Phoenix/Nina here. Going to spare you the long note. I'm having computer/internet issues so that's why this is late-sorry for that. Hopefully it won't take me HOURS on Saturday to do this again X_X


Jonas Emerson of District 7

By Yelof530


"I believe
This may call for a proper introduction,
And, well, don't you see?
I'm the narrator, and this is just the prologue."

—Panic! At the Disco


Yelof530's A/N:

Glad to be here for another round, guys! It's a pleasure to be writing with all 24 authors, veterans and newbies alike and especially my district partner here. Let's get started!


Mother always says that dawn is her favorite time of day. On beautiful days like the one peeking up over the horizon now, she'd open all the windows and allow the fresh morning air to flow through the house. The light is bent into the windows enough to send a cascade of warm yellowed light across the dark wooden floors, and you could watch those little particles that drift through the air dance aimlessly in its ray. A subtle cool breeze would drift by with a few traces of dew that hadn't quite settled or dried up yet, and her cheerful spirit seemed to carry in the atmosphere. My tutor, Mr. Hoffman, wasn't even here to yell at me to close "those forsaken wind-ers, before I throw you out one with the rest of the sound." See, the man believes the music sounds better when the air is still and it's hot as hell in the room.

This is also the time of day when I practice. Sure, I practice throughout the day, more than what would be considered normal, but the woman somehow finds joy in listening to me screw up. Obviously, when I wake up, especially before dawn of all the times of the day, I'm groggy and my fingers fumble more times than they should. It doesn't take long for me to clear my mind and for my senses to sharpen, though. All that fills the silence of my home are the warm, deep tones of my cello as I drag the bow back and forth, occasionally hooking a note and seemingly holding my breath as it stops and goes. It's a stress reliever and mind clearer, allowing me to get lost for hours at a time. My fingers press down on the thick strings, the strength of years of practice able to do it so effortlessly.

Most kids at school usually build up strength in the lumber yard, swinging axes around and hacking down trees and the occasional unfortunate eight-year-old. It leaves me on the smaller end, and with my already thinned-out frame, I'm noticeably smaller than the working class majority of my age. There are distinct features about me that separate me from peers. I guess it comes with being the mayor's only son. "You have to hold yourself differently, Jonas," he'd say, "You're of status in District Seven. Not some raggedy logger." He says logger like it's a bad thing. Frankly, if it weren't for those loggers, we'd just be screwed here in District Seven. I imagine other families chastise their sons about wanting to be musicians. "You're the working class, Bob. Not some sissy who plays a cello." Doesn't help that you play the freaking thing with your legs spread. Here, I'll give you a moment to make as many remarks as you'd like. Insert the waiting music, similar in fashion to that of an elevator. Done? Okay.

I feel myself rocking unconsciously as I play. I roll my fingers along the strings, creating the pulsating pitch of vibrato. The last measure rings out and carries on for one last moment, echoing through the house. I take a deep breath, preparing to delve into the next piece when I detect a pair of eyes watching me. Unless it was some unmentioned creeper in my household, I was certain it was Mother. Franz would have barged in regardless of what I was playing and instantly point out five things wrong about my technique alone. The man was rash and brooding, a permanent scowl etched into his face. Despite this, he still managed to find love in an equally frustrated-looking woman and create offspring, explaining his absence today. It proved, in the face of his protests to my father, that something other than my musical training is important to him. Franz's son becomes eligible for the first time this year. I doubt he'd be reaped. The boy would have never needed to apply for tesserae, with what my father pays Mr. Hoffman. And with the Quarter Quell ruling of this year, only someone cruel and out for blood would vote on a twelve-year old, if I understand it correctly.

My mind ponders on this thought. Who would the district deem worthy of voting to their deaths? Or simply unworthy of living?

I open my mouth, prepared to say, "Morning, Mom," when I focus better on the figure in the corner of my vision. It's too wide, compared to Mom's willowy frame, and tall to be the woman. Not a woman's figure at all.

My throat goes dry, and I fumble to get back to playing. Play it cool; you know, hey, yeah, didn't see you awkwardly watching me like a stalker-man. But he has caught my hesitation, knows I have caught sight of him. He emerges from his spot, grinning proudly and crossing his arms over his chest.

It's too wide to be genuine, that grin. There's a coy a tilt to his mouth that sends a shiver down my spine, a viper about to strike. Dad's pale green eyes bore into me as if inspecting my soul for some speck of dirt. If I wasn't his son, I'd have probably shouted something like "CREEPER!" and run away screaming for my mommy. I think I did that once. Mind you, I was awesome when I was seven. Back in the day when I actually had a backbone around my father. Before I realized the wonderful world of politics.

"Good morning, Father," I say stiffly. Forcing myself to maintain eye contact, to not tear away from his gaze, is almost unbearable. My eyes water. He's already wearing his nice suit, nicer than all the other ones in his closet. The silver of his cufflinks glisten in the orange light of the rising sun. In this sort of lighting, dark shadows are cast across his face, showing lines of age, caused by years of frowning way too much. The laugh lines are partially visible around his mouth, but, mind you, it wasn't from laughing, just smiling way too much.

"Practicing, I see."

I bit my tongue, restraining the "No shit, Sherlock" on my lips. Instead, I nod. On an average day, I'd be sitting with my cello and playing before school, during my lunch period at school, in music class, when I get home, and maybe once before I go to bed. Obviously, I practice more than what is socially acceptable as the "norm."

"Yup." This isn't awkward. Just a typical exchange between a son and his ass-hat dad.

Now, why is he a douche or ass-hat as I say? Because he is. Everyone knows that Mayor Emerson is. If you think otherwise, you too are a douche. I guess that makes me sort of a douche.

"Have you finished working on the pieces for the banquet later tonight?"

I adjust the end-pin of my cello and scoop up the strap attached to the chair. Dad's gaze sends my skin crawling, even with my back turned to him. "Yes, sir." I wince at the way I say "sir". Quickly, I pack my cello away in the case, off to the side of the room. Just deal with him for thirty more seconds. He clamps a hand down on my shoulder. I whip my cello case up in the same moment, but I had moved so fast I didn't realize I didn't latch shut the clasps. Its door swings open and I snatch the instrument's wooden neck before it strikes the floor. I'm unable to retain a hold on the case and it clatters to the floor. The klutz strikes again.

When he speaks, Father's voice is humored. "There's no need to be nervous." I'm not sure what he's talking about, the banquet or the reaping. Maybe he's talking about his presence. Although, I don't think he has the crazy sixth mothering instinct like Mom has.

"Uh, yeah," I stammer. Warmth floods my cheeks as I place the cello properly away, closing the case and locking the latches with greater care this time. I rise to full height, back as stiff as a board.

"How are you, son?" He tilts his head inquisitively. I hate when he tries to put on this caring father act. Most family discussions occur when we eat dinner in the evening. It just bothers me, those dinners. It's like he's still playing a role, even behind the scenes. From the outside in, it's wonderful. We have food, clothes, a nice big house—luxuries other people would never have.

It is wonderful. But…it isn't.

"Fine." That's a way to say it. My hand tightens around the case's handle.

"Just making sure you're okay, my boy." He grins. I force my eyes to stare back at his gaze, resisting the desire to look away. The pressure of his hands feels more like a vise grip than a reassuring squeeze, and I pull back as soon as his hold slackens. I nod, skirting about him quickly and heading upstairs.

The man knows how to play a role. The jolly mayor, happily married with his three daughters and gifted son. I hate that. I'm not gifted; I'm as much as a dumbass as the next guy. He didn't even want me to play an instrument when I was younger; instead, he wanted me to be some sports star. Dad only saw me as something useful when his secretary mentioned how the Capitol representatives would love to hear such playing at the conferences.

Like it would have made any difference to his reputation. Doesn't matter how loud or well I play, or how broadly he smiles, or how many babies he kisses, Mayor Emerson is a complete and utter ass-hat, harsh and quick to punish outlaws. "Guilty until proven innocent," is often muttered throughout the district in low tones too each other. We've now gotten to the point where even a snide remark about anything related to the Capitol, whether it is the Hunger Games or the president or even my father, leads to a hefty fine. Most people can't afford it and end up in jail for a month. It just snowballs, because the residents are then unable to go to work. They lose money and sink deeper into poverty. Their animosity increases and the vicious, hated cycle circles around once again.

Father means well. For his family, at the very least. I should be thankful. He's not abusive, and he provides. He gives us so much more than everyone else in the district.

Yet, I can't help the bead of cold sweat to roll down my back at the sight of him. The anger that bubbles up, only suppressed by mounting fear. Inside, I know that my father, Mayor Emerson, is a douche. Above all else, he's a proud man, my father, and he doesn't try to keep it a secret I'm his favorite. The thought leaves a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, especially when my sisters are around. Ronnie smiles kindly, but Bellafina's face just becomes so…vile.

I stumble up the final step, almost tripping backwards. It broke me from my musings, and I shook my head clear. It doesn't matter. Your dad is your dad. You can't choose your family.

Rant done.

In my room, I change into my formal reaping clothes, dark brown dress pants with a neatly pressed shirt and gray vest. I pull my favorite newsboy-style cap down, covering the top part of my ears and tug on my fingerless brown gloves. I glance into the mirror and examine the boy staring back. Brown eyes, a few specks of green blended in the irises, blinked at me with long, dark brown eyelashes. Brown hair, slightly curled, sticking out every which way, refusing to lay flat no matter how many times I pat it down. I smirk at the bastard, and the classic look twitches the side of my mouth up. I adjust the collar of my shirt to cover neck, which flaked and showed bright red where I scratched at the skin too much.

Walking back the room, I nearly collide with Bellafina as she passes the door. My sister casts me a glare and I contort my face together to send a nasty—and just a smidge bit constipated—look back. She adjusts one of her curls to ensure that one unruly strand was back in its proper position before flicking it over her shoulder anyway. Explain that to me, please. Who fixes their hair to just move it around again and screw it up? Bellafina marches promptly to the staircase, her curls as stern and stiff as she was. Five bucks says she'll be checking her hair in a spoon when I go downstairs for breakfast.

Bellafina is the prissiest of my three sisters. Living in a house full of girls can get to a guy's head sometimes. When you start to worry your brown case for your cello doesn't match the rest of your room at all, you realize you should get more guy friends. You definitely need them when you realize, hey, brown is a neutral tone, it goes with anything! Only I of all guys would know that.

Walking into the kitchen, I smirk as I find Mom holding Mariska tight in a hug. My fifteen-year-old sister's brown eyes drill into me, pleading for immediate older brother back-up. She refused the dress laid out on her bed by our parents this morning and instead found one of my old reaping outfits. She wore a tattered pair of white, fingerless gloves, and a vest just like mine.

"Morning, ladies," I say. My voice is a lot more laid back now that my confrontation with dad for the day is done. Bellafina sits in an elevated chair, one of those kinds you try to spin in a circle by swiveling your butt around, distastefully examining her nails.

Mother waves to me, still holding tight to Mariska. She has the same curls as the rest of the females in the house, but she keeps them cut short, where they brush her ears. Her eyes were still set wide on me.

"We'll be fine," I say assuredly. My tone has dropped, softer and more genuine. "You raised us right." Her brown eyes crinkle worriedly still.

"I'm your mother," she says in a tight voice. The threatening tears begin to manifest. "I'm licensed to be worried."

"Could I see your identification, then?" The look she shoots me makes me believe for a moment she actually is going to step back and whip some Overprotective Mother's badge out of her dress pocket. I smile again. Mariska's face has started turning blue.

"Hey, I know Bellafina can be a bitch sometimes, and Mariska can be a bitch in a different sort of way. But, I promise, we'll be here in a few hours with Ronnie's cookies and Bellafina's babbling in girl-speak and Mariska making fun of me as one big, estrogen smothering, happy family."

All females shoot me dirty looks and I grin innocently. It quickly melts to a smirk. Mom scowls sternly, but I see the sides of her mouth twitch up. "Jonas Emerson, you do not speak of your sisters in such a manner." Silently, she mouths, "But thank you." She's been especially edgy this reaping day. Ever since the Quarter Quell announcement, Mom has been so much more prone to hugs and laughs, but tears as well.

My eyes flicker to my Smurf-toned sister. Mom's been hugging her for quite a while, quite tightly….

"Hey, Risky, if you want to come with me to the music shop, you better come now." The girl slips from Mom's hold, quickly stepping up beside me.

"Love you, Mom!" We both wave. Mariska snatches my wrist. We barely hear Mom's goodbyes as we rush out the door.

"Nice outfit," I comment. She looks like Mini Me, as in Mini Jonas. We sprint down the porch steps and fly to the town square.

"Yeah, yeah," she spits, "Took you long enough."


"How are you related to this guy?" Bentley juts his chin towards me as I tune the guitar. The instrument is amazing. Bentley hooks me up with the best quality stuff he's got. I'm his best customer. By what I know, I'm probably his only customer. Doesn't matter. Without me, he'd be out of business. Without him, I'd be the spoiled sissy son of Mayor Emerson.

See, now I can be considered the spoiled sissy son of Mayor Emerson who knows how to rock a cello between his legs.

Mariska, on the other hand, awkwardly plucked one of the guitars. I've tried, trust me, to teach her. She just doesn't have the patience for it. I'm sure if I were to die, she'd just sell all instruments or dramatically play them (horribly, I may add) and end up smashing them.

Nothing is sadder than the sound of a string snapping.

"Hey, wait," she says hopefully. She slowly plays a few off-key notes, grinning. "Hey, I played that rift you showed me!" The way she stuck her tongue in concentration, you'd think she was performing open heart surgery on a sneezing patient.

I nod. "Just stick to your day job." Mariska presses her lips together, furrowing her brows, as my fingers fly along the frets. "Guitar solo!" I announce. I lean against my sister and smirk as she tries to edge away from me. The final note rings out over the music store and hold up my hand dramatically, my fingers folded into devil horns.

"Good night, District Seven!"

Mariska glares intensely. "You suck, Jone-Ass," she mumbles.

I raise an eyebrow. "Stick to your day job when it comes to insults, too."

I hand Bentley the guitar, sliding him a bill. "Hold this for me, will ya'? I'll come back with the rest of the money and for the guitar after the reaping."

"It's a hot item, not sure if it'll be here." He's being sarcastic. Barely anyone walks into his little shop.

The sun is at a higher point in the sky now—mid-morning—as we leave. It involves passing by the voting booths from yesterday, a reminder of this year's interesting Quarter Quell twist. We stop by the bakery and buy two muffins for the two of us. They're still warm, and Mariska shoves as much as she can down her throat.

My eyes rise to one of the stores as we pass. The carpenter. Last year, their younger daughter, Jonella, was reaped. She was two years ahead of me, so I didn't know her or the guy, for that matter, too well. Araucaria was his name. They were buried together.

The family was okay. As best as a family could be when put against something like this. I stop and stare into the windows, but find the curtains drawn and a sign reading CLOSED on the door. My father spoke at this meeting about the two tributes, how they were brave and it was a tragedy to lose such good souls. His words make me sick. They were never genuine. They were just another two tributes gone to him, not teenagers who will never be able to grow old. I can't help think of Araucaria's nephew I heard was born months later. The baby was named Jonah. That's only a letter off from Jonas. He never was able to meet Jonah.

Mariska gives me a grave look. "The reaping will be starting soon." I blow a breath of air from my lungs. Today is going to go dandily.

We sign in and Mariska nudges me as I stumble off the line. My eyes follow the line of her pointing finger and smirk at Bellafina, her tongue crammed down some guy's throat.

"Real dignity, right there," Mariska snorts. "Bringing true pride to the Emerson name. Better than the sissy with the cello."

We move towards the sectioned-off pens, and before I can walk to the seventeen-year-olds, Mariska throws her arms around me, pressing her face into my chest. We're not touchy-feely people, especially my younger sister. Her fright scares me to no end.

"You're getting like Mom," I chuckle softly. She sniffles and quickly pushes me back and regains her cool.

"Jonas, have you even thought about it?" she asks, eyes widening. "They district is voting on who they want to go die." I honestly haven't put much thought into it. Yeah, people are voting. But I'd imagine some lowlife druggie or someone like that would be voted for.

"Mari-"

"You know how much people hate our dad," she spits. "What…what if…?"

I clench her shoulder. "Mariska, you're starting to sound like Mom. We're going to be fine." I grin. "I promise."

After a moment, Mariska nods. "Whatever." She shoves her hands into her pockets, striding to her section. I walk to mine.

It's not long until I see Dad mount the stage, a spring in his step as he took the microphone. I can still remember hearing him recite it pompously to himself when I passed by the bathroom.

Once finished, he hands off the position to the escort, a rather strange looking woman. The accent is like nails on a chalkboard, and I cringe throughout all her giddy laughing.

"Envelope, please?" she says, adoring the fact she gets a fancy seal to pop open with her nails. The dramatic pause sends my heart racing. Mariska could be right. Would someone vote for my sisters in spite of my father?

"Alexis Spurling."

No. They wouldn't.

The name, I vaguely remember. After a moment, there's some shouting, and it seems Alexis had been trying to make a run for it. She's thin, though, and no amount of bucking or clawing can stop the Peacekeepers from dragging her to the stage. Her orange-red hair flails about as she thrashes, and I pity the bastard who'll have to be her partner.

Her brother, Lucas, is in my age group. I am actually close enough to glance to him. His expression is hard to read, though. Is that anger for his sister being voted in? Smugness? Minor constipation? I also recall her name from an evening dinner discussion. She's the girl who's afraid of sharp things. My father put a law into effect that required all persons at least sixteen years of age to work in the lumberyards. He mentioned this girl and noted the trouble she created on the job. I won't use the words he typically uses because it may not be best heard by young ears.

The escort smiles awkwardly, edging away from her. "The boy's envelope, please?"

There's a moment of silence as she pries open the envelope. The woman actually smirks as she reads the name, eyes flashing viciously to Mayor Emerson, who waited by patiently by our only Victor.

"Jonas Emerson."

I'm fucked. I'm totally and utterly fucked.

My mind goes into autopilot as I am unable to act on my own accord. I force myself forward and move with swift, robotic strides. In my mind, I think through scales and drum my fingers along the side of my legs.

On the last step to the stage, I stumble, barely able to catch myself. No one offers any support and I exchange a look with my father.

Angrily, he storms off the stage, not saying a word.

"District Seven, I am proud to present your tributes: Alexis Spurling and Jonas Emerson!"

Alexis' face is shining with tears, and she discreetly pinches her arm. For a moment, she seems horrified. I sort of want to pinch myself too. A slap in the face from a hormonal girl you dumped on prom night would be a lot less painful than this nightmare.

She doesn't meet my gaze as we shake hands; instead, she looks down at our feet. There's a mere second, and I can see an array of emotions in her bulging blue eyes, mainly the evident fear at her fate. I turn and face the crowd. They lamely clap when instructed to, and I feel bits of me freeze. The crowd, too, have a mix of emotions that overwhelms me. There's regret, guilt, but plenty of contempt, too. They were happy to be rid of us.

Happy to rid Mayor Emerson of his pride and joy.

They could have just chosen Bellafina. She's known to sort of sleep around in the District. Or Mariska, who had a tongue sharp enough to send Alexis into a tizzy. But they voted for me.

So sick, to think, how they didn't mind me being the means of proving a stupid point. Wait, was it to stick it to my father? Or something far bigger, the Capitol itself? And, even more sickening, how I don't blame them one bit.


First to come in is my parents. Dad can't look me in the eye. Mom is a blubbering mess, and I feel very close to it.

"My baby boy," she sobs, rocking with me in her arms. It takes all constraint in me not to sob as well. "My Jonas." Dad awkwardly strokes small circles in her back. He seems more worried about calming his wreck of a wife than son.

"I'm sorry," he says. I snort with laughter in spite of myself. Mom scowls at the sound through her blurred eyes and I just shake my head.

"That was a good job," I say. "I think I almost believed you for a second."

His eyebrows knit together angrily. "How dare—?"

"Byron," Mom barks. "Just shut up." We have nothing else to say until the Peacekeeper comes in.

"Good luck," Dad grimaces stiffly. He knows I'm dying. His voice holds no conviction.

After them come Bellafina and Ronnie. Ronnie is my eldest sister, having already moved out. We may be the mayor's kids, but we won't stay at home like that. She silently hugs me while Bellafina sits far away on a separate couch. We Emersons have always been a quiet bunch. We always bottled things up inside, which probably explains a lot of things about me. I smile meekly as they leave, so soon. I'm slightly disturbed by the smirk lighting up Bellafina's face.

Did I mention she was the spawn of the devil?

Bentley slides the cash I gave him earlier into my pocket when he comes in. "I figured you don't want that guitar now," he says softly. I smile.

"Thanks. I'll make sure I hire the finest hooker possible with this money." The laughter that follows is sad to hear.

Last is Mariska. It's sad that my best friend is my little sister. I tend to avoid kids, and they tend to avoid me. It's a mutual relationship. Most people hate my father, so the distaste ebbs onto me a little. My sister's mature for her age, and I'm not exactly trying to be an adult all the time. "Well, thankfully, we can agree that you were right."

She punches me in the gut. "OW!" Swiftly, she slams another fist into the couch cushion and slams her head backwards. Okay, she's not exactly mature either. We're both just children. Just yesterday, we were fighting each other with sticks in the backyard.

In a week, twenty-three other kids are going to try killing me with extra sharp sticks.

"This is bullshit!" she shouts. Grabbing a lamp, she slams it down onto the side table. It erupts in sparks that singe the carpet, all dancing before my eyes. I try to grab her wrist but Mariska just tears away from me. "Bullshit!"

"Yes, Mariska, I realize that," I state dryly. She kicks and punches the furniture, her knuckles blooming red. "The Games suck and so does life."

"But you didn't do anything wrong!" she screeches. "Dad's the one who has to be," she tosses the side table over, "a fucking prick all the time! It's Dad's fault, that District Four kid's fault!"

I wrap my arms around Mariska, thrusting her onto the couch again. "What do you mean District Four kid?"

Mariska, despite not fighting, is still tense under my grip. "That boy from last year. If he hadn't blown such a bitch-fit, this stupid Quarter Quell wouldn't be happening!"

I'm not quite sure what she means by this "bitch-fit". It could have been something edited out of the recaps. Mariska also had a habit of watching television on our father's television in his office which isn't always screened. How else would my sister watch Capitol Cable reality shows?

"A stupid bitch-fit like the one you're throwing now?"

She goes silent. Mariska finally works the nerve to look me in the eye, and she gasps loudly. Her shoulders quake. The girl begins to sob; it's so unlike my sister. It tears me apart.

"This sucks," she gasps. "This sucks so bad."

My throat is too thick with tears to sarcastically point out it's badly, not bad.

"Don't give up, okay?" Her eyes are shining. "Don't be like those kids that just give up. Remember to be Jonas." She squeezes me tight, Mariska's voice much higher and more innocent than usual. "I just want my sissy brother to come home."

A Peacekeeper comes in to pull her off me. In a fluid motion, she twists around and bites into the man's hand. I smile, sadly but slightly, as the man is forced to call reinforcement and my sister is hauled away.


Alexis Spurling of District 7

By Hazelshade12


"It is the strange fate of man,
that even in the greatest of evils,
the fear of the worst continues to haunt him."

— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe


Hazelshade12's A/N:

So I'm going to be honest and say that I was not expecting to get in whatsoever. But now that I actually made it, I am happy to be here. Tell me what you think of this, and tell me what I can improve on next time. :)


It was a cold, moonless night in the middle of November. My brother Marcus and I were working late in one of our district's many forests. He was training me to use an ax, for when I'd start working full time. He supervised me as I swung my ax, over and over again until the tree fell. "Good work, little sis," he told me, ruffling my hair like he always did.

Suddenly, I saw the gleam of an axe come out of no where, and hit the stem of his neck. I screamed harder than I thought was possible while his head flew off his body, a look of pride still on his face, and landed at my feet, splattering my shoes with a sickly, red substance—blood.

"Hey!" An eighteen-year-old boy ran up to me, who I recognized as Zachary Miller, a boy from school who dropped out and became an alcoholic. "Your stupid brother got in the way of my tree! Now, thanks to him, I don't have enough lumber to by me enough booze to get me through next week and…"

He keeps rambling on about how my brother is an idiot, and it's not his fault he's dead. Finally, I stop him. "You're a monster," I growl at him. "You're a monster who cares about nothing, and is nothing but cruel!"

"I said it's not my fault he's—"

"STAY AWAY FROM ME!"

I grab my brother's disembodied head, and sprint as far as I can away from the woods. In the distance, I hear the booming voices of Peacekeepers coming to arrest him and punish him for his crimes.

I awaken with a start on the morning of the reaping; sweat beading down my pale face. I try to calm myself by telling myself that it never actually happened, and it was all just a dream. But it did happen. The night I dreamed about happened two years ago, and the dreams have been haunting me ever since.

I glance over to the left side of my four-poster, where my brothers Medal of Honor hangs. I had gotten it the day after his death, from Mayor Emerson himself. He simply gave me the medal and had his Peacekeepers escort me out. That was it. No 'I'm sorry for your loss,' no sings of sympathy at all. He said that he'd make sure more training was given to new lumberjacks and he'd outlaw drinking while working. That did happen, for about a month, but I saw a kid carelessly toss an axe at the tree, barley missing someone, and I swear I smelled alcohol coming from somebody's mouth soon after. I bet he forgot about that meeting, and that I existed, until the complaints started.

I lay on my bed for a while, not ready to go to the reaping. A part of me worries that I will get chosen, because I have heard whispers around the district, calling me a freak for how I have a major panic attack whenever I see something sharp, which consists of me either running away, screaming, or ripping axes out of peoples' hands. If I get voted in, I'd probably explode from pure terror before I even reached the arena.

Eventually, I decide that there is no point in delaying the inevitable. I pull myself off of my four-poster, and I open my door. I walk down the hallway connecting my bedroom to my kitchen. The kitchen is dark when I reach it, due to it still being early morning, and my family not having enough money to pay the lighting bill. I light a small candle, and I see a shadow of a man holding a knife.

I freeze and look at the shape in horror, knowing that he broke into my house, and has come to kill me and my family. Maybe there is a more reasonable solution, but witnessing murder makes it hard to trust something, and deletes your sense of reason, which is why I charge at the person, screaming, "PUT THAT DOWN!"

"What the—" the person shouts, as I tackle him to the floor. The knife flies out of his hand, and lodges itself in the table, as I repeatedly punch him in the stomach. The figure grunts as he knocks me off him. I fly onto the dirt floor of our home, hitting my head on the ground. As I rub my aching head, I look up at the figure, and as I squint through the candlelight, I recognize the dark brown hair and scowling features of my brother, Lucas. I glance over at the table, and I see a loaf of bread, that he was probably trying to cut.

"O-oh. I'm so sorry, Lu—"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he interrupts. "Can I just slice myself a piece of bread without your mental disease getting in the way?"

I whimper as he says these words. No matter how many times he calls me insane and acts like I belong in an asylum, it still hurts like the venom of a tracker-jacker, painfully targeting the most sensitive parts of your brain in order to drive you insane.

"Look," he continues, "I know that you watched our brother's murder, and I know it was pretty traumatizing, but wrestling me during breakfast seems like a new low for you."

"I—I—"

"Do me a favor, and when you're at the reaping, act like you don't know me. In fact, don't even talk to me. Just do that, and I will gladly do the same for you." He promptly turns around and walks out or the kitchen before being blocked by our mother.

"Lucas Alexander Spurling, what do you think you're doing?"

"I was making myself toast when her lack of sanity barged into the room and started attacking me!"

"You know better than to use a knife around her."

"Well, she's the one who should know better. Normal people with a brain know better than to have psychotic freakouts when someone holds a knife."

I leave my mom and brother to quarrel, and I return to my room. I slam the door shut, and I begin to cry as soon as I throw myself on my bed. It's not my fault I freak out. Well, it is, but I can't help it. Every time I see an axe, or any weapon for that matter, I think about Marcus, and I feel like that axe will attack me, and my head will end up in a forest somewhere. Only this time, nobody will care.

After lying on my bead for a while, I walk over to my closet and pick out a reaping dress. It's a plain, scarlet dress that is made out of silk, which is extremely tight on me, as my family isn't really that rich. We used to be richer than most families in District 7, but when I was eight, my father died of a heart attack. We blew most of out money on a doctor, but he wasn't able to save him. We fell into the conditions that most of the people in District 12 suffered, but somehow, we had food on our plates every night.

I snap out of my thoughts, and I head towards my door. As I walk towards the doorway, I glance over to my bed post. I walk over to it, and I take my brother's medal off it, and I put it on underneath my dress, as I feel I need the comfort of my brother today. I leave my room for real this time, and I meet my mother and brother in the living room. My brother is wearing a classic black tux, and my mother is wearing a stormy gray dress. Without a word, they get off the couch, and lead me towards the door.

It is a cold, cloudy day as we take the long walk to the reaping. We walk through a forest on our way. I had always loved these woods as a child, and my brothers and I loved climbing the trees, and playing in the leaves in the fall. I was naïve in those days, and I now know what these woods really contain. We pass lumberjacks scurrying back their houses to get ready for the reaping after staying up all night. They swing their axes along their sides carelessly, and I fear they will fly out of their hands, and impale themselves in some innocent person's neck. I want go talk sense into them (and by talk, I mean scream), but my mom maintains a tight grip on my wrist, preventing me from doing so.

The sun begins to peek through the clouds when we reach the square. Reluctantly, I get in the line of kids preparing to get registered. I hesitate to walk to the table when it's my turn, but eventually, I walk up to it. "Alexis Spurling." The peacekeeper grabs hold of my hand, and jabs the needle into my finger. I give a little shriek as the peacekeeper analyzes the blood. "You may go," he says in a bored voice. Clutching my finger, I enter the sixteen-year-olds's section.

It is about noon when Mayor Emerson takes the stage. I hate him as much as everyone else in District 7 did, for passing a law stating that anyone over the age of sixteen had to work eight hours a day, cutting down trees day after day, no matter if you are sick, dying, injured, or mentally scarred. I had heard whispers in the streets about a possible revolt, but the people were promptly arrested when a peacekeeper overheard, and the thoughts of revenge diminished, until the announcement of the quell.

I don't pay any attention to his speech, so I am caught by surprise when he finishes, and introduces our escort, Amerieda Poudel. Her hair is a bright teal color, and it sticks up at weird angles, with the help of some fancy Capitol hairspray, and her skin is also teal and contains many silver tattoos. "Envelope, please?" she asks the mayor in her raspy accent.

The mayor hands her a small, golden envelope, and she used her long fingernails to pick off the seal of the capitol on the envelope. She then carefully grabs the paper inside, and reads the name on the paper inside. "Alexis Spurling."

I should have been expecting this. I've heard the name they've given me, and I occasionally hear whispers about me, but yet it's still unbelievable. I frantically tell myself that it is all a bad dream, and I pinch myself in an effort to wake myself up, but I don't succeed because it is real, and my worst nightmare has become a reality.

I have been voted into the Hunger Games.

"N-n-n—" I stammer. "No, no, NO!" I break out into a mad dash, and I bolt away from the square, crashing into many other children in the process. A brigade of peacekeepers blocks me from leaving the square, and they grab my arms and legs, and drag me to the square. I scream, cry, and struggle, but nothing stops the peacekeepers from dragging me up onto the stage. They still grab me when I stand up on the stage, to prevent me from running away again.

I look out into the crowd, and the majority of them don't seem to care. They don't show any emotion, but inside, they are bursting with excitement, because I don't stand a chance in the arena, and as soon as the gong sounds, I'll be skewered by a Career.

The escort steps away from me, and asks for the male's envelope. The mayor hands another golden envelope, and she opens it with an evil smirk on her face, like she put a trap on a pair of shoes she wanted, preventing anyone else from buying it. "Jonas Emerson."

I don't recognize the boy with big brown eyes and dark brown hair from the seventeen's section that slowly makes his way towards the stage, but I know the name. He's the mayor's son, probably voted in as an act of rebellion against his harsh laws. I don't blame them, even though I personally didn't vote him in. I just scribbled someone's name down, and whoever it was, they didn't get picked.

The mayor storms off the stage, as his son stumbles his way on. "District 7, I am pleased to present your tributes for the first Quarter Quell: Alexis Spurling and Jonas Emerson!"

Tears stream down my face, and I barely meet Jonas's gaze as he shakes my trembling hand. As soon as he lets go, the same group of Peacekeepers that dragged me to the stage earlier grab my arms and legs again and carry me to the Justice Building.

I lay on my stomach on the gray loveseat in the Justice Building, bawling my eyes out for who knows how long until my family enters, arguing as usual.

"Look, for the last time, I didn't vote for her," Lucas says. "I voted for that one goth girl down the street."

I blink my eyes. Did my brother just say he didn't vote for me?

"Don't lie to me!" my mother growls, slapping him. "You said you hated her guts, and you wanted her to die, and I quote, 'an extremely gory and painful death'!"

"I never said that," my brother argues. "Sure, I've called her a freak, and I guess I could have been more supportive of her, but she's still my little sister, and I would never send my own kin to death."

"Don't make up stories to make me sympathize for you," my mother continues. "Don't come back until you've accepted that you are an asshole." She promptly turns around, and exits the room without saying goodbye to her daughter.

I get off the loveseat and look at my brother. "You were really telling the truth?"

"Of course I was," he replies. "Listen, I'm not good at this type of thing…but, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for just…being a bad brother, and calling you all those nasty things, and just letting you down when you needed me the most."

I'm crying again, but not because I'm upset. It's because…I'm happy. I'm crying because I no longer feel that the entire world hates me, and I now have something to return home to. I embrace my brother, and he already knows that he is forgiven.

"I know this will be tough for you, but I want you to try to come back for me. I'm not saying you have to fight, just return."

I smile for the first time in two years. "Yes, yes I will."

The Peacekeepers drag my brother away, and the fear returns, but the comfort I feel from the conversation soothes it, and even though I will have to face my worse fear, I know I have somebody cheerleading me through it.