[Author note (8/4/24): Hi! Sorry I just realised that the reaping actually begins at two, so let's just pretend that's only a later adjustment and in this time period it begins at twelve. Also I apologise for any misspelled words I rushed these next few chapters so you guys would have something to read. I hope you're enjoying reading :) ]
(Chapter 5: Elora)
I throw on my mum's old blue dress that covers my knees and shoulders. I quickly brush my unruly blonde hair, and pull it back into a somewhat neat bun. Then I dab on some of my mothers lipstick, slip on a pair of black sandals and wait for Peter in the kitchen. Peter emerges from his room wearing dad's old brown pants and white shirt. He's still wearing boots. I can tell he's used water to try and neaten his own crazy blonde hair. I smile, and we leave the house. At the reaping, it is organised so the youngest children are at the front, the twelve year olds, then the eldest, so the eighteen year olds, near the back, then everyone else at the back. At the very front is a stage, where a microphone stands, followed by cameras and the mayor, victors, and Capitol escort. Our Capitol escort is Margorie Alastor, and our only victor was Haymitch Aberthany, a hopeless drunk and alcohol addict, who won the Quarter-quell four years ago. I settle into the group of other sixteen year old girls, and watch as Peter stands next to the other eighteen year old boys, who all look relieved that this is their last year. The mayor stands behind the microphone, and begins to read the history of Panem. Then he reads the list of past victors in District 12. We've only ever had two, so it doesn't take long. Haymitch stumbles off his chair on the stage and falls over, causing the crowd to shift and mutter. No doubt we're the laughing stock of all of Panem. He tries to stand, but continuously falls back on his face. The mayor's face has gone red with embarrassment. It's almost funny. He quickly introduced Margorie Alastor, who was wearing a ridiculous amount of makeup, hair a bright green colour this year and wearing a tight bright pink dress. Capitol people always dress this strange. She beams, revealing freakishly white teeth. Margorie almost skips to the microphone, "Hello District 12! Are you ready?" she says this with a great amount of energy, like she's a performer at a concert and she's about to sing a very popular song. She then begins a speech about what an honour it is for her to be the escort of our district and what an honour it would be for one of us to be chosen. Margorie is a bit over-middle-aged, she's about in her late fifties. She's had this job for as long as I can remember.
The odds are in my favour. I tell myself. There are thousands of other names. What about Peter? I begin to worry. What if Peter is chosen? What if he dies? I can't live without him. Tears swell in my eyes, a sob threatens to escape my mouth, but I pull myself together. I know I won't be chosen.
"Ladies first." Margorie beams, sticking her arm into a glass ball filled with all the girl's names. The crowd goes silent, as she pulls out a name, unfolds it, and everyone takes a deep breath. She clears her throat, and reads in a clear voice.
Please, please, please don't be me. Please, please, please…
"Elora Yarrow." Margorie reads, then smiles as she scans the crowd of girls. "Come on up, Elora! Don't be shy!"
I can't move. I'm frozen in place. The girls around me mutter, some trying to say sorry, mutter their goodbyes. I won't last in the arena. I've never been good at hunting or killing. I don't even notice when two, heavily armed peacekeepers barge into the crowd, grab me by my arms and force me onto the stage. There is a ringing in my ears. I can hear the muffled screams of Peter, snapping me out of my trance.
"No!" he yells, rushing out of the crowd, screaming. "Eli!" He tries to make his way to me, stopped by three peacekeepers. "It's a mistake!" he yells, as he punches a peacekeeper in the stomach and desperately reaches towards me. "She can't go." He manages, pushing another soldier out of the way before a peacekeeper turns his gun on him.
"No!" I shriek, just as the gunshot goes off. Peter falls to the ground, eyes rolling up his head, blonde hair falling around his forehead. Warm tears soak my cheeks, as I clasp my mouth with my hands. Crimson stains his white shirt. Nobody does anything, his lifeless body just lays there.
Peter is gone.
Forever.