Chapter 1: Reaping Day

July is always scorching hot, but the overwhelming heat pumped into the district by our factories only intensifies the heat. My sheets cling to my sweaty skin like glue as I toss and turn in bed. I sigh, deciding that I can't bear it anymore. Sitting up, I place my bare feet onto the cold concrete floor and allow it to cool me. The soothing effect lasts for a fleeting moment, but it doesn't seem like long enough. It never does.

With a blaringly awful ring, my alarm begins to blast its screeches throughout my bedroom. I reach out to sharply put a stop to it as fast as I possibly can.

"None of that today, thank you," I mutter, still half-asleep. I've never been a morning person.

I beat the alarm today, but it's already ten o'clock, far later than I usually wake up. But that's because today is different to any other day of the year.

Usually, I wake up at six, sometimes earlier if my father needs help with one of his many inventions. I go to school around eight. Finish at two. Then leave for work at the factory around three. Exhausted, I drag myself home at seven, and spend some time with my father or study - usually both at the same time - and lastly, go to bed around eleven. My days are like clockwork, unchanging every single weekday, but weekends? Well, Saturday I spend the whole day breaking my backbone in the factory. Sundays? Well, that's when I get to live my life. My precious day off. Oh, how I love Sundays! But today isn't one, no matter how much I wish it were. No, today is July fourth, the day of the reaping.

Finally dragging myself out of bed, I walk into the bathroom and draw a lukewarm bath. While I wait for the water to pour, I grab my toothbrush and begin to brush my teeth. I'm told we're very lucky to have plumbing, unlike many of the outlying districts that rely on communal water pumps. 'How the generosity of The Capitol serves us!' Our mayor would say. It's ironic, really, since they take most of what we can give. I make computers, televisions, mobile phones, and more every single day, but they always take it all, then ship it all off to The Capitol. With that fact in mind, I'd argue that we're the generous ones. Then again, generosity comes from the heart, and it's not as if we do it by choice. I rinse out my mouth and climb into the bath once it's full, allowing the lukewarm water to cool me down.

I take my book from the crack in the wall by the bath and begin to read. Inside is a collection of poetry, written by a man who lived long before the Dark Days - the name for the rebellion where the districts tried to overthrow The Capitol, which evidently, didn't go well - and if a peacekeeper caught me with it, well.. It wouldn't be a pretty sight. My father gifted me this book on my twelfth birthday. I remember that he said that he used to read it when he was my age, after his mother bought it from some well-hidden black market. Honestly, I'm not even sure if it still exists. All I know is that it means a lot to us both.

Reading through the book, the musty scent of old paper fills my lungs as I eagerly turn the pages. It's not in the best condition, in fact, a lot of the pages have even begun to wither away, but most are still legible enough. Each of the poems inside have different underlying themes: Some about love, some about war, and some about sacrifice, but they all have this same tone of sadness and longing for something greater in life. I think it carries well. Especially nowadays.

Since the book is so precious, dear, and illegal, it stays here in the bathroom, hidden in a crack in the wall, waiting for me to open it again every reaping day. One day, I hope to finish it, but that's a while away. A whole two years. That's okay, though. I can wait.

The final poem I read before I close the pages is called 'The Rose.'

The Rose

Amidst the garden blooms a rose so fair,

It's petals soft and delicate to touch,

A scent so sweet, it fills the summer air,

A sight that makes the heart yearn for so much.

Oh, how it reminds me of a love lost,

Of sweet memories now turned to pain,

A longing deep within my heart, embossed,

A yearning for a love that will remain.

But like the rose, my love has withered too,

And sadness fills my heart with every breath,

As I think of all the things we never knew,

Of all the moments lost to time and death.

Oh, Rose so fair, your beauty makes me weep,

For all the love I've lost and cannot keep.

My father calls out to me from downstairs with a heavy tone; I can sense his fear, just like every year. While we're far from the poorest in the district, there have still been months where I have been forced to take tesserae - a transaction offered by The Capitol where you get a year's worth of grain and oil for one person, in exchange for an extra entry in the reaping balls - and as such, my name is in the drawing nine times, instead of five. Our district is sizable, the third largest in Panem, so my chances of being reaped are less than one percent. Nevertheless, my father still worries for my life every year. Though I try to reassure him, he still trembles in a way that reminds me of the day we lost my mother. I can't blame him though - How could I, when he only has me left? I'd shake the same way if there were a chance of losing him too.

As I scrub myself clean, I rinse the conditioner from my black hair. Which is another luxury, or so I'm told. Lucky me. A few moments later, I step out of the bath and dry myself off with a towel. Grabbing the hairdyer by the sink - a knock-off gadget my father made when I was a kid because I used to whine and cry about having damp hair - I blow-dry my hair until it's dry. Then, I tie it up into a loose ponytail, letting a few strands fall down by the sides of my ears. The kids in my school bully me because of my round face, so it's my way of trying to make my face appear more.. Oval, I suppose.

"Techna, your breakfast is getting cold!" My father's voice shakes as he calls out once more.

"Just a minute!" I shout back to him, hurrying back into my bedroom.

Scanning my wardrobe, my eyes fall on a drab dress that has faded from black to a lighter, but still dark gray. Almost everything in the district is stony gray, from the concrete houses to the bustling factories. Even the people's ashen skin is almost a sickly gray, most likely from never seeing the sunlight while they slave away all day. I put on the dress and slide on a pair of boots, then hastily make my way downstairs.

My father sits at the table quivering as he sips on a cup of water. I sit across from him and give him a sympathetic smile, which he returns as he begins to eat his toast.

"You didn't have to wait for me," I say, also bringing the toast to my lips. It's stone cold. He's probably been sitting here waiting for at least half an hour.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I was going to wait!" He looks up at me with a melancholic shock. "Techna, this could be-"

"It won't be our last meal together." I interrupt him, sipping my water. "Please Dad, just stop worrying. It's going to be okay."

He shakes his head in response, but carries on eating his toast. We eat in uncomfortable silence, just like every year. He's too afraid to talk about work, tinkering, or ask about school. When I was twelve, I was angry at this. I shouted at him for his illogical feelings and begged him to just be normal again. But I feel guilty for that now, and I know better. All we have to do is ride this out. Tonight will be better.

"Have you read 'The Two' yet?" He asks this question every year. It was his favorite poem from the poetry book, and he read it on the day of his last reaping.

"I'm saving it for my last reaping, Dad. Just like you did." I reply, shaking my head with a small smile. The fear on his face doesn't diminish, but I notice a crack of a sincere smile reach his lips. "It better be one good poem."

"It is."

We finish our food when it hits quarter to twelve, and I clear away the dishes from the table and walk toward the sink. Running the tap, I wash up the plates swiftly as my father puts his boots on. As I rinse the cups, I notice that he walks up the stairs and out of my sight. He does this every year, I assume to fix his hair one last time. Then a few moments later, once the cups are rinsed, he walks back down the stairs with a thin jacket on and opens the front door, indicating for me to follow.

The roads of District Three are paved with solid concrete, barely a blade of grass in sight. No, that's saved for the nicer areas and campuses across the district. My father and I live in the Manufacturing Center, surrounded by factories and smog. It's where most of us live. We're the factory workers, mechanics, and tech support. Low-level citizens deemed too 'unintelligent' to be anything more than menial workers. It's not true, my father is an excellent engineer, but they mostly look at your family history and decide whether you're 'genetically' capable. I suspect it's based on whether our ancestors were rebels, which accounts for most of District Three. When my father was tested, he wasn't deemed intelligent, and therefore I won't be either. My children, and my children's children will have the same fate as me. Not unless they marry someone important, which is almost impossible for people like us.

Through the smog, my father and I make our way to the Justice Building hand-in-hand. The lines are long, with almost two hundred thousand citizens to be accounted for. Luckily they seem to move pretty quickly, since they've sent many government officials to funnel us through.

"This is where we part." My father pulls me aside, giving me a gentle hug.

"I'll see you soon." I tell him, which only makes him hug me tighter. "I promise."

We pull away from the hug and he gives me a pat on the back as he walks away. I walk to the line of sixteen-year-olds and await my turn. After a while, I'm finally pricked by the woman and stamp my blood onto the page. I'm diverted into the crowd and I stand, waiting. The Justice Building is grand compared to the rest of the district, towering over the rest of the square. It's made from a pale stone, contrasting with the dreary gray buildings that surround it. Banners of red and gold displaying Panem's seal have been hung up for decoration. Personally, I've never been inside, but father has. He says that it's much grander on the inside, and he would know. It's where he married mother.

After a long, dread-inducing wait, our mayor walks onto the stage and steps up to the podium. He pulls out a piece of paper and begins to read from it - the same thing every year, of course. Our history, and how Panem came to be. This place we live in was once called North America, but was eroded away by natural disasters and war. He then reads about the Dark Days, then the Treaty of Treason. A long drivel about how the Hunger Games came to be. A grim reminder of how we could never survive a rebellion, lest we all fall to the same fate as District Thirteen. They'd never do it, if you asked me. How else would they get their luxurious televisions, let alone their food, power, and fabrics? The idea of a Capitol citizen working in the same factory as me is enough to bring a smile to my face. They'd die shortly after we would, and then there'd be no Panem left at all.

The mayor begins reading a list of past victors from District Three. There are only two, Beetee Latier and Wiress. Beetee is a dark-skinned man with thick-framed black glasses and a receding hairline that forms a widow's peak. He is well-known in our district, and often used as a role model for us all to look up to. He used his intelligence to electrocute six tributes in his games and continues to manufacture items for The Capitol to this day. Wiress, on the other hand, has less of a stage presence. She's ashen-skinned with auburn hair cut into a short bob, and her obvious shyness causes the mayor to usher the escort - Priscilla Chalice - onto the stage rather quickly. She's new to the job, presumably because the last escort was sent to another district.

With a wide grin on her face, she strides confidently to the podium, her long blue hair swishing at her hips. In her hands, she holds a set of cards with a gentle grip, as if they were the most precious items in the world. Her piercing blue eyes, reminiscent of a cat's, sparkle as she surveys the crowd before her.

"Happy Hunger Games, District Three! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

As a thick silence drops over the crowd like a heavy cloak, I notice her glittery blue smile slightly quiver. She must've been expecting a roaring crowd, not a district full of anxiety and dread.

"Well, let's get to it then!" She says, perking back up as she saunters to the ladies' ball. She ruffles her hand through the names in the bowl carefully whilst humming, clearly thinking about which slip of paper she's going to choose. Eventually, after a cough from the mayor, she pulls out a slip of paper and cheerily walks back up to the podium. The collective silence from the crowd turns stiff with dread, with many holding their breaths, but I feel okay. I know it won't be me.

She smooths the paper and clearly takes a moment to read the name in her head before she finally speaks into the microphone.

"Techna Quinn!"

A pit of dread sinks into my stomach as I feel my heart begin to race. The fear I didn't feel before has been transferred from the other girls to me. By some cruel twist of fate, I was chosen. I try to lift my feet from where I stand, but sudden weakness takes over me as I hear my father's sobs break through the silence of the crowd. I feel weak as the sympathetic girls part to make way for me to walk through. I know how they're feeling, because I've felt it too. Safety. Relief. Though fleeting, it's a reliable source of comfort for at least a year, and it's what I've come to rely on through every reaping. Yet, I don't have those feelings anymore, instead, they've been replaced by an overwhelming sense of grief and despair. I have never felt this kind of dread before.

"Come on up, dear!" Priscilla's gleeful voice rings out as she beckons me onto the stage, oblivious to my distress. "Come on, come on!"

I make my way through the crowd slowly, pitifully making my way to stand next to Priscilla. In her mind, I am serving a great honor. In her mind, I am privileged to be allowed to go to The Capitol. In her mind, I am anything but a lamb for slaughter. I look to my father who is clearly trying to pull himself together, yet the tears on his cheeks are glistening in the stage lights set up by The Capitol. I feel a light tear roll down my own cheek, but I wipe it away as quick as it appears. The worst thing for me now would be to appear weak. I can cry later.

"And now for the men!" Priscilla announces, eager to move on as she trots to the men's ball. She takes less time when choosing the name, learning from her mistake the first time. She eagerly walks back to the podium, smoothing the paper, and reads it out for the crowd. "Prospero Augur! Come on up, dear!"

Moments later, a stocky-built boy with curly brown hair walks through the crowd with an air of confidence swaying around him. It's almost scary, he seems too ready for this, as if he's been waiting for this moment his entire life, just like a Career. I can tell he's never set foot in a factory just by his hands; they're smooth, not calloused. He's probably spent his whole life in a nice school learning how to become an engineer or a biotechnician. He stands next to Priscilla with an arrogant smirk, winking to one of the cameras. I can't help but feel a sense of disgust wash over me.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Tributes of District Three! Techna Quinn and Prospero Augur!"

She claps meagerly as the lottery draws to a close, then the mayor begins to read the Treaty of Treason. Afterward, we are quickly ushered into the Justice Building to say our goodbyes.

Father.. You can't even begin to know how truly sorry I am.