Deadly Waves - The 26th Hunger Games

~Part 1 - Chapter 2

The next morning I had a strange feeling in my stomach. It was as if everything inside of me was contracting and I had to throw up, but at the same time I felt like my stomach was so empty that I couldn't get anything out. I had that feeling once a year. Always on the same day:

On the Reaping Day.

Every year I am confronted with the fear of seeing my family for the last time. And every year our district loses one or two innocent children. Who had never done anything to the Capitol, who couldn't help the uprising two decades ago.
I got up and put on the best clothes I had.

My Reaping clothes

Even at breakfast today the mood was rather moderate. Father sat at the table and drank his coffee, while Mother, as usual, sat in the study and began to cry.

"Good Morning"

I said only briefly to Father as I sat down at the table. The sobs of my mother can hardly be ignored, I do not like this mood, but at the same time I am one of those who spread it on that day. I don't eat breakfast on harvest day. I'm not hungry, I don't want to eat, when I have to go to the Capitol and die, and my parents have wasted a meal.

The Reaping Day had come

and expectations were high. But when we all ran to the market place after breakfast,
which was usually filled with stalls and life, we found it empty. A sense of disappointment spread as the empty space spread in front of us. A foul smell of fish and used water hung in the air, intensified by the heat of the day.
The usual lively atmosphere that surrounded the market place was gone. Instead, there was an oppressive silence over the place, broken only by the occasional creaking of the birds sitting on the deserted rooftops. The sun burned mercilessly on the bare square, without the usual shadows of the market stalls, which usually offered shelter from their heat.
The people who usually wandered happily through the alleys were nowhere to be seen. Instead, one saw isolated figures strolling over the empty square with their heads lowered and gloomy gaze. A few whispered disappointed conversations, while others simply looked at themselves silently, as if trapped in their thoughts.
The merchants, who used to advertise their goods loudly and bargain with customers, had disappeared. A few orphaned stalls stood alone, silent witnesses of disappointed expectations. Everywhere were the remains of days gone by: a few empty boxes, some crumpled papers and lost utensils that nobody wanted anymore.
The mood was gloomy and oppressive, a mixture of disappointment and incomprehension about what was about to happen. The empty market place, smelling of fish and water, was a sad reflection of what was happening inside us.

The fear of the Reaping Day

Peacekeepers were everywhere, making sure we split up: boys on the right, girls on the left. Parents in the back.
And then a door opened in front, and a man with grey, shoulder-length hair, tied together to a ponytail, stepped out. He gave a disgusted look and I couldn't tell if it was the smell or us he disliked.
I looked over to Valos, who looked nervously at his shoes and played with his fingers,
I saw the rest of the group scattered in the crowd. I saw every look, every tear of the twelve-year-olds who didn't know how to deal with their fear.

"Welcome"

began the man's disgusting voice. He had a very oily voice and a face like a rat. His beard was about 20cm long and combed forward with gel, so he probably couldn't see his shoes.

"To the 26th annual Hunger Games. Last year your district wasn't so successful-"

I thought of the two who died last year and their families crying in the background.

"Hopefully it's different this year, District Four could really use a win again,"

said the man, driving his fingers over the top of his beard.

"Let's go. Let's start with the girls,"

he said, running proudly and with anticipation to the large glass bowl to his left and rummaging around in the chaos of notes until he drew a lot, opened it, raised it over his beard to read it, and read aloud:

"Marya Haltra"

Silence. Like every year. The girls make room for Marya, who hardly seemed to get it herself. She struggled with tears and collapsed on the floor.

"Please! Please don't!"

she cried, full of fear and fear.

But two peacekeepers approached her, grabbed her by the arms, one on the left, the other on the right, and dragged her forward to the Ratman, who was already running to The Glass Bowl of the Boys, and seemed to be thinking very carefully about which note he wished to draw.
I looked over to Valos. His name was in that bowl about 20 times, and by his face I could see his nervousness, his fear. The Ratman grabbed a note, opened it and smiled into the crowd.

"Percy Collins"