Hello! For anyone who has read this before, I am rewriting this story. I just didn't like the lack of effort and the direction the last version had. You can read on to the next chapter's, and they will soon be changed. I hope you like this better!

"Lottie, do you know what this is?"

I shook my head. What my father held in front of me was simple: a long stick of wood, with its end carved into a point. But at three years old, I had no word for it this foreign object. "Stick?" I tried.

"It's called a spear Lottie," he said, placing it down next to him. "It's what my grandfather used when he fished. He taught my mother how to fish the traditional way, she taught me, and now it's how I'm going to teach you."

"Do you fish with these daddy?" I had asked.

"Not anymore if I want to make money. But that doesn't require the skill of fishing with a spear, the skill I am going to teach you."

I looked up at my father, my hero. His tall stature, his large belly, the way he would always smell of fish, and his long, red hair. His whiskers would shake when he laughed, which was often, and his eyes were the green color of the sea.
I always wanted to be like him. My mother would often catch me coloring my blonde hair with orange marker or cutting out green circles of paper to put in my eyes in an attempt to emulate his appearance.

Every day he was home we would have a fishing lesson, and I would treasure every minute. When he wasn't home, I would practice with every free minute I had. I didn't have much to do other than that, and I wanted to fish exactly like my dad. I didn't have any friends. I didn't go to training camps. All the other kids learned to fish on boats with their parents.

My life consisted of a spear.

What I learned that day when I was three years old changed my life forever. "You must be patient. You must be accurate. You must be precise. You must be strong."

My father was my greatest inspiration. But now he was gone. He died in a boating accident two years ago. My mother had died when I was five of a heart condition. I can barely remember her. My only living relative was my mom's sister, a mean lady with no care of anyone by herself. She only provided for me because she would get in trouble with the law if she didn't.

I was no longer the three-year-old who had never seen a spear. I was the 12-year-old master. Secretly. The kids at school had never seen me at any training, and had assumed I was weak. I guess anyone would make that assumption, no matter where I went. During recess I hid. During class I read. I was nothing to them.

After school, I would walk through my house, past my aunt who would ignore my presence, and go right to my backyard. Through my backyard I would walk through the tall grass for about a mile until I got to the beach. There, I would grab my spear from the bush and practice. As if it would somehow bring my dad back.

Fishing with the spear is what connected me to my dad.

But today there would be no school, and today there would be no practicing. Today was the reaping day. And I was twelve years old.

The sun's light passed through the window and right on to my bed, warming the covers and me under it.

The first thing I do is check the calendar. Maybe the reaping has already happened, and I don't have to deal with the pain of remembering it. I am unlucky. My memory did not do me a favor, and I will have to live through this.

The memory blips started when I was five, not long after my mom died. I didn't tell anyone in fear of being thought crazy or sent away. Being sent away would have been a privilege after dad died, I'd rather be anywhere than with my neglectful aunt, but I knew that if I did tell her about my memory problems, she wouldn't care. She would rather not have me here. She would rather me be chosen for the reaping. Still, there would be days that would go by and I would remember none of it.

I sighed and slipped out of bed. In my closet was my blue-green dress I had bought. A lump formed in the pit of my stomach.
This was it.

-
Town square was full of children, as it is every year. Except this year, I was in the midst of it. The lump in my stomach grew stronger. "Your name is only in there once, and surely someone else would volunteer, right?"
I nervously picked at the finger they had taken my blood sample from. "If you get picked, someone will volunteer and you can go home...Go home to your spear."
Home. Home where my only friend was a pointed stick of wood. Where my aunt didn't care if I existed, and would probably be more pleased if I died. What was there to go back to?

The governor tapped the microphone nervously and started talking.

"Here in district four, we are lucky to be one of the three strongest districts in these Hunger Games..." He talked for more, but I didn't listen.

Home.
What home?
Why would I be here miserable for the rest of my life? I have no friends, my aunt hates me, and there's no future for someone who can only spear fish.
A video played about The Hunger Games. I didn't watch, I had seen it all before. Umanda, our district's host, walked up to the microphone. She talked with a thick Capitol accent that was almost humorous. She had tattoos covering most of her bodies.
"There's a new one on her head," the girl behind me snickered.
"How do you know?" asked her friend. "I pay close attention to detail."

Finally, it was time to for Umanda to pick the tributes. The entire square went silent as she dipped her hand into the bowl, swirled it around, and picked up one slip. She opened it slowly, as if to purposely agitate us.
"Caroline Shire."
Caroline Shire walked up to the stage proudly. She was beefy, toned, and had to be at least seventeen. In that moment I knew I had two choices: To go back home and live out my life, or to save someone's life. Behind Caroline's tough appearance, Lottie could tell that Caroline was scared. She saw it in her eyes. So when Umanda asked if there was anyone willing to volunteer, Lottie thrust her arm into the air and screamed "Me!"

So what do you think? If there are mistakes please tell me! Thanks!