The sound of the silence. That's all I hear. Silence. Nothing stirs, nothing moves, nothing seems to even breathe. The silence is calming. I gently let my head back as my eyes shut, and I let the sound of the silence roll over me like water over rocks in a river. I embrace the serenity of the moment, willing it to last forever, so that I could just sit, relishing the lack of movement and the silence that usually evades me. This is one of the rare moments I have to myself. A moment of silence. A peaceful silence, like after a spring rain, when the air is still and free from wind and the animals have not yet emerged from their shelters. A beautiful moment.

...

"SETHANIE ANN BEXLEY!"

...

And the moment's gone.

I sigh and scream in reply, "YES, MOTHER?!"

The full name always means trouble. What did I do this time? I ask myself. When no reply comes from the flat, I try again. "YES, MOTHER?!"

Nothing again.

I growl in frustration, pick myself up off the ground, and try fruitlessly to make my trousers seem less filthy before striding toward the family shop, only to be promptly shoo'd away by my mother, who is screaming at me to leave my boots outside, the moment I poke my head through the door. She yells that I need to be ready for the reaping.

I've tried to forget, but it's that time of year again. The Hunger Games. The annual televised fight to the death. This will be my seventh year in the running to be in the Hunger Games, and as I've never had to apply for tesserae, rations of wheat and fuel in exchange for an extra chance at either glory or death, I'm in seven times. My nine-year-old little brother, Layonnel, isn't old enough to be in the running for the Hunger Games yet, since the lottery begins at age twelve.

I begin to unlace my dark leather boots at the top of my calf, complaining about my mother's neat-freak mentality under my breath, and roughly chuck them against the shop wall, causing the building's frame to shudder and creak, my mother to scream at me yet again, and my mood to improve.

I climb through the doorway onto the shop floor, which is littered with the week's debris. I turn and race up the steps, taking them three at a time, and I find Layon at the top of the stairs, bounding up and down the hall, flailing his toy hovercraft around as he makes "hovercraft sounds" that remind me a little of a rabid squirrel.

I made that toy hovercraft for him two years ago, when a disastrous storm came down on Three and Four and knocked over trees in the forest beyond the electric fence surrounding the District. My family and I would have lost our lives during the storm, had the Capitol left the electricity on in Three and Four; a tree just outside the fence was hit by lightning and crashed right next to the shop, crushing a portion of the fence and three of our sheep in the process. I can see it clearly in my head: the first scene of the storm, imprinted in my mind like it was yesterday.

I feel myself fall into the memory as my subconscious takes over and I am subjected to the wills of my mind as a flashback begins. This time, however, all I can see is the fallen tree, the way I saw it for the first time. The memory takes hold, replayed as vividly as if it were yesterday.

I step outside with my father, where the tree lies atop the barbed wire fence, folded over on itself, and lodged partially inside three of our sheep, a mangled and bloody mess of wool, gore, and wood. The other animals stand nearby, one sheep comically holding its head against a branch, since it can't walk backwards, away from the wreckage. I would have laughed had I not been so thrown by the accident itself.

Thoughts from the past flood my mind, thoughts that had occurred to me by that scene of my life, as well as those that came after, thoughts about how my mother and brother were traumatized by the incident; they cowered in a closet while my father and I broke up the fallen tree to use for fuel as well as salvage as much of the dead sheep as we could. Since he's Three's butcher, he's handy with a knife, a skill he taught me, and together we efficiently saved the majority of the tree and sheep. If the electricity had been on, all four of us would have died in a fire started by the fallen tree; I carved Layon's hovercraft toy out of a chunk of it.

I break free from my flashback and return to the present, lifting my head after having fallen onto my hands and knees at the top of the steps as Layon runs by me, and I have to fight the urge to trip him and make him go skidding down the hall. Of course, he would probably have laughed and asked to do it again, even if he had lost a tooth in the process. He's already dressed for the reaping in a white button-down shirt that's too big for him, an old brown vest of my father's from when he was a child, and brown trousers that come down just below his knees. His brown lace- up shoes, currently untied, are a death trap, and because of them, Layon tumbles head first down the hall without my intervention. Before I can even react, he's back on his feet laughing and resuming his hovercraft noises.

I smile and walk into the bedroom I share with Layon. Hanging from my bed, which is above Layon's, bunk-style, is my aunt's light green dress that she never would let me touch. She died earlier on in the year and left her dress to me. Not that I want it or even knew her very well. All I remember about this dress is that I tried to put it on while I was going through a phase, and she threw a fit about it. I never understood why, though, and now, I don't understand why she left her most prized possession to me. She never liked me all that much. But, I sigh, pull my hair out of the braid, and put on the dress anyway.

After I figure out where every body part is supposed to go and fit myself into the dress accordingly, I open the closet door to find a tall, beautiful young woman staring back at me from inside the mirror. The pastel green brings out my eyes, which are now accentuated without the use of kohl. The sleeves fall to the middle of my forearm in a graceful manner. The middle fits snugly across my midsection without being unflattering. The hem of the dress sits right below my knees, hiding unfortunate scars from woodworking accidents and small fights at school. Looking at myself in the mirror, my auburn hair already perfect and wavy despite being in a messy braid all morning, no one would never guess I was the rough girl I am. I look just like my aunt. I look... too different from my normal self. It's unnerving.

I turn on the spot and begin down the stairs, only to nearly trip over Layon. After I get out the door (which, believe me, is quite a feat in my household), I pick up my boots, still sitting right outside the door, and beat them against the animal pen to get most of the mud off. After they are fully laced, I look at my reflection in the window and I look more like myself. I am no longer my aunt, but Seth Bexley.

I walk back into the shop to find my parents in their usual reaping attire, yelling at each other, before they shoo me out the front door to be registered. Layon is still playing with his hovercraft and waiting patiently for him and my parents to leave and attend the reaping. I smile, ruffle his hair, and leave the shop without a word.

I stop by the Yorns' house, which is in the same vicinity as my family's shop/flat, on my way to the square. The Yorns are the apothecary family of Three, and it definitely doesn't hurt to be their only daughter's best friend. She is three years younger than I am, and we had known each other for years. I turn the corner, and there she is. Waiting for me. Smiling at me with her beautiful, white smile. Simply seeing her brightens my day. She is my best friend in the world, but she means more than that to me. She's almost my sister. Like the little sister I never got to have. Rabecca Yorn. I would do anything to keep that smile on her face. She means more to me than anybody else, even my family. I don't know how to explain it any better, but she's almost family. I tear my gaze away from her bright smile and admire her choice of dress. Her pastel blue brings out her gorgeous eyes, today a beautiful aqua. Her blonde hair is braided down her back in an intricate way her mother must have done.

I recognize that style of braid. She braided my hair like that years ago when I was asleep, on the day we met. I realize my mistake too late and sink back into my mind's reality, which at the time is obscenely different from my body's reality.

"I'm going to kill you!"

A little girl, seven years old maximum, covers her smile (badly) with her hands and twists back and forth, her two blonde braids swinging with her body. She, while I was asleep, had braided my hair while my hand was in it, and as a joke, she braided my hand into my hair. I guess it was partially my fault, since I was the one who had fallen asleep in the apothecary's waiting room.
I try to look menacing, but when one's hand is tied to one's head, being threatening is difficult. I swing my feet down from the arm of the chair and start to run at her, but it proves to be difficult to run while one's shoes are tied together. I almost land face down on the ground, but my left hand takes my right's place to break my fall.

The little girl laughs and turns to run away, but my arm is long enough and my reflexes fast enough to catch her ankle, and she squeals as she plummets toward the ground. I start to pull her toward me, and after a long ordeal of screaming, kicking, biting, and a broken nose on my part, I get her to untie my hand from my hair and my shoes from each other.

Before she can run away, I grab her around the waist and pull her down onto my leg. She gives me a look that calls an ashamed dog to my mind. Her big blue eyes look up at me and her lower lip quivers.

I change my mind about my next action and say, "Next time, if you want to make that prank even better, don't stick around to see the outcome."

She smiles and laughs, and hugs me around my neck. "I'm Rabecca. What's your name?" she asks, her head buried into my neck.

"I'm Seth," I say with a genuine smile on my face.

I pull myself back into reality and find myself lying on the pavement, Becca sitting by me, waiting for me to wake up again. These flashbacks have been coming more and more frequently now...

"Morning!" Becca says, not too fazed by my flashback, breaking me from my own thoughts.

"Morning, pretty girl," I reply, tweaking her nose.

She smiles even bigger, a subtle hint of pink appears in her ears, and she replies, "Your dress is really pretty, Seth."

She stands and offers me her hand to pull me up. Once on my feet, I dust myself off, then check my boots' laces because of the flashback. Becca offers me her arm, and I take it, a common gesture of friendship in Three.

Then we take one final detour to the Phillips' house. Mr. Phillips is the administrator of our school. He mainly walks around the school making sure we don't misbehave. I have spent more than my fair share of time in his office, Rabecca by my side, where we befriended Mr. Phillips' son Nicolas.

Remember when I said Becca means more to me than anybody else? I lied. She and Nic are on equal ground. He was in my year and would always tell us that our antics were funny and that even his dad was amused by them at times. Nic's amicable personality, charm, and sense of humor were immediately appealing, and we became close friends soon after.

Then, as is customary in Three, my parents made a business deal with his parents and forced an arranged marriage upon us. It's not that big a deal in Three, but when you're eleven and your parents tell you that you are going to marry the boy who is your best friend, you are grossed out and freaked out. But we both eventually got over it and went on with our lives, ignoring the fact that we will eventually have to get married. Even without the push from our parents, it probably would have happened anyway. Our parents made a good choice. The three of us, me, Nic, and Becca, became the best of friends in school. Nic said his father called us the Three Musketeers, after an old, old book.

Nic joins our arm-linked chain as we pass his house and greets us with, "Well, don't my two favorite ladies look lovely today!"

I smile as Becca says, "Morning, Nic." She fancies him, and I can't see why not. He's the perfect boy, but he is mine, and the entire district knows it.

"Nice jacket," I tell him, and I'm not lying. His dark grey jacket suits his dark hair and dark brown eyes, and I know that I'm lucky.

The three of us walk arm-in-arm toward the town square for registration- me, my fiancé, and my best friend in the world. Life couldn't get much better.

We talk and laugh as we register, then Nic breaks off toward his section after a kiss on my cheek and on Becca's hand, and the two of us walk together to our designated section. We talk about this year's Games, like the arena or the possible Three candidates. Of course, Nic and I are only in seven times and Becca four, since we've never had tesserae, but Rabecca's younger brother applied on a dare behind their backs. He is thirteen, in the running twelve times. We worry together about what will happen if he is reaped, since nobody would volunteer in his place. "Hey," she interjects, "what happens if one of us is reaped?" I pause momentarily, but I judge from the look on her face that she is joking.

I laugh and reply, "I'll volunteer for you."

"And I for you," she counters with another flash of her smile.

The Panem anthem plays and a man from the Capitol takes the stage. He wears a stupid emerald green suit that matches his slicked back hair. His skin is a startling purple to contrast. He welcomes us in his stupid Capitol accent with those stupid Capitol words in his stupid Capitol suit to the reaping for the 73rd Hunger Games. The video plays while I space out then Mister Capitol, whose name I don't care to remember, takes the microphone again. Butterflies in my stomach take flight as he smiles what the Three Musketeers call "the visage of coming doom".

"And our female tribute is..." he reaches into the ball containing all of our names, grabs a slip of paper, and reads, as my heart stops beating, "Rabecca Yorn."

I don't believe what I hear. No. Not Becca. Not my Becca. She stiffens beside me and her muscles tense in her arm against my own. Then I freeze. She's going to the arena. Before I can even finish that thought, she's being whisked away by two Peacekeepers in white uniforms.

"No," I whisper, unable to fully believe the fact that my best friend is being taken from me to compete in a fight to the death. A fight that will mean her death.

Gasps and murmurs spread through the crowd, but I can't breathe. The butterflies in my stomach have all died, and all that's left is emptiness. No. No. It's not happening. Becca makes her way to the stage, escorted by Peacekeepers, and I find myself screaming.

Tears flood down my cheeks and adrenaline pumps through my system as I hear someone's voice screech the words, "I volunteer!"

All of a sudden, all eyes are on me. A camera spins around and locks on my face. What happened? Then I realize the truth. The voice was mine. I didn't even know I was saving her life when I yelled those two words. I volunteer.

"In her place. As a tribute," I state, trying to sound emotionless, but my voice betraying me by breaking. "I volunteer."

I stare at the ground, unable to face the cameras, the eyes of Panem, the faces of my family and friends. My brother. I chance a look over to where my family stands, and I see my mother, so delicate, so vulnerable, leaning over the rope to see my face, my father, no longer the strong, brave man I once knew, but shaking from emotion, and Layon. Little Layon. My little brother, so impressionable. He looks at me quizzically, but more than that, he's hurt by my choice, then he turns and tears through the crowd, running in the opposite direction. I almost break when I see his hovercraft lying, cracked and battered, on the ground at my parents' feet.

I turn my head toward the stage, where Mister Capitol is standing, wide-eyed, and Becca stares at me, shocked. Then I look towards the boys' section, where Nic is holding onto other boys' shoulders, pale and about to faint, subtle lines of tears constantly streaming down his cheeks. I crack when I see him like that. Broken. I put my face in my hands and weep as the Peacekeepers lead me toward the stage and Becca away from it.

She screams something incomprehensible and tries to tear herself out of the Peacekeepers' grasp, and I have the overwhelming urge to run to her, comfort her, hold her and tell her everything is going to be okay. But I can't. And that's what kills me.

By this time, I'm on the stage, standing next to Capitol Man who says, "Well, well, well! What do we have here?"

I stare out at the audience of my fellow Three residents, then into the camera and the eyes of Panem that are watching me and will be watching me. I try to look as strong and confident as I can, but the screen to my left, which shows my image, reveals to me the face of a sociopath on the verge of insanity and hysteria.

"What's your name, Love?" Capitol Man asks me.

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. I try to get out anything, even one word, but nothing escapes my lips but a sound similar to that of a mouse that has been stepped on. I see Nic pass out in the distance. I suddenly smile and think that I'll have to bring up that unmanly act later, but then it dawns on me that there will be no "later". I can feel myself lose color. A murmur spreads through the crowd as I pull myself together enough to say, "Seth Bexley."

"Seth! What a wonderful name!" Capitol Man smiles artificially and continues, "Now, for your male tribute." His hand wanders around in the ball before choosing a slip that reads, "Nicholas Patterson."

I almost had a heart attack when I heard "Nicholas", but I was relieved when I heard the last name.

Wait... I know that name. The Pattersons live in the factory portion of town. Nicholas is a year older than me, but he can't do hardly anything but work in a factory. I can take him down easy. Woah. Wait. Did that really just cross my mind? Am I already planning the demises of my competitors? I decided to file that under "freak out about later". For now, I have other worries. Like what the hell I am going to do.

The Patterson boy makes his way to the stage as silence falls in the crowd. My gaze moves to a family that stands out among the dismal faces of Three: the Pattersons, the mother crumpling into a heap on the ground, the father, putting on a facade of strength while his eyes tell me even from my distance that he is about to shatter, and a little girl about five or six years old in a dark pink dress, chestnut brown hair falling to her waist, with an uncomprehending look on her face. She seems so perfect, beautiful and pristine, like Becca was when I met her. My heart cracks in half when I realize that the beautiful little girl with the pink dress may not get her brother back, that she may not even remember him except for any outstanding memories of two siblings who love each other. Or he might come back, alive and well, bringing joy and honor and wealth to his family, while my family suffers from the loss of a child. Neither party wins in this case.

Capitol Man's booming voice breaks me out of my trance and says, "District Three, your tributes for the Seventy-Third Annual Hunger Games!"

Usually, a scattered applause is heard from the crowd, but no sound can be heard except for the sobbing of family members, Becca's distant wailing, and Nic's screams that remind me of a cat that has been shot. I die inside. Everybody in Three knows me or Nicholas Patterson. It's a hit to everybody, as opposed to other years when not as many people knew the tributes. Nobody knows what to do now. Nicholas Patterson and I shake hands and are led off the stage by Peacekeepers to the sound of silence, once the sound of peace, now the sound of my imminent demise. The sound of the silence.