Disclaimer: sadly, I do not own the Hunger Games

Johanna's Games: Strategy for Survival

The clouds calmly sprinkle rain as I sprint back towards home. I overstayed my time in the woods and my mother will be anxious when I return, like she always is. I can picture her face, the one so similar in appearance to mine, plastered with worry and panic. She will probably scold me for making such a huge mess of myself from spending so much time in the woods this morning. She still treats me like the young child my features make me seem. She worries about me too much, but I know her intentions are good. She worries about me simply because the world we live in is not kind, nor merciful. She worries about me simply because I am all she has.

I try not to be callous about my mother; she is one of the only things I truly care for. It is just her and me in our little family. My entire life I have been raised without a father. Only recently did my mom enlighten me on why it's been like this. When she was only sixteen, the same age as I am now, she became pregnant with me. One would think people would take pity on a pregnant teenager, but being with child out of wedlock was one of the most disgraceful acts anyone can do. My grandparents tried to look beyond that and support her anyways, for the little time they could. Things were financially tight as it was for them, and adding a child into the equation things just couldn't add up. Eventually my mom was on her own raising me.

Raising a child in Panem is a difficult job, especially being barely seventeen. She tried her best though, yet for the longest time we had no money; we could barely afford to eat. In attempt to make life easier on us both, I have spent the last eight years working with the lumberjacks. Its hard work, but money is money and that helps feed and support my mother and I. I do not resent the work. In fact, I have actually grown to like it. The swing of an axe and the rhythmic art of chopping trees calms me.

These thoughts jumble inside my head as my legs begin autopilot. They steer me through the woodland I am proud to claim as my district. I belong here in the wooded forests.

I have overheard people from elsewhere call District 7 a horrible place to live, having very little sunshine and the constant rain. But here, in District Seven, this is where I truly belong. The smell of cedar sap, the deep greens from nature all year long provided by evergreens, the smoothing cleanses rain brings to my sanity; these were all things I am accustomed to. I couldn't live anywhere else—not that I have a chance to anyways.

I can feel the angst rising in the atmosphere. It must be nearing time now. I continue hurrying towards the tiny cabin I consider my house. It doesn't seem like much, but just like my district, it is my home and I seem to belong here.

Exhaling the breath I had unknowingly held captive, reluctantly I change into my finest outfit. The long sleeve pale pink dress practically swallows me. It once belonged to my neighbor's daughter, and after she was reaped years ago, they had given it to me. The dress reminded my neighbors of their lost daughter, and they couldn't stand the memories associated with the fabric I now wore. I, myself, find the thought that only a few years ago our now deceased district tribute wore this very same dress very distressing. But dresses are so expensive, and money is much better spent on luxuries such as food.

I ingest my resentment and unenthusiastically observe myself in my mother's small mirror. I have to admit, the dress was beautiful, and its beauty was seeping into my pores. The dress enhanced my petite structure. It only extenuated my childlike features; which consequently made me, even more than normal, appear years younger than I truly am –not necessarily a bad thing, but definitely not a good thing on Reaping Day. The only aspect in my attire that hinted towards my real age, beside the pain well hidden within my deep puppy like eyes, was my mid-back length hair rushing over my chest and back in swooning waves. If it weren't for the occasion, I may have actually enjoyed this moment.

Any faint trace of admiration from that instant vanished as I returned to the entirety of the situation. It was Reaping Day. My name had a likelihood of being chosen from the glass bowl. If I was chosen, I would have to return, for my mother, for Scout, for Laurel, for myself. Not returning wasn't an option. Losing was not an option- Losing was a death sentence; the entire Games were a death sentence.

I position myself beside Laurel within the sixteen's grouping. The ceremony was about to commence. I halfheartedly listened to our mayor's words as he read the same story as he had years and years before. The only motivation I had for listening was a feeble attempt to prolong the calling of someone's name- but no matter how long you delay death, it will eventually come.

My efforts to extend the breathing of an unknown person in this crowd were crushed when our district's escort, Melody Exel, began her peppy-Reaping-Day-garbage. I ignored her; she was the image of everything wrong within the system, although she probably had little to actually do with what was truly wrong, but no one can help but be resentful towards anyone who finds entertainment from the Games. I focused on her off-putting apparel rather than on the name she was calling. Her useless noise is drowned out by my thoughts when a nudge thrusts me back into my horrible reality. Nothing makes sense as my body shuts off. The only thought swirling in my once full head is: that's my name she called.

By calling my name, Melody caused an avalanche inside me that rapidly swallowed me whole. Breathing seems to be a difficult task; anything else is not even comprehensible. I was just reaped. My mother's worst nightmare just came true. My own worst nightmare just did too. I am powerless to the desperate fear swelling inside my chest. Hot tears make an appearance in my brown eyes.

Stay Calm. Don't seem weak; people at the Capitol want a warrior, not a weakling.

Moments from earlier begin replaying inside my mess of a brain "'I would act scared out of my mind, a weakling. Wouldn't have to do much acting, you know.'" I stopped suppressing all emotions at the recall of my own words. I let the pain immerge in the form of tears.

In the short time it took to arrive by Melody, I became a walking mess. Being nearly a foot shorter than the Capitol escort helped me seem even more useless than I appeared, but it cannot compete with how useless and helpless I feel inside right now. A wail escaped my throat when I noticed even the bubbly Capitol woman felt pity for me. My pleading eyes captured her pity, and possibly others from the Capitol with a conscience, but pity wasn't enough. Pity wouldn't save me from the Games. Pity wouldn't ensure my life. Pity wouldn't bring me back to Laurel, to Scout, and to my mom. Pity would bring me nothing but despair. Pity would only bring me a false sense of security. If my plan for survival is to be effective, I will have to secretly be ruthless as well as outwardly weak.