I stare blankly ahead. I don't really care who is selected. It's sad to say, but in all honesty, they'll probably be dead in a few weeks. My name is Megara Strong and I am the victor of the 70th Hunger Games. I sit on the stage of District 5, my home. I try to look anywhere but at the terrified faces of the children, or the crying ones of the mothers, waiting on the side. During my first year as a mentor, the 71st Hunger Games, I tried to be as compassionate and helpful as I could be, still angry at my mentors for not helping me much. Even though this is only my third year as a mentor, I have already learned that is much easier to be calloused and harsh. Otherwise, it hurts to much to lose kids every year. I can't look look at their faces. so instead I stare at directly into the back of our escort - this year she had dyed herself pink and wears a turquoise dress that balloons out around her waist, but then becomes tight again around her knees. Next, my eyes make their way to the ominous gray clouds that hang low in the sky.
The day of my reaping was peaceful and sunny, I was sure I wouldn't get chosen that day, at sixteen I felt immortal. I was vaguely aware of the Capitol and the armed Peace Keepers that "kept me safe", but as a privileged young girl from the right side of town, I was unable to see them for who they really were.
My eyes finally come to rest of the black leather shoes of the other mentor of District 5, Ketler. He seemed nice, but he was old and I had never bothered to get to know him.
I managed to control my muscles when the girl tribute for the 74th annual Hunger Games was called, she was young and small. It wasn't fair! None of this was, but I smiled reassuringly out to all of Panem, signaling to them that I could make a victor out of her yet. I hadn't produced a victor yet, and I could tell many people in District 5 were losing faith in my abilities. In fact, many people had never had faith in me, I hadn't won my Hunger Games using traditional methods. I hid most of the game until I could outsmart all those who were left. It didn't hurt that in training I had found I that I was good with a bow and arrow because I was able to hide and kill the others without ever getting my hands dirty. In a way, it helped me sleep at night. I hadn't killed those children with my hands, I hadn't really killed them at all, my arrows had.
Then it happens.
Once the girl is on stage, practically shaking, the pink lady struts to the other large bowl. I notice her fingernails are covered in snake skin as she fishes for the second name. She says the name with a smile, to much of a smile if you ask me, especially since we had never been fond of each other. "Sawyer Strong". My breath hitches loudly as I frantically search for the one pair of eyes I hope I will not find. "Don't be here. Don't be here," I pray under my breath. I know it was no use as I say it, why would he not be here? Everyone has to be here. Then I find him, our blue eyes met as he climbed on stage. I force a reassuring smile to my brother as he ascends, but I'm sure it doesn't help him.
I stand like a stone for the rest of the ceremony, knowing that many eyes in Panem would be trained on me, gauging my reaction. I don't want to stand here; I want to scream and run. I need to get my brother out of here. But I can't. That is the overwhelming truth that is currently, a repeatedly, hitting me in the face. And so I do all I can do, I smile. My smile is proud, confident, and almost a little cocky. I had perfected it during my pre-Game interviews. It was all I could do as I watched the tributes shake hands and then be ushered into the room behind the stage.
As soon as I am backstage, out of view of the cameras, I let two tears fall from my eyes. However, I don't waste much time feeling sorry for myself, that won't get me anywhere. Instead of weak, I become determined. I am determined to help my brother win the 74th annual Hunger Games. I tell myself at that moment that these Games will not take anyone from the Strong family, I won't let them.