I want to say I feel sick with apprehension and fear when I wake up because today is Reaping Day, but the truth is that I haven't been able to fall asleep long enough to experience the relief it brings. I keep my eyes closed for now, because I don't want my parents to know I'm awake, and also because I don't want to admit this to myself. After a few seconds, I reconsider. I don't want my parents to wake me up with their sad faces and falsely cheerful voices, trying to pretend that they're not terrified their only daughter will be chosen for her first ever Reaping. It's just better to get up of my own volition.
Today, my surroundings seem just as bleak as my thoughts. Our living compartment is small and gray, devoid of any features that would distinguish it from the thousands of other living compartments in District 13. I'm relieved to see that my parents are still asleep, so I move quietly to the door and slip out into the hall. I jump a little when I see a Peacekeeper hurrying down the hall towards me, but then I realize by the businesslike expression on his face that he probably has somewhere important to go, and I'm an insignificant part of his journey he won't even remember after he passes me.
I step over to the door of the living compartment nearest me and knock lightly. After a few seconds, there is a tentative response. "Hello?"
"It's me." I say just as quietly.
The door opens to reveal my brother Zebedee, five years my senior. Like me, he has short hair that is a nondescript shade of brown, and hazel eyes that stand out against his pale skin. He is a couple inches taller than me, but ever since he lost his leg, he tends to walk a little hunched over, as if he's ashamed of his missing limb. Now, I can almost look him in the eye.
"Can I come in?" I ask, trying not to sound too needy.
He nods in silent assent and I follow him inside.
His living compartment is exactly like the one I share with my parents, except there is one bed instead of two. He sits down on the bed, and I join him, being careful to leave at least a few feet of space between us. I never know what might set off his terrible memories of fighting in the rebellion, but I know that suddenly having someone invade his personal space is pretty high on the list. We sit in silence for a couple minutes. I try not to think about what's going to happen later today.
After a while, he grimaces and rubs the stump of what was once his left leg. I wince in sympathy.
"Sorry." He says quietly.
"For what?" I ask, surprised.
"For being a cripple and a disappointment."
"You're not." I protest.
"We still lost." Despite the shrapnel he took to his left leg, the murderous shards of metal that eventually led to his leg being severed at the knee after he came home, I think the worst part for him is that District 13 is now under the Capitol's control.
I decide to change the subject, or at least steer our conversation in a new direction. "Bad night last night?"
He doesn't look at me. "Not any worse than usual."
I nod. I don't know for sure, but I don't think he's slept through the night since he got back. I suspect his nightmares are the reason he asked to be placed in a separate living compartment after he was released from the hospital. Sometimes, I can hear him screaming through the walls. My parents and I always pretend to be asleep when this happens, because we don't want him to know that we can hear him breaking down. He's always hated being weak in front of other people, and he's ashamed that he relies on us so heavily, especially when he was supposed to return home victorious.
"Do you want your prosthetic?" His fake leg is sitting on the side of the room opposite us, on its side instead of upright. I study its position and realize that this must be the heavy object I heard hitting the wall last night, right after another bout of Zeb's screaming. I also notice the pill bottles on his desk are almost empty, even though he only had them refilled about a week and a half ago. I know one of the bottle contains painkillers, while the other holds capsules meant to relieve Zebedee's near-constant anxiety.
I press my lips together, but I don't say anything. I can tell that Zeb notices. He opens his mouth, but whatever he was about to say is interrupted by a knock on the door. I jump up and hurry to open it.
"Ready?" my father asks. I feel better when I see him. Even though his face has grown more lined and his eyes have become more clouded with worry since the Capitol took over, he hasn't changed. He still works as a mechanic every day, and he's still just as proud of his job as he was before, even if it's not the most prestigious job in the District. Even when he looks at the peacekeepers, his face isn't disfigured by hatred like some of the people in our district.
Once we're in the hallway, we're joined by my mother. At forty-seven, she's only a year younger than my father, but she looks surprisingly young, whereas my father looks older than his age. Even with her hair pulled up into its usual severe bun, I can still see the softness in her eyes and face. After being recruited as a medic during the war, she says she's seen enough violence to fill several lifetimes, let alone one. I don't think she would fight in a war again even in it looked like we could win against the Capitol. I've never asked, but I think she believes I have less chance of getting killed in the Hunger Games after being Reaped than of dying in another Capitol bombing.
I suppress a shudder when I remember the constant strain of being under attack, when the Mockingjay was trying to rescue her lover from the Capitol's clutches. Now that strain is gone, replaced the hungry stares of the peacekeepers, waiting for us to make one misstep so they can kill us all.
You're exaggerating, Minerva, I remind myself. They're not going to shoot us all. They're just going to randomly pick two of us to be sent to an arena and killed.
"Madison!" My mother turns around to see the source of the voice. Of course, we already know by the curious District 12 lilt that the voice belongs to Helga Stormstrong, the only schoolteacher to survive the destruction of District 12. Since her arrival in District 13, she and my mother have become close friends. Mom was the only teacher left in District 13: after the plague that swept through the district a few years ago and killed most of the District's children, the other teachers resigned in despair. Only my mother stayed in her profession to teach the few of us that were left.
With her long legs, it only takes Ms. Stormstrong a second to catch up to us. "I thought it would help if I walked with you to the Reapings," she explains.
I smile at her. "Why, thank you. We could definitely use a distraction today."
"Absolutely," My mother agrees.
Even though Helga focuses her conversation on me as we walk to the public announcement area where the Reapings are to take place, I have to force myself to keep moving. Until the Mockingjay came to District 13, my life followed a predictable, even peaceful, routine. I miss the calm order of the days before the rebellion; now just making it through the day is a struggle when my whole life has suddenly changed. I thought things changed during the rebellion, but they changed so much more afterwards.
When we reach the ground level of the multi-tiered public announcement area, we make our way past the entrance to the kitchens, where I worked during the war. Up until a few months ago, there was a storage area off of the kitchen for all District 13's food, one that I found myself in often, as one of my duties was helping with cooking. Although the storage area shared a wall with the hallway we're currently walking through, there weren't any doors. Now though, there are several, and all of them are surrounded by peacekeepers.
I guess the rumors are true, then. I had heard that since District 13 was now expected to take part in the Hunger Games, it would only be a matter of time before we had a Victor. As a result, the sprawling storage area is being transformed into what would be referred to in another district as the Victors Village. The Capitol representatives in District 13 have taken to referring this area as The Victors' Suites, from the few scattered conversations I've overheard.
We reach the end of the hallway all too soon, entering the bottom tier of the public announcement area. A few days ago, an edict was issued that said only those eligible for the Reaping and their immediate family are allowed into the bottom tier. Even though the bottom tier is the largest tier, much of the expanse is taken up by the enormous stage that has been erected for the occasion, and hundreds of peacekeepers. I quickly hug my parents and brother good bye, give a quick wave to Ms. Stormstrong, and rapidly stride over to the sixteen-year-old area. There are maybe a dozen other sixteen-year-olds, and I only recognize a few of them. Despite going to school with them for years, I don't talk to them much. School was discontinued during the rebellion, and the students were put into whatever role President Coin thought would best suit their talents. Even before then, I hesitated to become close to anyone my age because most of my friends were killed when the plague swept through our district.
I notice that most of the refugee kids from District 12 look scared but resigned, while the District 13 kids are more expressive: some are crying openly, while others are scowling, with their arms crossed in front of them. Of the ninety of so kids who are assembled for the Reaping, there are less than twenty who grew up in District 13. There would be far more from District 12 if so many people wouldn't have been killed in the bombings.
"Excuse me, miss?" I look up to see a peacekeeper with wild red hair standing in front of me. I jump a little bit, but quickly compose myself.
"Yes?" My voice comes out at a far higher pitch than I expected it too. He smiles reassuringly. He can't be more than eighteen or nineteen, but his easy, confident manner suggests that he has been a peacekeeper for years.
"I just need you to hold out your hand, miss, so I can take your blood in order to ensure that everyone is accounted for. It will be only a moment."
Stunned into silence by the apparent friendliness of the young peacekeeper, I hold out my hand. I feel a jab in the pointer finger of my right hand, and then the encounter is over just as quickly as it began. He moves over to the next person, and I'm left to wonder how someone who is probably from the Capitol can be that friendly and sincere.
"Ladies and Gentlemen! I'm excited to take part in District 13's first-ever Reaping!" Natasha Henderson, who is governor and head peacekeeper of our district, shouts into one of the two microphones on the stage. She is quickly joined by Selma Severson, our newly-appointed district escort. From what I've heard, she is apparently the youngest escort as well, at only twenty-two years old. Though she looks friendly enough, and she's not dressed in the insane fashions the Capitolites favor, something about her posture reminds me of a soldier: alert and ready.
Our Reaping ceremony goes much, much more quickly than I would like it to, since we only have to watch the most recent video of the rebellion, and even that doesn't happen, since the video stalls halfway through and refuses to play. After a minute of two of various technical workers trying to get it to replay, Natasha Henderson orders Selma to pick the tributes.
Selma nods and goes over to the glass bowl that is labeled with a large red "F". I notice every girl in my section, me included, is holding her breath. Selma unfolds the paper.
"Minerva Sinclair!"
For a second, my mind freezes, too shocked to process what it has just heard. I can feel my lungs constricting, and spots begin to appear in front of my eyes. Then I see a couple peacekeepers start towards me, and I'm able to break out of my daze enough to head for the stage. Even though the walk is short, it seems long, and all I can think is, I don't know what to do, I don't know what to do. When I get to the stage, I shaking so much that I can hardly mount the steps. I can feel tears rising to my eyes as I approach Selma and my certain death, but I push them down because I want so, so badly to wait until I'm alone to cry.
Everything afterwards is a blur. I blurt my name into the microphone when Selma offers it too me, and I don't even notice when the male tributes is called up. I just stay frozen in place, sure of only one thing: my life will never be the same again.
If I manage to survive the Games.