Chapter 1. I don't own the hunger games at all!
I feel a slight shake on my shoulder and know immediately it is time to wake up for the horrible day ahead; the reaping for the 73rd Hunger Games. All I want to do was close my eyes and escape to dreams where the Hunger Games do not exist. Instead I slowly open my eyes to see my mother's fake smile. She feels the same way I do about the games.
She leaves the room so I can dress. I put on a slightly worn blouse. Then pull a pair of tight pants up to where the bump on my stomach is prominent and fasten the button. Yes I was expecting a child at seventeen. In all districts my situation was an uncommon thing like saying negative stuff about the capital in public. Nobody would want to be in my situation; three and a half months pregnant with no husband barley surviving on my mother's pay and tesserae. My mother already knows about my baby and we both plan on keeping it because it is all I have left of my once love Caston. I wish Caston was here, he would have been a great help to my mother and the baby—He died before we knew about the baby. He was only eighteen. I start to feel the prick of tears from my eyes so I push everything from my mind because I need to be strong for today.
I walk over to the cracked mirror in the corner of my small room and slowly bushed my light brown hair, and pulled it back so the curls are manageable. I looked straight into the reflection of my dark blue eyes and mouthed a good luck for both me and my baby.
I walked into the other room to find my mother hunched over at our old dining table, putting a bit of brown mush on a plate. It was the grain from the tesserae I had got not too long ago.
"Good morning, Blissa." I know she has good intentions so I give her a nod. My mother gave me this name because when she first held me she felt one emotion.
After my mother puts some brown mush on her plate we both sit down to eat.
"Are you okay?"She asked. I look up to meet her eyes. I'm the younger version of her we have the same hair, eyes and pale skin. Her features are damp with age though, while mine are still flushed with youth. Talking of my father is a vendetta though because he died when I was thirteen—it is also a sensitive subject for my mother as well.
"Yes, just fine at the moment, but it will be better after the reapings." I sigh. All I want to say is, no its not alright nothing is! But that would just cause more pain than it's worth. All my mother is trying to do is be comforting after all.
After that there is no conversation. When we finish our meager breakfast my mother goes to dress in something more appropriate for the reapings. When she comes back she's in a deep green blouse and the nicest pant she has—her hair is brushed and falls to her shoulders. We will now leave, to go to the square.
District 9's square is small, so when we get there it's already getting crowded.
"Good Luck, Blissa." She says.
"Thanks, I love you mom." The last thing I say before I go to stand with a clump seventeen year olds.
While I wait I look around I see the stage it has seven chairs on it—one for the mayor, one for Districts 9's escort, and five for past victors.
When everybody arrives everybody takes their place on stage, the air gets tense with what is about to happen.
When the towns clock strikes two, our escort Andra Naeley a tall, skinny women with golden blonde hair to her waist steps forward, gives the same quote every year. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds ever be in your favor!"
I sigh as she gives her speech of how delighted she is to be here. Ug, I hate capital people there all too perky especially on such a horrible day.
I start to get nervous when I realize how many slips are in there with my name on them. 36. My stomach does back flips while my mind gets cloudy.
When Andra finishes her speech everybody knows what time it is—the drawing.
"Well here we go!" Andra says before she plunges her hand into the girl's glass ball. Everybody is silent with anticipation. She pulls out a slip and strides back to the podium with every person's eyes on here. She gently unfolds the paper and puts her lips up to the microphone and in that last second I whisper, please not me.
"Blissa Admiterum." All I can manage to do its croak out what seems to be a gasp. Because it felt like my heart stopped. All I can only form one thought, this isn't fair.
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Pronunciations
Blissa Admitarum: Bliss-a Admit-er-um
Andra Naeley: And-rah Nay-lay