Cayce's Game 95-Deep Into The Forest: Battling Friends

The Reaping

             No sooner than I'd gotten into the town square, my stupid older brother dug his elbow into me so hard I nearly fell over. We'd done nothing but argue all day, starting as soon as we got up. Breakfast culminated in throwing silverware at each other where I got him with a fork on his left shoulder. He had significantly worse aim and smacked our little sister Maren in the face with a serving spoon. Both Rowan and I got yelled at for that. Frankly, all six of us were on edge. Mom and Dad were snippy and our toddler sister Embree, who didn't even understand a damn thing yet, was having a no-no day and wouldn't listen or cooperate with anyone. Maren yelled at her while Rowan and I just argued over everything. Nobody wanted to be here this Saturday morning. Not us Orisse's, not any of the families, but our government required everyone aged twelve through eighteen to be in the town square along with our families, the remainder forced to watch this whole debacle on TV. June 1. Time for a new innocent boy and girl to be chosen to leave, probably for good, and go to the Capitol, forced to take part in the inhumane 'sport' of a game of survival. Ultimate game of survival. The boy and girl drawn today would be deposited in an arena filled with harsh terrains and animals, both real and computer generated, designed to kill them and would be forced to battle and kill each other. The one lone individual who survived the hell would be declared a citor and then paraded like a pawn across the country. Twelve districts. Twelve boys, twelve girls, one victor. I've watched this crazy debacle my whole life. It's been nearly one hundred years since our tyrannical Capitol has forced us to do this. This year would be our ninety-fifth Hunger Game. Ninety-four before this year. Ninety-four times twenty-three equals two thousand one hundred thirty-nine dead children, forced to fight to the death. Two thousand one hundred thirty-nine too many.

Rowan and I had been a nervous wreck for nearly a month now because we were in the pool of kids who may be pushed into this. I've been eligible for two years because I was thirteen years old and Rowan has for four because he was sixteen years old. I would have my name in there twice and he would have his in there four times. I wasn't even sure how many kids aged twelve through eighteen there were in my District Six but I kept trying to remind myself that my chances were miniscule in the sheer number, and Rowan's were miniscule plus two. As much as he was making me mad today, I'd be devastated if they called his name. It'd be his death. It'd be my death if I was called. District Six (D6) hasn't won in fifteen years; it's always the richer districts that win. Districts One, Two, and Four. Last year it was the girl from One that reminded me of a grizzly bear. Ruby, they'd called her. She killed six people just to stay alive in the game, then killed one final person after her victory tour--herself. No one leaves these games sane.

I clutched onto a pillar to stay upright and kicked at Rowan, pissed at the ordeal and scared of what may happen to someone here today.

"Cayce!" he yelled at me, starting to shove me back.

Two Peacekeepers drove between us, one hollering at us to save all the fighting for the Game. At least I didn't have to stand beside my brother. The girls all filed to the right and us guys were pushed to the left, dividing up by age. Petrified twelve year-olds in the first section. Us scared thirteen year-olds behind them. Rowan would be two sections behind us with the sixteen year-olds. The Peacekeepers (or Peacefighters, really) shoved us into alphabetical order, me as an O about in the middle.

Within about twenty minutes, our Capitol delegate bounced happily into the middle of the stage looking ridiculous in an all-pink gown and hair, and too cheerfully reminded us why we were here, what our districts had done one hundred years ago to deserve this cruel and unusual punishment. Uprising, fighting, war, poverty, hunger. Capitol propaganda that made my stomach hurt. Just get this over with, hurry through it, so the ninety-nine percent of us not chosen to die could run home, home to safety, and pray our friends, our district children, would not die.