District 8

Patricia White

When I left District 8 to go to the Capitol, I tried to record as much of my home as I could in my memory. The textile factories, the warehouses, the run down tenements . . . I had to remember it because I knew I would almost certainly never see it again. District 8 is one of those districts which tend to fare poorly in the Hunger Games; only a handful of our tributes make it past the first week. Coming from one of the most urban districts in Panem, they have almost no chance to learn about nature and this leaves them ill-equipped to survive in the arena. Last year, both our tributes were dead within three days; the girl died in the bloodbath and the boy ate poisonous mushrooms.

So I will have to pay attention during training, particularly when it comes to survival techniques; it's the only way I'll have even a slim chance of staying alive. And I probably won't be able to do that for long, especially if the Careers catch me. They've been training for these Games all their lives, whereas I've never even picked up a weapon. And, if they're anything like the Careers I've seen in previous Games, they'll all be much stronger than I am.

First though, we have to go through the annual ritual that is the tribute parade. Dressed up to represent our district industries, we will be paraded through the streets of the Capitol in chariots. I'm wearing a red gingham dress which is covered in frills and flounces; there are ruffles at the neck and the skirt is trimmed with lace, as are the puffed sleeves. A red satin sash has been tied around my waist and my footwear consists of white knee-length socks and red shoes with buckle fastenings. My stylist said they were called "Mary Janes", not that I care. Finally, I'm wearing a huge bow in my hair, red gingham to match my dress.

No doubt this is meant to represent the textile industry, gingham being one of the many fabrics we make in District 8. Which would explain all the lace and ruffles, though this does make my costume look rather like something a little girl might wear - if her parents could afford it which not many parents in the districts could. It seems to have escaped my stylist's notice that I'm sixteen, not six. Then again, she is pretty clueless like most Capitol citizens. I just hope my dress for the interviews the night before the Games is a little more grown up.

Technically, my district partner, Nap, and I could have been put on our chariot in our everyday clothes. After all, clothes are the end product of the textile industry and textiles are what District 8 produces. But, doubtless in an effort to make our tributes more noticeable, the District 8 stylists have a habit of producing the most garish costumes in the parade. It certainly makes our tributes stand out, but it also makes them look ridiculous.

And my costume is no exception; it's far too childish for my taste. But there's not a lot I can do about it, so I'll just have to smile and try to look as though I'm having fun. Which I'm not, of course - I'm only too aware of why I'm here and of what's likely to happen to me in the next few days. I am facing almost certain death in the arena, unless I can somehow find a way of outlasting all my fellow tributes. And, given District 8's record, I don't fancy my chances.

I visualise the faces of my parents and my siblings; I have a brother named Francis who's thirteen and a sister named Cassandra who's eleven. The last time I saw them was when they came to the Justice Building after the reaping to say goodbye. I tried to be brave in front of them, but it wasn't easy; we all knew it was likely to be goodbye forever. None of us had any illusions about my chances. I just had time to give Cassandra one last sisterly hug before a Peacekeeper came to tell my family their time was up.

I hold the memory of that hug in my mind as the chariots begin to roll out.

Nap Ellis

When I signed up for tesserae, I knew I was increasing my chances of ending up in the arena. But I had to do it; even with both of them working full-time in a textile factory, my parents barely earn enough to feed our family. We needed the extra rations of grain and oil. Even so, I hoped I would be safe for a few years. Instead, my name was drawn at my second reaping; at the age of thirteen, I am District 8's male tribute in the Seventy-third Hunger Games.

That's why I'm currently in the Remake Centre, waiting for the start of the tribute parade; my district partner, Patricia, is beside me. Being from District 8, our costumes are supposed to reflect the textile industry. Mine consists of a red gingham shirt (Gingham is also the name of my ten-year-old sister) and corduroy trousers which are also red and have patches of gingham sewn onto the knees. My shoes are white and there's a large red bowtie around my neck. Finally, I'm wearing a cap made from alternating pieces of corduroy and gingham.

This is what the whole of Panem will soon see me wearing. I imagine my family watching on the television in our cramped apartment. My parents, Gingham and my two brothers, eight-year-old Tweed and five-year-old Cotton. How will they cope without me? I know only too well what the chances of a District 8 tribute getting out of the arena alive are. And the fact that I'm only thirteen increases the likelihood that I'll get knocked out early.

May the odds be ever in your favour? They're certainly not in mine. I'm one of the youngest tributes in this year's Games and I come from a district which rarely has a tribute in the final eight, the point in the Games where they interview the friends and families of every tribute who is still alive. The last District 8 tribute to get that far was Patricia's mentor, Cecelia; since then, the best any of our tributes have managed is tenth place.

All I can do is try not to get myself eliminated in the bloodbath, even though that means I may have to forego the chance of getting hold of any decent supplies. Having watched the Games all my life, I know the Careers tend to claim most of the stuff in the Cornucopia, which means they rarely have to worry about fending for themselves. Some of the tributes from the other nine districts manage to obtain a weapon and/or a backpack, but many are lucky if they get away with any supplies at all.

My only chance may be to try and remember any survival skills I've seen tributes use in previous Games, not to mention spending time at the relevant stations during the three-day training period. Even then, I'll still be vulnerable to both my fellow tributes and any mutts the Gamemakers may decide to use against us. If you really want to stand a chance in the Hunger Games, you need to be able to handle weapons. And I know my chances of getting hold of a weapon, much less using it to take out one of my opponents, are slim.

My thoughts turn back to my family. If I die - and I probably will - it will be two years before Gingham is old enough to claim tesserae. She might not want to, but, like many kids in the poorer districts, she won't have much choice. In District 8, you can get a part-time job in a textile factory from the age of twelve, but the pay is poor, so many kids still have to sign up for tesserae; that's what happened in my case. But my siblings are too young to do either of these things, so my family will struggle for a couple of years. Unless I can win the Games, which would mean Gingham, Tweed and Cotton never have to sign up for tesserae the way I did. But I know that's not likely to happen.

A loud cheer erupts as the chariots start to leave the Remake Centre, emerging onto the streets of the Capitol.