My name? Why do you want to know? If you learn my name, you'll only bring worse things to your fate. Fine, if you insist on knowing: My name is Delfi Ventera, and you must never say it again. Not until the rebellion becomes a war. My name is forbidden, so you'd most likely get your head chopped off by the president himself. Whether you lived in the Capitol or the Districts all your life, you've probably never heard of me. Because I was the one that sparked the first rebellion.
I grew up, watching the Hunger Games. They had started about 5 years before I was even born. My family would sit on comfy couches stuffed with goose feathers and drink delicious cocktails as we were all spell bounded to the T.V. My father was one of the president's advisors, so we'd get front seats at the opening ceremonies. Sometimes, my father would let me throw a special red rose at one of the tributes.
I loved it. Getting days off from school so we could watch the Games. Often, I'd gather all my friends together at my house, and we'd cheer on a tribute. Me and my friends always dressed in style, whether it was fluffy dresses with animal print, or 8 inch high heels and purple highlights in our hair. I was very fascinated in fashion, so that's where my job came in.
I begged my parents when I was 20 to get a job as a stylist. Of course, they argued and said I should get into government work, but I refused. They finally gave in, and I was inducted as one of the stylists for the Games.
I got District 6, and I was pretty happy. For 18 years, I styled my female tributes in beautiful tacky gowns. My partner, Regur, dressed the male tributes in suits.
My life was amazing. I went to so many parties, and I met the man of my dreams. We had a child, Rosemary, a beautiful blond girl with her daddy's blue eyes. She was perfect. I could only see her for short times though, because I was always busy designing clothes for my next tributes.
But during the 42nd Games, a deadly fire broke out in my house. I watched, horrified, as the flames lick the antique wood and everything crumbled to ashes on live television. Both my husband and my darling child was killed. Rosemary was only twelve. I was at a party during the tragedy, and now, all I feel is guilt. I wasn't even allowed to go to their funerals because of the Games. I wake up screaming for my daughter to run. Rosemary was too young, too innocent to die.
After their deaths, nightmares began viciously attacking me. I dreamt of my little girl in the Hunger Games, as cruel tributes from 1 and 2 slit her throat. I would wake up screaming her name, only to realize that she was already dead.
Today is Reaping Day. I peer into my 100 inch flat screen T.V. alone, as I watch who the tributes are for District 6. The escort reaches into a glass bowl, taking out the slip for the female tribute. "Florence Coleman." She announces. A woman (her mother, I guess) screams, as Florence walks to the stage. The camera zooms in on her face, as tears stream down her pale cheeks. I blink, and I feel a chill run down my back. She looks just like Rosemary. A pang attacks my heart. I start staring into space, as everything drones out. Florence is Rosemary. She has to be. My little girl has been reborn.