Crimson

Chapter 1

Konner

Today is the Reaping. The sun hasn't yet climbed fully into the sky, but the streets of District 8 are already buzzing with nervous energy.  That dark, dreaded day, looming over the heads of every boy and girl between twelve and eighteen, hanging like a death sentence no matter how far one tries to run from it. 

I stand in front of the cracked mirror in our tiny home. My face stares back at me, same as always. Too many freckles. Too many reddish blotches that make me look like I'd spent too much time in the sun, even though we barely see it beneath the heavy smog from the textile factories. My nose, too big for my face. Unruly blonde hair that never seems to cooperate no matter how hard I try. I'm not ugly-at least that's what people keep telling me-but I'm not a Capitol poster boy either. I don't look like a fighter. I don't look like a warrior. I'm just Konner Wells, a sixteen-year-old kid from District 8, nothing special. Ordinary. But ordinary is enough to stand out around here.

I drag a hand through my messy hair, give up, and shove my hands into my pockets. My heart pounds in sync with the footsteps outside. Kids and their families, all trying to face the day with some kind of courage. But I know better. There's no courage in this. Just fear.

As I step into the crowded street, I see it—the fear in everyone's eyes. Kids like me, standing too close to their parents, trying not to look at the stage looming at the square's center. Each person's face is a mask of fear. I'm no different. My stomach twists into knots, but I try not to let it show.

"Konner!" A voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I turn to see a couple of younger boys from the factory waving at me. I give them a tense nod, trying to smile, but it feels impossible. Normally, I don't mind being friendly with the kids who look up to me. Around here, I apparently have a reputation. People know me, respect me, even if I don't always understand why. Maybe it's because I've been helping my dad in the factories for years, stitching and sewing faster than most of the older workers. Or maybe it's because I'm not a complete mess to look at, despite the way I see myself in the mirror.

It's always been weird, the attention. The way girls blush and whisper my name, like I'm something special. I'm not. I'm just another kid, trying to survive the same hell they are. But the way people talk, you'd think I was born to do something bigger. Something better.

I wish they'd stop looking at me today, though. Today isn't about who's popular or good-looking. Today is about who lives and who dies.

As I walk further into the square, I feel eyes on me. People whispering, watching. Some of them wave. A couple of girls giggle, just like they always do, and I try not to let the attention bother me. On any other day, I might've felt a little more comfortable with it. But not today. Not with the bowl looming in the distance, filled with the names of every kid in District 8. Including mine. Not just once, though. Twenty-five times. I've taken tesserae every year for me, my parents, and my sister. 

The square is filling up now, everyone taking their places. I find mine with the boys my age, all of us standing in neat rows, waiting for the inevitable. I spot Jase, one of the guys I've known since we were kids, and we exchange a nod, but no one says much. What can we say? Everyone's thinking the same thing: Please don't let it be me.

"Good luck, Konner," a voice behind me says. I turn to see Cass, one of the girls who'd been sweet on me for as long as I could remember. She's smiling, though it doesn't reach her eyes like it usually does. Not today.

"Thanks, Cass. You too," I reply simply.

Her face falls for a second, but then she nods, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. 

"You know, if... if it's you, we'll all be behind you," she says, her voice soft, as though saying the words any louder would make them more real. "You'd do great out there, Konner. I mean that."