There's always this short, fat woman that does the reaping every year. Her name is so long, I just can't remember her name. Not that I would want to anyways.. I trudge along with my sister, to the reaping stage. We have to walk in a straight line, Capitol rules.. Keep your shoulders back, feet straight. No looking back, no whispering. Too many rules. I feel like I'm a puppet on a string. I can't ever break free and do my own thing.
"May the odds be ever in your favor." Yeah, yeah. We hear that every year. Not that many odds in the persons favor who gets picked. They usually die. She reaches her fingers into the large glass bowl. Gingerly, she pulls out a slip.
"And the girl tribute is.. Reagan Worthy.." I sit there in shock. My mouth hangs below my chin. Me? Did she just say my.. name? Will I have to go to the Hunger Games and possibly die? Before too many questions start to fill my mind, two powerful guards grab my from behind. Shoving me up to the stage, they do have a big force for men who look so scrawny. I finally reach the top of the stage, facing my district in the eye. Being embarrassed. Thinking about all of the bad things that could happen. I could die.. I could die.. "And the boy tribute.." her scrawny fingers scan over the thousands of slips. She grabs one, finally, and blurts out, "Westly Collins". Little siblings cry. A tall, slender boy steps out of the crowd. Taller than me. He walks up to the stage, trying not to break down. I can tell that he is as concerned as I am about dying. I wonder how District 1 is taking it.
