice is nothing but a stern whisper. "It's time." And without a word, he leaves.
Oh, yes. I remember. The reaping. I now walk to my possible death.
I live in the Capitol. The large, beautiful city at the heart of Panem. Loved by its citizens, despised by all others. The very center of the monster. After the rebellion, a decision was made by the survivors. As a return punishment for the Hunger Games, the Capitol children would now have to enter their own Hunger Games, almost identical except for a few rule changes. Twenty-four Capitol girls, twenty-four boys, are sent into the arena, to fight each other until there is only one. I shiver at the thought. There are two per region. What most of the District people never learned is that the districts are modeled after the Capitol in another way. There are twelve regions in the Capitol, just like the twelve districts. When District 13 was destroyed, the people living in Region 13 were forcibly removed and dispersed to other regions. I live in Region 2, one of the richest regions. Regions 1 and 2 are reserved for government officials and very important people. This is why I hate living there. The wealth decreases as the regions go back, but Region 12 isn't too bad off. Not like the districts were.
Of course, the Capitol citizens are not used to experiencing the horror of the Games up close. They are used to luxury, to enjoying these events, not watching them with a feeling they have rarely felt before: Fear. They fear nothing here. The citizens' lives are soft and filled with content. They wear lavish clothes and decorate their homes in outrageous colors. They eat the finest food, receive an education, and get a job, everything they can imagine!
And it's despicable to me.
I have always hated the Capitol ways. This is actually very ironic. My name is Cladia Mathers, and I am from one of the richest, most important families in the Capitol. Back before the district rebellion, during the original Hunger Games, my father was a Gamemaker, and my mother traveled around with District 8, you know, drawing the names, organizing things. As you can tell, my family was very "big" on the Hunger Games and everything to do with the fancy lifestyle of a Capitol citizen. I suppose that I had a different way of thinking. Instead of seeing the Districts as disobedient peasants, so to speak, I saw poor, starving individuals. Everything that they taught us in school was wrong to me. And I did not believe in dressing up in the traditional clothes, either. When they turn sixteen, a Capitol child is expected to start wearing full-on costumes. Wigs, jewels, ridiculous makeup, dresses, everything. But when I turned sixteen, exactly one month ago, I kept my lanky brown hair in a messy braid. My pale face and hazel eyes remained paint-free, and I kept wearing the same patchy brown tunic and brown pants that I had made in the efforts of my protest. Yes, I went that far. Even my bedroom was untouched. I scraped off the pink paint and pulled in a lopsided wooden bed from the junkyard, which sits in exile a mile away from any civilization. Nobody who is anybody would go near there. Only in the Capitol. I sigh.
The road to the reaping is long. When I get there, there are already hundreds of people, both spectators and children alike. I spot my family. My parents, of course, avoid my eyes as they briskly walk towards the spectators. My siblings cling to them. Lilia, the oldest, who is eighteen, tries to remain dignified, but I can tell she is silently crying as she holds on to the younger ones. Rosemary is just six, yet she still understands she might lose us, as she is now openly grimacing and burying her round, pretty face in my mother's curly red hair.
The process of registration is also tedious. They prick my fingers, and apparently my name is checked off somewhere in a machine. I notice these people look like they are from the Districts, not the Peacekeepers that have always done it in years past. Practically the whole country is run by the ones who fought against the Capitol.
The anthem blares, and I know it's time.