APOTHEOSIS | hunger games oc

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CARINA CAEDES, the star of murder

I hate Reaping Day. It's like the whole world stops their life to stand in a pavilion and stare, stare, stare at some poor child getting sentenced to death. For three years now, I've done it – stand on the sidelines among all the others whose names were put into the Reaping, my own dread and fear curling in my stomach while the guy from the Capitol comes in and claps and waves, draws out a slip of paper from a million others, smiling, stretching it out in his hands so the anticipation kills the television watchers, and the foreboding kills the rest of us.

The first time, when I was twelve, I had worn a silk dress the color of periwinkle, with pastel flowers sewn down the front. It had been my favorite dress, and I had reasoned that if I died in it, at least I would look pretty, at least I could claim it my own. The next year, my dress was plain and brown, because I did not have any more money and you can't repeat outfits or else the poor people will think you are even more poor than them and begin to pity you. Last year, I had worn black, because I had given up. So what if I got Reaped? I was going broke, and soon I wouldn't even have food.

It's funny how you think they're done with you, and then something happens right after.

The twenty-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games. It's special. It's different. Somehow, it's even worse than what had been happening the first twenty-four times.

I thought my odds were good; they had been since the first year. You see, I don't have parents anymore – it's impossible to stay alive for long after your throat is cut – and so there is only my own mouth to feed. Even more luckily, I'm a good butcher. My meat is always fresh, and my cuts are cleaner and more even than the older men. I guess it helps that I sell mine cheaper, but it's more like if I don't, nobody will buy from a fifteen-year-old girl that lives alone and keeps trying to avoid the taxers. But the truth is that in District 10, if you can behead pigs correctly and manage to get them bought and shipped to the Capitol, you at least won't become homeless.

This year I wasn't doing as bad as last year; I wasn't starving, and like I said, I wasn't going to lose my house. The District was harsh, but it wasn't going to kill me. I couldn't say the same about Games' flashy new rules.

Choose a tribute? It's horrifying. We don't need a reminder of what's horrifying, you know, no matter what President Snow claims. We live in hell every day already. Maybe District 10 isn't as bad as District 12 – we don't shovel coal or get blown up in random tunnels – but I'm pretty sure ours smells the worst. The stench of death and slaughter, and I've wallowed in it so long I've gotten used to it.

I guess it's a good thing, then, that this Reaping Day will be my last.