The Exception
My eyes widen and my heart pounds in my chest. I path clears in the crowd as everyone moves away from me. The next tribute.
The next child to be carted back here in a box.
A collective whisper runs across those too old to be a part of the reaping. The whispers are about me; my age. It is expected. It happens every time an eleven year old is chosen, but anger still surges through me. I don't want their pity, and I know neither my sister nor my mother want it either.
Finally I will my feet to move. I take careful steps, tucking the back of my shirt in as I go. 'Little duck'. Katniss calls me that. The thought of her stings. After this, I will have about five minutes to say goodbye.
Perhaps forever.
Perhaps is optimistic. I'm eleven. There will be eighteen year olds who have trained their whole lives for the games, who will find killing me child's play.
Maybe I could hide. Maybe I could hide until only me and one other tribute is left. If I'm smart, the other tribute might die of natural causes while trying to find me.
I could never kill that other tribute.
Peacekeepers surround me like a cage, like a prison. Its hard to breathe. Its hard to grasp the enormity of what is happening.
I'm going to die.
There it is. Plain, simple, black and white. So why is it so hard to get my head around?
"Prim!"
The call of my name sends chills down my spine. It is so desperate, so scared, so defeated.
"Prim!"
So unlike my sister.
"I volunteer! I volunteer!"
Katniss screams, breaking past the Peacekeepers attempting to restrain her. The Peacekeepers here are weak, easily defeated. In fact, those sent to us from the Capitol turn a blind eye to the black market raging close to the square, and some even buy from it, not even bothering to question where the animals are coming from.
"I volunteer as tribute!"
The words take a minute to sink in. Everyone stills. Everything is silent.
No.
The words and my denial ring through my head as Katniss throws her arms around me. Family bonds never stretch this far, never, not in a place where the word 'tribute' is practically a synonym for corpse.
Katniss is trying to tell me something, tears streaming down her face. I'm sure I'm crying too, but all I can do is repeat my denial of her saving me.
"No!"
I scream it louder every time. My throat is hoarse and it hurts but I can't stop. I don't want her to save me, not her, not anyone else. It's in my nature; I can't allow anyone to be hurt in my place.
Suddenly Gale is hauling me onto his shoulder. I scream louder as he carries me to my mother, away from my sister. Why isn't anyone listening to me? Why isn't Katniss listening to me?
I beg Katniss to take it back, to let me go, but when Gale hands me to my mother its too late and Katniss is already on stage.
I sob into my mother's old cotton shirt, soaking it with tears of sadness and guilt. Question after question and regret after regret rushing through my head like an endless wave.
Why do you love me too much Katniss? Why do you have to be the first volunteer in District 12 since long before you and I were born? Why didn't you just let me onto that stage and into the games?
Why do you always have to be the exception, and why do I love you so much more for it?