I am nothing. I am a hunched over back in a dank, dark factory with raw fingers from spinning thread for hours every day. I am a bed in the community home, where I do not sleep, but lie awake, staring at the leaking ceiling, shivering from cold, and replaying my wretched life over and over like a movie until I get sick out the windowsill and collapse from exhaustion. I am clumsy, blind kisses in the dark, desperate not to feel so alone, even though it's the cold edge of loneliness that reminds me I am still alive, not a ghost, as much as I might feel like one.

I am no one. No one loves me. No one will ever miss me if I go.

So, when I wake on the day of the Reaping, I lie there for a moment, my breaths shallow, but calm, tongue coated with the terrible taste of the tannery next door, hands clasped just above my hips. I can feel the rough skin of my hands through the thin fabric of my night clothes, but nothing else. No knot of nerves forming behind my sternum, no churning stomach, no burning adrenaline or crushing depression – no more than usual, anyway. I am me…the way I have felt as long as I can remember. Empty.

Oh, there are some sensations. The shock of the cold water against my rough, pale skin as I wash for the day, the soft fabric of my Reaping outfit, a pale lavender dress that falls to an inch below my knees, the last possession of my mother's that I still have. The boiled grain I force myself to eat, tasteless and lukewarm on my tongue. I do not have to work my shift today – after all, this is a special occasion – or else there would be the loud clanging of spinners and machines, and the smell of must and old, rotting fabric, the brightness of the sun burning my eyes as I leave the factory, to hide out in the vestiges of my district until the vicious cycle of sleeplessness and sickness begins once again.

"Happy Hunger Games." A gruff voice murmurs in my ear, a large and weary body falling into step beside mine. It is a presence I recognize, the only one anymore.

"Aidan." I whisper his name. "May the odds be ever in your favor." The phrase feels hollow, stale. In a place like this, in a life like the one we lead, the odds have long fallen out of favor with us.

"Now that that's over…" He puts his arm around my shoulders. Normally, I'd get a frisson of comfort, something echoing in the dead space of my body. But today, there is nothing. Just an arm over my shoulders, the rough skin chilled with the temperature. "It's our last year, Lex…if we make it through this, we'll both be eighteen…we'll both be in the clear." He tugs me closer for a moment, and I can feel his desperate hope, it is that tangible. The hope that, somehow, our lives will remain untouched by this injustice, that the two of us can escape from this hell unscarred, without damage.

A dry laugh crosses my tongue at the thought. A soul in this world unscarred. What a novel idea.

"I wish you could see me, mother." My voice is a whisper, almost swallowed up by the breeze swirling in the open air. "I look really pretty in your dress…I even did my hair the way you life it…half up, half down, brushed straight, until it shines." I trace the rounded tips of my somewhat clean fingernails, eyes closed, an involuntary shiver running through me as the gusts pick up, bumps rising on my skin.

"It's a cold day for a Reaping..I'm surprised." I'd sit, but I am afraid to stain my dress, even with the hard packed ground beneath my feet. So I stand, a lone figure, a ghost among ghosts. "Normally, it's warm..like it's teasing us, or something. but no, it's frigid." My hands cover my bare arms as I keep talking. "It's like the weather has finally caught on."

I clear my throat. "I'll be okay after this year…I'm turning eighteen soon, but you knew that. You won't have to worry about me anymore, because my name won't be in the bowl. I'll…I'll be free." The word causes my stomach to lurch – what is free? What does it mean? "Not free." I whisper, surrendering it to the sky as I tilt my head upwards. "I am not free. I will never be free. I can only be safe, and even then…safety here is not safety."

My mother's grave is the only place where I dare spill what is on my mind, what I think, of my life, of the world. I know she cannot hear me, that she is but bones rotting beneath the place where I stand – perhaps that is why I speak so truthfully here – a ghost cannot betray you.

"Aidan will take care of me…even if he does marry that girl, he'll make sure I'm okay." I continue, moving back to the mundane, not the abstract, too much of that will drive me crazy, and I cannot afford that on a day like this, on the day that I most need to be empty. "So, if you're still hanging on to me, mother, you can go. Because I'm going to be fine. I've made it this far on my own…I'm a lot like you, though…more than I'd like to admit. But I'm nothing like him. Nothing. And I guess that's what matters most. Even if you did leave me…I know you'd be proud of me, mother." The wind blows my hair in my face, and I carefully tuck my hair out of my face, fixing my eyes o the slate grey stone, simply bearing the name 'Anastasia,' the last name faded.

"I remember what a wreck you were on my first Reaping." I say, reaching over and touch the stone, finding it as cold as I was. "You brushed my hair so hard my scalp was red for two days…you made sure the water I used to wash was really hot, and you didn't let me leave your side until we got to the square…it was right after dad left, so I guess that didn't help. You were scared of losing me too…you gripped my hand so hard, I swore you almost broke it." I gripped the stone, remembering how cold her hand was that day…like she was already dead. "I never thought I'd be the one who lost you."

I always know when my conversations with my dead mother need to stop. It's a feeling I can't really describe, but it comes upon me suddenly, and it is final. "I'll come and see you tomorrow…tell you about the reaping." I say, holding onto the stone for a moment longer, before removing my hand from it slowly, feeling a shudder run trough me like it did my first Reaping day when my mother finally released my hand.

Suddenly, being a ghost among ghosts is no longer comforting, and I turn and run without another word.

The Reaping. I stand shoulder to shoulder with two girls that I don't know, and probably never will. This is the tradition that is supposed to unify us, as a district, as a nation, but I have never felt more alone in my life, standing amidst the girls my age, packed together like cattle. I can feel them trembling but I, in my emptiness, am perfectly still. I feel like an imposter, steadfast amidst the quaking, careless amidst the anxiety. For a moment, I feel guilty, for not suffering as much as the rest of them. But it passes.

I catch Aidan's clear blue eyes from across the rope that divides us, and hold them for a few seconds. I do not feel better, only less alone. If there is one person that means anything to me, that is at all similar, it's him. And I know that I will not be able to be empty if he is chosen – but that, too, will pass.

We watch the film. I find myself reciting the booming words under my breath, through cracked lips. I hear that voice in my nightmares, where I lie among smoking ruins, punished for being so pale, so blank…for not feeling as the rest of them do. For not caring. For not caring about my own life, or anyone else's. For standing at the edge of losing my life to these vicious politics and not be frightened. For not feeling anything. I think to them, that must be the worst crime of all. Apathy. When you don't care, you cannot be manipulated.

The names. I can feel the girls that stand beside me tensing up. I see hands clasp, and the whispers from before die away, leaving silence except for the feedback from the microphone, and the winds which howl as they whip around the corners of buildings. The moment is not still, and yet, as the first name is called – a name I do not hear, and probably do not know – my heart stops.

I don't know why, at first. At first, there is murmuring, and then a few rows ahead of me, a blonde girl, younger than I, but not by much, steps out onto the packed dirt path, clearly shaking in her snow white dress. Her skin is pale, but sunkissed – she doesn't spend her days buried in a factory like most of us. Her hair hangs to her shoulders in perfect ringlets…I am reminded of stories my mother once told me, of angels, perfect beings. And this was before I even laid eyes on her face.

I strain to get a better look, suddenly fascinated, my attention held by her, shaking, gripping the rope I had suddenly reached, not even realizing that I had pushed past the other girls to get there, gripping it so tightly I thought my hands would bleed. I feel different, my chest is swelling, and my heart is pounding, and I don't know what it is until someone calls her name – Hayley – and she turns slightly, showing her profile, and I cannot stop myself from yelling.

"I volunteer!"

Suddenly, I care.

It was a blur. But not the kind of blur that the rest of my life has passed in. It was the kind of blur where I knew what was happening each second, but couldn't process it. The Peacekeepers hands gripping my shoulders, the murmurs in the crowd, the sound winding like a snake. The eyes on me, more than anyone had ever looked at me before. For once, I was solid, tangible, more than a shadow that haunted the factory. I was a person…a Tribute…and finally worthy of their notice.

I cannot see the girl anymore, they have pushed me ahead of her before I even know what was going on. I could hear what I could only assume was her shouting, but I cannot tell the words. For a moment, I tear my thoughts from her and put them to Aidan – what did he think? Did he feel betrayed?

I don't move up the steps of my own volition, the Peacekeepers flanking me do that job well enough, and I can't catch my breath anyway, I would have fallen if it weren't for their support. I am not used to this…to being overwhelmed. And that doesn't ease as I look upon her full on, eyes never leaving her fair features as I whisper my name into the offered microphone. I cannot place what drew me to her, especially because I had never once been drawn to someone period..not even Aidan. I cannot make out the details from the stage, but it is no mystery that she is beautiful.

That must have been it, I reason with myself as they take me away from her, off the stage. I can't bear to let something so light and beautiful, something that reminds me of an angel, die undignified, a martyr, a mere pawn in politics, on a screen in front of millions. If anyone deserved such a fate, it was me. Dark, and cold, and empty me. Not that bright and beautiful girl.

The peacekeepers push me off the stage and into the room in the Hall of Justice – the other tribute must have been chosen while I was staring. I get a brief glimpse of Aidan still in the audience, and I am grateful that it won't be him beside me. The moment passes me by, though, as they always do, and I glance around the small but richly furnished room. Any other time, I might have been angry as I looked upon the velvet couch, the dark patterned wallpaper, the gilded fixtures. But today, I was empty, and I perched myself on the edge of the couch as I waited for the visitors that would never come.

But they did. Well, one did. Aidan was there almost immediately after I was, gathering me up in his strong arms, an embrace I had grown all but familiar with. It wasn't a romantic thing – I was hardly capable of romance, and the few kisses we'd exchanged in the dark and out of desperation had done nothing for me, and Aidan had another girl anyway, although she was an aristocrat, and he saw more of me than of her. I hadn't expected him to come – Aidan had never been one for goodbyes, but there he was, holding me, staunch and silent, until two and a half minutes had passed. He pulls me back to look at him, tracing my cheek with his thumb. He looks like he wants to say something, but it is me who finally breaks the silence.

"Take care of Ana.' I whisper. "Forget about me, and marry that girl, and take care of her. You love her, and that's…that's not something you see every day. Take hold of it, and don't ever let it go, Aidan, promise me."

"I'm supposed to be the one encouraging you." Aidan manages a weak smile, and suddenly, I'm laughing, and so is he. The situation just seems so ridiculous, that I cannot help but laugh. My name wasn't pulled, and yet I am here, taking the place of a girl I have never even met, almost certain to die as a consequence of my kneejerk actions.

After an instant, he's looking at me in all seriousness again. "But I love you too." He affirms, and kisses my forehead, just as the door opens with the peacekeepers to take him away. There's a squeeze on my shoulder, and then he is gone, and I am, once again, alone. For a second, the coldness of it all takes hold of my insides, and I can't breathe, and my eyes burn at the idea of never seeing him again.

But the moment passes.

I'm not expecting the door to open – who else do I have, besides Aidan? No one – so I jump when it does, startled by the noise. My heart doesn't slow down, though, because it's Hayley, the girl, the one who looks like an angel. She's even more beautiful in person, her eyes as clear and blue as the sky on the best day we have all summer, framed by long, dark lashes. Her perfect, straw color hair is still hanging in perfect curls…I cannot believe she is real. She looks like a doll, a china figure that should be put on a pedestal. She's certainly small enough, at least six inches shorter than my long, lean figure. I know I have done the right thing as I look at her – there is no way she would have lasted long during the Games. She doesn't look like she can hurt anything, let alone another person.

And then she slaps me.

The action is so unexpected, and so strong, that I am not prepared and my head snaps to the side from the blow, my cheek instantly stinging. I gently place my rough hand to the tender spot, turning and staring at her, my mouth agape – I don't know what to say, I am that surprised by her.

"Why would you do that?" She demands, her voice an impassioned gasp."I don't even know you! We've never met!" I can tell, by this, and by the way she's dressed and groomed, that she is the child of an aristocrat, perhaps a designer, or a warehouse manager. Of course we've never met. I shuttle from the community home to the factory to the graveyard, and back again. I don't mix with them.

"I don't know." I reply, and I know I am being evasive, but I do not know where to begin, or even what exactly to tell her. She made me feel something, so I volunteered for a suicide mission in order to save her life? What kind of an explanation is that?

"Bullshit, you don't know!" She snaps, fierce. She is nothing like I imagined. If anything, I expected her to not come at all, or just a quiet thank you and a touch on the shoulder, before we both departed – her back to her life, and me to my certain death. "Tell me."

She is instantly transformed by her energy, and she is no longer a china doll, but a force to be reckoned with…perhaps she would have lasted longer in the Games than I had previously thought. Her eyes are bright with angry insistence, the soft line of her body now tense as she leans forward, towards me, expression cast with impatience as she waits for me to speak.

The impassioned transformation implores me and I can no longer make myself refuse her, or her request. And, as I begin to speak, I realize I always knew the reason. "You have a life, and a family, I can tell. You have a future. I have nothing, no family, no future." My mouth goes a little dry, and I look away from her. "I have no one." The words are a whisper, but, somehow, they resonate in the open air, and for an instant, I am reminded of how truly lonely I am.

I look up at her for a moment. This wasn't the answer she was expecting, I can tell by the way she is looking at me. The way her lips have parted slightly, the fury fading from her eyes into…wait, that isn't surprise, that's –

Suddenly, she's kissing me. She's in my lap, and she is kissing me, and I am completely taken aback by it. I am sitting there, struck dumb, still, as her soft lips move against mine, her knees gripping my hips as she holds my face in her hands, pressing down against me…

And then I am kissing back, my hands clumsily going to her shoulders, and then her waist. Nothing has ever made me feel like this before. Invincible, and yet weak, fire building t the pit of my stomach and filling me up to my throat, and into my head. I feel dizzy, and like I might burst and die right there, with the way my heart is pounding and my chest is swelling. Nothing I have ever felt has even come close to this intensity , ever filled the empty space in my body so quickly that I don't know what hit me.

The kiss is deep, and desperate, and I can admit that I don't want it to end. I have no idea how I can go back to being empty after this, with how stark it would seem in comparison to this, to feeling, to feeling this. I never thought it could be like this, not after the chaste kisses with Aidan to chase away the shadows. This was brilliant and blinding, and I knew, by the second her lips touched mine, that I would never be able to get enough.

"You have me." Hayley gasps against my lips, her grip on me bruising as I struggle to catch my breath. "You have me, Alexa, win for me."

"I will." I can only promise this to her, in that moment. In that moment, I can see no other outcome, even if the odds are against me. "I'll win for you." My voice is just as much of a gasp as hers, and I trace small circles on her hips with my thumbs, marveling at someone so alive and vibrant being so close to me, the living ghost.

"You'd better." She gasps back, her blonde hair hanging in a curtain around us, moving to kiss me again, pausing a mere millimeter from my lips as the door opens again, and the Peacekeeper tears her from me – literally, it is that painful, like something is being ripped off my body, to have that connection to her severed.

I feel like I might cry, but then I look at her, and her eyes are dry, and clear as they pull her away, shining with what appears to be determination. Determined that I will make it, that I will win these wretched games, and come home. And, just for a second, I smile, so that she can see, an action that feels so foreign, and yet, in that moment, so right.

I cannot look as the door shuts, the sound echoing dully in the room. I raise my rough hand to trace my cheek, where her hand was only a few seconds before.

And, suddenly, I am something.