"Deep in the meadow,

Under the Willow,

A Bed of Grass,

A Soft Green Pillow…"

"What do you think goes on before they add something new to the games? Like, how do you think they dream it up?"

The two questions have been running through my mind all day, like chickens who've grown restless within their coop. Thoughts like this usually roam around in my mind on reaping day. And - normally - I muse over them myself, locking them into the henhouse that is my mind until they settle. But today it seemed only fitting to open the door, and let them enjoy some of the fresh summer air. It wouldn't be fair if I was the only one to enjoy it. Well, not the only one.

"Add something new?"

The gruff, yet boyish voice drifts up from the grass beside me, and I turn to look towards its owner. Gale rustles the grass as he sits up, bathed in the sweet honey colored light from the sun. A mess of sleek brown hair follows suit as Katniss sits up beside him. They share a short, puzzled look, before they turn back to me. Sometimes it feels as if they communicate with one another entirely without speaking, like some kind of frequency the rest of us can't hear. But we've been friends long enough that I've grown to be able to decipher their quick glances and stolen looks. They don't seem to understand my question.

"Yeah. Like…things that even now we think of as commonplace, they had to be introduced at some point." I try to clarify.

A soft silence settles in the air after I'm done talking. Katniss and Gale stare emptily into the distance, and I can see them mulling my question around in their minds, turning it over like a river rock until it becomes a shiny pebble. It can be a strange thought, for some. The games have existed long before us, and they will continue long after we're gone. They're a system as set in stone as the laws we live by, and for some, it's hard to imagine them ever being different from how they are now. We only know that they're unjust, and unfavorable to those of us who are worse off. They're a cruel reminder of the mistakes of the past, ones we never made, yet suffer for all the same.

Gale's earlier rant comes back to me now, how unfair the whole thing is. He's right, of course. The odds are never in our favor, in fact, they're stacked against us. Those who are poorest in our districts can take out Tessarae -extra food rations for one person, enough to last you a while if you're frugal enough- in exchange for putting their name in the ring more times. I've done it once or twice, when the winters were especially rough, but not often enough to make too big a difference to my odds. And certainly not enough to have the mountain of entries that Gale and Katniss probably have. Each year you're eligible, your name is put in one additional time. It starts when you're twelve and goes up from there. Each portion of tesserae you take out permanently adds one more entry. With each of us being 18, my name is probably in there the least out of the three of us. I can't have more than fifteen entries, meanwhile I'd be a fool to presume Katniss and Gale have anywhere less than forty each. If we were merchants children, or kids from town, our names wouldn't be in more than seven times.

"What kinds of things?" Katniss finally speaks, her words cutting through the crisp air.

"All sorts of things. Stuff that we find totally normal now," I begin. "Like the Victor's Village, the victory tour, the interviews, all of it!"

A thoughtful "hm." is all I garner in reply.

It's true that, while the games have loomed over us for as long as we can remember, they haven't always been the way they are today. Even the bright, shiny, hand crafted toy that is the Hunger Games has its history. And, though few, there are still some who remember its earlier days. They tell me their tales, and I listen. And I write about them, of the days that most are too young to remember. The days where the glamorous facade of the Capitol hadn't been constructed yet, and the games were seen for what they really are. Deep under the layers of paint and glittering gemstones, is a cold and rotten truth. The games are a punishment, sent to keep the districts in line, and remind us of our place in the world. Nothing more. But it's best to leave these thoughts to myself, I think. Gale has enough of them as is, burning through him with a fury. And that is a fire I simply cannot afford to stoke.

I'd be lying if I said that the same scorching thoughts that smolder through Gale don't also plague me. Their flames lap at the back of my mind, ever present, just waiting for a gust of wind or a piece of fresh tinder so that they can rage through me like a forest fire and leave nothing but ash in their wake. But, unlike some, I do my best to keep them contained.

Staring at the colors of the morning dancing across the sky, and feeling the breeze rustle through the meadow, you wouldn't be faulted if you forgot for a moment about the worries of the world. If you forgot how cruel it all was, how unjust. Maybe that's the reason it's outside of the border of District 12, and not within it. That's why we're not supposed to be here. It's a respite, a break from the hassle of the day. When things are especially bleak, I close my eyes and imagine myself here. Calm in the meadow, resting in the morning grass. I imagine myself smelling the dew and feeling the warmth from the golden rays of sunlight as they dance across my face. It makes me wonder what life would be like, what life must have been like in the past. Before the borders sprung up around the districts. Back when people could roam freely from district to district. The stories of this time are the only thing remaining, relics of a bygone era.

"Are you coming?" Katniss's voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I turn to look in her and Gale's direction.

They're standing now, and they've begun to sling what we've caught today over their shoulders.

"Yeah, I'm coming."

Technically, we're not supposed to be out past the fence. It's prohibited. So is hunting, or 'poaching' as the Capitol decrees which cycle around every now and again call it. But times are rough, and winters are hard on everyone. Anyone is willing to turn a blind eye so long as they're hungry enough. Katniss and Gale hunt nearly every morning, and sell what we catch at the Hob, or to the odd Peacekeeper. As I said, anyone is willing to turn a blind eye, including those tasked with keeping an eye on us in the first place.

Before Katniss and Gale and I, it was just Katniss's father, Mr. Everdeen. He was a kind man who worked in the mines. He'd take Katniss and I along with him when he'd hunt, and teach us about stringing a bow, making one from scratch. He taught us what plants were edible, how to swim in case we ever fell into the lake further off in the woods and he wasn't there to help us. On his shoulders he carried the responsibility of hunting game and selling it to the hob. At least, while he was alive.

Katniss's Father's death is what brought Gale into our circle. A terrible mining accident. One day, everyone went to work, just like normal. All those men, working hard in the mines for their families. And then, in an instant, they were gone. An explosion wiped them out. Gale's father was among those dead. After the explosion, Katniss's mother disappeared in all senses except physical. She was a husk of herself, as if the person she'd once been had crawled out of her body in order to die alongside the man she loved. She lost customers, since she wouldn't treat anyone. Katniss and Prim, whose pleading hadn't done much to bring their mother back to them, began to wither away. Katniss had taken to trying to sell their clothes, and though I didn't have anything that was worth much, I too tried to lend her some aid. But it wasn't enough.

It was difficult to witness. Most of us from the seam began to get thinner too, now with such a lack in real food. Even the Peacekeepers began to slim down. But to see someone truly waste away, it was a terrible thing. We'd seen it before in school. Kids we knew, that we grew up with and had once played with in the streets, now barely anything more than skin and bones. Sometimes they'd pass away in class. They'd fall asleep during a lesson and never wake back up. We'd attend the funerals, and mourn them. It had worried me, especially on one rainy day when we were on our way back from class. Katniss wanted to take a different route, to see if she could find anyone sympathetic enough in town to grant her something decent to eat. But she'd been so weak as of late, she was practically a wisp. She'd looked as if one strong gust of wind would be all it took to lift her into the air and carry her away. Yet still, I took Prim to their home and watched over her until Katniss returned. When she did, she had two loaves of scorched bread, and a look of determination on her face that's never quite left it since. Not long after, she and I braved the woods, to try to forage and hunt like her father had taught us to. It was there that we met Gale. He was awfully good at setting snares, and taught us in return for Katniss teaching him to shoot a bow. From that, our small trio was born.

"You two go ahead to the Hob, I'll come along next time." I say as we re-enter the district.

"This is like your eighty-fifth 'next time' Willow." Gale teases back.

"Ok…and next time will be the eighty-sixth. You know I don't really like the dampness of the Hob anyway."

Gale scoffs and rolls his eyes.

"Right."

It's not completely a lie. The hob is a rather dark and damp part of the seam, so much so that some people call it the underbelly of District 12. It's the black market, somewhere alcohol and illegal goods are sold, and the only peacekeepers around are the ones looking to buy something. I normally don't mind all its flaws, but not too long ago there was an altercation between one of the shopkeepers and a peacekeeper who didn't pay in full, and things haven't quite been the same since. Rumors scurry through the Hob like rats now, about how the Peacekeepers could use this as an excuse to turn on the Hob. Due to this, I try to walk on the side of caution, at least until the rumors die down.

"See you later then, right?" Katniss asks.

"Yeah, I'll be there." I reply.

Katniss nods, and she and Gale set off for the Hob to trade the game we caught.

I however take a different path, and before I know it, I find myself in the square. It's such a strange sight, to see it so barren and empty. None of the shops are really open, since reaping day is a public holiday. Even the Justice Building -which looms over the northern part of the square- looks abandoned and solitary. Later, the capitol crews will come to clean up the place. They'll hose down and scrub the exterior of the Justice Building, and they'll sweep away all the debris from the ground. Engineers and technicians will set up goliath-like lights that will illuminate the square, and ground speakers so loud that I'm shocked half of them haven't gone deaf by now. And they'll set up that ugly giant screen in front of the justice building, where the unlucky boy and girl chosen from our district will be broadcast in front of all of Panem. Later, the square will be full of people, and brimming with an anxious atmosphere that smothers you when you enter.

As I gaze across the way at some of the shops, I wonder what the morning feels like for those who are from the town. I'm friends with a few of them. Madge Undersee, the mayor's daughter, is one of them, and sits with Katniss and I in class and during mealtimes. Sometimes she and I will walk back to her home after school, and talk for a ways before saying goodbye once we reach the outside. It's a gorgeous place, and often I've found myself wondering what it looks like on the inside. Some others took me into their fold as well, back when we were younger. They mistook me for one of them, a kid from Town, and part of me thinks they still might. I wonder if their houses bustle with the same nervousness of those in the seam, wondering if this time, against the odds, one of them will be selected. It's rare, since more of us take out Tessarae just to survive. Even though it's supposed to be a random draw, it's hard to be that random when some have their names in over forty times, and others have seven at most.

I've heard that they hang out before and after the reaping, enjoying themselves. Hell, I've even been invited along once or twice. But I never spend raping day with them, I don't think I could bear to be around anything other than a vague sense of dread. To have even a remote feeling of excitement or joy on a day like today just feels foreign and wrong to me. Instead, I usually go to get ready for reaping day at Katniss's home, alongside her and Prim. It's a grim ritual, I think, as I make note of the time and head back towards the part of the district where Katniss lives. We make ourselves our prettiest, and arrive looking our best so that two of us can be served up as sacrificial lambs to the bloodthirsty wolf that is the Capitol. Perhaps the people of the Capitol even comment on how pretty we look as we're sent off to die.

"I almost thought you were going to be late." Katniss says when she opens the door once I arrive.

"Me? Never." I retort with a laugh.

Katniss smiles.

"There's one of Katniss's old dresses laid out for you, Willow." Mrs. Everdeen pipes up.

It almost startles me how alive she looks for a moment. It sparks a glum look on Katniss's face. She's never let herself rely on her mother since before her father passed. I can't fault her for that. Even now that she's more present, Mrs. Everdeen has never truly been the same since the accident. It has to be hard for her, to now see the reality that those you love can be ripped away from you in an instant. She's never really seemed to allow herself to be close to her children since then. Not like how she used to be at least.

I leave to get dressed, and find a simple white dress that's littered with little flowers laid out for me. I remember Katniss wearing this same dress on reaping day two or so years ago. It's slightly faded now, with the yellowing of age beginning to creep into the sides, and the flowers beginning to darken slightly. They almost look like forget-me-nots. I ponder whether it makes sense to button it all the way up or not, and decide to leave one button undone before quickly changing my mind once I see how it looks in the mirror. I can practically hear the announcer's voices if I was to get picked and the button was undone. They'd probably comment on something or another about how they'd expect nothing less from District 12. They think of us as an unkempt district, slovenly and below even the basic standards of manners or etiquette. One time they compared our tributes to literal animals.

When I return to the common room, I see Katniss helping Prim fit into her skirt, no doubt another hand-me-down from Katniss. Their mother stands to the side, taking in the scene with an unreadable expression.

"Tuck in that tail, little duck." Katniss says with a smile, tucking in the back of Prim's shirt.

Prim looks anxious, like most of us do during any reaping day. It's a feeling that can be almost overwhelming during your first reaping. The odds of your name being called are the lowest they ever will be while you're eligible, but they aren't zero. That uncertainty, that worry that you'll be one of the unlucky ones selected during your first go of it, can be crippling. But Katniss assures Prim, as I'm sure so many people have assured their children in the past, that her name is only in the reaping one time, so she won't be chosen.

Katniss is sporting a lovely blue dress, in a similar style to the one of hers that I'm wearing. I don't think I've seen it before, and it's certainly not new. It's probably one of her mother's old dresses, I realize. A sweet gift I suppose, a show of love in her own way. It looks as though it makes Katniss uncomfortable however, though I don't know what could possibly be comforting about this day. Maybe if we were from a different part of the district, we'd feel different.

"Wow, you two could be sisters." Katniss exclaims when she finally notices that I've re-entered the room.

Looking in the mirror, she's right. Both Prim and I have light hair and bright blue eyes, however Prim is fairer skinned than I am. Prim takes after Mrs. Everdeen's features, whereas Katniss has more features of those from the Seam like her father. It's probably the reason that the kids from the Town mistook me for one of them so long ago. Typically, fairer features are associated with the people from town, merchants and the like.

After an awkward moment in which Mrs. Everdeen braids Katniss's hair, we're off into the streets, back to the square.

The air around us is full of a nervous dread that hangs like a thick fog. Neighbors walk next to and around each other, but nobody talks. All that exists is a sad, melancholic silence as we march along. It feels like a funeral procession, I realize. And for some unlucky families, that's exactly what it is. A funeral procession for children who are still alive, yet who won't be in a matter of months. It makes the streets feel more dull, like it's devoid of any color and life.

The hopelessness wanes however, as we ease our way closer to town. The closer we get to the square, the more the atmosphere changes into one of a mixed excitement. The Capitol crews buzz around preparing their finishing touches like a hive of busy bees. The adults hover like spectators around the center of the square, some worried parents or siblings. Others are placing bets, surveying the faces of those of us who shuffle into the center of the square. District 12's most prized export, its children. They place bets throughout the whole of the games, but today they have the biggest chance of winning big. If they bet correctly on who gets reaped, they could win an awful lot. The largest anyone ever won was when one man correctly predicted both of the district tributes that year. He made enough that he was able to open up a little shop on the outskirts of the square. Though, rumor has it he somehow rigged the bowls in order for the names he bet upon to be selected.

It's a strange thing, to have some adults bet on the tributes. They, who once felt the same dread and anxiety as we did, now find amusement in staking their money to guess our fates. They bet on all sorts of things outside of just which tributes will be reaped. Popular bets are on which district has both tributes eliminated first, what the arena will be like, what outfits tributes will wear when they ride through the capitol in their chariots or when they attend the infamous interviews. I've never heard of a victor betting, though now that I think of it, I've never heard of a victor much after their games in any regard.

Before I know it, we've all been signed in, and line up in our assigned rows. I stand beside Katniss as Prim goes off to join her friends in their row. Her face displays the same nervousness that we're all feeling. It's cramped and hot in the center of the square, a tense and fearful atmosphere weighing heavily in the air. I glance around, my eyes falling on Madge as she stands further away in our row, fidgeting with the hem of her blouse. She's just as nervous as the rest of us, it seems, and I try to remember that she has just as much right as any of us do to feel scared. Even if the odds are in her favor.

It must be two already, since Mayor Undersee stands, and the anxious chatter that littered the square has now fallen deafeningly silent. He looks weary, his face highlighted on the enormous screen that sits fixed upon the Justice Building. He looks down from the stage for a moment, and I notice his eyes fall on Madge. He must be worried for her. It can't be easy to officiate this for anyone, but it must feel like an entirely different kind of pain to be a parent and to hold the ceremony where your child gets chosen. It's a different feeling, being so up close to it all. Makes it feel more real I guess.

"Once…" He begins, pausing to nervously clear his throat.

He wheels off into the all too familiar story that I'm sure any of us could recite by heart. He tells the tale of a time long long ago, before any of us were born, where the were many nations, not just our one. We used to be part of something much larger, a place called North America. But, our ancestors were greedy and power hungry creatures, and in that greed, they reverted to primitive acts of barbarianism. They fought each other tooth and nail, wreaking havoc, and taking the rest of the world down with them. Their actions left the soil dry, and garnered storms of mythical proportions. Food was scarce, infighting was all too common. Wars, terrible, brutal wars consumed those who managed to survive, and merely bred the same hatred which brought them to that point to begin with. The world was a wasteland.

But after that, in a brief moment of peace, some of those remaining decided to do something different. They banded together on a small patch of still-fertile land, and chose to form a new government. A new, prosperous country, which they chose to name 'Panem'. The name is in another language, one so archaic that none alive speak it anymore from what we know. Though, according to the scholars, it means bread. In this new and prosperous world, thirteen districts were constructed, each with the express purpose of creating one main export to send to the Capitol -a shining city nestled high in the mountains of the east. But, dissent began to spread throughout the districts, and chaos soon erupted from this.

According to the history, one district began to harbor the same hubris that caused society to collapse so long ago. They became consumed with greed, wanting to keep their resources to themselves. They insisted that they needn't send their goods to the Capitol, and that they had no reason to pay tribute to a city so far away from themselves. They started a revolt, with their ideas seeping into the surrounding districts. It sparked a war which is referred to now as the Dark Days, one which only ended upon the total annihilation of this initial Rogue District. There were no survivors from District 13, and their extermination set an example to the other districts, who soon surrendered to the Capitol.

Since then, as a show of the Capitol's mercy, and as a reminder to the districts, every year each district sends two tributes to participate in the Hunger Games. One boy, and one girl. Children, sent to serve out the sentence of crimes they never committed. Burdened by the actions of people they'll never meet. Innocents.

After Mayor Undersee concludes his annual recounting of history, a woman dressed in blindingly bright colors steps up to the microphone, waiting her turn to speak. Effie Trinket, who is dressed in the usual over-the-top manner that Capitol people tend to enjoy, stares down at the crowd of us with a smile that looks as if she's trying to fight back the urge to gag. We know she doesn't much like being 'stuck here' as she puts it, she'll tell that fact to just about anyone who will listen. She comes to the district every year to announce which children will be tributes, and our tributes never win. In a way, she's like a brightly colored and extravagantly dressed harbinger of death.

Every year she tries to outdo herself with a brand new outrageous outfit. This year, she's decided on a hideously bright green suit, so green that I fear staring at it too long could cause it to be burned into my retinas permanently. Her hair towers high above her, a contrasting shade of pink that makes her look almost sick. She's everything the Capitol people embody, an almost hideous extravagance. Though I'm sure they don't see it that way. I don't exactly know what they do in the Capitol. I'm sure some of them have jobs, but they always seem to be relaxing when they appear on TV. Life for them seems like one big party, like they live without a care in the world. Sometimes I wonder to myself if, in a place so fruitful with a lack of responsibility, they find every possible chance to be as unique as humanly possible. It's like they're outdoing each other and themselves with outrageous outfits, in a bid to be the most unique person in the room. Compared to us, who can rarely afford to own more than one or two outfits, it seems awfully frivolous and distasteful.

Mayor Undersee reads the names of the two previous District 12 victors that we know of. One of whom, as if on cue, stumbles drunkenly up the steps. Haymitch Abernathy, who won the 50th Hunger Games at sixteen years old. Twenty four years later, now in his forties, he carries himself with all the grace of a senile man on death's doorstep. He's always drunk, or almost always, and part of me wonders if anyone can really blame him for that. After being in the games, and beating all the odds, he survived. When he returned home his family was gone. Now, as the only living victor from our district, he has to watch two tributes get sent off to be slaughtered each year. It has to take a toll on him.

So much of a toll that, as he makes his way across the stage, he lunges towards Effie. Mayor Undersee gasps, and multiple peacekeepers jump to assist a now dismantled Effie. It's clear that he's drunk, and his words garble together something of an apology, but it's hard to decipher it. Something about a hug, another thing about friendship, unintelligible gibberish in between.

"Happy Hunger Games," She chirps in her sing-songy Capitol accent, having now taken control of the microphone and having fixed her hair -which must be a wig- from its unceremonious jostling a mere moment before.

She waltzes towards the bowl with the girls' names in it, and swirls her hand around over the top, like she's trying to let fate guide her decision.

"Ladies first!"

Her gaze is on us while she ruffles through the folded up names, picking them up occasionally and dropping them back down again. The air is suddenly more tense around me, and my chest tightens in anticipation. Katniss and I have reached for each other's hands, our knuckles white. I can see those beside me clutching their hands together, eyes transfixed on the screen. It's like we're all collectively holding our breath, waiting to see what name she says. Wondering who is going to lose their sister or daughter today. Her hand falls. She grabs a paper, and lifts it up. Reading it, she walks back to the microphone, almost like she's drawing it out on purpose. Finally, she speaks.

When I hear "Primrose Everdeen!" it feels as if time itself has stopped.