Kord Calloway,District 3
Numbers. Letters. Dashes. Other useless symbols. All these make up computer code. My language, my oxygen, my life. Ever since I was a child, I've had a genuine knack for manipulating computer hardware. Whether it be updated speed processors, or breaking through various account set-ups, it's in my capability. These activities have kept me sane through my hell of a life.
Every morning when I wake up I plop down on my old, tattered stool in front of my computer, and then get to work doing various jobs. You see, I run a secret business where I complete any software fix-ups, computer updates, or virus protections needed. If somebody in District Three doesn't have the money to go to a legal technician, then they come to me for a lower price.
I realize what I do is illegal, and could end me up executed, but it's how I survive. Without my unlawful business transactions, I wouldn't have food to eat or clothes to keep me warm. Seeing as I can't count on my parents to provide me anything, it's my only source of income.
Ever since my brother, Park, died I have been excluded from the family. To my parents, I'll never live up to him. About ten years ago, Park was reaped as tribute for the Hunger Games. Nobody even considered that he would win; our district has very few victors. But it turns out, that the odds were greatly in his favor that year. Because he had the privilege to come back home.
Since he won, our family moved into one of the beautiful houses in Victor's Village. Life wasn't as bad then, but I could see it going downhill. Ever since Park's return, my parents were starting to forget I existed. They didn't totally hate me, but I knew they didn't care about my survival. I didn't mind too much, I still got regular meals, and my own room.
But then it got worse when Park got severely ill with an uncommon case of some rare disease. He survived for about a month in bed, up to the point where we believed he was going to make it, but ended up passing away during the night.
Our family was forced to move back into our old house, and my parents started releasing all their anger towards me. They constantly reminded me how I'll never be as good as my brother; they even went so low as to say that I should have been the one to die, not Park.
Later they stopped talking to me like a person, and more like a stray cat. Next came their constant denying me of food; they said if I was hungry, that I should buy my own. And finally, they kicked me out of the house; telling me I had to sleep in a small shack in our backyard that's no bigger than a closet.
And that's what has got me to where I am now, living in a seven foot shack, consistently wondering whether or not my life is worth living. But I have come to the decision that, even if it's not, I'll find another way to kill myself other than The Hunger Games. I never want to have my death televised all over Panem, giving the Capitol such joy. That's my ultimate nightmare.
But I really don't have to worry about getting shoved into the games. About a year ago I hacked into the District Three Justice Building's online account, wiping out my name from their roll. That ensures that I'll never be reaped. It's utterly impossible. There isn't a trace of my existence on their computers. That's the only way I can sleep at night.
Speaking of sleep, I didn't get a wink of it last night; I was too busy feeling sorry for the two kids getting reaped today. So ever so slowly, with very heavy eyelids, I get up from my bed of straw, pick up my comb along the way.
I look into the small mirror I took from the garbage and see that large bags are hanging down my tan face. It's a large contrast from the rest of the district's pale, ashen skin. I'm used to having a different appearance though; my eyes are pastel blue instead of brown. And I'm very well-muscled, even though I usually have no physical work out in my days. The only thing that ties me to my district is my jet black hair, which looks a little too curly for my fellow straight-haired piers.
As I'm taking in my looks, my stomach gives a loud growl; informing me it's time for breakfast. I walk over to a jar on the floor, which is where I keep my money, only to find it empty. Not even a single coin lies at the bottom.
"How am I going to get breakfast?" I ask myself. I leave my shack, not bothering to say a word to my mom and dad, and decide to form a plan on my way to the bakery. If I could just finish the project I'm currently working on for a neighbor, I could get my payment and go. No, that would take way too long, I only have two hours.
I'm about to go back to that neighbor's house, and ask for my payment early, when I realize I'm already at the baker's. I go to open the door, only to find it locked. Of course! They're bound to be closed on Reaping Day. I silently peer into the window, looking for any sign of life, but I see none. I had just come to the conclusion that all the shops are closed when my eye catches something of interest; a large, fresh loaf of bread that's just sitting on the table.
My conscience tells me to forget about it and walk away, but my inner criminal, and my stomach, tells me to go ahead and steal. It's not long before I make a decision, seeing as it's two against one, I slowly look around to see if anyone is watching; only to find the street's empty.
I then search the ground until I find what I'm looking for, a large, heavy rock. I pick it up, take a deep breath, and then do something stupid, something that ends me up in a heap of trouble. I smash the window.
Luckily the baker hasn't had a security system installed. So I cautiously step through the broken window, making sure not to leave any blood or cloth as evidence. Once inside, I breathe a sigh of relief, taking in my surroundings.
The lights are off, but the warm glow of the outside sun illuminates the inside. There's a few hard-wood tables between my entry way and the counter with the bread, so I'm careful not to bump into any.
I finally make it to the plate of bread without making a ruckus, and hope nobody has noticed the broken window. Settling with the thought that my break-in has gone without attention, I turn my full focus to the large, juicy loaf of bread the sits on a plate before me. I originally planned to take it back to my shack, but hunger takes over and I stuff my face right then and there.
I'm so entertained eating the delicious, freshly baked bread, and gorging myself with it, that I don't notice a presence behind me until he clears his throat. I jump out of fright, and then quickly spin around. I come face to face with two mean looking peacekeepers.
"Just what do you think you're doing boy?" the peacekeeper on the right, that seems much taller than his partner, says.
"I,I,I …." I can't seem to hide the fault in my voice, or mask the look of guilt upon my face. How did I let this happen? I'm so dumb.
"Seems like we got ourselves a little thief Reagan." The shorter one says to the taller one, whom I guess is named Reagan. He then turns to me with a devilish smile. "You know stealing is punishable by death right?"
"I'm so-o-o sorry!" great now I'm stuttering. "I was ju-ju-just so hungry."
"Too bad boy!" Reagan says. "It looks like it we're going to have to take you in." they each walk to one side of me and each grab an arm. They then start dragging me out the door, down the street, making my feet occasionally drag. Every time they do, I get a hard elbow in the ribs as a response.
It seems like forever, the time it takes to get from the baker's to the justice building. Once we arrive the two awkwardly sized peacekeepers haul me up the concrete steps, up to the giant, chiseled doors. Each peace keeper opens one of the doors with their spare hand, and then they shove me inside.
Once inside, they lead me to a small office and make me take a seat in a cushioned velvet chair that faces a large desk. On the way out Reagan stops in the doorway and turns to me. "The chief will be with you shortly, so don't steal anything." He smirks, and then walks out the door.
The chief, I've seen him a couple of times before. His name is Jorgen Strange, and he is a sight to see. For starters, he is huge! He stands at about six foot seven, and has bulging muscles that look like they're about to explode any minute. He doesn't usually wear the standard peacekeeper uniform, just black pants, black combat boots, and a white tank top. And his white military cut hairstyle gives him the look of an army general. All these characteristics make up a very, frightening person.
I take my mind off of my impending doom by taking in my current surroundings. The room is painted a creamy white color, with a few paintings hanging on the wall. In one corner there is a tall, potted plant; most likely a fern. And in another corner there is a short file cabinet. I now look in front of me, behind the desk. Scooted close to the enormous desk is a big leather chair that could seat a giant, and now that I think about it, it probably does. Behind it, the wall is hidden behind two, large book cases. Each contains many rustic looking books.
I'm so absorbed in my confusion of this stylishly decorated room, that I jump when the door opens, revealing the monster that holds my fate. As Jorgen walks to his chair, giving me a threatening stare, I can't help but wonder what my punishment will be.
As he sits down, Jorgen puts a laptop that he was carrying on the desk, and then flips it open. "So kid, why are you sitting in front of me?" his question makes me feel like I'm sitting in front of the principal at school, for committing some kind of bad deed. That is, before I dropped out.
"I broke into the bakery, and stole some bread." I say, trying to make eye contact, but I can't without sending a quaver through my voice.
"Aahh, so you're a thief." The way he says it makes me feel like he already knows about the crime I committed. "Tell me boy, what's your name?"
"Kord Calloway." I say, trying to be polite as possible.
After I've told him my name he types something into his computer the taps the "enter" button. "That's odd." He says, and then looks back to me. "Are you any good with computers Kord?"
This question strikes me as odd, but what harm can my answer do? "Yes, I like to think I'm a wiz with software." I say, but as soon as it leaves my lips I regret it. He must have typed in my name, and found no trace of me. And by the look on his face, I think he's come to the same conclusion.
"Kord did you somehow manage to wipe your name off of this account?" I'm smart enough to now that I'm caught.
"I was only…" I try to come up with an excuse for my actions.
"SO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME YOU HACKED INTO THE DISTRICT'S COMPUTER!" he yells in rage.
"I never said that sir!" I say back.
"I'm not stupid boy, I can tell by the look on your face." He just sits there without saying a word for what seems like eternity, and then he must have made a decision. His next words are like a cold, icy punch to the face. "Tomorrow afternoon, you will be executed." He says it so calmly that it takes a while to process. I'm going to die. "Now go to the reaping, and be thankful your death will be quicker than this year's tributes."
I can't believe this horrible turn of events. It went by so fast; it was over in less than a minute. I stand up, like a robot, and go out the door. My movement is forced by some inner being inside of me, maybe the part of me that's so scared of this building, it wants to get as far away as possible. Or maybe it's the intelligent part of me that knows if I stay here any longer, I'll fall deeper into the hole I dug. I walk out the doors, and now stand out on the verandah of the Justice Building. I'm right across from the town square, and can see the crowd, and hear the mayor giving his annual speech.
I dash for the square, knowing if I'm spotted coming in late that I'll be punished, but wait, aren't I already being punished. I finally get to the area marked for the seventeen year-olds, out of breath and not caring if any peacekeepers notice my tardiness. I slide into a tight squeeze in the crowd, right on the edge near the center aisle.
Just as I get into position, the district's escort, Lem Winslow, walks to the middle of the stage. He looks like he belongs either at a circus, or at a fashion show. He's wearing these white pants, with red stripes going down them. It matches his shirt; a big, poofy, red balloon shirt that flows in the wind. He walks like he's on a runway though, with that left to right movement in his hips. He looks ridiculous.
Instead of paying attention to the reaping of the girls, I try to think of an escape plan. I need a way to flee the district, a way to survive. I know what I said about my life may or may not be worth living for, but when it comes down to it, I think I would rather live. But I come up short, there is no way I can escape I a day.
I only take a break from my scheming to watch a darling, little pig-tailed twelve year-old, get reaped. Her rosy red cheeks really bring out her innocence. The Capitol should be ashamed of their selves, making a girl like this, fight for her life. It just waters the seed of hatred I hold for President Snow.
I think I recognize her, from the tailor. She helps her grandma sell dresses at their shop. My heart brakes when Lem calls for volunteers, but nobody answers the call.
Next, the escort walks to the boy's bowl. I have a quick thought that Jorgen might've switched the bowl with one just containing my name, but I immediately dismiss this thought. By the time I was done at the Justice Building, the reaping was already under way. And I didn't notice anybody switch the bowls.
After Lem has selected a name, he walks back to the podium. "Kent Veel!"
This is horrible, not only to me, but to the whole crowd; a chorus of gasps fill the square. It's another twelve year-old, one that I also recognize. From the same place! It's the little girl's twin brother. I can see glimpses of his freckled face, or small glass, as he tries to see over the counter in the shop. I can't imagine what's going on in their grandma's head, but both of the kids are crying.
This is agonizing; I'm starting to think that my punishment is worse than theirs. That family is guaranteed to lose a member. I wish there was something I could do. And like a flash of lightning in my head, my scheme forms into a full out plan.
When Lem asks for volunteers, my hand shoots up.