Reaping day has always been something of a joke in District Four. With more than enough potential tributes to ensure there is both a male and female volunteer each year, most of us go into the reaping safe in the knowledge that we will never have to be part of a game we have no intention of playing. Instead, the whole thing is treated like a party. A rare day off. The volunteers, who are always known in advance, are celebrated and lauded. Most people in the district conveniently ignoring the fact that at least one tribute will make their grand return to Four in a wooden box. More than likely, both will.
The sun wakes me that morning, purposely left open curtains allowing the light to pull me from my slumber. Usually, it would be my Father who wakes me, especially on a day like today. A natural early riser, he would come to my room with breakfast and gently ignore my protests as I fought for an extra few minutes of rest. Today however, he is on a boat. A last-minute sailing expedition that had demanded his immediate attention. Something to do with a potential lack of shellfish in the Capital. And just like that he had gone.
That is simply what happens here in Panem. The Capital demands, and we bend over backwards to provide.
My Father captains fishing boats. It is all I can ever remember him doing. He joined a crew at sixteen. An orphan, he had been determined to escape a life of poverty and the misery of the children's homes. The job means he's gone a lot. When I was younger this resulted in plenty of visits to the Turner's next door. Nowadays, it means I must sleep with the curtains open in order to wake myself up each morning, and spend my days pottering about an empty house.
A silent groan escapes my lips as the suns merciless rays pull me from a dreamless sleep. Dragging the sheet over my head, I allow myself a few extra minutes in bed before silent resignation kicks in. It's time to get up. Slipping my feet into slippers, I slowly make my way to the kitchen to start boiling water. Whilst we live in one of the wealthier areas of town, hot water is still a luxury few can afford. In fact, I doubt it exists anywhere but the Mayors house and the Victor's Village.
It takes some time to fill the bath, and another ten minutes whilst I wait for the water to cool. On other days perhaps I would have taken to the beach near our home or made a cup of herbal tea with seaweed whilst I waited. Coffee would have been preferable, but it is a luxury we rarely splurge on. Today however, I resort to sitting by the bathtub, gingerly testing the waters temperature every few minutes before finally deciding it's cool enough. Peeling off my nightgown and slippers, I grimace as I step into the water. It's still far too hot but I'm in now, and somehow getting out feels like an unnecessary effort. And so, I grit my teeth and slowly lower myself down into the boiling water.
Back in my room, I let the towel fall to the floor as I make my way to the small cupboard that holds my clothes. Hands reach instinctively for the nicest thing I own. A green dress, which falls just below the knees with delicate lace trim. It's not mine. It had belonged to my Mother, and when she had died giving birth to the twins who were meant to be my siblings, I had inherited it. It's only in the last year I've truly fit into it. The fabric's still a little loose around the bust, whilst simultaneously being too snug at the arms, but there is no denying its beauty.
Slipping the dress over my head, I set to work untangling the mass of knots that is my still damp hair before finally slipping a headband on to keep it out of my face. My hair will dry on the walk to the town centre. With a small sigh, I find myself staring hard at the mirror, lips pursed at my reflection. I'm not my Mother, who is as beautiful in photographs as she is in my distant memories, but it would have to do. Besides, it didn't really matter. The camera would focus on the poor soul who had to go through the discomfort of standing on the stage for a few short minutes before Delta Hayden, that years volunteer, would take her place. From that moment on the focus would be entirely upon the blond girl who had chosen to represent our district. The rest of us will be no more than a shoal of fish caught in a net, swimming awkwardly together in the confined space until finally we are released.
All efforts at making any last minute's adjustments to my appearance are put on hold as a knock at the door catches my attention. Huffing a final sigh of resignation, I hurriedly grab my shoes and clumsily pull them on as I made my way downstairs to the front door.
"Big day, Annie." The words are out of his mouth before I have fully opened the door, an excitement filling his tone that makes me want to frown, or maybe even break down and weep.
"It is." I say in return, trying to keep my smile from turning grim. Though the shift in his expression suggests I haven't quite manage the feat. "C'mon, let's go." I sigh, not wanting to get into a bickering contest I know I will lose. Murray had always been stubborn, even in childhood. But when it came to his volunteering for the games, he could turn downright mean.
Volunteering has always been a part of District Four. Children start training young and are whittled down until only two tributes remained each year. One boy and one girl. The names were known years in advance, and it is almost always these tributes that find themselves in the arena. Not every time though. A few years back, a brutish eighteen-year-old, Maxim, had been expected to represent the district. But just as he had volunteered, so had another boy. I can't remember much of what had happened, I had been near the back with the other thirteen-year-old girls and could barely see anything over the tops of the heads of those far older than me. But somehow, in the end, Maxim had been forced to return to his place amongst the crowd and Finnick Odair had taken the stage.
Finnick had won his games in the end. A rather resounding victory, in fact. Becoming the youngest victor in history through the help of a trident and a legion of adoring fans in the Capital. I can't help but wonder if Maxim would have enjoyed the same fate.
Still, it was one thing watching the volunteers happily accept what will likely be their imminent death and another thing entirely knowing your best friend is going to be one of them. Murray Turner is the closest thing I had to a brother. We laugh like sibling, we talk like siblings, we even fight like siblings. It is not a friendship forged in similarities. In fact, if we met nowadays I doubt we would be more than distant acquaintances. Instead, we are two people who have been forced together for such a long period of time that we can no longer imagine life without having to endure the other person. The thought of never seeing him again is shockingly painful to think about. Because while Murray is a model tribute. Tall and broad shouldered, who can throw a spear further than any of the men I've seen working on my Father's boat. He was still one of twenty-four people who are going to be fighting to survive.
And those odds are in nobodies' favour.
Hurrying out the door before Murray can say anything else, I make my way over to the rest of the Turner's, along with Alicia, Murray's girlfriend. She's already nineteen, and as a result is no longer forced to take part in the reaping like the rest of us. I can never quite tell how she feels about the boy she loves offering himself up to the Capital. Sometimes, she seems wholeheartedly supportive. Other times, I can see the glimmer of fear in her eyes when the subject is brought up.
Today, she has taken on the role of supportive girlfriend with ease. Her arm wraps briefly around Murray's shoulder before she reaches over to adjust my headband, pulling two still damp strands out to frame my face. "There you go." She says kindly, before turning her attention back to Murray who has slung an arm over her shoulder. I like Alicia. She's good for Murray. A reminder that not everything in his life has to be about the games. "Maybe you'll even get a few minutes of screen time, if you're lucky." She notes, an edge of sarcasm creeping into her voice which causes an involuntary smile to pull at the edges of my lips.
"Oh, here's hoping." I return with equal vigour. In fact, nobody except those who choose to volunteer want anything to do with screen time. Since being on screen all too likely means you're the poor soul whose name has been reaped. Expected to go to the capital if no-one volunteers to take your place.
In reality, since there is always someone to take your place, being chosen at the reaping simply means a few minutes of embarrassment whilst you momentarily panic that this years chosen tribute has forgotten they need to volunteer in order to relieve you from your certain death.
It is a relatively short walk to the town centre. The crowd has already started to gather and immediately something feels off. There is a nervousness in the air, especially amongst the girls. You can see them whispering hurriedly to each other, gazes moving quickly around the plethora of people in search of something. Murray gives me a questioning look before his shoulder's pull into a shrug. Whatever it is, I am sure we'll find out soon enough.
The goodbyes are short. I hug Mary and Ethan, Murray's parents' goodbye and then Alicia squeezes my hand gently. I suspect we're all going to need each other in the next few weeks. Finally, I pull Murray into a hug.
"Well, try not to embarrass yourself in front of the whole of Panam." I whisper in what I hope is a joking voice, though the lump in my throat demands to be felt and causes the last word to be choked out.
"Make me sound good when they come to interview you." He returns, though he is grinning stupidly at me. As if the entire thing is a joke. "Otherwise, I won't let you come visit me in the Victors Village."
"A true shame." I laugh slightly, though my eyes are now red and tears are finally threatening to spill over. Hastily, I wipe them. "I'll see you soon." And then I make my exit, heading towards the sign in area. Leaving the Turner's and Alicia to the real goodbyes. I may be a strange pseudo-sibling, but I'm not a real part of the family. Staying feels wrong somehow.
It takes less than ten minutes to get through the queue to register my name as being present. The woman doesn't bother to look at me and holding my now pulsing finger, I give a slightly awkward smile before making my way to the small area that holds the districts eighteen-year-old girls. As the oldest, we are at the very front. The ones who are most likely to be picked.
Usually there is a bored air to the group. We have been through the reaping so many times now, it has lost almost all effect on us. Today however, you can see the nerves clear on each persons' face as they hurriedly whisper to one another, eyes glancing to the glass ball which holds our names.
"What's going on?" I whisper, joining a small group of girls I sometimes sit with at school, eyebrows etched together in confusion. Clearly, I have missed something important.
"Delta's out." Penny, a tall blonde girl in a pretty pink dress whispers back. Her lips bare the remembrance of teeth marks, where nerves have caused her to bite down hard on her bottom lip.
"Something about her ankle." Adds Leila, as my gaze flickers over to the roped off area where the sixteen-year-old girls are held, trying to spot Delta in the crowd. Though the crowd is too thick, and they are too far away for me to pick out her face.
"Someone else will volunteer. There's always a volunteer." I say. The words are meant to be dismissive but even I cannot miss the edge of doubt that has crept into my tone. Because who is going to replace her? Whatever Delta has done to her ankle, the injury is recent. Maybe even from this morning. Was there enough time to ready another tribute? "Are you sure?" I ask. Rumours were known to spread like wildfire, especially with such a touchy subject. Maybe they're wrong.
"My Dad was the one who saw to her leg." Penny replied, and the distress is clear on her face. "He said she can barely put weight on it."
Then she is most definitely out. The games are brutal. Volunteering is always risky, but volunteering with an injury is basically the equivalent of tying the noose around your own neck.
There's barely time to register panic however, because within seconds the familiar sound of District Fours Mayor begins to echo around the city square. Televisions will be broadcasting him in crowded off streets, since only a very small section of the population can fit in the square, as well as in every household in Panem. Don't they get bored of it all? I know I am. It's the same speech every year, about the beginnings of Panem, and the dark days which followed, finally culminating in the Hunger Games. The way he explains it, you would think the games were a celebration, rather than twenty-four children fighting to the death.
And then it is Eilidh Gold's turn to take to the stage. She has been District Fours escort for as long as I can remember, though it is remarkable how little she ages. Her hair, her lipstick, her outfit. It is all the same obnoxious shade of bubblegum pink. It must be her favourite colour, because whilst the outfits and hairstyles change every year, the colour is always the same. Briefly, I can't help but wonder if I could ever be as devoted to something as Eilidh is to the colour pink. But then her hand is reaching into the glass bowl, and all I can summon is one selfish thought. Please don't let it be me.
The others react before I do, stepping away as if the air around me has turned suddenly toxic. Perhaps they think standing too close will somehow pass my death sentence onto them as well.
Because the name she has called is Annie Cresta.