all too well

chapter one. . . the reaping

THE SOUND OF THE GOAT'S BLEATING IN MY FACE, MAKES ME JOLT AWAKE. I shove the stupid goat out of my face and groan as I notice daylight shining through my window. Tam Amber would be awake by now, no doubt, and I'd overslept. I promised him that I'd help him retune his mandolin—he wanted to bring it out to bring a little joy into our lives, and the days he played it were some of the best of his life.

I watch from the door frame as he plucks the strings, wincing as it pains his arthritic knuckles. He'd spent so long in the mines trying to support the covey. He was forced to find work in the mines after the commander banned them from performing at the Hob, effectively taking their jobs away from them. Then when everyone died or had families of their own, and there were no more mouths to feed, he saved up and bought some goats—finally free from life in the mines. However, he is still affected to this day. Soot filled his lungs, causing his coughs to sound like a cat choking and his fingers were no longer what they used to be. It was a shame because my grandma had always told me he was such a skilled mandolinist.

He wanted to show me how to play, but I couldn't even strum a guitar when my grandma attempted to teach me the covey ways. No, my skillset remains firmly in the singing area. But I still appreciate he's trying to find a way to bond with me.

He beckons me over, and I sit on the ground next to him. "Why aren't you dressed yet?" he asked, handing the mandolin over to me. I start winding up the tuning pegs and strumming for him. When he hears the correct note, he tells me to stop.

I shrug my shoulders, "Reapings not 'til two. I don't see why I have to be ready three hours before," I reply, moving on to the next string. We sit in silence, tuning the instrument together—the only sound is the occasional cry from a goat.

I get up and make lunch. Goat's cheese and meat sandwiches—everything we eat is from a goat, except for when Maude Ivory's son stops over and hands us whatever game he's caught or berries he's picked from the woods. He risked his life almost every time since it was illegal to go beyond the fence. I learnt that rule after my mother had been shot. I never understood why I was spared, but I suppose that I'm grateful for it.

After lunch, I get ready for the day. Tam Amber's laid out my mother's old dress—I wear it to the reaping every year. He says that if my great grandma's dress saved my grandma in the Hunger Games, then my mum's dress could save me. I appreciate the thought, but we both know that I wouldn't make it past the bloodbath. We're always the first ones to die, we're the weakest District. The Capitol starves us, keeps us in schools and away from the mines, and does its best to make sure we stay weak. That's why District Twelve only has two victors—one has been forgotten by everyone except me and Tam Amber and the only one that's alive has never brought another tribute to victory. His name is Haymitch Abernathy, and he spends most of his time drinking rather than saving some poor child from twelve, but I can't really blame him. I learnt from my grandma that the Hunger Games changes someone forever, and from what I heard, his games were one of the worst.

I scrub myself down in the bath, not that I was really dirty in the first place, before donning my mother's gorgeous purple dress. I inhale, missing her scent that used to envelope me whenever I wore her clothes. Now, it just smells like goats. I leave my hair down, but brush it out so that I still look presentable—it was reaping tradition to dress in your best clothes. Grandma always explained to me that in the first ten Hunger Games kids would die in the clothes they were reaped in, and they'd be buried in the same outfit. The parents wanted their children to be dressed nicely when they were put to rest, so they started dressing them up at the reapings. It didn't work like that at all anymore. There were designated capitol stylists who created all kinds of clothes for tributes on several occasions, and now tributes died in their arena uniforms, but the tradition stuck.