Reaping || A Reoccuring Demise

Gallus Lex, 16, District 2

Even in my dream state, I know that when I wake up, I'll be more than displeased. Dreams can really affect the way your day starts.

In this particular dream, I stand in the gym, more commonly known as 'The Training Room'. I wear a deep blue athletic shirt with black shorts and gray sneakers, and in my hand is carrying nothing. My hands should be holding a bow, loading an arrow at the dummy fifteen feet away from me. Instead, the bow and arrow lies beside the dummy. Fifteen feet away.

My feet are glued to the ground and I can't move. I can't reach the bow.

Frustration molds into tight knots located in my stomach. Why won't my feet move? Why am I stuck? Then, frustration intertwines with a shot of sudden anxiety. I can't move, I can't move. To my hatred, I am stuck for seconds longer until I am granted the ability to move. A grin spreads across my face, and I hear a rhythmic beeping in the background. I go to retrieve the bow, but then the dummy flies at me, and turns my vision into a coat of pure black.

I shoot up, sitting upright on my bed. Faintly I hear the same beeping noise that was in my dream to my left. It takes me a second to get my bearings and realize that yes, that is my alarm clock. I pound my fist on 'stop' button, barely noticing the 8:00 timing. That means the reaping will start in roughly an hour. Which also means that I need to get ready.

I hastily slip on some of my fancier clothes, and dash down the steps, grabbing a granola bar that lies astray on a granite countertop in the kitchen. As I eat, I watch my brother Tyronius, who is a year older than me, head out the door.

"Any plans for today?" I hear my mom's kind voice say behind me. I whirl around. Her eyes meet my blue ones. I give a casual smile. When my mom was eligible to participate in the games, she was so eager to volunteer. She had trained, and trained, but that effort never paid off. She never got a chance to volunteer, as she wanted.

She'll be happy to see me picking up where she left off.

I shrug. "You'll see," I say, though it must be obvious. Of course I have plans. Those plans are to volunteer and win the games. By then, I'll have gained honour and respect from my district.

I throw the granola bar wrapper out, just in time to hear a knock at the door. I go to open it, and am greeted by two of my friends- Del and Gaither. "Where's Montez?" I ask, though I'm not sure how much I really care. "He's not coming with us," Del answers me, "he went for last-minute training today and is going to reaping on his own." Overachiever, I think, trying to hold back a sneer.

The three of us walk until we've reached the square. We find our places in the sixteen year olds section, and wait for the rest of the district citizens to scramble in. A few minutes later, our escort appears on the stage, and begins what I think is a speech. From seeing her, I notice how she's tipping to the right, and how her arms slap against the sides of her hips with a harsh momentum. She's clumsy. That would be an awful trait to have, should she get into a fight.

"Welcome everybody! Nice to see you again!" Her green hair flops around, and she teeters again. "Today I'm going to break tradition and start with the boys!" I feel myself tense.

She bounds to the bowl of male names and sharply picks one out. She reads the name, but I don't remember it. I only had the time to shout, "I volunteer!", and leap up to the stage in my rightly earned place.

Ashlynn Lovely, 15, District 8

I wake up to a soft voice.

"Ashlynn!" The voice whispers, tenderly shaking my shoulders. I peek an eye open and see my mother. Both eyes open and I smile. She brushes stray pieces of my blond hair behind my ear. "Get up," she urges kindly, "I'm making you a special breakfast this morning!" Mom then exits my large bedroom and saunders to the kitchen.

I groan a bit, and swing my legs over my queen sized bed, shaking off my white comforter. My feet hit the wooden floors hard, and they slide effortlessly over to my closet. After a thorough inspection of what my closet had to offer, I pick out a subtle green dress that I have matching shoes for. My hands reach into my jewelry box, and I pick out a gold necklace and ring, and place them on. My look feels like it should be complete, but I still have to curl my hair.

The bathroom connected to my room displays a wide mirror, reflecting my face as I enter. I peer into the mirror, spying familiar blue eyes, pale skin, and roots that are a light brown. I guess I need to dye my hair again.

I pick up a hot pink curler off of the bathroom counter and twirl it through blond locks, flying through my everyday routine of curling my hair. I take on a certain proudness as I set the curler back down, and getting a good glimpse at what I've done for my hair. It feels like creating artwork, using a curler. It looks like artwork, too. The girls my age probably wouldn't know.

It literally pays to be the mayor's daughter.

Feeling ready for the day, I prance to the dining room, where pancakes with real, drizzled maple syrup awaits. My mom sits in the chair across from where I should be sitting. Instead, I sigh. "I'm going to have to skip breakfast today, mom," I say, "You can just eat my pancakes and make more for me tomorrow!" I smile graciously, then continue to the front door, my hair bouncing on my shoulders as I go.

My kitten heels feel cool as I slip them on my feet, and my clutch purse feels light in my hands. It's nice being so made up today, I think, as I swipe on pink lip gloss that was residing in my clutch.

"See you in the square!" I shout in a loud manner at mom. She replies back, but I don't listen. Instead, I walk outdoors, slam the door shut, and head for the square, which is a very short walk from home. But through people pulling me aside to greet me, it takes me longer than I would have hoped to actually make it there.

I slide in with the rest of the fifteen year olds, and find myself standing beside an obnoxiously happy girl. "I love your dress!" She exclaims, pointing at the green fabric. My lips curl into a smirk. "Makes sense, seeing how it's the same colour as your skin," I remark, then turn my face away, but not before seeing her disappointed frown.

Before I can dwell on that little scenario, District 8's escort's voice blares into my ears. "Hello, hello!" She greets us, blowing kisses to the seemingly unimpressed crowd."Now that I have your attention, it's time to name our female tribute!" She bounces on the balls of her feet and giggles. Ugh. Her personality is worse than that girl's.

As she sticks a lavender dyed hand into the bowl, fright becomes evident in my body. What if she picks me? Actually, is it even possible for the child of the mayor to go into the games? Can they actually do that?

My questions become answered when the escort reads, "Ashlynn Lovely!"

A dizzying pound knocks around in my forehead, and I feel the same fright consume me. This is happening. I just got reaped. I have to go to the stage now. I have to go.

Thankfully, a vital piece of information hits me. Tributes that look weak? They become an easy target. For everyone. And I won't go down for being misjudged as an easy target.

My head clears, and I bring a smile to face. Not a sadistic one, but a happy one, as if I'm genuinely enjoying this. I walk with an eager stride, and I toss my hair over my shoulder. I make sure to sway my hips a bit, and look as casual and normal as possible.

So when I reach the stage and the escort looks at me and says, "Wow! You, Ashlynn, are a brave young girl!", I nod with a spreading smile. My cheeks start to hurt, but I want to keep up the act. For a kick, I say, "You'll find no better tribute than me!"

Zaphrina Harriet Xell, 16, District 11

Me and my brothers tie our shoes behind the doors of our small home. It's kind of a thing we do when it comes to the reaping- wait for each other to get ready. Leave together. Come home together. It's moreso a confidence boost, a reminder that we always have each other's back, no matter if the inevitable happens and one of us gets reaped.

I'm the first one to finish putting on my shoes. Looking at them, I guess they go with my plain blue dress. Not that I care primarily about fashion.

I glance at Thread and Oak, who shoot jokes at each other, like today is any other day. Thread is my age, with a quiet wisdom to him. Oak is 18, and while he's smart too, he's loud and reckless sometimes. Bark, my oldest brother, bounds up as he finishes tying his shoes. He's 19, so thankfully none of us in the family have to worry about him as much anymore.

"Let's get going," Oak pronounces, and swings the front door open wide. We all trail out, Thread being last.

"Two more years of this, Zaphrina," says Bark, joining my side, and patting my back from an angle, "and no more." I snort. ''Really?" I say, sarcasm embedding my voice, "Is that what I've been taught my whole life? That you have no chance of being reaped after 18?" I feign confusion. "This is serious news."

Bark tsks jokingly, and we continue heading for the square. I give the occasional death glare at people, and spot some people cowering at the sight of me and my brothers. Well, we've certainly made our impact on the people of District 11.

When we get to the place of the reapings, me and Thread go into the section with the other kids our age. I don't acknowlege any of them. Instead I comb my fingers through my curly brown hair that balances on my shoulders. After a couple minutes pass, I feel a light nudge in my ribs. I turn to face Thread, who looks a bit guilty. Then, he points to the podium. "They're starting."

My attention goes toward a silver eyed girl who stands atop the stage, purple hair tumbling to ground, and golden tattoos shimmering with her every movement. "Hello, District 11!" She shouts, clapping. I don't recognize her a single bit. "Let me introduce myself! I'm your new escort, Saffron Wither!" Her Capitol accent fills the air along with her silly trills.

"I'd love to converse more with you, but we need to start! We'll begin with the ladies!" Her heels click as she stands before the bowl of female names. Daintily, she captures a name between her fingers and pulls it out.

"Zaphrina Harriet Xell!" My jaw goes slack. I look to Thread, whose face is ashen. He nods fiercely. Then, I see Oak. His eyes tell me to get up on the stage. Show Panem that I've got this. That I will win it.

I glare at the escort, and as I take my place on the podium, I snarl at the cameras. People who carry sympathetic looks earn themselves a hiss as well.

"Now for the gentlemen!" I look at Oak. Thread. Bark. They look intensely proud and confident. I copy their expressions.

The escort, Saffron, clears her throat. "Oak Xell!" My eyes threaten to buldge, face threatens to fall. I purse my lips and maintain my arrogant display, and Oak mirrors it as he mounts the stage, and heads to stand beside me.

One of us will win. I'm sure of it. This is not the confidence speaking. This is knowledge, and we will win.

Ambrose Nolan, 18, District 12

I give up any hope for our tributes this year when the thirteen year old female tribute bursts into tears before even treading the stage. It's not even like sponsors will pick her for her looks. She's got black hair, pale skin and blue eyes that look darker against the teary red. District 12 has no chance. I believe that thoroughly.

Our escort is a man named Gavril who looks decently normal compared to past escorts. He has red hair and has matching lipstick and shoes. Decently normal.

Gavril literally hops to the male tribute bowl. "Let's see who our male tribute will be this year!" Maybe he'll be more impressive than the girl tribute, at the least. Gavril fixes his hair, then clears his throat. "The male tribute is... Ambrose Nolan!" Confusion encircles my thoughts. Me?

I wait a couple beats too long. "Is there an Ambrose Nolan?" Gavril asks timidly. "Over here!" An omniscent voice calls from behind me. I whirl around and glare at everyone, not finding the culprit. Giving up, I groan.

I raise a calloused hand. "Right here. Don't wait up for me." I feel a mask of annoyance layer on my face. I can't believe I was picked. How hard would it have been to evade one last reaping before being granted the slightest bit of freedom? This is ridiculous. Sighing, I stand on the stage, keeping my distance from the weeping 'Anwen' girl, if that was her name.

Somewhere in the ground, I spot my mother. Her gray eyes look at me with an eternal sadness. She looked like that too, when dad died. Regret and longing rise inside me. I regret my conversation with mom this morning. I long to be home.

What I said to mom earlier today, I really shouldn't have. She was trying to be nice. It was around 10, and mom and I sat at our small coffee table. She looked up from a ripped book, and exclaimed, "Today's your last reaping!" A smile had lit her face, and she glowed. Instead of returning that smile, I said this: "My last reaping as in the last time I'm eligible for the games? Or as in, if I'm reaped, the last time I'll be alive to witness another reaping?" My sarcasm bit into her joyful mood. Her smile faltered.

I had even said, "Don't give your hopes up." I should take my own advice.

Now standing on the podium, looking out towards all the people in my district, I think Damn. I better pull through for these games. I don't want to end up with a tribute's reoccuring demise. I don't want to die in the games.

I don't want to die.

I've been grieving over the fact that, 1. You can't use tab on your ff stories. 2. I don't have spell check. Spell check is seriously important for me. I NEED IT.

Anways, this chapter is over 2,000 words. Be happy about, because I am.

Lastly, I'd love to read reviews. Tell me your thoughts, critiscm, and what you liked. Also, I'm thinking about doing a question for every chapter? Is that a good idea?|

See you next chapter, odairsmyotp.