The 16th.
The day of the reaping.
Also, coincidentally, the day of my seventeenth birthday.
I pull a face in the mirror, fluffing my flaming red curls until they look mildly presentable, when I hear a cough from behind me.
"Some of us aren't naturally beautiful like you, sis." I say and she narrows her eyes.
"Keely, you do realise we're twins, don't you?"
"Yes, Skylar, but thank you so much for pointing that out." She sticks out her tongue at me, and I laugh.
"Happy birthday." I say, and she smiles.
"You too."
As I leave the bathroom, and watch my mirror image piece herself together in the mirror, one thought crosses my mind: If we make it through this reaping, it will be the best gift I could ever imagine.
"Keely, Skylar, we have to go." My father calls from the kitchen. I fix the blue bow on my head, and wait for Skylar.
She exit's the bathroom, fixes her red bow, and we take each others hand and squeeze.
This is it. Our last reaping.
This time next year, it'll all be over.
The plaza is swarmed, the heat radiating off the walls as people push against each other, trying to make room. The reaping is a mandatory event, which no one particularly likes to see coming. Here in District 9, the plaza is the only feasible place for this kind of congress, since the district consists of a vast forest-that stretches for as far as the eye can see and more; like an endless ocean of evergreen- and the factories for processing the food that we hunt. My father is the head hunter in the district. He has taken me and my sister out on a few occasions. Skylar hates it. She hates to see the blood, hates to hear the wounded cry of the animals as they collapse into the ground after a barrage of arrows and bullets.
I don't have this problem.
To me, the animals are food.
I don't see them as beings.
I see them as survival.
We are corralled into the centre of the square, into orderly rows: boy, girl, boy, girl. The youngest at the far left, the eldest at the far right. The pool for reaping is growing slimmer by the year. I feel a twisting in my chest as I remember previous reapings, where friends and family have gone to fight.
None have returned.
Jackson, Taylor, Kendra…
Xander.
I swallow and try to forget him. I try to forget the aching in my chest and the memory of his face as he slowly closed the gap between us, the light glinting in his green eyes and the smile on his face as we shared our first kiss.
Our only kiss.
A week later he was reaped.
I shake my head and force the feelings into a little ball in the pit of my stomach. If I made it through the reaping, I would go into the forest, throw a few knives and take it out on the trees.
Because in the forest, if you are alone, you can scream as loud as you want.
After all, if no one is there to hear it, it does not exist.
The pain does not exist.
I close my eyes, count to five and try to control my breathing. Keeping calm is the name of the game. I will not show my fear, I will not show weakness.
I won't give them the satisfaction.
I heave one heavy grating sigh and glance over my shoulder, searching for Skyler. I see her poised on her tip toes, in a dress identical to mine, searching the surrounding crowd frantically, until her shoulders visibly relax. She sees him.
Zane stands a good head and shoulders over the rest of the crowd and meets her gaze. He smiles reassuringly, mouthing an "I love you" that Skylar quickly reciprocates.
I smile to myself while ignoring the sense of longing in my chest. Skylar had found her one, her only. I was happy for her, but sometimes I wondered…
Would I ever find mine?
Or had he already been buried six-foot underground.
Feedback hisses through the speakers, burning my ears. I wince at the cacophonous sound, and steel myself for the commentary.
This was it, finally. The reaping.
My last reaping.
"Welcome, Ladies and Gentleman," A short man with a balding head and a paunch fiddles with the microphone so that he can speak into it. One of the previous victors, a man now in his forties, steps forward and releases the catch, allowing it to adjust to his height. The man thanks him and continues his speech.
"And what a beautiful day it is. Why, it's perfect for a reaping." He waits for assent, but is met with a heavy silence.
The reaping is not a beautiful thing. It is ugly, marred, diseased, pock-marked, horrendous, and just plain cruel. I, like so many others around me, wish the weather would reflect that instead of taunting us.
"Now, shall we get this show on the road?" he asked, and once again was met with silence. He grows frustrated, but says nothing.
"May the odds be ever in your favour." the words boom through the speakers, but all I hear is the thundering rush of blood in my ears.
"The girl tribute for the 63rd Hunger Games is…."
I wait with bated breath, hoping and praying that it's not me.
"Skylar Tanner."
It's not me.
It's worse than that.