The Direction Games: A One Direction Fan Fiction

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   The words rang through my head from the television broadcast a few days earlier.

   President Snow, the man who had taken control of this country, Panem, from the safety of The Capitol stepped out onto the platform with an assistant carrying a small wooden box.

   In Panem, there was a tradition pitting twenty-four representatives – a boy and a girl from each of the twelve out-lying districts – against each other in a battle to the death to commemorate the destruction of the rumoured District Thirteen at the hands of The Capitol. It was because of their stupid choice to rebel that children ages twelve to eighteen must kill one another.

   This year was the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games, the first of the Quarter Quell where, every twenty-five years, a new rule would be added.

   “All age groups twelve and over,” President Snow had said, reading from the note he’d slipped out of the box, addressing the entire world, “Aside from those of power and former Victors of The Hunger Games, will be qualified for The Hunger Games. This means anybody, twelve and even over eighteen, can qualify. Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favour.” And the screen went black.

   The words stuck in my head since they’d been said all over Panem: “This means anybody, twelve and even over eighteen, can qualify.”

   I was nineteen. I’d survived every Reaping day and had not been chosen to compete. I’d just gotten out of that horror, and, today I would be thrown right back in.

   I sighed and opened my eyes to the world around me. It was about dawn. I could tell because the small shack of a house we lived in had faint light coming through the dusty windows.

   I looked to my right, where another bed was beside mine. My older sister, Gemma, and my mum still slept peacefully.

   Our dad had left us back when I was about seven. Since then, times had been pretty tough, but we’d found a way to make our lives work. Even, right now, my mother was seeing others.

   I sat myself up in bed, and stood up. I proceeded to get dressed, slipping on trousers and a t-shirt. I untangled my messy brown hair with my fingers, letting it fall in curls.

   I slipped out of our house, and walked down the dusty street of the area we lived in; District Twelve, the underbelly of all of Panem.

   There were more white uniforms than usual today in the square. They were Peacekeepers sent from The Capital to help for the Reaping day; the day where a boy and a girl would be chosen to fight to the death.

   I walked over to the District’s bakery, where I usually worked to help make money for the three of us. It was closed today, along with most of the other shops in the district. Today, almost nobody was working. They were saying their final good-byes in their homes.

   Tonight, there would be a party in every household, but two. These two would be grieving for the member that was sent away to The Capitol, never to return.

   Since The Hunger Games had begun, District Twelve had only had one victor; Simon Cowell.

   Simon apparently, wasn’t the nicest – according to the people around town – and was very judgemental. He lived over in one of the huge houses built for victors of The Hunger Games and their families where he was showered with riches while the rest of us were almost sunk to eating dirt. But that didn’t make him a bad person.

   “Hazza!” someone yelled.

   I looked up. I could place the voice yelling my nickname. A ginger-haired boy, only three years my senior, sprinted up to me. His name was Ed Sheeran, my best friend.