Chapter 11 - District 11 Reapings

Name: Taz Zoya

Age: 17

District: 11

The soft music of the lotus wood flute flows around me as I play softly, my fingers finding the right positions easily on the body of the instrument. I am sitting beneath a tree in the orchard, partially obscured from the world around by the small hollow I'm curled in, my curly cinnamon tinted brown hair helping to hide one side of my face. It's early morning and I'm in the fields, the only place I can really get the most peace to play. And the only time I have free, life in District 11 is work-geared and busy, with long hours in the fields. It's nice to have this freedom to play alone.

I finish the piece and look up at the slowly rising sun, casting rays of light across the darkened fields. It's chilly, but not cold enough to have to wear a coat today. It looks around seven in the morning, plenty of time to get back home and ready for the Reaping. I shiver on reflex, and tell myself it's just the chill of the acrid morning air getting to my smooth dark skin.

I consider staying here a little longer, play another few songs, but decide against it. My family will be waking up around now, and they might need me for getting ready. Not that there's any shortage of adults in my family. But there's a vague ache in my stomach which I attribute to hunger. I am not that familiar with the concept, luckily. My family is quite rich by District 11's standards, and I've only ever gone properly hungry once, during the year when the frost got to the corn three years ago. Most people in District 11 are well below the poverty line, but we sit quite comfortably above it, part of only a handful of families that are well off in the large and difficult district.

I get to my feet, feeling the muscles protest in my legs. I'm quite a fast runner, and I could make it home in no less than four minutes if I ran, but somehow I don't really want to hurry. I enjoy not being around other people, I'm better on my own. I guess I'm quite a hot tempered person really, easily provoked and quite snarky and vulgar in my speech when I do speak. Because of this I tend to be quite quiet and reserved to avoid unnecessary confrontation. Even when I do get into a fight I usually plot silent revenge instead of immediately retaliating. It's not one of my better traits but it's one I'm stuck with unfortunately.

So i take my time walking home, almost strolling across the fields as the sun rises in the east behind me. It's the one time I'm not reprimanded for not being the ideal child like my two older siblings, the one time I can be myself. When I finally make my way through the back door of my small home into the kitchen my mum is already making breakfast. Lara is sitting at the table brushing out Basil's short brown hair for her. Taylor is probably already up and out collecting firewood. The trouble with my family is that Lara and I have almost a twenty year age gap, she's 36 and has a daughter already, thirteen year old Basil. Taylor is a little younger, he's 29, but still twelve years older than me.

I tend to be closer with my parents than my two older siblings really, which I know may be strange. But I am quite close with my niece as well, since she sees me more of a big sister and less of an auntie normally. Plus we look quite alike, we both inherited the same petite body with wide light brown eyes and curly brown hair.

I smile a small smile at her as I come and sit down opposite her and Lara. My older sister, as usual, doesn't take much notice of me, she's focused on brushing out Basil's short chin-length hair that somehow never seems to grow longer than around her jawbone, unlike Lara's shoulder-length curls.

"Hey Basil," I say.

"Hi Taz." My name is actually Teresa, but no one actually calls me that. It's always Taz, or variations of it. I like it that way, it's more unique and less girly. I often call Basil Baz as a continuation of that.

"Looking forward to the Reaping?" I ask with a hint of dry sarcasm in my voice.

As always, Basil doesn't pick up on my sarcasm and she shakes her head a little, being careful not to shake it too vigorously for fear of my sister's wrath as she's brushing her hair. "I don't like the Reaping much Taz."

"Don't think anyone really likes the Reaping, Baz," I tell her. "'Part from the Career districts who love it for some reason."

Basil looks a little confused. "If no one likes it why do they do it?"

I shrug. It's a good question. "God knows. Revenge or a warning or something."

"The Capitol has its reasons," adds in my mother, bringing over some bowls of warm porridge and setting them before us.

"What reason is that then?" I ask in slight annoyance. "Good enough reasons to justify slaughtering twenty three kids every year?"

"Apparently," answers my mum. That's what I like about my mum, she understands my annoyance more than most people do so is able to talk to me easier.

"Hurry now," instructs Lara to Basil. "The Reaping' s in two hours and you want to look pretty."

"Who needs two hours to get ready for an event that we all hate?" I ask despite myself.

Lara flashes me an exasperated look. "Those who actually care about what they look like."

A bit harsh, I think, but I decide not to say anything in retaliation. It wouldn't be a great idea. Basil looks like she wants to point something out as well, but at Lara's look she doesn't say anything. Our eyes meet for a second and I know that we're not as different as we may seem. With Lara for a mum I'm surprised she turned out as normal as she did. Lara ushers her out of the room, with Basil still eating her porridge with one hand around the warmed bowl.

"Are you getting changed?" Mum asks.

"Don't think so. I don't see the point of getting all fancied up for the Reaping."

"Good point," Mum concedes with a smile. "I don't know what Lara sees in it."

I shrug. "I never know what Lara sees in anything."

Mum chuckles softly and after a moment I join in a little. It feels nice to laugh freely with my mum.

"You had better go and wash anyway," Mum tells me when I finish my porridge. "Just because it's the Reaping doesn't mean you can forego basic hygiene needs."

I roll my eyes but get up anyway, not wanting to annoy my mum. She's the only one who's really fun to chat to in my family apart from Basil. And I don't want to ruin that.

I'm standing at the edge of the crowd in the seventeen year old section, feeling annoyed and aggrieved at all the loud obnoxious chatter and shoving even between the girls. Other people my own age tend to annoy me more than older people do, I guess because I've grown up with four adults in my household I've got used to their behaviour.

"Welcome to the Reapings!" says a woman on-stage. She doesn't look massively enthused about the whole thing. She's probably new, and has been put on one of the worst districts. But she's trying, her unnaturally large lips stretched in a smile. She's not messing about either with silly excitement and saying things like 'isn't it amazing?' or 'it's going to be a great year this year.' She knows she's not in a Career district and we won't get enthused about it. Best just to get it over with. "The female tribute will be..." She moves over to the bowl and reaches her hand in, picking out a small slip of paper with someone's name written on it inside.

"Basil Zoya!"

Instantly I'm stepping forward, calling out my niece's name, calling out 'I volunteer!' loudly. I know even without looking at Basil that she'll be terrified, paralyzed with fear. And I owe it to Lara to volunteer, even if we don't often see on the same page. Because I'm the only one who could possibly help Basil now. By sacrificing myself.

And I know without a doubt that it's the right thing to do when I see Basil sniffing on the front row gazing up at me.

Name: Tomas Sansley

Age: 13

District: 11

I'm standing at the edge of the large town square, leaning on the crumbling stone wall. I see blank faced Peacekeepers walking around setting up the cords that will separate the sections of male and female by age in the Reaping in just over an hour's time. There's not many people around at this time, a few kids like me milling around partially obscured by shadow, but most kids will be home with their families. Having fun, probably eating enough and with both parents. Happy. Content.

But not me.

I sniff and pull my thin oversized shirt closer because of the cold air that is biting into my skin. My messy black hair is falling in my eyes and absently I brush it back from my forehead, not caring about what I look like really. The Reaping is never something to celebrate to me. We're in District 11, one of the poorest districts. Who would like the event that takes people away?

I'm quite glad there's barely anyone around. I have had a history of being bullied and getting into fights with kids at school when I occasionally go. I seem to be able to get into trouble easily with teachers and even strangers if they happen to set me off. Overall, I'm not well-liked in the district, so I try to stay out of people's way most of the time.

Unfortunately there's a reason for my constant fights and people not liking me. I suffer from intermittent explosive anger disorder, which often results in outbursts of impulsive, violent behaviour which I can never seem to help. I often feel remorse later for what I've done when I lose control, especially to my dad who has to put up with it. But every time I try to control my explosive temper, it never works out. Deep down, I do want to be nice and do the right thing, but my pride always gets the better of me in the end. I find it very hard to ignore even the slightest slight against me from anyone.

If there's one thing that is even more powerful than my disorder sometimes, it's that I'm very loyal, so any insult to someone I care about will not be forgiven. Can not be forgiven. Unfortunately, there's not so many people that I care about any more. They've all been hurt by me or I've ruined our relationship in some way.

Every day I'm also heavily burdened with the guilt of being the reason my mother left my father when I was younger, which led to our current destitute state of living. We used to be fairly well off, my dad had a good job and we were at a good status in the district. Dad was happy as well, back then. Maybe I was too. My mother left our family back when I was seven because she didn't want to have to deal with my disorder. She had just discovered about my anger bursts and she had a big argument with Dad about it. Bennet, my dad, has tried to handle my anger on his own, not wanting me to be pulled out of school to work or, even worse, sign up for tesserae. This year, though, I signed up secretly, wanting to help out while not under the influence of my anger. Dad doesn't know. And it's gonna stay that way.

So now I only have my father left. It's assumed my mother is somewhere in the district, but I haven't seen her since she left six years ago. I don't want to see her. She decided she couldn't cope with my disorder so I won't be seeing her any time soon, even if she does miraculously return from the depths of the district. My father is very nice, loving and caring, but I don't see much of him any more as Dad is always out working to try and support the family. What's left of it. He's also a very meek and quiet man, so he sometimes finds it hard to deal with me when I'm angry. I'm sorry for that, and I do tell him that when I'm calm. But there's nothing I can really do barring very expensive Capitol treatment, which, let's face it, I'm not gonna get.

I stretch out my scrawny thin limbs, passing a hand over my face. Sunken cheeks, dark skin, an uneven nose, dark dark brown eyes that are very nearly black, resulting in a stare that unnerves a lot of people. The bridge of my nose has an ever-present bump from when I broke my nose in a past fight almost a year ago. Without proper medical treatment it healed off-centre in the wrong place, so I am left with an uneven nose. I'm also often seen bearing less permanent marks from various scuffles, such as bruises and cuts. They occur far too often to be less than regular, so I don't even question the dark purple bruises all over my body any more. I've spent most of my life fighting with only my fists, so I'm used to it. Unfortunately.

"Oy! The Reaping' s starting soon!" yells a Peacekeeper right in my face. I resist the very powerful urge to hit him in the face and instead bow my head, a technique that breaks my scary eye contact and sometimes helps with the fury. Dad taught me it a few months ago. Peacekeepers don't like me, for obvious reasons. I've been in trouble with them more than once before.

He points to the sections, which are now neatly sectioned off with red rope attached to sticks lodged in the ground. I head towards the one marked 'thirteen years old' and 'male' where already I hadn't noticed people beginning to congregate in the areas. The sun is now high in the sky and I know it must be nearly nine. Not long to wait now.

I get some dirty looks from some of the boys in my school but no one dares to confront me with the Peacekeepers prowling with their icy stares around the square. Plus I'm feeling pretty calm right now, which is unusual when I'm in a group of people my age. Maybe it's because I avoided hitting that Peacekeeper before.

It turns out we don't have to wait long. People suddenly begun to stream into the square in large groups, filling the sections to bursting point and pressing us closer and closer together. The familiar feeling begins to come back into my fists which are tingling, and I press them down by my sides. Not now. I don't need this now.

And then the Capitol woman climbs onto the elevated platform. She looks a little more normal than some have at the Reapings, with large lips and yellowish dyed hair. She's new, I don't think we've seen her before.

"Welcome to the Reaping!" A pause while she heads over to the female tribute bowl. She isn't messing around, which I like. "The female tribute will be... Basil Zoya!"

I don't recognise the name, but someone evidently does. The girl who shouts her name, along with 'I volunteer!' A murmur goes through the crowd; volunteers are less than infinitesimal in District 11 normally. But occasionally there's someone who volunteers for a family member, like now, I assume.

"So what's your name?" the woman asks the older girl on-stage. She looks oddly calm, with a set look that is neither a smile or a frown.

"I'm Taz Zoya."

"Did you volunteer for your sister?" the Capitol woman asks kindly.

The girl shakes her head. "My niece."

"Oh, okay. Give it up for Taz, everybody!" There's some vague clapping from the audience, then the woman gestures for Taz to stand back and she goes over to the male tribute bowl. "The male tribute will be..."

When I hear my name I expect my anger to take over immediately, for me to snap straight away. But oddly enough, I don't. It's kind of like a out of body experience, I feel faint and confused. Very unlike me.

Then I hear the first nasty laugh.

They all start moments later, the people that I know from school cackling horribly, laughing at me. Laughing at the fact I'm gonna die.

That's when I snap.

I think I rage. I think I scream. I think I yell and shout and kick and shove. I know the Peacekeepers come for me, drag me to the stage, force me to stand while they hold me up. I know I fight them the whole time. But I don't remember much else about it.

But I know I'm going to die in the Hunger Games.