The sound of the oven’s door wakes me up. I roll on my side and cover my head with my pillow, willing to keep sleeping, but the door of my bedroom swings open and a couple of hands shake me until I get up. It’s my mother, who’s been telling me something over the last fifteen minutes. “It’s today”, she stands and, with that, leaves. There’s no need to explain. Anyone at home would’ve understood her. Today’s the msot painful and the most scariest day of the year.
Today is the Reaping.
I stand up, my eyes fighting against the lack of sleep to stay open. I get dressed and, yawning, go downstairs to have some bread. That’s basically our only food; bread. And it’s only because we bake it… Actually, my father owns the bakery and I… Decorate the cakes. I know, pathetic, right? And it’s not like we actually earn a ñlot of money with the bakery, but it’s still something. District Twelve, our home, is one of the poorest, along with the Ten and Eleven, so many people live in deadly conditions… I guess I can’t complain.
I walk out the kitchen, a piece of bread still in my hand, and head to the front of the bakery. Today we don’t sell; today we bake. Taking the breads from the oven, I notice they’re slightly burnt. A smile curvs in my lips, but I quickly erase that memory of my mind. No time for that. I cut them into piece and repeat this with three more loafs.
Done.
My work for the day is over.
I’m not allowed to, but I walk out of my house and slowly let my feet take me to the main plaza. verything I see are the preparatives for the Reaping: a giant TV each side of an enourmous stage, a couple of strings dividing the floor for gender and ages, and tables with books on them. It only takes a step forward for me to notice them.
The peace keepers.
I know they saw me too, so I quickly turn around and hurry to my house again. I can feel steps behind me, chasing me, though I can’t see them. Might be my imagination as well. When I get to the back door, I glance around, but see nothing. I notice I’m shaking and my breath’s getting faster and faster, so I run upstairs and lay on my bed once more. I close my eyes and let my mind relive old memories. Of course, the only deep memoty I save, happened a long time ago. So long, I shouldn’t actually remember.
But I do.
Once more, the knocking on my door wakes me up; I’d fallen asleep and it’s almost time. I get dressed, too elegant to be almost starving everyday. I don’t even get why we have to celebrate this day. It’s always the same: two get selected, the others look sad, but are actually happy they weren’t the ones, everybody goes home, the family closes the curtains and cries. They die. Of course, the Capitol thinks it should be fun to pick them, they’re gonna get killed, that’s always fun! Of course, they don’t understand. Actually, they don’t care.
But we do.
We live in permanent suffering, as the Reaping approaches. And this day…
“Each District shall offer one young man and woman. Those will be called Tributes and will be in charge of representing their District. Punishing and reminding about the Dark Days, when they revealed against the country that loved them and protected them. These tributes shall be, then, deliveredto the Capitol city and then to a public Arena, where they will fight to death, until one victor remains”. That’s how The Hunger Games are taught to us. As a reminder instead of a crazy punishment.
Of course, there are a few Districts who’s kids are proud of being a Tribute (something I still can’t understand), like the One, the Two and the Four. District Two provides the Capitol of peace-keepers, who are in chanrge of, well, “making peace”, which is a funny irony as they do the exact opposite, making sure we don’t start a revolution. The tributes from this Districts are trained since early ages, and when the Reaping takes place, they offer themselves as volunteers; by that time, they’re pretty lethal. All around the perispheical Districts (meaning, the Ten, Eleven and, my home, Twelve) we call them “the careers”.
All pretty dressed, I go to the main plaza again and tsand with the boys my age, where a big peace-keeper leads me to. The ceremony starts when a wearing-way-too-much-make-up woman comes out of the Justice Building and climbs the stairs, smiling widely.
“Happy Hunger Games!”, she calls, with that annoying Capitol accent, and adds softly, “and… May the odds be ever ion your favor!”. Her name’s Effie Trinket, and she’s in charge of “hosting” the Reaping every year in our District. She introduces The Mayor and, our only alive victor, Haymitch Abernathy, who’s clearly been drinking too much. After the Mayor’s speech, Effie Trinket approaches one of the two cristal polls, containing all the girls’ names. “As usual”, she starts, “ladies first”. I glance around, to look at the girls’ faces, just to see a twelve year old blond little girl, the one I know… When, suddenly, two only words leave the woman’s mouth like a sigh.
“Primrose Everdeen”.
My eyes widen as the girls around her step aside to let he walk forward.
Everything happens so fast, I can’tkeep count of it. All I can see is her. Primrose’s sister. Katniss.
“I volunteer! I volunteer!” she calls from the back, trying to fight the peace-keepers who’re holding her, “I volunteer as a tribute”, she stands finally, and runs to her crying little sister.
I can’t believe this is happening.
Katniss, after hugging her sister, follows a peace-keeper up the stage, walking slowly.
She can’t be actually doing this…
Effie looks clearly nervous; apparently a volunteer wasn’t a part of her plans and it messed with her whole schedule.
“What’s your name, dear?” Effie asks, cheerfully.
“K-katniss Everdeen” she says, with her eyes lost.
“Well, I’d bet my hat that was your sister, wasn’t she?” Effie continues.
“Y-yes”, her face showing she was just as shocked as everyone else.
“Well, let’s have a huge round of applause for our very first volunteer, Katniss Everdeen”.
Funny thing how a big group of people can agree silently on making someone look… Well, just like Effie looked, when she foundf herself being the only one clapping.
Katniss’ eyes widened. Curious about the reason, first a small group of girls, later everyone in District Twelve, including myself, were raising their hands, three fingers up… The three finger salute. The sign of the rebelion.
