(Chapter 1: Elora)
I wake, drenched in sweat, my heart thumping in my chest. I run my warm fingers through my hair. I've been waking up like this since my first reaping when I was twelve. But, instead of my name only being entered once like the fortunate children of District 12, my name was entered three times. One because it was mandatory, and then two for grain and oil for my brother and I. My brother, Peter, has been doing the same since he was twelve. This year, at the age of sixteen, my name has been entered fifteen times. For Peter, at the age of eighteen, twenty-one times.
Although many other families in the Seam have it worse than us, just having your name once in the reaping is bad enough. The Hunger Games is a guaranteed death sentence, especially for those of my district. If you are from Districts 1, 2, or 4, being chosen for the Hunger Games is an honour.
My father died in a coal mine accident a couple of years back, and then, a few months ago, my mother died from the flu. This meant Peter and I were alone. Luckily, I wasn't sent to the orphanage, because Peter had turned eighteen, making him an adult. How we've survived since then is a miracle. My brother can make a few decent animal traps, which he sets up in the forest to collect food for us. He also can tell edible plants from the poisonous ones, which helps as well. I go into town and sell some extra meat or plants for some money, and when we save up for a couple of months, we can afford a delicious loaf of bread from the bakery.
I slowly get myself out of bed and stare sleepily into my mirror. My shoulder-length blonde hair looks like a bird's nest, and there are bags under my blue eyes. Having blonde hair and blue eyes is a rare appearance in the Seam, since only the townsfolk have these traits. My mother was from town and my father from the Seam. Peter and I both got my mother's genes.
I drag myself out of my bedroom and into the bathroom, where I run myself a bath. I shut the door, peel my sweaty clothes off my warm skin, and climb in. I nearly jump out as soon as my foot touches the icy cold water. We rarely have warm water, and I've never gotten used to the cold. Shivering, I carefully put one part of my body into the water at a time.
Legs.
Stomach.
Arms.
Chest.
Neck.
Then I hold my breath, brace myself, and dunk my head underwater. I can't hear anything apart from the sound of water in my ears and my thoughts racing around in my head. I lift my head out of the water and climb out of the bath, dripping wet. I grab a grey towel and dry myself off, then slip on a short sleeve collared dress. The clock on the wall reads 10:00. Two hours until the reaping.
