I do not own The Hunger Games, it was written by Suzanne Collins. I do, however, own the plot of this story and all the characters (except President Snow, Caesar Flickerman, and Claudius Templesmith).
Image is from ~diamondie-stock on deviantArt.
It Could Have Been Me
I wake up to the smell of maple syrup. Unfortunately, this syrup is probably covering hard, grayish acorn pancakes. But I know today is a special day. Mother never lets me eat maple syrup unless it's a very special occasion (such as a birthday, a wedding, etc…). Also she has probably used up the last drop for this breakfast since syrup is made in the early spring. It's mid-summer now and time for the 54th annual Hunger Games. That's why she's letting me eat syrup today—today is the reaping.
"Ellery!" Mother calls from the kitchen (or rather, from the small corner in which there is a stove and sink). "Breakfast is ready." I get out of bed and reach for my only fancy dress, which I have worn for the past two reapings.
"No, don't put that on yet, Ellery, you still have your morning work to do," Mother says. Yes, our house is that small, my "bedroom" is basically in the kitchen. My bed is near to the stove so I'm warm in the winter. I groan. The dress is so beautiful, it's a shame I only get to wear it once a year. But if I was living in the Capitol—as a lot of Games victors choose to do—I would wear dresses like this every day. I slide the sky blue satin back into its drawer and choose more practical clothes—long black pants, a forest green shirt, and worn out boots. My district is Seven, and it is the northern most district, so even in the summer, the temperature barely clears 70º. Also, I could never wear a short satin dress to climb to the top of willow trees to collect the supple willow branches.
I sit down at the small table with Mother and Father and try to savor my syrup. That proves impossible to do because within five minutes, I have eaten everything on my plate. A glob of syrup lands on my shirtsleeve and I lick it off—I won't get anymore maple syrup until next spring. That is—unless I win the Hunger Games.
"'Bye!" I say to my parents. I grab my sack and knife and walk outside. District Seven is divided into sections. I live at the border between the two smallest. Everyone thinks of Seven as the lumber district, because the lumber section is the largest. But in reality, Seven is not only produces wood, but everything having to do with trees. I live between the maple section and the willow section.
Today I am going to the willow section to cut willow branches to make rocking chairs, bed frames, mats, baskets, and much more. It is humid today, and warm. Perfect weather for mosquitoes. And I really hate mosquitoes. If I get bitten—which I do all the time—the bites swell up to about an inch in diameter. The mosquitoes are even worse in the willow section, where there are a lot of small ponds and marshes. I bet there aren't any mosquitoes in the Capitol—I bet there aren't even any bugs.
I find a healthy looking willow and stretch my sack between two of the lowest branches. This way, I can drop the cut branches and they will fall directly into the sack without making me climb down to place them in. I scramble up the trunk and start cutting away.
I know the first chapter is a little boring, sorry! Please keep reading, it gets much better.