Disclaimer: I don't own anything except for the things I've made up and my characters. No stealing ideas, please! Enjoy!
—Chapter One—
Nothing, there is nothing out this morning. I've spent two hours in this tree, in the same positon not moving. Not one single squirrel in any tree, not a single rabbit on the forest floor. I shake my head, if we didn't depend on the weekly haul, I'd give up now. But not only I depend on it, but my mother and little sister, Iris, do too.
After spending five more minutes in the tree, I decide I have two options. One, stay in this tree fot three more hours hoping to see some game. Or two, get my butt out of this tree and get some work done. I decide two is the best way to go. I need more arrows, anyway. Bow and arrows aren't my best weapon, but I hunt better with them than I could an ax. I sling my sheath of arrows over my shoulder and I take my biw in one hand, getting a grip on the rough, cold tree limb with the other. I swing off my branch, catching my balance with the branch below me. I am about to jump off the branch when I see movement out of the corner of my eye. I slowly turn my head and see a rabbit, nibbling on a dead leaf about ten yards from the tree I'm perched in. My hand slowly moves behind my shoulder to my sheath of arrows. I take one out and load it in my bow. I aim for the rabbits neck, I pull back on the arrow and then I release. The arrow sails through the air, downward toward the rabbit.
There is a sound of the arrow making contact with the rabbit, and for a split second, I feel guilty. But as soon as I've jumped from the tree, and I'm pulling my knife out to skin the thing, it's gone. I skin the rabbit and then I put it in my hunting sack. If I don't trade that in the market, then that will serve as a great meal for my family. I stand, tossing the sack over my shoulder when I do. I remember my earlier thought on needing more arrows. Great. Now I have to walk a mile to the cave, a small cave that I store my hunting supplies in such as arrows, knives, bows, ropes for snares, I could go on all day.
When I arrive to the cave I see that someone has already picked through the supplies for his day. I laugh then bite my lip, I look around quickly, even out here in the forest you worry. Two years. That's how long as it's been since I recieved the letter, giving me the information about the Capitol, and the newly elected president, Alfred Silas, who lays low until it's once again time fir the Games. Or at least that's how it has been recently. It didn't take a while to piece everything together, President Paylor was assassinated, and the Capitol overthrew our Democracy. Until it comes to the reaping, you don't hear anything from or about Silas. He sent in Peacekeepers as soon as he could get his hands on as many as he could. So, the districts werecsent ack to work. Which meant District 7 has to supply the Capitol with lumber, once again.
I crouch down in the cave, sifting through the piles of supplies. Finally, I come across seven more arrows. I put them in my sheath and grab a canteen. I crawl out of the cave, and when I do I notice something new. Across from the cave, you can make out a gap in the bushes, as if something has walked through it. I stand and brush the mud off my pants and zip my leather hunting jacket. I walk to the gap in the bushes and begin to search the ground. Then I spot something that confirms my suspicions. Deer tracks. It's been months since I have seen any sign of a deer. This sign, the deer trail, gives me hope. I squat down beside the trail, studying it very carefully. "Problem, Heywood?" A familiar voice booms. I jump to my feet and whirl around. I scan all the trees in front of me and behind me. "Ash? Where are you?" I call quietly. "You of all people," Asher calls, sounding annoyed. I shrug, "Sorry," I say, I hear a huff of disaproval or annoyance. "Look up, Heywood," says Asher. Up? I begin to search the tops of the trees when I catch sight of a familiar shade of grey. "Well, Asher Blackwood, how did you manage to get up that high?" I say laughing when I see Asher, my best friend and hunting companion, in the top of a oak tree. "Just how you taught me!" exclaims Asher. He grabs onto a branch above his head and swings down, dropping to the ground with a thud. I laugh and then Asher crashes through the trees bow in hand.
"So, Heywood, I was thinking we could check our snares, then head up to the Point for while." says Asher. My real name is Sage, after the plant, but when Asher learned my last name, that became his official nickname for me. I nod and smile, "That sounds great. But, I need to be bsck at home by three to get ready." I tell him. Asher nods, "Oh, yeah, I forgot," What? He forgot the time? That the reaping is today? I must look confused because, Asher shakes his head, "Forget about it," I dismiss it, because if I think too hard, I'll just get even more confused than I am now. The reaping is the drawing of the names, the tribute names for the Hunger Games, the annual fight to the death on live television. Each year each district is required to draw two names, a boy a and a girl, between the ages of twelve and eighteen, to be shipped off to the Capitol for a week. One week of being pampered and one week for fame, then the two tributes are force into a insane outdoor arena to fight to the death. Twenty-four tributes, one large arena, only one can survive.
The average fifteen-year-old should have his or her name entered into the reaping ball, the reaping ball is the thing that the escort draws the names out of, four times. But that's usually if you live in District 1, 2, or 4. Or if you live in the merchant area, that's what we call the richer part of District 7 here. For me, I live in the poor part of town, each house is spaced apart great lengths. Our nearest neighbor is at least two miles away. District 7 is the largest district. We learned that 7 covers somewhere that used to be called Washington... A lot of other places, too. Anyway, since my family is one of the most poor families in 7, I take something called the tesserae. If you put your name in extra times, there is a promise of extra grain and oil. Asher turned seventeen a few days ago. His name, if he also didn't live in the poorer part of town, his name would be in six times. Instead he also took the tesserae, too. While my name is in the ball twenty-one times, his is in fifty. Twenty-one small slips of paper now sit in that reaping ball, along with thousands of others, twenty-one printed in a sickining purple ink, say, Sage Heywood. Fifty, also sit among the thousands, in the same sickining purple ink say, Asher Blackwood. One small slip, in the ink says, Iris Heywood. I wouldn't let Iris take the tesserae.
"So, how's Clara doing?" I ask Asher. Clara is Asher's little sister, twelve today. "Not too good," Asher responds. "No one can get it through her mind that she isn't going to be chosen." I sigh, I remember last night, Iris woke up screaming and crying saying it was her, again. "Can I come talk to her?" By this time we are at the last snare, fortunately this one holds a squirrel, unlike the others which held nothing. "I guess, if we go now we'll have time to get ready. I'm guessing it's one now." Asher responds. I nod and we begin to walk. At first we have no words then we begin to talk.
"Favorite color?" I say laughing. Asher and I usually always go back and forth asking pointless questions. "Blue, for the sky. What's yours?" Asher asks. "I don't know! Blue, orange or green. I can't decide," I say. Asher smiles and runs a hand through his hair. "Okay, I've got one." Asher says. "Shoot," I say. "Have you ever loved someone?" asks Asher. I nod, "Iris, my mother and father, Clar–" Asher cyts me off, "No, I mean like a boy." Asher says. I ponder this, I want to tell him yes, but then he will demand who, so I just shake my head no. We are entering his backdoor by now. "I'm going to go get ready," Asher says, his voice and face suddendly hardnto read. "Okay," I say. I then hear crying from a back room, now I know why Asher got confusing. I know how hard it is for him to hear or see Clara like this.
I walk back to where I heard crying. I look in the room and Esmerelda, Asher's mother, sits strocking Clara's hair. Clara is face down on her bed crying. "Clara?" I say softly. She looks up her face tear stained. "Sage," She whimpers holding her arms out to me. "Oh," I say trying to keep my voice steady. I walk to her and embrace her in my arms. "It's ok, Clara. You're ok," I whisper. "No, I'm not," Clara sniffs. "Yes. You're going to be okay, it's your first year, Clara." I say. "Okay, promise?" Clara says. "I promise," I agree.
As soon as my feet hit the familiar pine needles, I begin to run. There is a little trail, that is very hard to see. You have to know where to look or know what your looking for to see it. There is a small wooden mailbox on a pine tree, not many can point it out now because my father built it back when Mother and Father were first married, it is now overgrown with moss it blends in with thr surroundings. Five minutes, that's the time it takes to get from the trail start to my home. The little footbridge is also covered in moss, but underneath the footbridge a creek surges on by. When you're off the footbridge, you'll come to a little old cabin with rickedy porch steps and a roof that looks as if it is going to cave in. The grass on the yard has long been covered up with pine needles, my home is surrounded by them.
I run across the footbridge, not remembering about the rain and dew, I do not slow down and I slip on a slipery spot on the bridge. I slide down the wood, but I'm back on my feet before I even register what happens. I charge up the porch steps amd push open the screen door to my cabin. Mother walks into the room already readu, hair in a bun and a white dress on. "You're late," my mother says to me. "I know." Is all I say before pulling off my hunting jacket and putting it on the back of a dining room chair. "Your water is ready." Mother tells me. "Okay," I walk into the backroom and find that our tun has been filled already. I step in, warm. The water is warm. I sink dowm to my nose. I wash then get out. I wrap a rough towel around me and I walk into my bedroom. I find Mother has already picked out my reaping dress. A light blue dress, with buttons. On the floor next to the bed I see brown flats. I change quickly, I look in the full length mirror and catch a glimpse of someone standing in the doorway."Sage," Iris says. I whip around, brown hair falling in all directions. "You look beautiful," Iris says. She is wearing my first reaping outfit. A light green dress, brown leggings and white flats. "Oh, Iris, you do too," I say. A tear falls down Iris' face. "Iris," I say in a voice I amfighting to keep steady. I rush over to her and take her in my arms. Iris turned twelve two days ago, she is now eligible to compete. "Don't cry, Iris. Do you want to do my hair?" I say trying to make her feel better, she loves to fix my hair for some reason. She nods. "Okay," I lead her to my mirror and I sit in a chair and she goes to work on my hair, braiding it. When I'm finished I admire her work. "Great job," I say.
We are on our way out the door when we hear a train, it's the tribute train. We keep walking, when we get to the square we see floods of people. Peacekeepers, Capitol officials, and District 7 citizens. Mother tells us goodbye and that she will see us after the reaping.
I see a tear stained faced Clara with Asher. I take Iris' hand and we walk over to them, getting in line to sign in. "Clara, Iris, your going to be ok," I say and look up to Asher. He nods as the Capitol official takes his arm, "I'll make sure they get where they need to go," I tell him trying not to fall to pieces here. "Okay. Good luck, Heywood," Asher says. "You too, Ash." Once the official has dismissed him he walks to the seventeen-year-old boy divison "Okay, next." The Capitol person says looking at Clara. "It's ok, Clara. Sign in now, alright?" I say. Clara is wearing a pink dress, white flats and some sort of necklace. Clara gives the Capitol person her arm, they take her blood and they scan it over a book, "Clara Blackwood," Something says. "Next," The Capitol person says. Clara turns and walks to the twelve-year-old divison. "Clara, wait!" I call to her, I hardly even notice that the Capitol official has taken my blood. I stand by the table waiting for Iris. When I hear, "Iris-Rose Heywood," I hold out my hand. Iris takes my hand and I walk her to her age division. "I'll come and find you afterward, Iris, it's okay, your okay, I promise." I say. She nods and hugs me, I hug her back. "I love you," I say. "Love you, too, Sage." Iris says. "Come on, miss. You need to get to your divison." A Peacekeeper says taking my arm. He pushes Iris into the crowd of twelve-year-olds, I yank my arm free and scowl at him. I turn on my heel and walk toward the fifteen-year-old girl divison.
Once I found my place in the crowd, I look up toward the stage. That feeling of nausea building up as the seconds tick away. Twenty-one... Twenty-one... Twenty-one... I think over and over. Soon, a woman named Honey Glasgow, a skinny woman with purple lips, short yellow hair and purple clothes walks on the stage. She is the official District 7 tribute escort. A hush falls over the crowd, the nausea builds amd my palms begin to sweat. She walks to the microphone and beams down at us. She taps the microphone twice to make sure it is on. When she learns it is on she fluffs her short hair then leans in toward the microphone. "Welcome, citizens of District Seven! I hope you all have had a productive year and might I say that your lumber has been much of use to us in the Captiol!" Honey Glasgow gushes. "Well, the time has come to select one boy and girl between the ages of twelve amd eighteen to represent District Seven, in the Seventy-Seventh Hunger Games!" Honey Glasgow, speaking through scripts provided by the Capitol her whole time she has worked for them, I bet. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds, be ever in your favor," Honey Glasgow exclaims. "Ladies first,"
Honey walks over to the girls' reaping ball and does something dramatic with her hand. Then, she digs in to the bottom of the reaping ball.
Not me, not me, anything, anyone but me. I repeat in my head. And when she is back at the microphone, unfolding the slip, she clears her throat. Not me! I mentally scream.
And when she speaks, it isn't me. And for a moment a relief washes over me, because I have been spared another year. But that's until I realize, that it should have been me.
But it isn't me.
The female tribute of District 7 is one of my worst nightmares.
It's Clara Blackwood.