She's there, walking next to her younger sister Prim. Of course. Prim's twelve now; she's eligible. I feel like yelling, like screaming at someone, something. Primrose Everdeen, a twelve-year-old girl who would never dream of hurting anyone, anything, who absolutely everyone adores, who could win over the toughest heart with the gentlest smile, is eligible to compete in a grotesque game that would have her fight to the death with 24 other innocent kids. And there she is, walking next to her sister, shaking like a leaf but walking with determination, and it's ripping me apart.
"You're fine, it's fine. Everything's going to be okay Prim. You're twelve, you only have one entry, they're not going to pick you. You're fine." Katniss repeats the same mantra of phrases quietly in an attempt to calm her down, but it doesn't seem to reach Prim's ears. All I want to do is stand on Prims other side and hold her hand and squeeze. But I know even if I did it wouldn't make a difference. I remember my first Reaping. Nothing makes a difference; the nerves, the paranoia, the fear; it stays with you long after the Reaping is over.
We approach the town square and are sectioned into different groups; boys and girls of different ages. I lose sight of Katniss and Prim and a lady is sitting at a table and asking for my hand. I give it to her and barely even feel the prick that takes the blood from my finger, identifying me, before I'm walking to the boys' side of the square and towards the front with my age group. The square is filled with shuffling, muffled coughs, shoes scuffing the gravel, but absolutely no talking. Camera crews are perched at odd angles around the square, waiting for the ceremony to begin in order to film the proceedings. The stage is set, with three chairs behind a podium behind two large glass bowls that contain the names of every child between the age of 12 and 18 within the district. Two of the three chairs are already filled with Mayor Undersee and District 12's escort for this year; Effie Trinket, fresh from the capitol. The third seat, usually reserved for Haymitch Abernathy (12's personal mentor) is currently empty, much to the obvious displeasure of both the mayor and escort. As for the glass bowls, my name is in the boy's designated bowl 5 times. That thought, along with the question of how many times Katniss' name is entered, are the only thoughts that fill my mind. She'd have to have four times as many as me, maybe more. I couldn't say. And it terrifies me.
All too soon Mayor Undersee steps up to the podium and begins reciting the same speech that we hear every year, and I immediately tune out. I can't listen to him tell everyone Panem's history, how The Hunger Games was born, why two tributes from each district are chosen to die each year. Of course, he refers to The Hunger Games as nothing but a blessing, a way in which we are reminded every damn year of the Capitols success in abolishing the Dark Days and squash the uprising. The Games are a way to remind everyone within every district that they are completely and utterly under the capitols thumb; if anyone dare object they will be annihilated. The mayor refers to the past 73 years as a time of utter peace, a reprieve from the Dark Days in which people everywhere dared use their voices. It's sickening the way he recounts it, as though the deaths of over 1600 children, the reaping of over 1600 innocent lives means nothing. No, no I won't listen to it again.
Undersee closes his speech by reading off the list of victors twelve has seen in the past 73 years. Of course, considering we're district 12, we have a laughable number of them. 12 has seen exactly 2 victors in it's lifetime, and of those 2 only one is alive today. Haymitch Abernathy is 12's only remaining victor, and speaking of which he currently comes stumbling up the stairs, yelling unintelligibly yet insistently at Effie, who appears absolutely mortified. He's downright drunk off his face and completely out of it. The crowd gives him a customary round of applause, but of course this only seems to confuse him as he tries to give Effie a hug, pushing her wig slightly off kilter in the process. Yep, that's Haymitch. That's the person who's meant to mentor the two tributes from district 12; who's supposed to coach the two chosen children to survive within the arena. And he's pissed. It's an absolute wonder that 12 doesn't have more victors.
In an effort to pull the focus from Haymitch, Mayor Undersee invites Effie to the stage. Clearly relieved, Effie all but shoves him from the podium and looks out over the crowd, a huge, joyous, idiotic grin plastered on her painted, monstrous face. She has bright pink hair accompanied by a light green suit, and it looks strange on her. The capitol really does have a... unique taste in fashion. Their people are just as grotesque and distorted, ugly, on the outside as they are on the inside.
"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour!" she trills, moving from the podium over to the two glass bowls. I stand up a little straighter, paying attention now. This is it, the moment when we all find out whether or not we're the unlucky chosen tributes. "Ladies first," Effie chirps, sauntering towards the bowl to right of her. Fear bubbles in my gut. I squash it down. The odds of Katniss being chosen are slim to none, what with the amount of names in that bowl. I find myself repeating the same few calming sentences Katniss droned to her sister before the reaping. Everything's fine. She won't be picked. It's going to be –
"Primrose Everdeen!"
