District 11 Reapings

(Brooke Marlow and Cullen Hardom)

Brooke Marlow (15) - D11

The sun has barely risen over the orchard. The trees that stretch for miles outline against the pale sky. I watch the sky slowly light up leaning against the doorframe. The door fell off ages ago and the weather is always warm so we haven't fixed it yet. The cup of hot water that I hold steams in the chilly dawn air.

I turn away from the morning and into the dark house. I'm the only one awake. I like it that way. The only time to get any real peace is before anyone else wakes up.

A harsh blow of wind rattles the trees outside. I shiver as the gust blows through the door and the cracks in the rotting wood of our house. I walk around and tuck the blankets closer around my siblings' shoulders. Nerida and Rain and I share a bed in the farthest corner of the house. Dad and Eddy share the other bed and Dylan has a crib. I make sure all of them are tucked in tightly against the cold.

I decide to get ready for the reaping before they all wake up. I have to make them all breakfast. I go into the bathroom and brush my teeth and comb my long short, black hair. I put on jeans and a tank top. I quickly throw a hoodie on to keep warm and subtly hide my marred face. I look at myself in the mirror. I'm still not used to my face, even though the accident happened almost 3 years ago.

The roar. the screams. The tractor careening wildly through the field. Blinded by the sun. Why didn't I move sooner? I tried to stumble away, but I was too late. Pain eclipsed everything and I passed out. Next thing I knew, I was maimed for life. The limp, the crooked features, the constant pain that had turned into background noise. The dreams, the terror, the questions as to why.

"Brooke?"

I turn quickly to see 6 -year-old Rain staring up at me.

"I'm hungry."

I smile gently. "Of course. I'll start breakfast."

Soon the kitchen is full of my siblings and my father, who sits coughing every so often on his wooden chair. I set down a bowl of broth in front of him. He smiles weakly.

"Thank you, Brooke." He says softly and pats my hand.

I smile warmly and kiss his wrinkled forehead. I worry about him. He is so weak. How can he continue to work? I work a lot, but at 15, the jobs I get don't pay well.

I finish feeding my siblings and help them get ready for the reaping. I'm the only one old enough for the reaping, but everyone is required to come. The little ones put on the only clothes they have and run outside to enjoy their day off.

I smile at them as they join the other children on the dirt road, immediately beginning some game. I turn back to Dad who is limping to the bathroom.

"Dad," I stop him with a hand on his shoulder. "We have to go soon."

He nods. "Of course. Let me get dressed." I nod and begin to tidy up the house. The whole house is one big room, with one corner for sleeping, one for eating, and one for the door and the small bathroom. There isn't much to tidy up, but I like to do it anyway. I straighten the bed sheets and sweep the ever-dusty floor.

When Dad is ready, we all head out to the reaping. The sun is covered with clouds and the wind blows cold, but it's still pretty warm. I feel sweat begin to form under my arms. I don't care. I keep my head down as we trek to the District center.

Our little crew nears the square. There are so many children, starving and scrawny. They all gather with their parents outside of the ropes, while inside, equally hungry teens stare blankly at the stage. The whole scene is depressing and I focus my eyes on the ground again.

Dad points to the check-in table. "You should go." He says gently and squeezes my hand. There's very little strength, even in his hand squeeze. I smile sadly and walk away.

Once in my section, I continue to stare at the ground. It's simply dirt, with some cobblestones beneath it. I twiddle my hands inside of my hoodie's pockets. I want this to be over, so I can escape the sense of doom and misery that hangs over the whole place.

Cullen Hardom (17) - D11

The wind is chilly, but I don't care. The view up here is spectacular. The whole district seemed laid out before me. The orchards, the houses, the barns, the fields.

The trees brilliantly green leaves flutter around me in the wind, blocking out any other sound with their rustling. This has been my favorite spot to sit since I was little. It was the only place to truly escape. The perfect curvature of the branches made it the most perfect sitting space. I sigh happily as the dawn sun lights the horizon.

"Cullen!"

I look downwards to see Alma standing beneath the tree. Her blonde hair has blown into a poofy mess of curls and her blue eyes squint to look up at me.

"What are you doing?" She calls again.

I laugh. "Sitting. Care to join me?"

Alma puts one hand on her hip, the other shading her eyes, and shakes her head. She responds, but another gust of wind drowns out her voice. I assume it has something to do with the reaping. When I don't respond, she starts to climb up after me, her thin arms hiding more muscles that one would think.

She climbs up beside me and sits. "I am always amazed by the view." She says softly.

"Me too." I grin.

The wind blows again, blowing a bunch of her curly hair into my face.

I splutter and push it away. Alma laughs and tries to tame it with her hand. "Sorry," she says, though she hardly looks sorry. A smile lights up her face.

"Sure." I roll my eyes and she pushes me gently.

I grab quickly onto a branch to stop myself from falling. "You want me to die?" I ask with a disbelieving smile.

Alma laughs but quickly turns serious. "I'd never want you to die."

I'm somewhat surprised by her seriousness. "I wouldn't want you to die either."

She smiles, but I can see something is bothering her.

"You ok?" I push her hair out of her face.

She shrugs. "I hate reaping day. I'm always afraid that it will be someone I love."

I nod sadly. We all have that fear, though I wouldn't say that to her.

"It's ok to feel that way," I say and put my hand over hers. "We don't have to worry."

Alma doesn't pull her hand away from mine and I feel butterflies rise in my stomach. The flush that comes to my face is impossible to hide, so I turn my face towards the wind, attempting to make my face red naturally.

I would never tell Alma that I liked her. How could I? It would be so weird. Besides, she'd had boyfriends before and I'd had girlfriends, but we'd never been more than friends ourselves. Now, I was beginning to feel something for her. So faint it would be hard to tell what it was if I hadn't felt it before. But, I knew the feeling all too well. I'm falling for my best friend.

"We should go," Alma says and drops from the tree branch.

I take one more second to enjoy the view before I scamper down after her. I quickly ran to my house to get dressed. The house is practically falling apart. I've done all that I can to fix it up, but the house seems bent on wilting anyways. The stairs are crooked, the door gone long ago, and the holes in the boards are easy to pick out.

I run in and cheerfully wish my father a good morning.

Papa sits in a chair at the table, his eyes blankly staring at the wall. It's a normal stance for him. He looks up at me with his big brown eyes before staring at the wall again. He hasn't said a word since mother died.

Lincoln runs up to me and grabs my arm. "Come, come!" the excitement in his eyes is evident, so I follow without question. My little brother pulls me to the corner of the house where he has set up his art supplies. He has an easel that I made for him, and every week, the nice lady at the hospital gives him old sheets to paint on.

Lincoln coughs loudly. His whole body hunched over as horrific, throaty coughs shake his skinny frame. I quickly press on his back, steadying his shaking. After a moment, the coughs subside and Lincoln jumps back up.

"I want to show you what I painted."

I smile. "I always want to see your latest painting." I do my best to hide the fear that stirs in the bottom of my stomach. Lincoln is getting worse by the day.

Lincoln uncovers his canvas and I gasp. It's me, drawn in black chalk on the stretched-out sheet. The look in my eyes, the curve of my cheekbone, it's perfect.

"How did you…" I trail off, still surprised by the beautiful drawing.

"Do you like it?" Lincoln's eyes are bright and hopeful.

I sigh heavily. "I'm afraid it's quite hideous."

Lincoln's smile is enough to see that he knows that I'm joking. I ruffle his thin black hair and say, "It's one of the best things that you've made. Honest."

"You really think so?"

"Absolutely." I nod with finality. "You should show Papa, but hurry, we have to get to the reaping."

Lincoln trots off to drag Papa to the canvas. It's hard to believe that he's 15. He's the height of a 10-year-old, thin and frail as an old man, and has the bouncy energy of a toddler.

I go to my bed in another corner of our house and pull out my nicest outfit from under my bed. It's a simple black button-up and jeans. I check my curly black hair in the mirror before helping Lincoln get ready to go. As we're about to leave, Lincoln jumps up.

"I have something for you," he says and runs to his art corner. In a few seconds, he's back, wheezing and coughing lightly.

"It's a (cough) magnet (cough) for you (cough)."

I take the little magnet in my hand. It fits snugly in my palm and is painted with beautiful streaks and swirls of red, blue, and yellow.

"I love it Lincoln." I put it in the pocket of my jeans. I can feel the cold metal against the skin of my leg.

"I hoped you would." Lincoln smiles proudly, coughs once more, and leads the way out.

We arrive at the reaping square slightly breathless and much dirtier than when we left the house. The dust and chaff that flies in the wind gets everywhere. I lead Lincoln to the check-in table and help him through. He insists he doesn't need my help, but I stand with him anyway.

I walk with Lincoln until he is safely nestled in between two burly 15-year-olds. He looks annoyed and I wink at him. I then make my way over to my section. I look directly across the middle walkway and catch Alma's eye. I cross mine and make a silly face. I can't hear her laugh over the din of the crowd, but her eyes squint and she puts her hand over her mouth, a sign of her laughter. I can imagine that I can hear it if I close my eyes and block out the noise.

Brooke Marlow (15) - D11

The escort walks to the stage and the program begins. It was big enough to be a national holiday. Speeches and videos and finally, the reaping.

I keep my eyes angled downward. I'm afraid that if I look up, I'll get called out. My distorted face is probably enough to make the escort gasp even from the stage.

Our escort is a burly man with dark skin that's been tattooed with golden grain that glistens. His hair is spiky and the color of wheat and his eyes are unnaturally blue. Gosh, the escorts go all out for their district.

"Now, ladies first." The escort says with a grin. His teeth are whiter than the mayor's himself, which is saying something.

I brace, waiting for the name of a friend, someone I know, to be called to their death. Would I volunteer? The thought flashed across my mind. I could never. I have a family too, and I have to take care of them.

"Brooke Marlow."

My name echoes around the square with a scary finality. That can't have been me. There has to be someone else with that name. Someone should volunteer. Why won't anyone volunteer? Oh right, because they have families that need their help. But what about my family? What would Papa do?

I hardly feel my feet dragging me to the stage. The world is fuzzy and my eyes can't seem to focus. Neither can my brain. My life flashes before me. I was going to die.

No. I can't think that way. I still can't believe I've been reaped. Of every child in the district. But maybe, just maybe, I can make it back home again.

Cullen Hardom (17) - D11

A girl with a hoodie pulled closely around her face walks up to the stage. Slowly. Her feet drag. I feel sadness and pity hit me. We haven't had a victor in years upon years. What makes this year any different? The people make it different, and I'm sad to notice that she is no different than any of the past years' tributes.

"And now or the boys." The escort smiles broadly, like he's about to eat the most delicious meal in the world, and pulls out a name.

"Cullen Hardom."

I stare at the escort. Did he really just say my name? I begin to walk forward, trying to keep my face neutral. This was all on camera. No one would sponsor a boy who lost control. I start up the center aisle.

Suddenly, Lincoln jumps from his section, only to be tackled by a nearby peacekeeper. He's crying, screaming, yelling something. I can't hear him. All I can hear is the beating of my own heart. All I can see is a haze of color. I can, however, hear Lincoln's coughing fit. I turn away and half run, half stumble to the stage. I need to get away from the audience or I might lose it.

The escort motions me and Brooke together to shake hands. I reach out and shake her hand, which is cold and bony. I catch a glimpse of her face and inhale slightly. The little bit of her face that I saw was red and eroded looking. Her extremely dark eye is squinted shut and pinched at an odd angle.

She looks up at me before hiding her face again. I feel bad immediately for gasping. No one deserved that. As we are led into the justice building, I put my hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her. She tenses under my touch but doesn't try to move away from it.

I can hardly believe it. Two unsuspecting teenagers being led to their deaths. I never thought that the day would end up like this.

Hello friends! I hope that you enjoyed the latest addition to this story! I would like to thank FireDawn'd and AnnaDaCorgi for these two wonderful tributes! I also want to thank JStar14H, Marie464, and sherazade96 for your constant support and encouraging reviews. I read every single one and they all make me smile so much. Really, I appreciate your kind words and your insight into this story. If you are enjoying this, please leave a review! I love to hear from everyone what they are thinking! See you soon!