Tribute's Game

The Reaping

I stand in front of my mirror, holding a damp cloth to my face to calm the pain of the wound on my cheek. It's the best I have, because nothing else is cold enough to do the trick and it's not bad enough to try and get any real painkillers. Really, the worst pain will be the next time I go outside when everyone can see it. I frown as I stare at my reflection. Since the fight, my red hair has fallen out of it's previously neat and secure bun. It falls down in loose waves at my shoulder, and maybe I'd keep it down more often if the waves didn't immediately revert back to their stick-straight bland strands. I stare into my own green eyes, and then wipe away the small bits of crust that formed from the tears. I didn't actually cry, and I'll stick to that story. The pain simply made my eyes water, and it was so close to my face that it would have been a miracle if my eyes hadn't watered.

"Nell!" I hear my brother's voice call up to me from down below. I set down the cloth to reveal the purple bruise which has already swelled. Not too much, though. Maybe, in that large crowd of people, nobody will notice today. Everyone is already so nervous at the Reaping that nobody would bother to look in my direction anyway. At school though, I'm sure I'll get a few comments.

I turn away from the mirror and pass the sorry excuse for a mannequin next to my bed. It's made of wood that was meant to be for fire last winter, but it ended up not being necessary. The mannequin's body is deformed and unsturdy, but I suppose that doesn't matter because the old fabric sprawled across it would look like a mess no matter how the mannequin was shaped. My mother is a seamstress, and she makes dresses. I've been trying to follow in her footsteps by making something somewhat wearable to show that I won't starve once I'm on my own, but so far, no success. 

A exit my room and come down the splintered stairs to meet my brother at the bottom. His eyes immediately lock on my hair. "God, Nell, you couldn't have fixed up that rat's nest?" he asks me. At least he's honest.

"Shut up, Rald," I say back. Ralden sneers, soon realizing that I don't care and I'm not going to do much about it. But, to please him and my mother, I grab the orange locks, not bothering to look in a mirror as I do it, and wind it around the small part of the bun that still is intact. "Happy?" I ask.

He doesn't respond, and only gives my a disapproving look as he walks out the door. 

I follow behind him, shutting the door behind me. "Where's Mom?" I ask.

"She already left. Got tired of waiting for you and left me to deal with the mess."

"'Mess' being me?"

"'Mess' being you," he echoes.

I don't let it get to me anymore, and it only makes me fell less bad about not putting my effort into my appearance for the Reaping.

There are many more people here today than usual. I feel like we're marching, all walking at the same pace in the same direction to see which two kids will die this year. Fun. Entertaining. That's what it's supposed to be, right? That's what the Capitol says anyway.

It doesn't take too long to reach the Justice Building, and when we do it's the same quick check-in, exactly as it's been the last two times I participated in the Reaping. I catch a couple of concerned glances going my way, a couple from people I don't even know. I can feel that my bruise is still swelling, and it doesn't make this day any better. I find my spot, and stand there, not caring enough to look to see where my brother has been placed. I'm with the other fourteen year olds, who stand stiff and straight facing the stage as Effie Trinket places herself in front of the microphone at the center of the stage. She has large pink hair, and her matching pink outfit is just as ridiculous. I might have laughed at it if today wasn't today.