"Elara Rosewood. Come on up, honey. Don't be shy."
Elara had hated the annual tradition of the Hunger Games since she knew how to say the words. It was violent, twisted and a fucking outrage. Her grandfather loved it though. He'd sit her down beside...
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YOU'D THINK, SINCE SHE HAD DONE THIS BEFORE, Elara would have no problem at the reaping. It'd be easy. She knew what to expect and where to go.
That couldn't have been further from the truth.
From the moment the Peacekeepers had collected her from her home and escorted her to the square, her stomach had been a tangle of knots. Each step was like another tug on either end of it, tightening more and more to the point of pain.
The suited guard tried to grip her elbow, but she shook him off before he could get a hold on her. Weston, who'd refused to leave her alone, tried to switch sides with her but the Peacekeeper on his right dragged him back.
Straight down the centre of the crowd, the two walked, one after the other. The weight of every person's gaze pulled her own eyes to the floor. Their staring hurt. Like she was an outcast for being forced into this.
They were led onto the stage, Clarisse already waiting on her side with Leon writhing in her arms. Where Weston was escorted to, two older men— grey hairs and deep wrinkles— stood waiting. One was a little more frail looking than the other, but both were barely on their feet. Not fit for a damn death match in any way.
She took her place beside Clarisse and a soft smile spread over her lips as the young boy tugged on her hair. If Clarisse's name was called, and she didn't win... Leon wouldn't have either of his parents.
God-fucking-dammit.
Celiea entered the stage with a grim expression. Her red-rimmed eyes glanced around the crowd before landing on El. With a wince, she turned away.
Straightening out her emerald, velvet suit jacket, she approached the microphone. "Welcome District 8." She mustered up a smile, one that quivered ever so slightly before she pulled herself back together again. She pulled out her cards. "Welcome, as we celebrate the 75th anniversary, and 3rd quarter quell, of the Hunger Games." Celiea shifted on her feet, her body language the most uncomfortable that El had ever seen her. "Ladies first." She smiled, a little grim.
Turning to the side, she huffed loudly into the mic as she spotted the name bowl further than where it should be. Placing her hand over the metal grille, the same way she did at Elara's first reaping, she clicked her fingers a couple times to catch the man at fault's attention.
"Mikey!" She hissed. The man jumped up, bumbling and foolish. He stared at Celiea blankly, only jumping into gear when she gestured dramatically. "Bring over the bowl!"
