Chapter Two- A Real Reaping
"Young lady, you cannot go back to sleep. Today is the reaping. You must get ready!" my mom said, pulling my sheet off of me.
I groaned. Who likes a reaping, especially when your name is in there too many times to count?
"Erika! You need to get out of that bed and into your dress. We want to look good for this reaping, don't we? So get up!" she yelled, leaving and closing my door behind her.
I rolled out of the bed and landed on my feet quite lightly. For someone who just lost her daughter in the last Hunger Games, you'd think my mom wouldn't be so 'pumped' for me to prepare for the reaping.
I opened my drawer and found my reaping dress, nicely folded. I shook it out and shivered; it was the same one I had worn it that horrible nightmare. I saw my shoes sitting in the drawer along with my sister's twine necklace. I held it tightly in my hand; I felt my breath fly back into my mouth.
As I said, the necklace had been my sister's. She wore it all the time until she was killed. She even wore it in the games. The gamemakers were 'kind' enough to send it back to us after those games; what was it? Some type of consolation present for us?
"We are going to be late Erika!" my mother screamed up the stairs.
I sighed and ran my fingers through my short, light brown hair quickly. I ran downstairs and was outside with my mom and little sister within a few moments. I held my sister's hand and looked down into her blue eyes.
Avery was so young at just nine years old. I could only pray that by the time she turned twelve that the Hunger Games would exist no longer, but will that happen? Probably not.
"Erika," my mom said looking up at me.
"Yeah, mom?" I asked, looking over to her.
"Good luck. You'll need it," she said, quietly.
"I don't; I'm not going to be reaped," I said, giving her a reassuring smile.
My mom returned the smile and gave me a hug. I knelt down and hugged Avery before running to check into the reaping.
"Finger please," a peacekeeper said, ready to prick my finger.
I gave him my hand and then, found myself walking over to the girls that were my age, fifteen. I glanced around looking at everyone's nervous faces; they were all as scared as I was. This was definitely the worst day of the year.
A sudden tap on a microphone woke everyone up from their nervousness and all eyes were on the stage.
"Greetings! And welcome to the reaping for the 52nd Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor," Mia announced, her voice echoing through our silent district.
I had always though Mia looked absolutely farfetched, but this year certainly took the cake. She had a pale blue wig with some weird hat-thing sitting atop her afro-like hair. Her skin was tinted a light blue, which I fond unattractive and slightly creepy. Her bright blue dress fell to her knees, and it was extremely geometric and structured. It seemed to have 3-D triangles jutting out from every space on the skirt. The top was tight fitting and just had to be eye-candy for the average male.
She clapped her hands together. "Well then! Shall we watch the video?"
Once more, her strange pep towards the Hunger Games was met with nothing but silence from our quiet district. We don't get pumped for the Games here in District Nine; if you're picked, it's an automatic death sentence.
You see, nobody has ever won the games from our district. The tributes just aren't as popular with the sponsors as some are from the wealthier districts. What also made this so deadly for us that, as I stated before, nobody had ever won from our district; therefore, we had no mentor going into the Games, at least there was Mia.
The video came to an end, and Mia clapped her thin, little hands together, gathering everyone's attention.
"On that note, I suppose we should name the tributes! May the odds be ever in your favor, ladies and gents!" she exclaimed from the stage.
She danced her way over to one of the clear bowls and announced that, as usual, the girl tribute will be picked first. She plunged her tiny hand into it, and I heard a collective intake of breath as everyone waited, nervously, to hear who the unlucky girl was to be. After a few moments, her hand was out of the bowl, holding a small, folded piece of paper above her head. She flitted back over to the microphone and ripped open the seal, responsible for keeping the paper closed and confidential. She opened it up and leaned into the microphone.
"Erika Wilmington," she spoke loud and clearly, echoing throughout every corner in this district.
I felt my body go numb and heard a shrill scream, undoubtedly coming from my mother, who probably felt as she had her heart ripped from her chest.