Chapter 1

Morning brings new hope. New beginnings, awakenings. The sound of birds chirping softly as they sleepily open their eyes to the reassuring presence of dawn. The smell of freshly made breakfast, wafting from downstairs. Warm shining light peeking through the cracks of my scruffy blue curtains. And, as I myself break free from slumber and am embraced by these wonders, there's another thought that washes them all away in a blink of an eye.

Today's the reaping.

I groan, tossing and turning in bed, burying my head in my pillow, trying to forget. And I wish. I wish so hard that my eyes are creased shut, my hands are clamped together, and I'm muttering furiously for all my hopes and dreams. I want to get away from District 8 and my responsibilities as the eldest that have bound me here. I'm desperate for all the pain and suffering to end, not just in my District, but all the Districts. The whole of Panem. No, the entire world... or rather, every single inch of the universe. At last, I open my eyes, taking a little peek to see if my prayers have had any effect. They haven't.

It takes the slightly singed waft of fried quail's eggs to get me out of bed. Despite my irrational mood, I grin. They're treating me to a decent breakfast today.

Aunt Coraline (I call her Corrie) is hunched over the frying pan, and swears furiously when she accidently makes contact with the red hot metal. It's dangerous work, because we have to use a fire to cook eggs, and we have to do it inside. The wind is blustery this morning. I attempt to sneak past, but Corrie spots me. I wince.

"Aisla! Fetch me the salt, love." She shouts, when I'm right next to her. I open the cupboard, which is mainly bare, and then place the salt on the counter. She dips her hefty fingers in and takes a generous amount, and sprinkles it to my taste. "Cheers. It'll be ready in a minute or two."

I nod, acknowledging her. She's a strange one, my Aunt. She's strong willed, bold and a very fierce woman. Rather large, also. And yet, she is extremely sensitive. One time, when Corrie got her finger stuck in the door, she wailed bloody murder.

In the next room are my cousins. Four of them in all- Brenda, Lou, Martha and James, and none of them are older than 12. They're all sitting on the floor, laughing as they play with their toys, and I feel a pang of envy. Brenda's 6, Lou is 8, Martha is almost 10 and James is 11, so none of them are eligible for The Hunger Games yet. My name, written on a crumpled piece of paper, has been in the pool of names for a couple of years. And it's the same experience- the fear I feel beforehand, the pity I feel for the tribute chosen, and then relief that it wasn't me. It'll just be another silly year in which I'll think that I'll be chosen, then laugh about it afterwards. Right?

"Hey there, kids." I say coolly, swaggering into the room, trying to act like it's just another normal day. But they all look at me as though I've just fallen out of the sky. I question their reactions, but then I remember, they may be young, but they're not stupid. Their shoulders sag from the weight of knowing, that it's the Reaping day again. Brenda sucks her thumb awkwardly whilst Lou and Martha look away, focusing hard on something that must be very interesting. I only get a proper reaction from James, but even then, it's vague.

"Hey." James says, but his voice is hollow and his eyes are sad, "What's up?"

I cough nervously. "Where's Ramona?" I ask.

"Upstairs.", he replies, and then turns around. I can see his expression, and it pains me so. I know I won't be able to get anything more out of him.

I make my way up the creaky stairs and shuffle along the corridor, and stop at the door to my right. Slowly, I open the door, and unsurprisingly, Ramona is still in bed. She peers at me, her eyes half open, and then gets up and stretches. I can't help but laugh at her hair- hopelessly tangled and frizzed, without a doubt she won't be able to get a comb through it. I reach out and try to run my fingers in it, but she frowns, and swats them away. Ramona isn't a morning person.

"What do you want?" She huffs, slipping past me, "You know I don't like to be disturbed."

As she makes her way downstairs, with me close behind her, I wonder if she knows. If it's the reaping, I mean. I can't afford to lose her, because she's not my cousin, she's my sister. Ramona's ever so slightly younger than me; the age gap is probably not much more than a year. She's 14. I'm 15. We live with Corrie because our Ma was publicly executed- she stole a couple of loaves of bread from the local bakery. I found it unfair, because Ma wasn't quite right in the head, I could tell. Nobody else's Mother had horrific mood swings, trashed the house, and acted violently towards other people. In the end, it was hunger, not fury, which resulted in her death. And then there was Pa, but I don't really know what happened to him, and Corrie won't tell me.

Just as we go into the kitchen, we notice that breakfast is being served. Corrie must have been feeling very generous because she even threw in a slice of buttered bread each. In no time flat, my cousins rush into the room and sit in their respective seats, and then there's silence. So much is happening today, but there's no point in making small talk of it. I decide that this is for my benefit, as conversing about something as terrifying as the reaping, first thing in the morning, isn't going to do me much good.

This could be my last breakfast with them, I remember, maybe I'm going to have to leave them all behind.

I quickly dismiss the thought as I pick my plate clean of breadcrumbs. There are so many names that are going into that pool, and even though I've entered the tessarae, thousands of other girls probably entered it more than I have. At the moment, my name is entered 4 times, plus 28 (a family of seven times by four) for the tessarae, so in the pool of names, there is "Aisla Jonson" written on 32 slips of paper. It's a lot, but I know a lot of girls who have families with many mouths to feed, and will also risk the tessarae.

I begged Ramona not to sign for the tessarae, but in the end I allowed her to sign for herself. "Ramona Jonson" will be written on 6 pieces of paper. (3 for her age, plus 3 times 1 for the tessarae.) Anyway, if it did come down to it, the chance of her getting picked is miniscule.

"Aisla, Ramona, the reaping starts at two. When are you going to get dressed?" Corrie says, not looking up as she washes the dishes.

Ramona's fork freezes, poised in mid-air. The yolk from a fried quail's egg is dripping off the tip. "Excuse me?" She whispers, staring straight ahead.

"When are you going to get dressed, love? It's the reaping?" Corrie repeats, looking at me quizzically, puzzled by Ramona's reaction. I shrug.

"Oh my god," Ramona mumbles, her eyes beginning to well up, "I completely forgot. Oh god, Aunt Coraline, I forgot, I forgot!"

"Forgot what?"

"The reaping! It's today! Oh god, I'm not prepared for it! Oh god…" Ramona wails, storming out of the room.

Corrie and I look at each other. How could Ramona forget? The atmosphere has been getting intense as the reaping has drawn nearer, and she seemed to be unfazed went we were talking about it a few weeks ago. How?

"It's probably just her being a teenager, lovvie. Puberty messes with your head." Corrie sighs, mopping up the dirty table. I don't remember puberty giving you memory loss, but Corrie's reasoning seems believable enough.

I go back upstairs and into my room. I don't particularly feel like dressing for the occasion, so I pick a simple tank top, despite the weather, three quarter length trousers and my black shoes, spotless and polished. I then brush my medium length, boringly mousey brown hair, tease the edges with the comb, and clip my fringe back. I look in the mirror and smirk. I don't look girly, innocent or vulnerable; I look tough, scary and formidable. It's a good illusion, because it'll make people think I'm feeling confident when I'm not. I'm so, so scared, I feel 6 years old. I want to be 6 years old.

Shuffling noises can be heard from Ramona's room. Intrigued, I peek inside, to see what she's doing. I stifle a gasp as I see her twirl in her beautiful floral dress, the dress that cost her several months of raking leaves, cleaning tables and taking part in other undesirable jobs. In the end, it all paid off. Ramona looks absolutely stunning, and it's no wonder that among boys, I'm not known as Aisla, I'm "That-Ramona-Girl's-Older-Sister". I can't help blushing with jealously- she's always been just so pretty. I just wish somehow I could have some of that beauty passed onto me.

Ramona's long, shiny brunette hair has been delicately formed into a bun, with a couple of strands falling at the side of her face, accentuating its features. Gramma's gold locket is tied around her bare neck. That one accessory is enough to polish the look, to finalize it, to perfect it.

I emerge from the door, my eyes wide. She whips around in surprise, then her eyes narrow accusingly.

"If you're here to criticise me," Ramona huffs, "Then go away."

She slips on her slightly worn black shoes but the dress covers them anyway. I smile at her warmly.

"Ramona," I beam, "You look amazing. I'm not even joking, pulling your leg or anything. You actually look breath-taking! How much did that dress cost?"

I run the velvety material through my fingers. It must have cost her a lot, and I had noticed that Ramona had been getting through a lot of jobs recently. Perhaps she saw it at The Alexandra Tailors- they made stylish garments that often sold at the Capitol, and textiles is District 8's speciality. Their dresses and clothes were becoming very fashionable but only if you could afford them... The prices averaged at around $150, but some cost even more.

"Thanks…" She simpers, fiddling with a loose strand of hair, "But that's not for you to know! Let me just say that the dress was on sale, and it cost me more than half a year of money that I've been earning."

I could see why she wanted to buy it, but I didn't see the point. She'd hardly ever wear it, for there are hardly ever special occasions in our District, the Reaping was the only annual one. Then there was the extortionate price!

"If you earned all that money, couldn't you have given a fraction to Corrie? She's having a hard time raising the 7 of us, you know, it's demanding to have all those mouths to feed!" I hiss in a quiet voice, not wanting the others to hear.

"But you entered the tessarae!" Ramona snaps back, "And Aunt Coraline will be absolutely fine, she's a tough woman and you know it. She's never complained about it…"

There's nothing more I can say, because 99% of the time words do not have an effect in getting your reasoning into Ramona's thick skull. So I just stare her down. She glares back. We remain like this for around half a minute, but my patience fails me. When I finally leave the room, I curl up in the middle of the hallway, on the cold, hard floorboards, and lay motionless. I'm smart, I can deal with things. I can stay out of trouble, and when I get into it, I can escape. But how can you escape from your impending fate?