Chapter Text
Reaping Day.
You wake up with an overwhelming feeling of fear that sits heavy on your chest. It suffocates you. It cracks your breathing and makes your mouth dry. You close your eyes, wishing you could fade back into your sheets, disappearing from the environment around you. You wish that everything would burn to the ground and you prayed that it would take you with it. You wish you were older, even just by one day. One day and you would have officially been excluded at nineteen. But your birthday was on the day of the Reaping. Since you were not nineteen before the reaping, you were included in the pool of potential tributes. You should have been free, scraping through by the skin of your teeth. But the Capitol is strict. They make no exceptions for something as meaningless as a birthday.
You rise from your sheets, knowing that you cannot put the inevitable off forever. You don’t dress, not yet. You make your way to the market, noticing the perpetual layer of coal dust chalked over everything: the houses, the ground, the air, the people. Sometimes thick, sometimes thin, but always there. The choking black dust from the coal mines fogs the air, giving the atmosphere a dark tint, as though it is always cloudy. The only place that is spotless and clean was the town square where the Reaping would take place. It is the cleanest spot for where the most blood would be shed. You shiver at the thought, tearing your eyes away from it.
Your attention shifts back toward your goal. You strut through the marketplace with confidence. You are tall and stick-thin as a result of the starvation you faced from the lack of food in your District. It isn’t uncommon to see a girl as skinny as you, but it is to see one as tall. You tower over most other girls and many of the other boys. Your height gave you an edge and made you seem more intimidating than you actually are. Boys would pick on you for your height and girls would cackle behind your back. It was difficult to make friends, but your warm heart usually won them over. You are kind to all, even if they aren’t kind to you.
That’s another factor that made the possibility of the Hunger Games hard to swallow, you can’t fathom killing another human being, let alone another child.
You shake away the thought and browse through the market. Adults look at you sadly and other children with fear and guilt. You know why. Everyone always secretly hopes that someone else would get it. You feel saddened for the person who was chosen, but overall relief for it not being you.
You trade the crops that you had grown in your back garden for some fresh meat. There is a fresh squirrel on the table, which you know had been from the District’s huntress, Katniss. She would sneak out of the boundaries of the District and into the woods to hunt for animals. Whenever she would come back, she would pass by the hut that you called home. She would usually give you one of the animals in exchange for the berries that you had grown in secret. It was wild lands in District 12, but you had managed to tame some and be able to grow food. Though seven years her senior, Katniss was the only other girl who was kind to you in the village. For that, you appreciated the young girl. It dawns on you that this is her first Reaping. You can’t help but wonder what she feels.
Probably the same way you felt when it happened to you: overcome with fear so heavy that your entire skeleton shook as though it were begging to be let out of the meat suit that was your flesh. A fear that controls every part of your brain, your nervous system, that you can feel all over your body that makes you want to climb out of your skin and run away. A fear that left you so nauseous that you couldn’t stomach any food, that left you wondering what would happen if you run, knowing full well that it was imminent death to do that.
There was no running from the Reaping. There was no running from the Games.
You’re either lucky or you die.
You thank the kind woman at the market stand and as you leave, you notice that she has given you something extra. A small cookie from the bakery. These were a luxury few could afford. The woman slipped you one out of pity. You look back to thank her, but she has already turned her attention to the next customer.
You head back to your small hut. It was a tiny square-shaped room that had what you needed in it. A janky old mattress that you had retrieved from the junkyard with a second-hand pair of sheets that you had traded almost all of your plants for at the market along with a new pillow is tucked away into one of the corners. You had managed to sew yourself a thick blanket with torn and destroyed pieces of cloth that you had found. There is a small sink with a dust-coated mirror hanging above it. A barely-functioning toilet sits next to it and a bathtub that isn’t connected to plumbing sits pushed up against the wall next to the sink on the opposite side of the toilet. In the center of the room is a makeshift table that you had stolen from someone’s back porch. Next to it is a metal bucket that you use as a stove to cook and heat up water when you need it. There is a small chest that you had where you keep all of your clothes, though it isn’t many.
You pour a bucket of hot water into the bathtub. It isn’t much, but it will do. You scrub your skin raw, attempting to cleanse yourself of the permanent layer of soot that exists on your skin. Once your skin burns from all the rubbing, you dip your head underneath the water and scrub your head with the cheap bar of soap that you own, attempting badly to clean your hair.
Once you feel you are finished, you shake yourself off to dry as if you were a dog. You tie your hair back in a simplistic bun at the base of your neck, pulling out a few hairs to frame your face. You dig through your small chest of clothes to find a clean pair of underwear and a bra. You have been saving the clean ones for today. You are meant to look your very best for Reaping Day, as though you are lambs being prepped for the slaughter.
You pull out a faded, washed-out white dress that is no longer white but a gray color. It buttons up in the front and a belt is wrapped around the back, cinching at your waist. You fix your collar so that it lays flat and smooth out the wrinkles at the bottom of your dress. It stops just below your knees and felt airy and smooth. You don’t feel suffocated in these dresses. It was one of the few things that you like about Reaping Day. It was the only thing you like about Reaping Day. You like feeling pretty. You wish you could do it every day.
A fog horn sounds, and that is your cue to leave. You step outside your hut, falling into the stream of children and families who make their way to the town square, all tense and silent. No sound of speaking, simply the thick, dense feeling of fear. The only noises that can be heard are the shuffling of feet as thousands of children walk toward their potential death.
You walk up to the table of Peacekeepers and hold out your hand for them. They prick your finger and press it against a paper. They scan it with their device to check you in. The Peacekeeper working the table chuckles slightly.
“Happy birthday,” she says.
You tense and give a strained smile. You push past her, headed toward the very front of the row where the other eighteen-year-olds stand, though they all know that you do not belong there. They all know that you are nineteen. They all know that you should be free from this.
But you are not. You are here.
You stare blankly at the ground as the familiar woman with a bright blue wig and a flamboyant and extravagant outfit steps up to the microphone on the stage. Next to her are two big glass bowls that are filled with slips of white paper, all of which have a name of a child here on them. She taps the microphone excitedly, the feedback ringing loudly in your ears, causing you to wince.
“Welcome, welcome!” she shouts into the mic. “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor.”
Silence rings throughout the crowd.
“I must introduce myself. For those of you who do not know me, I am Effie Trinket. I am a representative from the Capitol and I am here to select your tributes for the 70th annual Hunger Games. Before we select our brave young tributes, we have an exciting message from the Capitol!” she says happily as she gestures to the big screen to her side.
The familiar propaganda film that you have seen every year for the past seven years of your life plays again. President Snow speaks over flashing images of war, talking about the rebellion of District 13 and how the Hunger Games now exist as a penance for the Districts’ sins. Every year, one “brave young man and a young woman” — children, he means — are selected to compete in a battle to the death in order to “protect our future.”
Effie claps enthusiastically as the video ends. Nobody in the crowd follows suit. She clears her throat awkwardly as she approaches the mic.
“Well, now that that’s done, it is time to select your District’s tributes. As always, ladies first.”
Effie walks over to the bowl to her left, reaching in and fishing out a piece of white paper. Anxiety crushes your chest as you squeeze your eyes shut in anticipation. Your fists are clenched are so tight that you worry you have made yourself bleed. You try to steady your breathing as Effie opens the paper and reads the name out for the quad to hear.
You freeze.
You think you’re going to be sick.
Your name. She said your name.
You stand there, frozen in shock, unable to move before Effie states your name again, ushering you to come forward. Your body shakes as you shimmy your way through the crowd, dragging your feet for as long as you could before Peacekeepers grab you and drag you up onto the stage. Effie wraps her arms around you in a quick hug and you stiffen underneath her touch.
You thought you had made it. You should have made it.
But you didn’t. You’re standing here on this stage as the female tribute for District 12 for the 70th Annual Hunger Games.
Effie reads out another name for the boys, and a boy you are unfamiliar with struts up onto the stage. He looks terrified, but not nearly as much as you are despite the fact that he is almost certainly younger than you. You don’t say anything to him, but silently shake his hand in resignation.
Effie announces your names in front of the quad again, who all stare back at you with wide eyes filled with grief and relief. You feel yourself being ushered off of the stage by the Peacekeepers, your body heavy.
You have just been selected for your death, but you sure as hell won’t be going down without a fight.