Lavinia
Chapter 1: Frustration.
*I don't own the Hunger Games.Sob sob.
I wake up to a small and drab room that holds a bed with a faded orange blanket. It takes me a few seconds to place where I am. Oh yes. My bedroom, District 8. And what day is it? Friday, still a work day. I slowly get up to wash myself and get dressed. A faded red shirt and dark brown pants. I do my best to comb the tangles out of my auburn locks, all the while still thinking about my dream.
In my dream, the Capitol didn't exist. They didn't rob us of our happiness. They didn't take the things we manufactured for them and gave us a meagre amount of money in return. The Hunger Games didn't exist. Everyone was happy. All was bliss.
I've been having that dream for a while now. I guess it comes from the frustration of poverty we all suffer from. District 8, the district responsible for producing textiles. We have several farms where we harvest cotton and collect silk worms for boiling. Since I turned fourteen, four years ago, I've been old enough to work at the cotton farms. I work there from 7.00 am to 7.00 pm, harvesting cotton, planting cotton seeds and checking on the young cotton plants. The cotton we harvest will be sent to factories where people will weave them into sheets of fabric and dye them in a myriad of colours. They then will be sent to Capitol. We ship large amounts of fabrics to the Capitol because of the fickle nature of their fads. How I despise them, just taking what we have made for their foolish costumes, extravagant outfits, all the time oblivious to how much work went into producing these fabrics, the hundreds, thousands of hands that so exhaustingly plucked the cotton, boiled the silkworms, weaved the threads together. All to make their clothes. Which I'm sure are worn only once in their lives.
Before I leave my house, which happens to be in the lousiest part of District 8, the Hem, so called because it was located on the very outskirts of the land, I give my younger sister, Areanna, a kiss on the head. Both my parents have gone to the factories to work, leaving Areanna in the care of my uncle who is handicapped so he does not need to work, he only has one arm and a bad foot. Areanna is only five years old. I wonder what she, at this tender age, thinks of our world.
When I reach the cotton farm, my best friend, Orlando, is waiting for me. He is wearing his trademark grin, the one where only half his mouth curves up in a knowing way. I love that smile of his. "Hey, Lavvy-Savvy! Ready to pick cotton candy?" he asks playfully. Lavvy-Savvy is the nickname he uses for me. Cotton candy to us just means cotton, we nicknamed it cotton candy because it resembles the candy sold in the sweet shop. I've only ever tasted it once, when Orlando gave some to me out of his wages and it tasted like heaven. "Sure, sure." I say. Today I feel particularly dark that not even Orlando's humour and wit can dispel. Maybe it's the dream. Knowing we will never be free and perhaps a thousand years later, another girl called Lavinia might be feeling awful about a dream she had while she picks cotton in the cotton farm in District 8. The thought makes my heart even heavier and a shadow crosses my face.
"What's wrong Lav?" Orlando asks, his face creased with worry. I am very truthful to Orlando so I tell him, "I just think it's really unfair we have to work from dawn to dusk for the Capitol and they give us the Hunger Games in return. Things should fairer. They should know what it's like, to live in poverty." I know what I'm saying is dangerous, it could be well considered treason against the ever so glorious Capitol and President Snow. It could result in a whipping or getting noosed in front of all of District 8, as a warning to stay in line. Still I need an outlet to let out my feelings. Orlando smiles, "Well, who has never thought that before? It's about time Justice be served. Maybe," he says, as he gently plucks a tuft of cotton from a sapling, "we can start a rebellion." "Oh please! A rebellion? The last time the districts tried that, we failed and the Hunger Games is a yearly reminder of our failure!" I say, as I strip a plant of all its cotton. Still as the day passes, that's the only thing stuck on mind.