Let The Fiftieth Hunger Games Begin

The sun rises on the morning of the Games and anyone can feel the heated anticipation radiating through the streets. All the children across Panem will stay home from school until we have a victor. Some Games last days others can take weeks. According to my father, one Game lasted two months. Today, the tributes will go into the arena. Forty-eight go in, one comes out.

The betting pools overflow with votes for impressionable candidates. My father received his receipt with our tributes names this morning. He has voted for a District 2 boy and a District 4 girl. I have chosen Maysilee Donner and Haymitch Abernathy. On the news, reporters tell the Capitol that this Quarter Quell had the most citizen participation to date. Well, with twice the candidates, there are twice the gamblers waiting to watch them die.

"Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!" rouses my mother.

Her choice of simple apparel surprises me. Normally, flamboyant fashion and eccentricity rule her wardrobe choices, but today a simple white dress must suffice. She does not even wear a wig. My mother hands me a light pink dress with simple cuts designed for comfort. Then I gaze outside while she gently runs a comb through my hair.

"My, you've grown," comments my mother.

We sit in harmony and listen to the fanfare on the streets. Capitol citizens rejoice with the beginning of the Games, wishing a merry this and happy that. My hair feels smooth, a glossy curtain that hangs down near my ears. My mother escorts me to the parlor and bids me to clear the small table that sits in front of the couch.

"Remember, dear. Manners, etiquette, prim, proper, perfect," she reminds me.

"Where are the tributes going?" I ask curiously, placing a bowl onto our dining room table.

"Ask your father, darling. He's the real expert on the Games," she chimes merrily.

"Ask me what?" my father enters the room.

"Effie would like to know where the tributes go to begin the Games," recites my mother.

"The tributes are taken by hovercraft to the arena, wherever that may be. They wait with their stylists until the time comes. Then, they take their place on a launch pad where they rise into the arena."

I imagine for a brief second that I am a tribute. I have just come from the Training Center via hovercraft and will now enter the arena, which I may never leave. The solitary confinement of my predicament, unique only to those who will experience what is to come. The uplifting sensation that leads to my doom. Or my victory.

"Is it on yet?" Alfie walks into the parlor.

I check the television and view commentators making notes on the betting pools. The show will begin any second. The family gathers in the usual place to watch. We wait for upwards of ten minutes. Our screen shows a launch tube, clearly to demonstrate a tributes' point of view. The camera raises with the tribute and excitement floods my body.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Caesar Flickerman's voice reigns supreme, "Let the Fiftieth Hunger Games begin!"

The arena is beautiful. Paradise. The tributes stand about a circle facing a giant, golden horn. The horn sits on top of a luscious green meadow with flowers protruding from random angles. Visually, the arena must be heaven. Tributes gawk wide-eyed at their surroundings, forgetting briefly, where they are.

I try to locate Haymitch, but lose sight of him. Maysilee Donner, however, captures my full attention. She seems to have tears in her eyes. Whether she feels fear, awe, or a combination of both, I never find out. The camera quickly shows an aerial shot of the arena, carefully displaying a white mountain and forests.

"Here we go!" says my father.

The gong sounds. Half of the players stand still, examining the sky. Move, idiots! They sit there, unaffected, as if they came on a vacation. That ignorant boy from District 11 catches my eye. He simply looks up as a Career tribute slams him to the ground. Quickly, I spot Haymitch running for the horn. He snatches a backpack off the ground. Grabbing a knife off the grass, he makes for the forest.

The camera lingers on the horn for the majority of an hour. My father explains that the horn, the Cornucopia-as he calls it, contains a vast amount of the fighting. Careers pick apart weak tributes, maiming the competition ferociously. The ignorant boy dies with an axe to the head. One girl is annihilated before she has even stepped off her plate.

The killing has caused a notable change in my family. My father watches delicately, expressing no sign of glee, yet no look of disgust. My mother, on the other hand, hides her face during every fatality.

"That's someone's son or daughter," she says quietly.

Alfie has turned a sick shade of green by the time ten tributes lay dead on the ground. I find myself experiencing a wicked sort of excitement. No, I am not happy that children have died. I simply enjoy the action, the fast-paced combat that sets my nerves on end.

We view the smarter tributes, the ones who got away. Far from the action, recuperating from the horror that has become the Cornucopia. At one point, Maysilee is shown hiding behind a tree to avoid confrontation. Haymitch has run into the forest, away from the mountain. He continues through the forest at a quick pace, never slowing.

Commentators keep us informed with who lives and who dies. I begin to question whether or not the Games will ever end. The battle at the Cornucopia rages on, many tributes going on hours of fighting.

"What do we do?" I ask my father, never moving my eyes off the screen.

"We wait, Effie. We wait and we watch."

Hours pass and the sun begins to set. Maysilee Donner reveals a backpack that she's picked up from the Cornucopia and looks through its contents. She pulls out a red bowl, dried beef, and a straw with pointy darts. Haymitch carries his knife in one hand, his other hand protecting the backpack. Come nightfall, the tributes set up camp in their respective locations, some choosing trees and others making fires.

The battle at the Cornucopia ends with a pack of Careers leaving victorious. Loudly, a cannon blast goes off.

"What's that for?" I interject, my voice cracking from hours of silence.

"It counts the dead tributes. One blast for every tribute."

Eighteen. There are eighteen blasts. Eighteen dead children. My stomach flips in mild amazement. Alfie and my mother avoid looking at the screen when they recap the deaths in slow motion. To conclude the first days program, we view the training score pictures for each dead tribute. My father crosses their names off as if they were items on a shopping list.