The 50th Hunger Games

The Reaping

It's the reaping today. I pull on my clothes quickly and pet my cat Whiskers. He purrs softly and rubs himself against my legs. Ive chosen a deep blue dress. It matches my eyes. I stand in front of the mirror examining myself. I try not to think of what today will hold. 'I will see you later Whiskers" I murmur. Of course im worried. You'd have to be suicidal not to be. I play with the skirts of my dress nervously. It'll be cold outside. It always is by the coast so I'm usually used to it but the anxiety the day brings leaves me shivering
My mum appears behind me. I jump in surprise.
"I wasn't expecting you up this early."
It's another 3 hours until the reaping but my mother is dressed up ready. Her perfume thinly masks the smell of fish. You'd think after 17 years of being around it the smell wouldn't bother me but it does. I can't stand the things but unfortunately its our main diet here.
"I couldn't sleep honey." She tugs my blonde hair gently. "You need to tie this up. We don't want to enhance your chance of being picked do we?" My mother has a strange superstition that drawing attention to myself, any kind of attention, will increase my chances of being reaped today. I think it's to soothe her mind. She lost her last child to the 43rd Hunger Games. I remember my brother very well. I was only 10 when it happened. I watched every minute he was on screen. He was killed by a district 8 tribute with a rock. My brother was not a killer. We used to go fishing together with our homemade spears in the river running through the woods. He taught me everything I know. I will never forgive the Capital for what they made that District 8 boy do. He is not a murderer either. It was kill or be killed but part of me does hold resentment. I won't be picked. If there is a God he won't take another child from my parents
She gently grabs my wrist and leads me downstairs to a plate of fish decorated with beautiful shells. I try not to wince at the sight. My father was sat at the end of the table but rose to greet me.
"Good morning Kaye. You look beautiful today" he smiles but his eyes look sad. I try to ignore the shake in my legs as I sit by the table. I guess there's nothing like a feast for the reaping even if it is fish. Who knows if you'll even come back home. I try not to think too much about it. We're lucky enough to be pretty well off so my name is only in 6 times. I've survived this long. The odds are in my favour.
"Wow dad this must've cost a fortune!" I exclaim. The fish is meaty and the painted shells add to the expensive taste.
"Only the best for you darling" he ruffles my hair. Now you best be going now. I love you sweetheart and we'll see you later okay? I promise."
My stomach knots. What if I do get reaped? I've been staying blindly optimistic but why should I be any different to my brother? I swallow the lump in my throat and get up brushing my blue skirts down and walk towards the door before pausing and turning back "I love you guys" I say and walk through the door.

Everyone is gathered in the centre of the district. District 4 is quite a large district so the centre is crammed. I get pushed roughly by a peacekeeper into the pen with the rest of the 17 year old girls. We all weakly smile at each other but there is nothing joyous about this occasion. There is a tense murmur as nerves fill the air. The mayor taps on his microphone and clears his throat. Despite the luxury that the Capital provides for him nothing than can hide the effects ageing has had on him. His face is caked in chalk white makeup and his lips are lined a deep blue. His hair is styled and slicked back but his wrinkles are showing through nevertheless. It will be time for a new mayor soon enough and Hydrus Trinket will have to retire soon enough. Its rumoured his daughter Effie will take over his role but that's just district talk. The Capital has the final say after all.

Silence washes over us as he begins to speak.

"Good morning district 4 and welcome to the reaping of the 50th Hunger Games!" He grins widely at the crowd. "As you know as punishment for the uprising and an act of gratitude to the Capital for sparing us we send two tributes, one boy and one girl to the Hunger Games to compete for a chance to be the Victor!" He pauses and shuffles his papers. We've heard this speech a million times now. I don't know why he still consults those ancient notes. He begins his speech again. "This year however our President Snow has determined there will be a special event for the 50th Hunger Games. A Capital citizen dies for every two rebels. To quench this outrageous act of terrorism and to celebrate 50 years of peace, each district will be sending four tributes instead of two: two boys and two girls!" He grins widely as he surveys the crowd of shell-shocked children. Our chances of being reaped just doubled. I glance over at my parents their faces mirroring my own shock. They can't do this surely. "So without further ado let the reaping of the 50th Hunger Games begin and may the odds be ever in your favour."
He reaches into the bag. My name is in there 6 times. A feeling of dread washes over me.

"Our first female tribute is... Margaret Coppergaze!" A girl who could only have been about 13 is grabbed by the peacekeepers and marched to the stage to stand beside Hydrus. Her face has crumpled as she fights back the tears. I exhale in relief and a twang of guilt passes through me. I can get through this. I smile hopefully at my parents but my mother is too busy comforting poor Margarets mother. I think our fathers go fishing together sometimes but I don't think I've seen her around. She's the same age as my brother was when he was reaped. She probably stands the same chance he did.

"Our second female tribute is... Kaye Farville!"

A pained sob escapes from my father's direction. I'm glued to the spot. The peacekeepers shove me forward towards the stand. My mind races and there's a roaring sound by my ears. I stare out at the crowd in dismay. I will never see these people again. I will never see District 4 again. This can't be happening. I will myself not to cry as my eyes begin to burn with unshed tears. I can't look at my parents. The male tributes are called and I see two boys about 15 and 16 escorted the stage. I don't hear their names. I don't care. From this moment on I'm on my own. I can't afford to form attachments to these people. They think the games begin in the arena, so did I, but once you are up on that stage you realise it begins as soon as your name is pulled from that bowl. I run my hands through my hair trying to diffuse some of the anxiety and put on a brave face.
I should've tied it up after all.