Chapter 2: The Reaping
It's the day of the reaping and District 12 is quiet. I didn't wake up to singing birds; I woke to Peacekeepers noisily moving equipment for today's ceremony. I don't have enough middle fingers to express my hatred for Peacekeepers. And the hot sun gives a false sense of security; we all know four dammed teenagers will be doomed to their deaths.
The odds aren't usually in District 12's favor…
Mother lays out special clothes for the reaping, as she does every year, while me and Troy wash and eat what little breakfast we can. Then the three of us - Troy, mother and I - walk down to the town square hand-in-hand. And by the time we reach the town square, almost the whole of District 12 has arrived.
After being signed in, having our finger's pricked and standing in our places the reaping begins. I can feel Troy's anxiousness; I can hear his worried thoughts; I can see the terrible future he is so afraid of, how ever short it may be. But I would sooner be dammed than watch my brother fight in the games. The Hunger Games. So I just pray, with everything that's in me, Troy and Mandy will be safe.
I cross my fingers and hope for the best. "Please, please not them," I whisper.
Sooner rather than later, Clethra Lutem is center stage and ready to start the annual reaping. Clethra Lutem is the District 12 escort, and resembles an elaborate, golden, somewhat cheap trophy. Although being from the Capitol, Clethra's style may be considered … calm. Everything about her appearance is Gold, and is no doubt plastic and fake: gold shimmering skin, shiny gold eyes, surgically altered gold lips, a curly gold wig, long gold nails, a tight gold dress and a pair of tall gold-studded heals. Gold, gold, gold. And after a quick video from President Snow, the dreaded reaping begins.
A voice with the Capitol accent, Clethra Lutem's accent, rings out and booms through the town square. "Good morning men, women and children of District 12. My name's Clethra Lutem, as you all know, and I'll be your escort for this year's Hunger Games!" She holds her hand up and wears an over-the-top smile. Her hand falters mid-air and for a moment Clethra pauses, probably waiting for a round of applause, but as nobody cares, she proceeds.
"As you know, every 25 years Panem holds a special edition of the Hunger Games called the Quarter Quell. And this year's Quarter Quell sacrifices not two, but four - that's double for you who don't know - courageous young men and women to serve in honour of your District." A giggle squeaks into the microphone and she frees a smile which nobody returns. After a small pause, Clethra's golden hand shoots straight into the bowl of possible female tribute's names. "Now then, let's get started!"
I whisper so low I doubt Troy can hear me. "Please not, Mandy. Please."
And to my cold-blooded relief, the named called is isn't my Mandy's, but Maysilee Donner.
I know Maysilee. Not personally, but she's hard to miss with her bubbly personality, bright smile and long blonde hair. It's more than a shame, really. I don't want to watch someone as pure hearted as Maysilee be murdered on national television. But I don't have a choice. None of us do...
Two girls on either side of the new tribute weep and hold Maysilee in such a tight embrace I'm certain she can't breathe. I recognize them both: Maysilee's twin sister and best friend, both as blonde as the other. Soon, the peacekeepers decide enough is enough, and the two are forced to take their places while Maysilee stumbles towards the stage. Small and fragile she is, Maysilee walks to her death, her blonde curls bouncing even now.
Clethra's shimmering gold hand dives into the bowl of possible tributes twice more, calling the names Andrea-Lea Hepburn and Edward Richards. I've not spoken to either of them, but I've seen Andrea around my neighborhood and Edward at the bakery. The three tributes - Maysilee Donner, Andrea-Lea Hepburn and Edward Richards - stand on the stage, as oposite as the other, as they wait for the fourth tribute's name to be drawn.
Sweat dampens my forehead and an echo Troy's laugh downs my thoughts as Clethra's hand sores into the possible male tributes bowl for the last time this year. I grasp Troy's hand. "Please not Troy. Please..."
And, can you believe it, my praying seems to have worked. It isn't Troy's name boombing through District 12, it isn't Troy's name drawn and shouted into the microphone, it is my name.
"Haymitch Abernathy!"
At first I'm relieved. It's not Troy, and that's what I wished for - that's what I wanted. But that doesn't make it any less harder, any less impossible to let go of Troy's hand, to push his small body away as he's kicking and screaming and calling my name. I can't hear his sobs; I can't hear anything. It takes everything in me, every rush of love and hope I have for my brother, to turn my back on Troy - to turn my back on my District, my home - and walk towards the stage. To walk to my death. Alone. I don't want Peacekeepers man-handling me.
One thing's clear...I forgot to pray for myself.
