Prospectives

I awake with a start; the memory of my nightmare still flashing before my eyes.

I hear a footstep creak against the floorboards of my room, and a sigh gushes out from between my lips, "Get out of my room Stelson," I say wearily, without even opening my eyes. I don't need to; Stelson is very predictable.

"How did you know that it was me?" he whines grumpily.

"Because it's always you," I mutter under my breath, finally opening my eyes and surveying the boy who stands in my room. I glance over at his familiar shaggy blonde hair, and skinny frame that has come from spending a lifetime residing within the Community Home. Ever since I arrived here six years ago he has followed me around like a dog. A dog that refuses to leave me alone no matter how badly I might treat it.

"I said, get out," I snap at him impatiently, glancing over at my clock and wincing as I see the time. "It's 6 in the morning, idiot. What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to surprise you," he mutters, his eyes remained trained on the floor as he explains this to me, "I thought I would come and wish you good luck before anyone else did."

How bloody thoughtful. I don't think that luck will do me any good in this case. I've been waiting for my name to be called out for five years now. It's either today, or a year today.

"Nerine!" he bursts out, practically stomping his feet against the floor as his tantrum threatens to erupt, "aren't you happy? You were supposed to be happy that I'd woken up extra early, and snuck into the girl's dorms. Even the night guard didn't see me," he finishes, his chest swelling proudly.

"Well done," I say heavily, it's not like she'll be passed out somewhere, completely oblivious to anything that happens within the Home. "Now, can you please leave me alone?"

"But I'm scared." You really wouldn't believe that this kid was fourteen years old. I would've thought that growing up in the Community Home would have hardened him somewhat, but clearly that can't be true. Otherwise he wouldn't spend all his time hiding so that the older kids don't spot him.

He doesn't do himself any favours by hanging around me though. The boys in this home are very... masculine, and so, to them, spending all of your time with a girl is about the most emasculating thing that you can do.

"What are you scared of?" I demand impatiently. What can he possibly be scared of now? I've lost count of the many times that he has visited my room in the late hours of the night, distressed by some nightmare or other.

I don't know why he latched onto me in the first place. I must be the least maternal person in this place. The girl who I shared a room with before I reached seventeen and was given my own was called Rosa and she's the one who all the little kids normally gravitate towards. Because she'll give them a wide smile, and share her rations with anyone who looks too skinny. Maybe I should send Stelson in her direction.

"I had a nightmare," he tells me, his eyes filling up with tears as he speaks.

Another one? I'm often woken up by my nightmares in the middle of the night – nightmares filled with images of syringes and dark nights where reality seems to be suspended and you can't trust that anything is real – but I keep it to myself.

"What was it about this time?" I reply heavily, letting him know clearly how I feel about him turning up in my room to spout his problems into my ears. Yet again.

He sits down on the edge of my bed, curling his legs gingerly underneath him and turning to face me with wide dark eyes that are filled up with fear. "I dreamt that I got reaped and then I was in the arena," he stumbles over his words slightly as he tells the story of his dream, "it was this big swampy place. And there were loads of those lizard things... the ones that Prius always talks about."

Prius; a huge lump of muscle who likes telling the little kids about animals with lots of claws and teeth in order to keep them up all night. Unfortunately, Stelson tends to also get drawn into those conversations.

"Alligator," I tell him and gesture for him to continue retelling his nightmare.

"Oh yeah, Alligator. Well, there were loads of alligators. And I was in the career alliance. But then one of them turned into an alligator," a shudder ripples through his fragile young body and I have to work hard to suppress an eye roll. It isn't exactly realistic, as nightmares go. In my opinion, it's always the dreams that seem like they could actually happen which are the scariest. Or the ones about things that have already happened. Once anything implausible occurs in a dream, that's when I wake up because I can't be scared of something that I don't take seriously.

How can a human morphing into an alligator be keeping Stelson up at night? It's never going to happen.

"Well, I'm sure you're safe from alligators here," I tell him, adopting a bright tone in the hope that it might cheer him up.

"It wasn't the alligators that scared me, it was the Hunger Games." This isn't really a conversation that I want to have with him. It's common knowledge that my mother won the Hunger Games twenty years ago and I constantly have to put up with kids asking me questions about the Games. Like I'm some kind of expert. Most of the time I just remind them that I wasn't actually the one who ended up in the arena and send them on their way.

"You know all about the Games, right?"

Here we go. "No Stelson, my mum knew all about the Hunger Games." And she's gone now, so good luck trying to ask her about it. "I'm going to go and have a shower."

I stretch my arms and force myself to leave the warm cocoon of my bed covers. One upside of being woken up early is the fact that I might get the chance to use the showers before the hot water runs out. Mornings are never my strong point, and so normally the water is practically ice by the time I have a shower.

I gather my clothes from where they're bundled messily at the bottom of my bed, but then I remember what day it is and let out a slight sigh. Matron will punish anyone who doesn't wear their best clothing on the day of the Reaping because she doesn't want to turn up to the town square leading a bunch of ragged kids who look like they've just rolled straight out of bed.

I walk over to my wardrobe and jerk the doors open, surveying the contents with distaste.

"Nerine?"

"I thought I asked you to leave," I say, without bothering to turn around.

"Are you nervous about today?"

I whirl round, anger blazing along my arms and legs as I look at him, cowering against the duvet. "Get out!" I yell at him, my voice tearing from my throat, and I take a menacing step towards him when he doesn't move a muscle. "Now," I say, lowering my voice and taking another step in his direction. "Stelson, I'm not messing around. If you're not out of here in the next three seconds then I will chuck you out of here."

I narrow my eyes, and the message must finally get through to him because he darts to the door, throwing me a reproachful look as he disappears out into the corridor.

I turn back to my wardrobe, and pick out the green dress that I've worn for my last three Reapings. It's about the only decent piece of clothing that I own, but I can't help feeling that I'm tempting fate every time I put it on because it was the dress that my mother had worn when she was reaped to enter the Games.

A shudder passes over my body as I stroke the soft emerald fabric; I don't like the thought of wearing it, especially because I know that it's been to the Capitol, but I don't really feel that I have much of a choice. There's certainly nothing else in my wardrobe that I can put on without getting shouted at.

I bump straight into Mai as I head towards the showers and she gives me a playful shove back. "Watch where you're going, sleepyhead," she tells me with a grin.

Mai arrived at the Community Home at about the same time I did, and she's the one person in this dump that I actually feel comfortable around. "How come you're up so early? It's still dark; this isn't like you!"

I roll my eyes at her, "Stelson," I retort grumpily, knowing that she'll understand. She's had the full report of all of my problems with that kid, and she just smiles at me. "I'm making use of it, and getting into the showers while the heating is still on."

Her face suddenly turns serious, and I know what she's about to ask, so I just shoot her a warning look. "I'll see you later, ok?" I tell her firmly, and push past her to reach the showers.

My shower starts off pretty nice and warm; it's only a slight dribble of water so you have to stand under it for a pretty long time if you actually want to get clean, but it's not so bad. I tilt my head upwards and get a face full of hot water, making me sigh happily. Maybe it would be worth getting up this early everyday in order to get a warm shower.

I jump violently as the water suddenly turns icy and I swear in annoyance as it dribbles over my body. I still have a head full of shampoo, so I have no choice but to stick my head back under it. It feels even colder than usual now that I've treated myself with the warm water.

After I've dried myself off I slip into the dress, wincing at the feel of the soft fabric against my skin. I resent the idea that my mother was once in this same position as well; putting the dress on and trying to make herself look presentable in case her name was pulled from the glass ball.

I still have nightmares about her Hunger Games sometimes; I watched it enough times when I was a kid to get the memories pretty much implanted into my mind. And sometimes it's enough to make me think that maybe I would have done exactly what she did, and just freed myself from having to remember. But then I think about how I was an eleven year old little girl, who still needed her mum, and I can't suppress the resentment that surges through my body.

I shake my head to clear them of these thoughts, and survey myself in the stained mirror in the corner. My dark hair hangs limply around my face and I run my hand through it; my fingertips catching on the split ends. My cheekbones are slightly burnt after I spent all day outside yesterday and I flinch as I stretch the red skin slightly.

Matron won't be impressed if I try to go to the Reapings looking like this. But as I flick through my almost empty make-up bag, I realise it's pretty futile anyway. I don't have anything that could cover up the burn marks, and most of my make-up is worn away and so won't work properly any more.

I shrug my shoulders at my reflection and head downstairs for breakfast, preparing myself for an onslaught of anger from Matron.

Mai waves at me from across the other side of the dining room, and pats the seat beside with a wide smile. I don't know how she can possible be feeling happy today; the weight of the Reapings has settled heavily onto my shoulders and I feel like it's compressing my lungs.

"Nice shower?" she asks the moment I slump down beside her.

"No," I grumble dully, "the hot water went off while my hair was still soaked in shampoo."

She gives me a sympathetic look, but that's all, because that's just a part of daily life at the Community Home.

I duck my head quickly as Matron enters the room. She's about fifty years old, I would guess, with iron grey hair that always remains neatly twisted at the nape of her neck, no matter how many fights she has to intervene in. Her eyes are about the same shade as her hair, and she has a way of looking straight at you that compels you to blurt out the truth, no matter how much you try to hold it in. Her nose is straight, and I swear that her nostrils are so wide to enable her to sniff out any kind of trouble within the Home.

All in all, she's not a woman that you want to be messing around with.

I often wonder why she ended up here; was it her choice or was this job a last resort for her? She's been here ever since I first arrived, and from the way some of the others kids talk about her, she's been a constant presence here for some time.

She spots my untidy, tangled hair from across the room and makes a beeline towards me. She always pays special attention to me on Reaping days because she knows that she chances are, I'll be selected and she doesn't want me showing up the Community Home when I step onto that stage.

"Nerine Leith?"

I jump violently as her harsh voices sounds from behind me, and I wheel my head around in confusion. I hadn't even seen her cross the room.

"Yes, ma'am?" I reply, trying to inject a demure note into my tone. From the look on her face, my efforts haven't succeeded.

"What's the meaning of this?" she asks bluntly, her hands gesturing upwards at me hair, her eyes narrowing to let me know that she's not very impressed with me.

I shrug, and I try to focus on my breakfast. I'm not in a confrontational mood, and I certainly don't want to get into an argument with her in the middle of the dining room. Her claw-like hand descends onto my shoulder and grips it so tight that it's almost painful.

This is my first warning. If I put another foot out of line then I'll be sent to the punishment room to see Mr Grausam and his cane. And I really have no desire to end up in there again.

"I'll go sort it out," I mutter, glancing vaguely in her direction as I do so, and she looks slightly surprised that I haven't tried to test her patience any further. Normally I don't tend to take orders lying down and she can count on me to put up a bit of a fight. But I just can't bring myself to do that today, particularly as part of me feels that she does perhaps have a point. And that at least if I do end up the stage, I won't jeopardise the slight chance I have by looking like I was dragged through a hedge backwards.

One hour later, with my hair combed neatly back into a ponytail and the creases smoothed out of my dress, I find myself walking towards the town square with Mai's arm locked tightly through mine.

Her footsteps grow slower and slower the closer we come to the centre of the District and by the time the stage is in sight, she's barely moving her feet at all and we've fallen well behind the rest of the group from the Community Home.

I glance sideways at her, and jab her in the side with my elbow. She whips her head around and glares at me in annoyance, "Do you have to do that? You've got pretty pointy elbows you know?" She rubs her side and looks sorry for herself.

I just laugh, and give her another shove. Getting to know Mai, I've realised that the best way to deal with her when she gets in one of her stormy moods is to just ignore the fact that she's angry.

It never fails, and I watch now as a smile spills over her lips. She pokes me back, but we both stiffen as we enter the seething mass in front of the stage.

Community Home kids have a certain unhealthy, slightly hungry look that inspires derision from the other members of District 4. The glances we get from the other members of the crowd now certainly aren't friendly, and one snooty nosed girl jerks back as we approach to avoid touching us.

I just roll my eyes in Mai's direction and she shrugs it off. We're both fairly used to this prejudice now; we've just had to get used to it. When I had first arrived at the Home, and first experienced the behaviour of the outside world, I had tried to avoid encountering other people as much as I possibly could.

It's quite lucky that Mai forced me to go outside otherwise I would have become a recluse by now because there's a fairly dominant part of me that questions whether going outside is really worth it when you have to endure these kinds of stares.

We eventually shove our way into the seventeen year old section, causing a few annoyed grumbles to erupt behind us as we make our way to the front of the ropes. It's always entertaining to watch the escort up on stage, particularly this new one. Cookie Yarson.

It was her first year in our district last year; apparently she got promoted from District 6 for "exceptional work," but I'm not really all that sure what that entailed. She's a tall, spindly woman who seems almost ungainly in her movements. Her skin looks almost human, but it's slightly too peachy, and the diamonds studded up her arms kind of ruin any human illusion that the skin may have created. Her hair is a strange aqua colour, which I assume is supposed to represent our District, along with her flowing blue and purple robes. She looks like she's trying way too hard to be accepted.

"Isn't it an exciting day?" she jabbers excitedly into the microphone, casting a wide smile over the heads of the District. There's a slight murmur of agreement but it's clear that no one sees this day in the same strange optimistic light that she does.

"I'll tell you something, I've had a look at the tributes from the first three districts, and it certainly seems as though we're in for a treat this year!"

My jaw clenches tightly; you would never believe that she's talking about kids fighting to kill each other when she talks in this way. But, of course, the treat that she's referring to is what she considers will be an extra-exciting Hunger Games.

The mayor, a thin hook-nosed man with hair that seems to be receding at an alarming rate, steps up to the podium, and clears his throat gruffly into the microphone. He wears a familiar expression of distaste on his face as he starts to read out the Treaty. That slight twist of his mouth tells the world that he doesn't agree with any of this, but also that he's do cowardly to do anything to prevent it from happening.

So is the world in which we live.

His voice drones on and on, and the midday sun beats relentlessly down onto us. A bead of sweat rolls down my cheek and I shift uncomfortably as the thick material of my dress traps the heat around my body.

I can feel my face beginning to burn again, and I raise a hand to touch my cheeks. Yep, they're definitely overheating again; I can feel the familiar sensation that lets me know that sunburn is imminent.

The mayor comes to an anti-climatic ending, and clears his throat once more as he steps down from the podium, wringing his hands nervously.

"So," Cookies gabbers in enthusiasm, spreading her hands in the direction of the victors who sit perched on chairs at various points around the stage, "now it's time for the really thrilling part."

She starts explaining the process of the Hunger Games to the crowd, which I always find to be a slightly pointless exercise. If there's anyone who doesn't know about the Games, then they've obviously been residing under a rock for most of their life.

I scan the victors, trying to remember where my mother used to sit when she was up on that stage. It was twenty years ago that she was crowned victor of her Hunger Games.

The faces of the victors have been a familiar presence all of my life. There's old Mags, who taught me to knit when I was younger, but has been growing steadily more senile in the past few years. I don't think they let her mentor anymore. Finnick Odair sits beside her, as beautiful as he always is, he shoots a small smile in the direction of Annie Cresta, who I swear is completely fucking insane. Maybe it's just me, but I've always felt like there's something going on between the pair of them. There are seven victors up on the stage; we've amassed quite a number over the years.

My attention snaps back to Cookie, who has suddenly fallen silent and is making her way over to the glass balls which contain the slips of the potential tributes. My heart rate accelerates painfully as her hands descend into the ball, and I wonder just how many of those slips have got my name scrawled across them.

She begins to unfold the piece of paper, and the tension within the square rises until you can barely hear anyone breathing. Frieda squeezes my hand tightly and I feel how sweaty her palm is.

All I can think about how the odds are completely and utterly against me.

"And our female tribute is..." cue drum roll... and the whole crowd draws a collective breath.

It's me... it's not me... it's

"Nerine Leith"

Shit, it's me.

I throw Mai what I hope is a vaguely reassuring smile, but I don't know if it works because she just stares back at me with tears threatening to spill over. Then I force myself to lock my jaw into a hard line, to clench my fists and walk onto that stage without giving anyone the satisfaction of seeing me tremble.

Even though I've been expecting this for my whole life – what would make the Hunger Games more interesting than throwing a daughter of a victor into the arena? – my stomach still flips anxiously and my hands tremble as I feel the gaze of every single member of my district upon my body.

You can't afford to be scared, I remind myself, just suck it up and get onto that stage.

Cookie watches me in anticipation as I try to avoid tripping over my own feet as I ascend the stairs. "So," her squeaky voice sounds suddenly in the microphone, "how exciting that the daughter of Marina Leith has been chosen for this years' Hunger Games!"

She grabs my fingers with a claw like hand, and shakes it firmly, smiling at me eagerly. She probably thinks that this could get her promoted even further up the ladder. Maybe she'll be in District One this time next year. Well, I'm determined not to help her get that promotion, and I narrow my eyes in her direction to let her know just how I feel about her.

She looks slightly taken aback by this – what was she expecting, utter adoration on my part because she tried to shake my hand? Yeah, thanks, but no thanks.

"And now for the male tribute. Isn't this exciting?"

If she uses the word 'exciting' one more time I'm going to yank that ridiculous wig off her head and toss it into the crowd.

I'm so busy fantasising about how absurd she would look if she was bald underneath her wig that I'm not really concentrating on what she's doing. I can picture her hands flying to her head and her mouth emitting a high pitched scream.

I smirk in amusement, and don't quite catch what she says.

I hear the next part though.

"... Stelson Greer!"

My eyes find his skinny frame within the crowd; his sunken cheeks and waxen skin quivering with terror.

I run a hand brutally through my hair, almost yanking it out at the roots.

Today really has been a killer.