AN: So, it's been years since I wrote the first chapter of this. I've most definitely improved in my writing and grammatical skills since then and wanted to give the story a stronger start. That being said, here's the newly updated and written story introduction!
District 9, Panem's "Bread-bowl", was never the most notable district. Filled with farmers and factory workers, the citizens were never well off, despite their work feeding the entirety of Panem. Unlike the careers of Districts 1 and 2, they did not always hold the Capitol's attention during the ever-anticipated annual Hunger Games. The 47th Games were no different than both years prior and years to come. Both female and male tributes fell, with little recognition to their fates besides that of the heartbroken families. Very little is known about the personal experience of a dead tribute, of course. Grain Garner was a destined loss, her story never to continue or ever be known.
For as long as I can remember, we were never an overtly strong, flashy, or outspoken district: never a winner in the eyes of the Capitol. The Reaping almost always proved a death sentence for us, just another pointless loss. The day before the 47th Reaping was like any other Reaping eve. The air around the sprawling farms and factories hung like smog with anxiety and fear, the endless fields of golden wheat and barley seemingly wilting like our tributes prior. The anticipation of the upcoming Hunger Games struck in the recent months, coming to a head on this very day.
I awoke before the sun rose, a daily occurrence for working-age children. Taking care to move quietly off my creaky, undersized bed, I rose to begin the day. In our rickety and weather-worn house, twilight peaked through the sun-faded curtains. I gazed at my little brother, Flax, sleeping peacefully, light shining on his face amidst the small, dim room. I couldn't help but envy his simple worries, the upcoming Reaping present in my mind. A muffled noise outside alerted me that my parents had already begun their workload for the day.
Ignoring the grumbling of my stomach, I bypassed the small loaf of bread on our table. I was too worried to eat. I guess everybody was: no one wants to lose a member of the family. Who am I to criticize the Capital, though? Being overheard by a Peacekeeper is a fate just as bad as the games. By the time I'd left the house and approached our acres of crop fields, I was alone: my parents already long gone into the depths of their harvesting. I guess it helped ease their nerves. They've changed since my cousin was chosen in the prior games: we all have. Trying to put aside my nerves, I gathered my rakes, shovels, and hose. After all, who was I without our grain?
The sun was long since down when we all returned to our home. We were covered in dirt and leaves, a sensation we're always known. No amount of never-ending toil could take away my mother's lulling voice or the twinkle of life in my father's eyes. I hope it's something I'll know for a long time to come. We were never the most talkative family, but our usual silence was soon broken.
" I washed your Reaping dress for tomorrow." said my mother, Barley.
Swallowing my small serving of bread and meat, I looked up and nodded, appreciating the little conversation that broke me from my thoughts. We ate in silence, except for the small giggles from Flax. My father, Barley, was moving his small portion of bread around like a train. I smiled, pushing the fear of tomorrow behind me. An uneventful day was all I could have asked for.
None of us slept that night. Who could with the impending sense of doom? Someone was going to be chosen today. One of our district's children was going to die. I scrubbed intently at my body and under my nails, removing all the caked mud and plant-matter off my work-tanned freckled skin. I could hear my mother trying to wrangle Flax into his nicest clothes as I roughly ran a brush through my long dull hair. I looked at the Reaping dress that my mother had carefully cleaned, ironed, and laid out. It still fit after all these years, our constant labor and lack of food meant many of us were quite short. The dress was a pale ivory and baby blue gingham with a beautiful blue bow at the waist. Smoothing out the uncomfortably starched collar, I pulled my golden hair into a tight braided bun. My hair is my namesake, as yellow as the fields of grain we grew. It wasn't perfectly shiny or sleek like the girls I see from the Capitol, but it was who I was. Tying my hair off with a deep blue ribbon, I began to polish my worn work boots.
The time had come for us to leave for the reaping. My parents looked more exhausted then I had ever seen them, the smiles that did not meet their eyes there only for Flax and my sake. We walked in silence to the square, our hands clasped together, holding on with white knuckles. As we approached where the Reaping was held, the loud chatter of District 9 citizen filtered in. Peacekeepers stood like statues; the whole scene ordered as perfectly as our rows of crops. We stopped before the line of other children. My father gently clasped my shoulder and I leaned my head into his arm.
"You'll be fine my little oat. You aren't their tribute." He soothed.
I smiled at the nickname as he turned and took Flax from my mother's arms. She was a woman of few words, so it was no surprise when she silently enveloped me into a warm hug. Her eyes were filled with warmth as she ruffled the top of my hair and kissed the top of my head. As she turned away, I gently took my brother's hands and grinned at him, hoping his kind smile would never go away. After our possible goodbyes were said, I turned shakily on my heel and entered the line of potential tributes.
We stood like soldiers separated by gender and age group. There was little a whisper, all of us caught up in our own thoughts. My gaze darted around me, trying to pick out my family amidst the crown of adults and young children, hoping it would bring me some comfort. It seemed like days before the last of the children filed in, and the Reaping was about to begin. The sharp sound of heeled shoes on a stage broke the silence. A woman with shocking, milk-white skin emerged from the depths of the square building. She was as thin and tall as a stalk of barley with glowing magenta eyes and silky midnight blue hair styled in impossible waves. Her outfit was beyond anything I had ever seen, and I couldn't even find the words to describe it. Capital fashion will forever be a mystery to me. I was jolted back into reality as I heard her footsteps stop at the microphone. In a shrill, tinny voice, the ever-hated dialogue began.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," the woman paused, playing up the anticipation for the cameras.
"Today is the day we choose 24 tributes, 2 from each district, for the 47th annual Hunger Games. One name will be chosen randomly from all citizens aged 12 through 19. I wish you all great luck, and our victors will be decided after this message from our honored President Snow."
After the explanation, if it could even be called anything but propaganda, played, we had all gone pale. The air buzzed with fear, and the youngest looked close to tears. The striking Capitol woman began to speak yet again, her words grasping my attention.
"We will begin by choosing our female victor of District 9." Her voice rang out with plastic cheer.
As she lowered her perfectly gloved hand into the gilded glass bowl, I held in my breath, sweating through my stuffy dress. Her hand lingered for never-ending minutes until I saw the muscles in her arm grasp something. As she slowly pulled out a pristine slip of paper, we were all on edge. Unfolding the piece of paper with as much care as planting a seed, I grew even more anxious. The drawn-out dramatics would have been irritating if I wasn't so scared. Looking down at the name, she brought the microphone close to her perfectly painted bright purple lips.
"Congratulations Ms. Grain Garner!" the woman exclaimed with a blindingly white smile.
It took a minute for the name to hit me, but it eventually did like a ton of bricks. I saw everyone in attendance look around with morbid curiosity as who was the first victim. The crowd of girls around me cleared, leaving my trembling body in direct view of the Capitol nightmare.
"Will Ms. Grain Garner please step up here?" she grinned as she spoke.
I slowly scurried up to the stage, mind blank and unsure of my footing. Trembling like a flax flower in the wind, I climbed the steps of the stage, taking my place next to the blue-haired lady. She turned to me and shook my hand before returning to her place at the microphone stand. I looked out, trying to pick out my parents in the crowd yet again, heart sinking as I saw their grief-stricken faces. Flax didn't know the severity of the situation, as he waved to me in a silent giggle. I quickly looked at the ground, not wanting to cry on camera. It barely occurred to me that she had begun to draw the name of the male tribute until I heard her clear her throat daintily.
"Congratulations to our final tribute Rye Dixon." She chimed, carefully placing the name back into the bowl.
I barely knew Rye Dixon, only seeing him by the processing factory near our house. He was much older than me at 17 years old. His skin was pale from days spent inside the processing plant, but he was well-muscled from the physical labor. His auburn hair and grey eyes made him stand out amongst the crowd, and he walked with what I could assume was false confidence up to the stage. He planted himself on the other side of the capital woman, flashing a grimace/smile combination to the crowd. The capital women grasped both of our wrists and raised them up.
"Congratulations Ms. Grain Garner and Mr. Rye Dixon. It's time to do your district and all of Panem proud!" she exclaimed in her tinny dramatic voice.
As she turned gracefully and trotted off the stage in her impossibly high heels, we were ushered off the stage by Peacekeepers into the square building. My death sentence was signed at that very moment.
Wow, I haven't written a Fanfiction chapter in YEARS! It feels so good to write again! I'm hoping I can continue this story in the future! I do hope my memory about the Hunger Games served me right after all of these years! If you have any feedback, please let me know! Thank you again for reading, and don't be afraid to review!