*DISTRICT 11*
*NATASHA MARINO*
*TWELVE*
"Come with me! Please?" A young girl with tangled dirty-blonde locks tugs on her caretaker's arm. "I don't want to go by myself!"
"Ask one of the older children to go with you, Natasha." Mrs. Horton extracts her hand and turns away from the orphan.
"Please?" she begs. "And call me Tash, Mrs. Horton."
"I'm sorry, dear. But I'm horribly busy what with preparing everyone for the Reaping. And Natasha is your God-given name, and I will not address you by anything but." Mrs. Horton blinks her baby-blue eyes and hurries off.
Tash shrugs, glancing longingly at the door. Most of the children are ready for the Reaping, in skirts, slacks, and button-downs, but Tash has leggings covering her stick-thin legs, and she's wearing a loose shirt on top. She wants to go to the park. "Please, Mrs. Horton?" she calls one last time.
"Sorry."
"Hey, Tash, would you like me to take you?" offers a older girl with straight, shiny dark hair.
"Sure!" She bounces up and down, grinning, happily innocent.
"Alright." The older girl takes Tash's hand and guides her toward the front door of the orphanage, which is basically a rotting wooden building that's falling apart at the seams.
But Tash calls it home.
*DYLAN CRESENT CARLISLE*
*SEVENTEEN*
Dylan grits his teeth as he traipses through the woods, ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder. He feels blood trickling onto his tongue as he chews on his lip, but that's much less pain than the pus-dripping sting on his arm.
Tracker Jackers had been left in the District 11 forest, even after the bloody war had ended. They're meant to keep the residents out of the woods, but they don't do much.
District 11 is known for having the least food. Even though they grow it for the Capitol, the citizens are allowed to keep very little: three fruits and two slices of bread a day per person. The people who aren't able to bring home extra produce and wheat during the harvest have little choice but to sneak into the woods to hunt.
Only Dylan had just been attacked by four Tracker Jackers who had made themselves comfortable in a hidden nest.
He drops to a sitting position, gripping his arm. Gingerly, he grasps the hem of his short sleeves and rolls them up, gasping loudly as he has to wrestle the material over the strawberry-shaped lumps growing on his skin. The stings are greenish, with a tiny hole at the top. Dylan pinches a stinger between his nails and yanks, screaming into his teeth. Then he does the next, and the next, flinching hugely as watery blood and plasma spill out and down his arm.
Dylan needs to get home, but he can't afford to be caught with Tracker Jacker stings. Then the Peacekeepers will know he's been in the forest, and he'll be whipped, most likely right on the shoulder where he got bitten. He knows that his father, James, won't hesitate to make a nice buck by reporting him to the authorities.
He throws on his black sweatshirt, wiping away the sweat beads that immediately collect on his forehead and the backs of his knees, and heads back to his house.
When he gets there, he knocks on the door and shouts, "Hello?"
Lilith Carlisle pulls the door open immediately, hugging her son. "Where have you been!" She's breathing quickly. "The Reaping is in one hour. And you're a mess, Dylan!"
He wrenches himself away from his mother's arms.
She notices. "What's wrong?"
"Nothi-"
"Tell me, Dylan. Tell me right now."
"I got...stung," he mutters, showing her.
She goes pale and flutters her dark brown eyes, which are the only things Dylan inherited from Lilith. "Oh. Oh my. Okay. You need medicine."
"No, we shouldn't waste-"
"You need medicine, Dylan!" she screams.
His younger sister inches into the room. "Are you sick, Dylan?" she asks.
"No. No, Dawn." He forces a big smile and cringes. "Fine. Great. Couldn't be better. Seriously."
"Alright." She nibbles on a bowl of blueberries, her last ration of the day, even though it's only noon. The entire family shares their allotment with her. They can't let her starve. "Would you tell me if you were hurt, Dylan?"
"Of course," he assures her, taking the container of pills from Lilith and swallowing three dry, exhaling a little as the acetaminophen takes its effect.
"Will you be okay for the Reaping, Dylan?" asks his mother.
"Of course, Mom." He shrugs bitterly. "Don't exactly have much of a choice, do I?"
"Oh, honey, what if you get Reaped?" She hugs Dylan, squeezing him so tightly that his stomach bulges out below her arms.
"Nothing we can do, is there?"
*DISTRICT 11 REAPING*
Myra Rosenblott wears a silver sequined minidress with deep purple stockings. Her hair is shoulder-length and flat, teased so that it sticks straight up from her head. Her lavender contact lenses gleam in the light. Her eyes are slanted, giving her a look of permanent anger.
She wastes no time in selecting the female tribute. "Natasha Marino, please." She doesn't repeat herself, instead looking out in the crowd with her lips pressed together.
Tash quietly ascends the stage, an unwelcome difference from her usually hyper and optimistic personality.
"Dylan Carlisle."
Dylan shoves through his section. He wants to cross his arms, but that hurts his shoulder, so he resigns to swinging them by his sides. He puts a mean expression on his face, narrow his eyes, and stalks up to the platform, refusing to look at the cameras, the crowd, and the escort.
"Your District 11 tributes, Dylan Carlisle and Natasha Marino."
so are you guys liking the chapters? hating them? what do you enjoy? what do you not like? how could i improve? suggestions? anything's appreciated! :D