Six days ago, we were instructed to appear at the reaping of the wealthy citizens, and granted a date. This information comes nearly eight months after they announced the Games of Reparation. Now, in our run down home, assigned to us by the new government, I prepare lunch for my mother, out of the small rations they say are necessary to our survival. Stale bread, overly salty fish, and of course, the running water supplied by the tap. I place a sandwich and glass of water in front of her, and leave through the back door. Our new neighbor, Cyril, has offered to watch mother when I am reaped. When I hand her the instructions, what time my mother eats, when she bathes, the old woman's eyes fill with tears. "Flax…" She chokes out, but I just take her hand. She knows now that there is nothing to discuss. Everyone in the capitol knows I'm going into the games, and knows I'm not coming out. I'm about to thank her, when the bells chime the hour, and I must hurry if I'm to make it to the circle by noon. I hug her close, then run on my way.
The square is filled with every child between the ages of twelve and eighteen. There are about five thousand of us, but it's not that simple. Every one of us is granted one entry because of birth, and then another for every perceived crime our parents have committed, another. I was sent a letter two days ago that said in all, I have received fifty three entries. My father, being in charge of all the peacekeeping forces in the country, has racked up quite the record.
They call the reaping to begin, and the only surviving escort from the war, Effie Trinket, steps forward.
"Well, won't this be fun?" she says in a highly annoying squeak. Slowly, she begins calling forth names. She first picks twelve girls, among them, Amelia Snow, the old president's granddaughter. Then she turns to the ball with the boys names, and begins.
"Flaxen Hughner." I am third, and make my way quickly to the stage, and am swept inside, to a room off the main stair in the presidents manor. No one comes to say goodbye.
