Cold. Sweat. Hunger. This is what I feel as I run across the rocky mountain terrain. The edges of my vision are fuzzy and I don't know why but I feel propelled to run. All I know is that if I don't continue to pump my legs and will myself to keep moving in a hurried fashion, that my life could be in grave danger. I start to feel the effects of sleep deprivation and lack of nutrition but I still continue to run. Suddenly I start to panick and for some reason that I cannot possibly explain, know that this powerful force that I'm fleeing from will soon catch up to me. I immediately run faster and faster untill I'm at a dead on sprint. I'm soaked in my own cold sweat and my clothing is saturated in the smelly, sticky moisture. I now take in account of my attire-my bakery uniform; flour covered apron and all. A wave of confusion washes over me and then I progressively begin to slow down. Although I know I something is after me, my legs won't move at all, like they have turned to jelly and I no longer have control over them. I collapse atop a small boulder on the side of the mountain and I know it's the end. My palms begin to sweat and I feel like I have a swirling bubbling energy in my stomach and I feel my heart drop. My attacker comes barreling into view bringing down plant life as he comes towards me leaving behind a path of mass destruction. His gruesome face pricks my memory but I cannot place a name for it. His hair is a startling shade of crimson red, a hue that seems much to bright a shade for a natural head of hair. It's all disheveled and filled with rock debris and leaves. He has large, angry eyes the kind that made me think that he was on the brink of insanity. The dark orbs are charcoal black and resemble the color of coal that district twelve miners mine. He has pale skin and a creepy smile plastered across his face, one that you'd most likely find in an asylum of some sort. This smile was now replaced with a smirk as the teenaged boy saunters over to me. In his hand he holds a lethal looking mace. I finally regain power over my legs and try to stand up but it is a wasted effort for my assaulter quickly pins me down again. I am surprised by how easily he does this but after a blunt assessment of my physical state I find that I look incredibly Immaceated and weak. The boy whips the mace high above his head and my heart is beating so loudly I can practically hear the frantic thumping and feel the vibrations in my ears as he proceeds to bring down the weapon intent on bludgeoning me to death. Right as the mace was about to make purchase on my face and contact with it I hit my head on something-hard.
I finally open my eyes and am up with a jolt no longer in that groggy, in between consciousness state of waking up. My breathing is loud, deep and quick like how it is after a long run. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, pumping throughout my body making me ultra aware of my surroundings and giving me the need to move around. Although I can still feel my heart beat pulsing in my eardrums it begins to slow. My adrenaline high is soon replaced with exhaustion and hits me light one of the capitals high-speed freight trains.
'It was only a dream', I think, all a fabrication of my imagination and I was not, in fact, actually in the Games-the Hunger Games that is, but sleeping not-so-soundly in my own bed in my own home in my very own district. In my nightmare the boy sent out to kill me, murder me, I mentally correct myself, was just last years victor of the 73rd Hunger Games.
Momentarily, I let out an inner sigh of relief until I remember what day it is-Reaping day. A dreaded day for everyone in Panem, well in the districts at least. It is the annual day when one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen are chosen to partake in the years annual Hunger Game. The children picked or reaped through a raffle like fashion are called tributes, and each year twenty-four are picked to go into the Games but only one ever survives long enough to come out. The last tribute standing wins this nefarious game and is crowned the victor and is guaranteed an easy life of luxury, fame, and fortune. This terrible ploy is presented as a festivity, an event worth celebrating, when really its just a retched punishment for a rebellion that had outbreaked across the districts against the one and mighty capital. This is why capital citizens truly believe that the Games are a joyous occasion and also why their children are the only ones safe from this cruelty. In our sick, twisted society, twenty-four of our oh so great and powerful nation are forced into an arena controlled by the very vial people who subjected them to this cruelty and forced to murder one another as punishment for a supposed "crime" that they weren't even alive for to commit. In addition, if this isn't enough torture for both the tributes, their families as well as their friends and all others affected, these Games are televised and are mandatory viewing for the whole country and are to be treated as a happy occurrence. Well happy hunger games to you too. Unlike those in the districts that statement is not a sarcastic remark in the Capital, but a genuine well wishing as honest as the old greeting of 'Merry Christmas'. I for one do not agree with the Capital and am most certainly not embracing it but, have come to my senses and accepted the fact that there is nothing I can do to change it and no point in fighting it. As I ponder my thoughts on the Games I get up and ready for my early shift at my family owned bakery. There is no point in trying to go back to sleep because more nightmares are sure to come and terrify my subconsciousness as they are no doubt doing do in every other eligible tribute across Panem. I put on my work uniform, which basically consists of a cotton t-shirt, tan khakis, and a standard white apron. Although all of my clothing is clean and washed its still is covered in flour, one of the small misfortunes of being a baker. After I am finished dressing myself for work, I quietly leave the small bedroom shared between myself and my two older brothers and head down the stairs to the bakery. My family and I, my mother, father, two older brothers and me, live in a small apartment above my father's bakery. Although its not a fabulous lifestyle, it's better than most in district twelve-far better than those led in the seam like Katniss Everdeen. However, she does get by, quite nicely, it is at the fate of her own hunting abilities. After Katniss' father died in a horrible mining accident, the little twelve year old girl, the love of my life, had the unpleasant and immensely pressured task of becoming the main supporter of the family bestowed and thrust upon her. Although she doesn't even have slightest clue that I exist, I admire how she handles and manages her family so well. Ever since the day my father pointed her out to me that first day in kindergarten, I knew that she was special and the only girl for me. I could go on for hours just describing her voice and possibly forever if I was asked about her angelic singing voice. I can account everything from that day or any day that she has been involved with in my life. It's peculiar to think that I can't even remember what I had for dinner last night, though I can fully describe a time from two years ago when her eyes met mine for a split second in the hallway after fourth period and that she was holding her arithmetic book and lunch pale. I know that she was wearing a plaid red dress with two braids instead of her usual one one the first day of kindergarten. I remember that during the first music class our teacher, Mrs. Fraiser, asked after introduction who knew the valley song and Katniss' hand shot straight up, the first one. I can safely bet my life on it that when she sang the valley song all the morning birds stopped to listen until a good whole minute after she was done and that her voice was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard and if someone told me that in that moment I was in the presence of an angel I would believe them. So one may find it odd that I cannot remember my birthday party from last year or my best grade on an exam but I can account every second from a short situation when Katniss happened to run by me to class or what she ate at lunch but it's not strange to me at all it's just the way I work when it comes to Katniss Everdeen.