Chapter 1:
I awaken to the sound of my father's humming. I can hear him moving through our home, getting ready for another day of work at the power plants. My eyes are tired and I know it won't be long until I surrender, but still I try to stay up for just a little longer. All I want is to figure out what song he's humming and then I'll gladly drift back to sleep.
The sun has barely risen into the sky but here in District 5; that means little. We are the source of power for Panem. The hours of the day are unimportant factors, especially when powering the Capitol; the city that never seems to sleep.
My ears pick at the rhythm emanating from my father's voice and I cling to it desperately. It's a familiar tune, if I could just place it. And then it hits me: this is the song he used to sing to my mother, back when she had learned she was pregnant with me. The one I was named for.
The door creaks and I lay back down in the bed, closing my eyes until I can barely see out of the slits. "Lulla?"
He comes in and sits on the edge of my bed. The sudden pressure is reassuring to me, and so I open my eyes and sit up.
My dad runs his hand through my black hair. I'm surprised it doesn't get caught in it, considering the wild curls have yet to be tamed. He always tells me that my hair reminds him of my mom, but if you asked my brother Verse, he'd tell you it was my voice.
My mother had one of the most beautiful voices I've ever heard. When she talked, or laughed, and especially when she sang, you couldn't help but get lost in her voice. It had a melody all of its own. The Peacekeepers, however, seemed to think it had a mind of its own. And so they executed her on a stage in front of our district. For singing songs that hinted at rebellion, songs that were only meant to bring hope to our people. But of course, hope is inflammatory. It can cause destruction for the Capitol. And so they drove a knife through her neck in order to silence her.
As I look into my dad's eyes, I can't help but think back to a time when they were brighter. A time when my mother's laughter still echoed through the house. A time when my brother and I weren't of age yet to be entered into the Hunger Games. Now, his blue eyes have lost their light, and thick creases line his face. He used to be handsome, but now he just looks tired. Beat-down.
"Lullaby," he says, and takes my hand into his. I can see the tears welling up in his eyes, and I know that it's because the Reaping is tomorrow. It's the one thing my dad knows he can't protect his children from. The one thing that cripples him. "I want you to come straight home from school today. I'll have a surprise for you and Verse." He winks, and I can't help but giggle a little, seeing a piece of him come back to life.
"Ok. But you have to promise to sing me mom's song," I bargain. I'm well aware that this pains him. I can already see the hurt on his face that reappears everytime he thinks about my mother. In an effort to lighten the mood, I quickly add, "I heard you humming it when I woke up. And it's my song, too, dad. Technically."
At this point, he knows better than to argue with me. At thirteen, I'm more mature than other kids my age. I guess I had to be, with what happened to my mom. And having to be strong for my dad. Our neighbor's kids mostly avoid me. They've been trained by their parents to ignore things that could bring trouble down on them. And my family is top on their list. At school, I find my brother when I can. He's two years older than me so I don't see him around much. But when you're alone most of the time, a few seconds is equivalent to a few hours.
He clears his throat, and the words seem to tumble out of him. "As I am here, I hold you dear. There is nothing that can pull me away. With you, m-," he cuts himself off as the door opens and Verse rushes into the room.
"I heard singing,' he grins and hurls himself onto the bed. He lands on my legs and I jab him with my elbow until he moves over. "Well, go on, dad."
Music was always a love of his and mom's, and they made sure to pass it down to us. In our blood, in our names, and in our lives. Since our mom died, dad rarely ever sings. We both know what a treat this is. It's weird to feel thankful toward the Reaping or the Hunger Games, but in a way, it brings us closer as a family.
So, my dad continues his song,
"As I am here, I hold you dear,
There is nothing that can pull me away,
With you, my heart will stay,
And when I'm long gone, you'll remember this song,
And know I'm close by."
He still doesn't finish the whole song but gives us both a quick hug, and then grabs his coat to head off to work. It's never good to be late around here.
"Think he'll be okay tomorrow?" Verse asks me.
"Of course he will. Besides, it's not like the odds are against us." I fidget with the thin blanket covering me, suddenly worried about tomorrow's Reaping. It's true what I said. The odds of me or Verse getting chosen are very slim compared to others. We've never needed the tesserae offered, so our names have never been entered more than mandated. I'm only entered three times. Verse is in there ten. Out of thousands, it's unlikely for our names to come out. But still . . . everyone is scared of being chosen. Or of their children being reaped. Because it means going into the Hunger Games. And for most, that means death.
In school, the mood is somber. Everyone is pre-occupied with their thoughts. Which I can safely assume are centered on the Reaping. And the lessons today do little to help. Normally, we learn about our district's trade; power. How to work in the power plant. Why powering our nation Panem is important. Taking field trips to the power plants. And then the occasional history lesson on the Dark Days. Which is all our instructors seem to drone on about today. But, of course, it is important for us to hear this, so that tomorrow, when we head down to the town square, we will be quiet and obedient. We will remember that these games are our fault.
Nearly a century ago, after Panem had risen from the wasteland of North America, we had been a united, thriving nation. Our thirteen districts co-existed peacefully with the Capitol, even as they demanded more from us with so little in return. But eventually, our people tired of this. With District 13 leading the rest, the districts rebelled against the Capitol. Just as quickly as it had started, it was defeated. The Capitol decimated District 13 and the remaining dsitricts were to be punished. With new electric fences around our perimeters, Peacekeepers silently watching our every move, and the annual Hunger Games. The Hunger Games were our permanent reminder of what we had done, and how many innocent Capitol lives had been destroyed because of us. So every year, the district's children, between the ages of twelve to eighteen are taken, with a boy and girl reaped as tributes. Two from every district to fight to the death in these games. The last one alive wins.
Our district rarely wins. Usually the victor is someone from District 1, 2, or 4. We've scraped a few victors out. Now, they're rich and live hidden away in the victor's village. Usually, when I do happen to see one, they're too incapacitated with drink or morphling to notice their own surroundings.
As my last lesson ends, I hurry outside and wait for Verse. It's early May so the sun is warm on my skin. I close my eyes, tilting my head up so as to feel the rays more directly.
"You ready to go?" I spin around just as Verse gives me a playful push, and of course, I go tumbling onto the ground. The pavement is hard and I can feel it skid painfully across my elbow. Ignoring the burn, I leap up and kick his shin as forcefully as I can. Then, before he can catch me, I take off toward our home.
Laughing, I glance back and see that he's gaining on me, so I push myself harder. As my legs pump, I feel my heartbeat racing faster and faster. The adrenaline rush pushes me along even when my lungs gasp for air. I burst through our door, and continue on into the sitting room. Throwing my arms up, I spin around in circles, gleefull. This is the first time that Verse hasn't beaten me home.
But there he is, his dark brown hair matted against his forehead with sweat, panting. "Good job, little sis. But next time, you won't be so lucky." He collapses down on the threadbare sofa, wiping the sweat from his face.
"Luck had nothing to do with it and you know it. I'm getting faster . . . maybe even faster than you!" I stick out my tongue for good measure, and he chuckles. With no friends but each other, we've gotten closer through the years. We could almost pass for twins if it wasn't for the hair. Mine's black, while his is that deep brown. But we both have our father's impossibly bright blue eyes.
We wile away the time waiting for dad by practicing our knife work in the kitchen. Verse has been teaching me all kinds of knife tricks for about two years now. At first, it was just for fun. But as we got older, it seemed like it was more than that. Now, it's about knowing how to fight back. Though, I can't imagine when we'd ever have to fight with them. A bullet from a Peacekeeper would surely reach us faster than the point of a knife could get them. But still, I figure it's good practice.
"Lulla? Verse?" My dad clomps into the house, taking time to leave his shoes by the door. Verse yanks the knife from my hand and tosses it into a drawer with the others. "In here," he calls back.
Dad walks in, a large brown bag slung over his shoulders. He heaves it onto the table and it makes a loud thud. "How was school?" he asks.
"Oh," Verse rolls his eyes. "We got to hear all about how awful and violent people we are. And how grateful we should be that we are punished so leniently." He thrusts a hand into the cotton bag and pulls out a parcel of cake. "Whoa! For me?" He grins devilishly.
"For us," dad chuckles. Then he gets serious. "You have to be careful, Verse. We can't afford to talk like that."
"Why? Because the Capitol will hurt us? Haven't they already?"
Verse is right. We all know this. But he also knows we can't risk voicing our opinions aloud like this. I try to break the tension but only make it worse. "At least we're not starving." I poke my finger into the icing, and pop a dollop into my mouth. The taste is sweet on my tongue and the sugar perks me right up.
"Yeah, Lulla, but other people are starving. Other people who aren't as well off as us. Other people in different districts drop dead of hunger every day. Besides, look at us. We're penned in here like animals. We're killed if we get out of line. Is that any less hurtful?"
Dad's face shifts to beet-red and I know before he speaks that he's angrier than I've ever seen him. "I'm not going to hear you speak like that. You know what happened to your mother. And still, you want to carry on like this. It's pathetic. She gave her life, the least you could do is take care of it." He spins on his heels and is gone. I can hear his heavy footsteps stomping down the hall and then the slam of his bedroom door.
Verse and I stare at each other, open-mouthed. Neither of us know what to say. What was meant to be a loving night between the three of us has turned into a mess that not one of us can sort out. I want to say something to cheer Verse up but nothing comes to mind. Finally, he says "goodnight" and disappears to his room, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
With my appetite gone, I merely pick at the cake before I get up from the table. I blow out the flickering candle and head to my room. There, I collapse into my bed and hope that sleep will come.
The sun filters in through the spotted window, and I slowly open my heavy eyes. At first, I feel a small bit of happiness, that I don't have school today. But then the uneasiness fills me as I remember the Reaping. Then even more so as I recall my fathers anger last night.
Quietly, I slip out of bed and into the purple dress I set out days ago. My mom made it for me the last birthday we celebrated together. I had to let out the waist some and make some more room in the chest but it still looks nice enough.
I make my way down the hall to the kitchen where I find both Verse and my father sitting at the kitchen table. They certainly look more relaxed than last night so I make myself comfortable. As I dig into the leftover cake, my dad says, "You look lovely in that dress, Lulla."
"Thank you," I say, realizing the dress is just another reminder of my mom to him. I sigh inwardly and chug my water.
Verse doesn't eat much and gives our father a stiff goodbye as we head off to the square together. We don't usually make a point of walking there with our dad because the parents are placed in the back, farther away from the stage where the Reaping happens.
I nudge Verse gently and whisper to him, "Maybe you could have apologized."
He glares at me and under the heat of those blue eyes, I can't help but feel like a child. One who has just gotten caught stealing something precious.
"I'm not apologizing for saying what everyone else is too scared to."
I stay silent the rest of the walk up but as we reach the square and the Peacekeepers march forward to guide us to our designated age groups, Verse reaches out and envelopes me in a hug. I wiggle, slightly uncomfortable in his tight grasp, but give in. "Good luck," he says. The Peacekeeper takes him by the arm and leads him off to the other fifteen-year-olds. I nod, fearing my voice may crack if I try to speak, and head off to my section. The Justice Building looms ahead of me. The banners of Panem hang from it, looking just as weathered as the crowd that surrounds it.
As I stand there, the sun beating on the back of my neck, I can't help but look around. Two of us will be reaped. Two of us are probably going to die. And then I'm blinking back the tears that threaten to emmerge as I wonder who we'll be saying goodbye to.
One by one, the seats on the stage fill with the mayor, past victors, and our districts escort; Quinn Mirage. She's sporting ridiculously long, bloodred curls this year. The mayor steps up to the podim and recites the standard speech about the history of the games. He then reads our list of victors, which only contains three, and introduces Quinn Mirage. She struts up to the podium I can't help but wince as she starts to speak. The Capitol accents have always bothered me, particularly Quinns. I don't know if it's how all her sentences sound like she's asking a question or if it's how she seems to pause after nearly every syllable . . . but her accent is the worst of them all. She starts with the escort signature greeting, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Then she raves on for a bit about the games and how sure she is that this year will be just as exciting as the last. I roll my eyes and stand on my tip-toes, searching the crowd, trying to spot my brother.
In fact, I'm so intent on finding him that I don't hear the name called for the female tribute. But then I hear Quinn repeat it. I see her waving the small slip of paper in the air above her head. I stand there in shock as she repeats it one more time.
Lullaby Tesla.