A/N: hi all

i wrote this story as a wee fanfic writer when i was like... 14. lots of issues with that! but as the hunger games resurgence has happened (ahem... thank you suzanne) i got back into writing and literally rewrote an entire story from my youth. this was originally on as Ignite the Flame and has been rewritten there, too under the same author name (i was like 12 ok). now it is Keep Your Hand in Mine, a call to Noah Kahn and the song Everywhere, Everything, from an album that i think represents district 12 well.

also yes... it is 1st person. i couldn't bring myself to fully rewrite it. this is a long story. younger me really liked to write and adult me couldn't help but keep that. lots of original aspects are the same, but they've been fixed and written better.

anyways, i don't know how many people read gadge anymore but this was my like orignal ship, so this story is solely for me. those who read it, i hope you enjoy it :)

The clock on the wall ticks quietly in the hallway. Tick, tock, tick. It feels symbolic, like a literal countdown of how long I may have left. I shake my head and quietly open the door in front of me. My mother's room is dark, the curtains are drawn. It's been like this for as long as I can remember, somehow getting darker as we approach this time of year.

I reach into my mother's medicine cabinet, careful not to make any extra noise. The vials of medicine clink together in the small box, and I grab a fresh one. I check the date before bringing it back to her bedside. She's been coming in and out of the daze that morphling gives her for thirty minutes now, and I know that it's essential she's back under by the time I leave the house.

Today is the Reaping.

It's the hardest day of the year for her, but she's not alone. It's hard for me, and for my father, and for everyone in the country. It's hard for her because her sister was Reaped years ago, and she doesn't want me to get Reaped as well. It would only feel poetic.

The 74th Hunger Games begins today, and no one is prepared for it. No one is ever prepared for it.

I inject the morphling into my mother's vein like I was taught to do when I was twelve. She almost immediately relaxes from her fit, and I sigh, tossing the used needle into the trash can in the connected bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror and frown. The last thing I want to do is prepare for the day.

But the sun is rising, and the Reaping will approach faster than any of us want to. So I go back to my room, and slowly get myself ready. Step into a white dress. Pull some of my hair back with a blue ribbon. Stare out the window aimlessly until the sun is fully risen.

I try not to think about it, and I know that there's a slim chance it happens, but the Reaping is terrifying. Even throughout the year it's at the back of my mind, just eating away at my sanity. The Games never truly go away, and this time of year is only a reminder.

You never know who's going to be drawn. It's terrifying either way.

I make myself go downstairs to prepare for the day. My father is already up, reading through his notecards. It's a normal sight on the day of the Reaping. As the mayor of District 12, he has several duties and responsibilities on Reaping Day. It's rare that I see him other than in the morning on this day. He usually doesn't get back home until hours after the tribute train has left. It's nice in a way, being able to process the day alone. But as the night falls, it's nice to not feel alone.

He notices me downstairs and stops for a moment. "You look just like your mother," he tells me quietly, and I nod timidly. It's hard to feel compared to my mother. I know I look like her, but I'm a dead ringer for her dead sister. It's why she has so much trouble looking at me, or remembering me.

I grab a piece of bread and put it in the oven for three minutes to toast it. I put some jam on it, but I know I won't eat it. Not today. I won't eat anything until the day is over, when this nightmare ends. The toast stays on my plate as my father gets ready to leave.

Before he steps out, he hugs me for a very long time. I breathe in the smell of his suit, and then pull back. "I'm very proud of you, Madge."

"Thanks, Daddy," I whisper, feeling the panic of the day starting to set in. I sit back into my chair, and take a bite of toast to satisfy him.

"I have something for you," he says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a pin. I stare at it for a moment, and then take it from him. A Mockingjay. The accident of the Capitol. A cross between a mockingbird and a jabberjay, something that was never supposed to be. "It was your aunt's, and then your mother's. For protection," he says, and I frown, because it didn't protect Maysilee. How could a pin protect someone from the Games? How could anything protect you from the Games?

But I put it on anyway, either to attempt to ward off any evil spirits that might be lingering around my house or satisfy my father, I'm not sure. He nods, kisses my head, and then heads out the door. "I'll see you after it's over," he says, even though we both know that even though there's a slim chance, I could still be picked. I only have seven slips in the bowl this year, seven slips out of thousands. But the chance is still there. That's the thing with the Reaping. You could have one slip, and still be chosen. That happened when I was 12. A classmate of mine was carted off, and never returned.

Only a couple of minutes pass before there's a knock on the back screen door. I know who that is. They come by every week in the summer. Katniss Everdeen and Gale Hawthorne.

Katniss is in my grade at school, and Gale is two years older than us. I don't know either of them very well, but I sit with Katniss at lunch and partner up with her for school projects and gym class, so I'd probably consider us friends. We're both quiet, but I think we both like it that way. Gale, though, Gale is another story.

I don't know Gale very well at all, but I know that I'm frustratingly attracted to him and that I have the most annoying crush on him. He's not even nice to me, which is the most baffling part. He doesn't like me because of who I am. I live in town, I'm the Mayor's Daughter, so that automatically makes me the worst person ever. And honestly, I get it. I have money. I have a roof over my head. Food on the table.

Gale's family struggles to get all of the above. I'm from Town, and he's from the Seam. The Seam, historically, is the poor part of our district. Most of the residents are miles under the Panem poverty line, and almost all struggle to make ends meet. The mines don't help with anything on the money end, and instead only cause more problems. Collapses. Sickness. Coal everywhere.

So I really do get it. I probably wouldn't like me much either because of the money thing. I have never been able to eloquently explain to him that I didn't ask for it. We've argued about it hundreds of times. Honestly, the guy should be on the debate team for how much he argues with me, but I'm sure that would start another argument if I even suggested it.

I open the backdoor slowly and find Katniss and Gale on the other side. "Hi, Madge," Katniss says quietly and I tip my head in a nod back.

"Hi," I tell her, glancing at Gale. "Hello, Gale."

He looks me up and down for a moment, before crossing his arms over his chest. The movement makes me feel warm, and I'm sure my cheeks are pink. "Pretty dress," he grunts, and I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Was that a compliment? Or is he trying to get a rise out of me?

My face still feels warm, but I snip at him back. "Well, if I end up going to the Capitol I want to look nice, don't I?"

Katniss smirks at my retort, and Gale instantly rolls his eyes. "You won't be going to the Capitol," he sneers, and I make a face. "What can you have? Five slips?" I feel myself shrinking inside but I refuse to back down in front of him. "I had six when I was twelve."

"That's not her fault," Katniss defends me quickly, and Gale scowls but raises his hands in surrender.

"It's no one's fault," he finishes. "Just the way it is." He lumbers away and I narrow my eyes at his retreating frame, but turn back to Katniss.

I take the strawberries from Katniss, dropping an extra coin in there. If she notices, she doesn't say anything. We could all use a little something extra today. "Good luck, Katniss."

"You, too," she says quietly, turning and beckoning Gale to follow her out of the gate. He follows without a second glance, and I wait until they're off the porch to close the door.

I sigh thickly, and drop the basket on the kitchen counter. I press my hands into my eyes and take a shuddering breath. Today is a hard day. Today is a really hard day, and I can't handle it. I let myself tear up for three seconds, and then I wipe at my eyes and steel myself.

The clock ticks down, tick, tock, tick, and soon enough I know it's time to go. The bell sounds from the mine, and I know that's my signal to move. I hurry back upstairs to see if my mother is awake, and I'm half pleased and half disappointed when I find she's asleep. Just once, I'd like to say goodbye to my mother before the Reaping. I squeeze her hand in a "see you soon" and then make my way to the square.

The crowds grow larger as I make the short walk to the square. District folk create a path for all eligible tributes, and I wait quietly in line. I chew on the inside of my cheek until it bleeds, trying to distract my brain from the marathon of fears running through it.

Trembling twelve-year-olds and terrified eighteen-year-olds alike stand in line waiting and waiting for the moment. The prick on my finger startles me but doesn't crack my concentration of hoping it's not me. I slowly walk to the sixteen section, and Katniss soon joins me. She tips her head in a nod, before quickly turning around in her spot to find her sister, Prim. It's Prim's first year, so I know this morning was a very hard one.

I know that Katniss has done whatever she can to make this as least traumatizing as she could for her sister, and I'm certain that Prim only has one slip in there. Katniss, however, Katniss probably has over twenty. She had to do it to keep her family alive. It's the price many kids pay.

My father and his district representatives exit the Justice Hall like they do every year, and carefully take their places. One chair is empty, and I know who usually sits there. Haymitch Abernathy.

Haymitch won the 50th Hunger Games, and ever since then he's been the district drunk. Obviously, I don't know and don't ever want to know how the Games affected him, but it's clear that alcohol is the only way he's been able to cope.

As I'm thinking this, he stumbles out of the Justice Hall and nearly trips off of the stage. If I wasn't scared out of my mind, I might've laughed. But I stand still, staring at his drunk form on the hastily constructed screens. We're going to be the laughing stock of Panem again.

I stand quietly next to Katniss as we listen to my father give the speech he does every year. He reads off the history of Panem, and then our list of Victors. One dead, one alive. Not much is known about our first Victor, though my dad tells me that from the grapevine she didn't get along with the last mayor's daughter.

I have everything practically memorized at this point, but the terror and panic coursing through me distracts me. It's an overwhelming panic, one that I only feel once a year on this day. I wring my fingers together. Chew on my lip. Chew on the inside of my cheek till it bleeds again, but it's still not enough to calm myself down.

I jerk back to reality as my father stops speaking, and then Effie Trinket steps forward. Effie Trinket is our District escort. She's in charge of our tributes from the minute her hand grabs their name to the minute they die. She's never had a winning tribute, and I know it drives her nuts. She thinks we're all idiots. "Now it is time to select one courageous young man and woman for the honor of representing District 12 in the 74th Annual Hunger Games! As usual, ladies first."

She steps towards the big bowl and the entire district holds their breath collectively. You can hear a pin drop. A tense silence falls over the square as Effie carefully reaches into the bowl, and selects a slip near the top of it. She steps back over to the microphone, her high heels clicking along, echoing in the silent square.

Not me. Not Katniss. Not Prim.

It's the mantra I repeat in my head every year, and it's never failed me.

Until now.

"Margaret Undersee!"

There's a moment before I register what she's said. A moment where I can only stand still. I feel like I'm floating, like I'm watching this all happen from way above myself, like I've already died. My hands are shaking. I can't move. The fight leaves my body when I see my classmates staring at me in horror. Katniss can't even look at me.

I start to move just as Peacekeepers come looking, but I don't let them touch me. If I'm going up on that stage, I'm doing it without any help. The walk to the stage is excruciatingly endless, but I make it there in one piece. I don't look at my father. I avoid even looking in that direction. It will only cause me to completely break down.

The entire district stares at me in horror, but I know that underneath it is relief that it's not them. I get it. But now I understand how kids before me have felt. The utter shock and devastation of knowing this is the last time you'll ever be here. My throat feels like it's collapsing inside of me.

My hands are still violently shaking, and tears pool in my eyes but I refuse to let them fall. My father taught me from a very young age how to hide my emotions, how to behave myself. It's part of the Mayor's Daughter facade I've perfected. I will not let them see how scared I am. My father's face is white on the screen. I'm trembling. I can't look at him.

I pinpoint a spot in the distance and stare at it instead of looking at the people. I can't even bring myself to find Peeta Mellark, my longest and oldest friend, in the crowd. I know I'd lose it. I can almost feel his eyes begging me to look at him, pleading for me to do something other than stare straight ahead like I've already died. In a way, I have. The Games are a death sentence.

"Congratulations, dear! Such an honor to represent your district this year!" Effie Trinket says to me in her ridiculously high voice, but I don't even turn. "And now, for the boys," she says, obviously unphased by my lack of response.

The district holds their breath again, but I don't hold mine. There isn't much time for me to hold my breath anymore. Every breath means something now. Not much time for me to be breathing anymore. Tributes from District 12 are practically doomed in the Games, it'll be a miracle if I make it off of my plate alive. I'm going to take as many breaths as I can.

I barely get a moment to pray that it's not Peeta when a name rings out through the square.

"Rory Hawthorne!"

My stomach lurches. A 12 year old. There's a quiet cry from the crowd. There's a split second of silence, and then—"

"I volunteer as tribute," a voice from the crowd says, loud and clear with no trace of hesitation. I suck in a tight breath. Despite my current devastation in the pit of my stomach, I can't help but feel an ounce of disbelief at the situation in front of me. Great. I'm already going to die, and the universe puts me in with the one person who would gladly send a spear through my head.

Gale Hawthorne steps out before Peacekeepers can go looking, and Rory tries to protest by stepping out too. "Absolutely not," I hear Gale tell him gruffly, and it's becoming increasingly harder to focus on my spot in the distance. Gale and Rory exchange a few words, before Peacekeepers tug Gale roughly up the stage. Rory's shoved back into line.

He doesn't look at me, and I don't look at him. That's the way this is going to be. I'm going to die, and he's going to win. That's how this thing is going to work.

"What's your name, dear?" Effie asks Gale, absolutely giddy with the fact there is a volunteer.

Gale stares, and then grunts out, "Gale Hawthorne."

"I bet my hat that was your brother," she squeals with delight, and my stomach lurches again, but I will not lose the contents of it on this stage. Not where everyone can see. "District 12's very first volunteer! How exciting!"

No one in the square seems to find this exciting.

"Our two tributes, Margaret Undersee and Gale Hawthorne," Effie announces, moderately proudly, and neither of us turn, even though we both know it's customary for the two tributes to shake hands. "Go on, you two. Shake hands."

I blink a few more times to clear my eyes, because god forbid I let Gale Hawthorne see me cry, before turning first. I stick out my hand, and Gale finally turns. He shakes it quickly, before dropping it.

I get to look at the district for one more second before I'm ushered inside to say my final goodbyes.

The clock ticks.

Tick, tock. Tick tock.

Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. Over and over again.

I routinely breathe in and out while looking around the room for something to fixate on during this time. For as much time as I've spent in the Justice Hall, I've never been in this room. I've never been allowed, and I haven't wanted to. It reeks of sadness and loss. Only now, I'm a part of it.

There is a feeling of immense sadness here. Perhaps it's the plain brown walls, or the faded leather chairs. But it's most likely the essence of terror and tears that have been shed here. This is where families say goodbye to their loved ones. This is the last place in District 12 where tributes get to be. I've been here once before, saying goodbye to my classmate when I was 12. He died, as most District 12 tributes do. I know that that's my fate as well.

I'm counting the tiles on the ceiling when the door finally opens, and my father is ushered in. I don't look at him for a moment, because I don't think I can.

Finally, I manage something, because I know our time is ticking. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry, dear?" My father asks, stepping forward slowly. His eyes are red. He's been crying. I haven't given myself the luxury yet.

"I don't know," I whisper, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. "Somehow this is my fault."

"No," he says quietly, pulling me in for a hug. "This is no one's fault." But the Capitol's, I think to myself. It's always their fault.

"Tell Mom I love her. And that I have her pin," I say, my voice choking up as I get to the end of my sentence. "It's my token," I whisper, the lump in my throat growing with every second.

"She knows, peach." I take a sharp breath at the nickname. He's used it since I was a baby. He doesn't use it very often anymore, because I hate peaches, but… For now, it is my comfort.

"Don't let her watch."

"Madge…"

"You know what has to happen," I say, trying to control the shaking in my voice. "If District 12 has a winner it's not going to be me, and you know it." My father doesn't say anything, and that confirms it. He and I both know which one of us will be returning. "Don't let her watch," I repeat, swiping at my eyes furiously. I can barely speak through the lump in my throat. "Especially when it happens."

My father remains quiet, and wraps me in a hug. A couple tears escape onto his old suit jacket, but I let those go. There will be many more where that came from.

"I love you, Madge," he says, and I swallow thickly. I breathe in his scent again, the smell of his suit, the smell of his office here in the Justice Hall. Tears turn in my eyes. "Regardless of what happens. Maybe you'll surprise everyone."

I manage a weak laugh, and wipe under my eyes again. "You'll be the first to know when I do. I love you too, Daddy."

His face scrunches up, and the lump in my throat continues to grow. My father holds me in his embrace until all too soon, the Peacekeeper comes to retrieve him. He goes without argument, and turns back for one last second. He puts a finger under his chin. Keep your chin up. Then he's gone.

I swallow a sob and put my head in my hands, desperately trying to keep myself together. The door opens again, and Peeta steps through, and that's it. I can't stop myself from crying. I press my face into his shoulder and let out a harsh sob.

Peeta doesn't say anything, and I know it's because he's still in shock. He just holds me for a moment as I cry a bit. I pull myself together. Or, pull myself together the best I can given the current situation.

We're quiet as we sit back down on the couch together. There isn't much to say. "I wish I knew anything about survival," Peeta mumbles, staring at the floor intently. "Anything could help you, and I don't have anything."

"It's okay," I tell him quietly, wiping at my face, "I don't know anything either. Maybe I'll get a backpack and I'll get lucky."

"You have never gotten lucky once in your entire life, you are a walking bad-luck signal," Peeta grumbles, and I can't stop myself from laughing miserably. "Every bit of bad luck flocks to you."

"I guess that explains today," I say, and his face drains of color again. "Maybe it's time for things to go my way," I suggest, but we both know it's useless. I'm doomed to die in the Arena. We both know that, too.

"Maybe," he echoes, and we fall silent again. His hands hold mine tightly. "You're my best friend, you know that?"

"Peeta."

"I'm serious," he tells me, his red-rimmed eyes finding mine, "even if we weren't close in middle school, or really up until recently. You were my first friend, and you're my best friend."

"You're gonna make me cry again," I sign, pulling him in for another hug. I sniffle, and wipe at my eyes. "You're my best friend too."

Peeta manages a laugh. We sit quietly for the next minute, and neither of us can say anything. There isn't anything to say. Peeta just holds my hands tightly. It grounds me. The Peacekeeper comes in all too soon, and I feel my eyes well with tears again. He gives me one more hug, and the Peacekeeper has to physically remove him because he's not budging on his own. My throat closes up with a sob as the door shuts.

Katniss comes in last, but only briefly. I know her loyalties are with Gale. "I'm really sorry this happened to you," is all she whispers. I can tell she means it.

"I am too," I whisper back.

Then she's gone.

At the end of the hour, I'm taken from my room and shoved into a tiny car with Gale and Effie. Effie sits between us, chattering about the Capitol and the train and everything else that we won't get to experience because we're the Capitol's entertainment. The overwhelming sense of dread has settled back in the pit of my stomach as we roll through the cobbled streets of District 12. We pass my house, and the school. The field where the younger school children play soccer during recess. The shops, the edge of the Seam. It's crumbly, and old, but it's my district and I'm never going to get to see it again.

I swipe at my eyes once before we're ushered out of the car and onto the train station. Cameras get jabbed in my face and reporters shout at us, but Effie just pushes us forward. No mercy.

We stand for five seconds on the station, and I desperately try to get a glimpse of anyone I recognize, but it's no use. Effie gets us on the train, and that's that.

The door closes shut behind us, and reality sinks in like lead in my stomach.

I'm a tribute in the 74th Annual Hunger Games.