A girl stands on the Reaping stage in front of District 1. Everything about her is beautiful. She is tall and skinny, with a pale complexion. Blond hair cascades in gentle waves down her back. Her envy green eyes are so gorgeous it hurts to look at them for too long. Can it be me? No. No, I know that girl. She is my sister. She is fifteen years old and her name is Onyx. I am looking up at her on the stage, her fragile frame outshined by an authoritarian Capitol flag in the background. The wings of the golden bird illustrated on the flag sweep in alignment behind her shoulders and look as if they're going to pluck her off the stage and carry her into the arena itself. I find myself standing in the audience with the other 17 year olds feeling unbearably hidden by the group. A burning sensation slides down my throat, into my stomach. I must volunteer for her. Why can't I scream?

"I VOLUNTEER!" My voice cries clear as day in my head, but the words are too heavy on my tongue. I open my mouth again and again but I cannot force the words. Helplessly, I push past the crowd to the center aisle and attempt to run up the stage, but my legs are too heavy and as it is happening I feel myself falling, falling, falling in front of the crowd. I scramble to my hands and knees, sharp gravel digging into my flesh, dragging my useless limbs up to the stage.

"I VOLUNTEER!" I mouth over and over again, but no one hears. When I get to the stage, my sister still stares out to the crowd but doesn't look at me. I hug her and hold her hand, but she refuses to acknowledge my presence. Desperation washes over me in waves. It longs to pull me under, the claws of exhaustion scratching at my hair, my legs, and my chest. I look out at the crowd, my eyes frantically searching for help, and then my gaze returns to Onyx. When I look back her skin is gray, the pink leaves her cheeks, and her lips are pale. I touch her delicate features as the light leaves them, and I notice I'm changing too. My skin looses color and my breath feels cold inside my chest. I scream but no one in the audience helps...

Then I wake up.

The light of dawn dances in patterns across my sisters' faces. Or perhaps they're just lighting up the room like people used to say. My two sisters are most lovely things I have ever seen. We are all tall and thin, with spidery long legs and pale skin. Our hair is long and a similar color blond, deep and gold like a slipping summer sunset. The only differences we share are our eyes. My youngest sister Emerald, whom everyone refers to as Em, has eyes that resemble liquid sapphires. I'm so jealous of them. Onyx and I have green eyes. I push the heavy wisps of blonde hair glued to my neck away and drag myself off the dirt floor.

My sisters and I reside in my parent's old house. It was huge, chic, and the most desired home in District 1. I remember it as if I am looking at an old photograph. A lush green lawn spread wide in front of my family's mansion. It was supported by gorgeously carved columns, etched with twisting vines and leaves. The house was white and pristine, three levels of marble floors and winding staircases. There was an oak tree next to my window, and when I was happy and young boys would perch precariously on the highest branch and tap on the window, their hearts throbbed to see me before sunrise and I would protest stubbornly but absolutely loved the feeling of adoration. Mother always had fresh roses on every countertop and I can still smell the lingering scent of my father's cologne in the air. But three years ago, when I was fourteen, our house was torched and most of it was incineration because of my parent's involvement in an underground rebellion. They were killed, and my brother too. The only thing that is left is the skeleton of our old living room; where we had to rebuild the walls with extra bricks. There's also a dirt floor, one window, and my mother's wedding ring. Everything else was either burned or looted in the fire.

My throat is dry and a pain that feels like every molecule in my spine is splitting open radiates from my back. I lie back down on the hard floor and feel the gravel pressing into me. I stare up at that one window that survived the fire and observe the light beams reaching towards my sisters and I. I watch the little specks of dust that dance expertly through the light, and I can't stop. I am amazed by how an inanimate object can have so much grace. Eventually, the heat warms my exposed skin and loosens my aching muscles. Beads of sweat began to roll off my arms and I try to sit up again.

I crawl on my hands and knees over to Em and brush tangles of thick hair out of her face. A smile tickles the corners of her lips even while she sleeps and it's a reminder of how and why I wake up in the morning.

"Em. Hey, Em. Come back to me, Em." I whisper, lightly running my fingers through her hair. She stirs a little. Finally rolling on her back, she blinks her eyes and dark, framing lashes and wakes up. I watch in utter awe, as the smile does not slip off her face. She's everything to me.

"You know what today is?" I ask, preparing her for The Reaping. I am lucky to be able to bring it up so lightly. Em is only eleven and will not have to experience a reaping for another year.

"A warm, sunny day . . ." She trails off, rolling her eyes upward to admire the sun. That's one of my favorite things about her, so innocent and happy. Her almost identical sister rolls over and snuggles into Em's side.

"Why are you up so early?" She questions drowsily, wincing away from the harsh sunlight.

Couldn't sleep, I wanted to say. But a mother would not say that. And that is what I am to them.

"It's such a nice day outside," I try to imitate Em, and offer a smile. I brush the hair out of Onyx's face too and kiss them both on the cheek before turning away to prepare for the day.

Even though we are surrounded by the infinite luxuries of District 1 our house no longer has running water. No one likes us enough to reinstall it after the fire. I sneak out the back door and lug a bucket of fresh rainwater behind a couple trees. We have been doing this for three years and not a day goes by that I don't miss actual showers. I collapse at the base of the bucket and drink the rainwater like a dog. Embarrassed, I sit up straight and wipe my hand on my sleeve. I lightly lay my clothes above my head on tree branches and begin using the clean water and my nails to scrub off caked dirt and mud across my limbs. When the water cascades through my hair, assorted bugs wash out and litter at my feet and I pretend to retch. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and comb my hair. Finally, I dress in a simple white, eyelet dress with short sleeves and a leather belt for my waist and meet Em and Onyx inside.

To my surprise, they're dressed and ready for The Reaping. Em presents herself to me in a cotton blue dress that matches her eyes perfectly and has lace trim. Onyx has on an old dress of mine. It's one of my favorites, ashy grays in color and dances around her knees. There are buttons starting at the waist and trailing to her neck, and it scares me how mature she looks. I compliment their dresses and move to the pantry, pulling out a jar of jam, a couple biscuits, and paper plates. A strong sensation of pity flushes out my cheeks and burns down my throat into my heart as I do this. My mother and father fed us on beautiful china every morning, afternoon, and evening. What would they say if they saw this? I shake my head to relieve the thoughts. Upon opening the jar, I see the top is crusted over in mold. I wish I could throw it out but we need the food desperately in this household. I scrape it out with a butter knife and dump it out the back door for the rats to eat.

My sisters and I chat while we eat breakfast. In the back of my head I think about what people in other districts are doing right now, mostly because I know everyone here is infinitely more fortunate than in other districts. Even us. If I am reaped, or Onyx, one of the trained girls will lunge forward and volunteer herself and we can return to our homes. This is because District 1 is a career district. That means hundreds of boys and girls train mercilessly every month of the year to prepare for their chance in the spotlight. It is disgusting, in my opinion. Everyone is so determined to leave an impression on the world that they become savages, thrusting swords and shooting arrows is the only way to prove yourself around here. We walk harshly upon the Earth, looking into every acquaintance's eyes and thinking not of charity or aid, but of outlasting one another. Do the citizens of Panem not remember the inglorious war in which we were turned against our own brethren? We are each other's broken family. Many adolescents can't understand that concept and become starry-eyed in the shadow of fame and grow desperate for spotlight. I do not find it sad that I will not have that opportunity, for even though I have not been loved widely, I am loved deeply.

That is one of the things I despise the most about the Hunger Games. Every year it is just another countless casualty against the ancient war for freedom, or lack of thereof. The tributes think they bring honor and sacrifice to their district but the marks tributes leave are too often scars. This makes me think of my parents, how they tried so hard to bring unity to the country once more, and how they ended up isolating us from the rest of the district. I don't blame them, though. How could I blame my parents for walking so lightly upon the Earth, yet being so wise about the generations that could be affected after them by creating a country based on the principles of wholeness?

We finish breakfast and decide to walk to The Reaping. I brace myself. There are usually people waiting outside our door for us. They are drunks, or Capitol lapdogs, or old friends. They throw bottles at us, or rocks. Sometimes insults are hurled at us; "traitor" and "scheming mutts" are a norm. It was very scary for me at first. Mother and father had perished and I had to protect Em and Onyx on my own, but I believe experiences like this have helped transform me into a parental figure. I grab Em's hand and whisper delicately to her.

"Chin up, chest out, and no eye contact"

I was right, of course. A small group of mostly drunks gather outside. They spit at us and call us names. I pretend to stare intently at the banners in the distance illustrated to excite the crowd for the 74th Hunger Games. A particularly intoxicated man crawls by our feet. I squeeze Em's hand very tightly. She masks her face with a serious glare and trudges onward. A woman hold scissors up to Onyx's flowy blond hair and offers a fortune for it. We walk even faster until we're safe inside a sea of children at the City Center; nothing like the outskirts of District 1.

The City Center of District 1 is flawless. It consists of a circle of breath-taking Roman or Grecian architecture. Every building is exact in height, with big sloping arches or grand columns. Nothing has color; all surfaces must be a sparkling white or silver. The streets we walk on are actually made of reflective stones that resemble looking into a spotless mirror. The flowers planted on shop windows or street corners must be wrought iron roses, on the request of President Snow, but they must be painted white or gray. The mayor even strung flaunting lights across the stage, shining vanilla white. District 1 looks like the most sterile place on Earth, but I feel filthy.

Routinely, Onyx and I walk Em to the outer group where parents and younger siblings circle around the collection of reaping children until the ceremony is over. A very kind and young schoolteacher with eyes that look like melted chocolate and bubble-gum pink cheeks offers to watch her. Em obeys, she is old enough and watches us do this annually. We kiss her on the forehead and promise to pick her up at this spot after The Reaping.

There are so many children roaming around, gathering and milling into their spots, I grasp Onyx's hand to encourage us to stay together but really I just want to feel her warmth. The boys and girls that attend training are easy to spot; they huddle together in their age groups and stand extremely confident. They glower at the rest of us, making everyone feel weak and quite underdressed. The boys were suits, perfectly pressed and fitted, and the girls are adorned with diamond jewelry and formal dresses. I've seen Reapings in other districts during passed Hunger Games on the television and Districts 1 and 2 really overdue it. 4 is subtler. The Capitol always advertises the ceremony as an honor and a celebration, but even though we're all careers the tradition is very dismal.

Onyx and I take our time walking to the separate age groups. She points out there are thirteen living victors of District 1. We are taught to idolize them at school, but I do not know much about any of them. They are physically lush, and gorgeous. But I sense something in their eyes that is unhinged. The peacekeepers press their hands into our backs and separate us hurriedly into our own groups. Before each boy and girl files into his or her row, another peacekeeper stands guard at the front of each entrance and hands us a white rose. There is a silver ribbon attached to the stem that says, "May the odds be ever in your favor." Every year the Capitol sends us little thank you gifts or trinkets for our fierce loyalty. The crowd closes their eyes gently and sniffs their roses sweetly.

Our capitol escort, Dahlia, waddles of the stage with heels and a royal blue dress that both look about two sizes too small. She impatiently waves corkscrew curls out of her hair and motions us to the screen. It's the same rebel movie we watch every year that President Snow narrates. It shows bombs, shootings, and lots of blood from the rebel war. Some turn away in disgust; perhaps that citizens could go against their country like that or that our ancestors left us in this condition. But I do not. I stare at the screen with pride, knowing that my mother and father supported a second uprising. I am proud to be an heir of that bravery.

"Welcome, welcome! I am honored to be in the presence of such gallant young men and women." Dahlia begins, clasping her hands together in excitement. "Before we begin this chivalrous ceremony, it is asked of by the Capitol that it's most favored district bow to our gentle leader." There is a picture of President Snow on the projector. I look into his cruel, snake-like eyes and force myself to bend at the waist, never breaking a stare. The rest of my peers are silent, and obedient, but I just can't look at the man without seeing my late mother and father.

"May the odds be ever in your favor," Dahlia breaks the silence.

"Ladies first!" She swoops her hand into the glass bowl and pulls out a name. I wonder who will get the fame and fortune being a District 1 tribute. They will be cherished, victorious and everlastingly loved. I think about how many people are dying for this opportunity and hear a hundred girls drawn in a sharp breath all at once.

"Glimmer Gallows."

The initial shock sends waves of searing cold blood through my veins. My chest contracts uncomfortably. Immediately, I look to the careers with wide eyes for one of them to volunteer for me. They look back with stares that feel like they are boring through my skin. There isn't a sound.

"Glimmer, darling." Dahlia chirps into the microphone.

I glance up to the projector and see a close-up of my face. Pink lips slightly parted, scared, green eyes, and a pale complexion. I'm going into the Games, and I come to the realization that they have already begun. I begin to fight for my survival.

I gasp in utter happiness and smile, holding both hands to my cheeks. I turn and hug the girl next to me; who stands stiff as a board. Flashing a dazzling smile to the audience, I begin to make my way up to stage, swishing my hips a little as I walk. I hold a delicate hand to my beating heart, pretending to be in a blissful awe.

"Congratulations, Glimmer! You must be absolutely thrilled to represent District 1 as a tribute in this years 74th annual hunger games!" Dahlia squeals.

"I am! I have dreamed for this opportunity for years!" I hear myself saying in a perky voice.

"Before we proceed, I must ask. Are there any volunteers?"

Silence again. Bitterly, my eyes search the crowd for Onyx. She must know what I am playing at? I see her with the other 15 year olds in an endless ocean of white, gray and light blue. She is ghostly pale and stands with both arms locked across her chest. Her eyes are empty, vacant, but they look at me and move to the projector screen. The silence echoes as no volunteers step forward. I don't look at my healthy, promising, peers spread across the audience. I can't take my eyes off Onyx. Her eyes move steady. Me, projector, me, projector. She's trying to tell me something.

It clicks. No one volunteers for me because of who my mother and father were, exemplified in the rebel movie. It's my turn to suffer the way they had to. It is Onyx and Em's turn to suffer as well. No one wants me to be spared, even if it means filth representing District 1. With a smile plastered on my face, I put a thankful hand to my heart sink into myself a little, as if to signify how grateful I am that no one volunteered. Dahlia shakes my hand and embraces me, composes her ratty curls, and proceeds.

"The boy representing this district will be," Dahlia plucks out a slip. "Marvel Augustus."

I am thankful for the attention to be switched off of me even though I need to get used to it. The crowd claps politely for Marvel, but my attention is turned to his mother. She dabs a handkerchief to her eyes as friends and family congratulate her. She smiles and shakes the hands of admirers like a celebrity. I see her mouth that words, "That's my son." I wish I could be someone's daughter.

"I am pleased to introduce the stunning tributes of District 1, Glimmer Gallows and Marvel Augustus! Shake hands, you two." Dahlia chirps in her silly Capitol accent.

My first impression when I look at him is that he has beautiful eyes. Dark, and forest green like mine. Marvel is tall and slightly skinny, rather than muscular and lethal-looking, and I find comfort in that. I don't even know him, really, but despite being a career he seems… merciful. He doesn't smile at me when he shakes my hand, and I get that, but I find it peculiar when he knits his brow together in a confused nature. The way he looks into my eyes is like he's searching for something.

"Congratulations to the both of you, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" Dahlia says for the second time. Peacekeepers take us by the arm and lead us off the stage.

"Where are we going?" I ask the man gripping my arm a little too tightly. His face is like smooth stone, and he doesn't give any hint that he heard me. "Excuse me, I asked where we are going?"

I don't realize until I hear Em screaming my name that we're being taken to our family for final goodbyes.