"Finch, look at me."

I was laughing and so was he and we were all sunshine and daisies in the meadow and messy hair and white teeth.

"Finch, look at me." I mocked, picking the little yellow daisies and fashioning them into a chain. "Shut up."

A handful of grass landed in my hair and on my lap. "Watch it."

"You watch yourself." I laughed, picking the green blades out of my red hair.

He sat up and our eyes connected. "Seriously, Finch," The smile faded from my lips. Smile off, mask on. That's the way it always was. "Watch yourself today."

I got up and placed the finished crown of daisies on his head. "You too."

I walked away. I hated him for bringing it up. It was best to just pretend they didn't exist. That we didn't have to be in the square at twelve o'clock. That two families weren't going to be pulling their shutters tight tonight.

I attempt to remain as upright as I can while being cut off from my mother and directed to an already large group of other fifteen-year-old girls. Since I don't really know any other girls my age, I try to find something to make myself look busy with. I opt for inspecting my fingers, the index of which still throbbing from the recent blood withdrawal.

I take on the task of trying to exude a sense of bravery behind the frantic thoughts inside my head, thoughts of the unthinkable; although I am really trying to make myself believe I'm not afraid more than anything other. Hell, I am every year.

Our Capitol escort, a thin thing whose name always manages to escape me –Pansy? Panda? I have no idea– rises from her seat on the makeshift stage and makes strange, tiny hops until she's adjacent to the microphone. Voluminous turquoise hair stands tall above her head. What a contrast! The district's citizens appear awfully bland when beside Capitolites. Her satin blue skin glows golden in the daylight and her metallic green eyeliner makes her iridescent eyes sparkle with excitement. Of course she was excited; today was the reaping.

This morning my mother and I had carefully unpacked my reaping dress, the same one I wear every year; a sour yellow thing that she had also worn to her reapings when she was younger. The fabric had now faded to a paler shade and was covered in a thin layer of dust, which my mother cautiously wiped away with her wrinkled and sun-beaten hands. I don't know why she's so fond of that stupid thing. Bound to that dress had to be nothing but fear and loathing, as she herself had stood tight before a stupid little escort, praying she wasn't reaped. I feel nothing but resentment when I catch a glimpse of that stupid yellow.

When the dress was on, my mother had laced a worn, brown leather bracelet around my wrist. I analysed it for the fourth year in a row, the small '5' still hanging proudly from the band, lightning bolts still carved into the dulling metal. District Five, power. Did she honestly think a little sentiment as such would keep me safe?

I was small and shaking and twelve years olds.

"Please. Wear it. It kept me safe for seven years. It will keep you safe, too." She had muttered.

It was my first reaping; I had taken the simple token with such gratitude. How stupid could I have been? In the Hunger Games, nothing can protect you. Nobody is safe, and anybody can be killed.

Three years later she stands, straightening the dress and pressing a kiss to my forehead.

That despicable Capitol accent abruptly ends my thoughts.

"Welcome, welcome everybody! Happy Hunger Games! Before we begin the excitement, I introduce your mayor for a quick speech!"

Everybody begins murmuring as Mayor Bolton takes to the stage, greets us, and begins to recite the same passage each mayor is made to deliver to their district each year. The Treaty of Treason. I swear, I can recite the entire thing from memory by now. He clears his throat and everybody shuts up.

The speech is about the rebellion of the thirteen districts of Panem against the Capitol's system. A simple system really; we do what we are supposed to do and they leave us alone. With their advanced weaponry and insane medical knowledge, the Capitol's victory was imminent. But the rebels fought long and hard for a tiny thing called freedom. What nobody saw coming was the obliteration of District Thirteen. When the Capitol ended the rebellion, they birthed an annual Hunger Games to remind us of how completely we are at their mercy. That because of the grave effects their actions had on us, who knows what they could do to us or our children in the future?

During the Hunger Games, a boy tribute and a girl tribute is elected from each of the twelve districts to fight to the death against the twenty-two other competitors until a solitary victor remains standing. After you win, you are bathed in luxury, and every month for the rest of the year, your district will receive packages of food and supplies. You even get a new house in a special part of town called the 'Victor's Village'. Worth it, right? Worth the slaughter of twenty-three children every year? Not really.

Our escort strides across the platform in her deadly heels -She could poke an eye out with one of those things, I swear- to one of the large, shiny glass balls containing thousands of slips. Thousands of slips all labelled with the names of the children in District Five. Eight of which would have my name penned across them.

"Ladies first, shall we?" she chirps, far too brightly for such an occasion.

Her cheeriness is most likely false. I can just see her, desperate to get promoted to a better district. One with more hype about the reaping. One that actually gets volunteers and victors. One like District One, Two or Four. Here in Five, we call those tributes the Careers.

Her perfectly manicured fingers dance around the inside of the glass ball before gently selecting a slip of paper, scraped from the very bottom. Holding up the slip like a prize, she does her strange little walk back to the microphone to announce the female tribute from District Five.

Those are some killer heels. Forget the games, she could kill enough people with those things on their own. I think it would make more sense to refer to her walk as a hop, too. She mildly resembles some kind of little blue furred rabbit, the way she hops about in her little heels and puffy hair. Just as I am thinking this, I actually take notice of the name she has just called.

A couple of people are looking at me and I'm seriously wondering if the world has stopped. My heart certainly has. There's no mistaking the lucky tribute she's selected for the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games. That's because it's me.

Just my luck.


First chapter down. Thanks to anybody who takes the time to read this x x