Era of Freedom
A/N: Hey, so I'm new here and I want to further develop my writing skills. I'd love it if you would R&R! And thank you for reading this story! :D Oh and I don't own THG. Yeah, not even a tiny bit of Peeta's burnt bread.
Summary: I am Sophia Soothsayer. I am fifteen. I lived a simple life in the serene, oppressed farms of District Ten. All this changed when I was reaped for the 67th Hunger Games and put in the Arena of Death. The Games shaped me into someone I hated and loathed. This is my story.
Chapter One: The Reaping
I wake up to find the house silent. It's incredibly unnerving; normally my brother would be awake, running up and down the stairs to cater to my father's needs. I'd hear the creaking of the door, signifying the start of my mother's daily activities usually concerning knitting or cleaning or cooking. My father, of course, wouldn't be found in the house. He would be out in the fields, tending to the animals such as the sheep and cattle.
But right now I hear nothing. Not even the slightest creak of a door or floor board. Not even the scream of a kettle. The house is absolutely quiet.
Then it hits me. Today is the day. A day that fills millions of children's stomachs with dread. Today is Reaping Day.
I get out of bed groggily, as I had trouble sleeping last night, to find my Reaping clothes already set out on my flimsy drawer. It's a dark green dress made out of a very expensive fabric. I wonder how much this would have cost. I remember when I was younger, I asked my parents why we had to dress so nicely. They said it is so that one would look proper in front of the cameras and when one would have to be escorted to the Capitol. It reminds me of a funeral—when you doll up the dead. Honestly, I think it's an awful lot to spend on someone who is just going to die.
Someone knocks on my door, opening it slightly.
"You should get ready, Reaping is going to start in two hours," my mother says, obviously trying to be strong.
I nod in reply. Words fail me; I will be facing yet another year with terror sinking in. I recall back when I was twelve—the first year both my brother and I were eligible for Reaping. There was a daunting possibility that both of us could be sent to the Games at the same year. And for the next three years, the possibility remains. But next year it will be different. If Eli is lucky this time, like he is every year, he will never know fear again. But for me, with the accumulative slips in the bowl because of my age, the horror is still to come.
I go downstairs and fill up the near by bucket with cold water from the sink. I've heard that in the Capitol, they have these fancy contraptions called bathtubs and showers. Here in District 10, we simply strip and use a small cup to get water from a pail and pour it all over ourselves. Take note that I say simply. Perhaps the word "simple" is the very definition of life in my district. Us children go to school and then spend the rest of the day in the farms, tending to whatever livestock the family possesses.
My family isn't exactly rich, but we're fortunate enough to own our own farm and livestock. Eli and I work for our father. We hire nobody else. I feel lucky because some of my classmates who aren't as fortuitous as I am have to work on other people's farms. They are beaten and yelled at by their employers. I hear that some of them are even cheated out of their pay. I'm my father would never do that even if he hired someone. He is a kind man, his hazel eyes never fail to put people at ease.
But even with this small fortune, I can't help but feel resentful towards the Capitol—they go on and on about how we owe them, how we couldn't live or function without them. I used to scoff publicly at the idea. Who provides them with meat? We do, District Ten! How about their ridiculous, clown-like clothing? District 8! How about their power and energy? District 5! It all boils down to us, the different districts of Panem. My parents and Eli did their best to hush me while I ranted. Later on, I learned that I should keep quiet and swallow the bitter pill that is reality.
I glance at the clock—11 AM. Reaping starts at twelve. I dry myself with a thin towel near by and put on my dress. I look at myself in the mirror. I don't normally pay attention to my looks but every Reaping, I try to really look at myself, because I'm scared that one day, the last time anyone will see my face is when it flashes in the arena, on television and then my face will disappear off of this world forever.
My hazel eyes widen, taking in my appearance. In District 10, most of us look alike. Skin tone ranges from a tan to a satiny brown complexion. Most of us have freckles on our faces because of the hours spent working under the sun. Eye color varies from hazel to coal black. Of course, there are exceptions. Rare exceptions. Although most of us here work on the farm, there are a few lucky families who have the luxury of owning businesses that don't involve sunlight beating down on their backs. The "townies." They own sweetshops, shoe stores, retails. Things we can never afford anyway. They have a relatively pale complexion and their hair is a shade of copper. They always carry umbrellas around. Very expensive items, umbrellas are. In fact, my family only owns one. Nowhere near enough to shade a family of four. It doesn't matter though—it would just get in the way when we work.
I stare at my reflection longer. My complexion—the color of freshly baked bread—is now pale with terror. I fiddle with my shoulder-length, straight black hair, and then I brush it with my horsehair brush, a prized possession of mine. I adjust the black belt on my tiny waist. Living in District Ten gave me a slender but strong body from working with animals all day. We were nowhere as well fed as the Careers but we weren't as emaciated as Districts Eleven and Twelve. At least, most of us weren't.
Once I look fairly presentable, I walk out of the bathroom and go to the dining room. I wedge myself in between mother and Eli. Everyone looks nervous. I look down to my plate. Two eggs and roast beef; it is a really expensive delicacy here and I only get it on special occasions such as Reaping Day. Normally, if I saw such a grand meal in front of me, I would shove the whole plate in my mouth, then lick it clean (to my mother's dismay, of course). Now I just play with it. I'm actually disgusted with myself, wasting good food like that. Although we have our own livestock, it doesn't mean we get full tummies by the end of the day. All our produce goes to the Capitol, where it is divided. No, we only get leftovers. Some nights, we have nothing to eat. I get frustrated with myself because I didn't have the courage to sign up for tesserae. I'd tell myself to not care if my chances of getting into the arena will become higher but I chicken out. That's why I'd always discourage Eli from taking tesserae. If he takes tesserae, the number of his slips get higher. I won't let him risk that. And I wont be able to live with myself if he gets reaped and it's all because of my cowardice and selfishness.
When we finish our meal, we head out of the house and walk towards the Town Plaza. It's a beautiful place surrounded by many flowers and plenty of shade, which is good since Reaping starts at noon and that's usually the hottest time of the day. It's so grand and luxurious only to be marred by the ugliness and horror we had to witness on the television screens installed there.
I line up with the fifteen year olds. It always amazes me how all of the twelve through eighteen year olds can fit here. But then again, it is an awfully big place.
Someone taps my shoulder and I turn around to see who it is. Of course, it's nobody else but my best friend Rina York, with her toothy grin and mischievous features.
"Good luck," she says quietly.
"You too," I say.
I pray that Rina won't get reaped. She has a much higher chance than I do. She and her older brother have to sign up for tesserae for their four younger siblings every year. Well, Rina's older brother did. But that was before he was reaped, three years ago. He died in twelfth place, making it past the bloodbath at least. But he died because he was poisoned by his so-called "ally." I'm just glad that that his murderer died a slow and painful death.
This year, little Connie is eligible for Reaping and I can tell it's tearing her apart. My eyes flit to the twelve year olds section, towards Connie. Sweet and so innocent. She is too short and skinny to compete in the Hunger Games! I picture Rina's heartbroken face if ever she were to return home in a wooden box…
You have to snap out of it, my mind says. So I look for things to look at. But of course my eyes suddenly shift to a boy in the front. He is three boys behind Eli. Ah, Klein Izaacs, with his soft chocolate brown eyes, tall stature and chiseled physique. I begin to think my eyes have over stayed their welcome when he suddenly looks my way, so I feign interest in the brick road below me. I figure he'd be used to staring. My girls ogle at him, too. Because he's so perfect… I silently curse myself. I remind myself that these emotions are only distractions. I can't allow myself to feel like that, ever and about anyone. It won't put food on the table nor will it help me if I get reaped. It's better to compartmentalize emotions. Separate them so I won't be confused, so I can focus and get the job done.
The mayor steps down from his podium. As it turns out, I totally zoned out. As usual.
Zinniah Lander literally bounces on stage, with her bright pink dress full of frills and sparkles and gives her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" She gives us a wide, white scary smile.
Yeah, right. The odds are never in our favor.
"Ladies first!" she shrieks.
Her hand reaches deep into the glass bowl that holds the slips of girls aged twelve through eighteen in District Ten. Many slips, I tell myself. Thousands and thousands of slips and I only have four. I say a silent prayer for Rina—for her and her numerous slips.
I look at Zinniah's lips as she says the name of the girl tribute. All my audio senses have tuned out all of a sudden. I can't hear anything.
People start nudging me—the whole crowd goes silent until I hear a piercing scream. A horrible, blood-curling one.
"NO! NO! NO! NO! SOPHIA!" the voice screams as if it was being tortured to death.
I know that voice; it's my mother's. But why would she scream? I'm in a daze, not comprehending what is happening.
"Sophia Soothsayer!" Zinniah calls out impatiently, implying that she has said that name more than once.
I gasp and get sent back into reality. I guess I no longer have to worry about Rina's name getting called out because the name that gets reaped is mine.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I'll update maybe sometime next week. Review!
