Untitled (A Hunger Games Fan-Fiction)

Chapter One

Shivering beneath the worn material of my last good coat I stand in the crowd of other Capitol children. In front of us are two large screens at either side of President Snow’s old mansion. Snow is dead now, and the rebels took over. One of them stands outside of the building, each screen occupied by his hardened face.

“Residents of the Capitol, I stand before you now for the choosing of tributes. Tributes, who as you know, will partake in the last Hunger Games. These Games will show the Capitol that what has happened to the district children is a sick, twisted and barbaric destruction of innocent life. The people of Panem agree that these last Games will be symbolic and that the reaping of Capitol children is what it will take to truly expose the monstrosity of our previous government and of the way they ran our country.

Twenty four Capitol children will be reaped today – twelve boys and twelve girls. Each child aged twelve and above has been entered at least once. The slips of paper you see in these two bowls have names written on them. Depending on your relationship with the government, your status in Panem and the amount of district produced items that you have used, bought or received will determine how many times you are entered. Direct relatives of Snow have their names on the most pieces of paper.”

He pauses to swallow. He looks uncomfortable. I am not sure he wants to go through with this himself. However our new government works differently. They share decisions and take votes instead of one person taking charge. It sounds like a lot of hard work and wasted time but they must think it will work. I’m not really sure what to think yet. I hope it works; maybe it will make life in Panem better.

“As is tradition in the Hunger Games, the twenty four tributes will be taken to stay in the training centre and there they will learn how to survive in the Games. They will learn how to feed themselves, how to fight and how to kill.”

I am surrounded by terrified faces; even the strongest of us already have silent tears rolling down our cheeks. I don’t want to kill. The thought that it could be me makes it seem so much more real. When we watch the Games on TV it doesn’t look like real life, just a story that’s made up. There’s a lump forming in my throat and a strangled noise escapes my mouth. Sympathetic views come my way; the girl next to me smiles a sad smile and holds my hand. She too is crying but we are still united as one: the Games have not turned us against each other yet.

“Effie Trinket and Haymitch Abernathy will now draw the names,” he concludes and walks swiftly off the stage.

Effie Trinket was the escort for District 12, Haymitch their mentor. They worked well together. I imagine that they could have gotten one of their tributes out alive if the Games had not been sabotaged. They would’ve done the same the year before if they hadn’t allowed there to be two victors. Well, maybe not. Katniss and Peeta were going to eat those poisonous berries. Their strength does not comfort me though; I can almost hear Effie’s singing voice hopelessly  teaching me how to walk in high-heeled shoes; I can almost see Haymitch dropping his head into his hands when he can’t figure out what to do with me; I can almost hear the canon that marks my death echoing around the Arena. Another sob. A squeeze of the hand.

“We’re going to get this over with quickly and efficiently,” announces Haymitch. “Effie will pick 12 girls’ names from that bowl there,” –he gestures to the glass bowl on his left- “and I will pick 12 boys’ names from this bowl. Effie?”

She doesn’t look impressed with Haymitch’s quick introduction. She continues on in her high-pitched voice anyway. “Welcome! I will draw 12 slips of paper from this bowl, though if your name happens to be drawn twice I will pick a replacement. Now, on with the Reaping!” she beams.

I usually enjoy the escort’s speeches because they are fun and Effie was always happy. The Games seem grimmer now that I could be chosen. As if to back up my point, I realise that Effie did not greet us saying “Happy Hunger Games!” and this unsettles me.

“Our first female tribute is… Ivory Hayes!” She searches the crowd, still balancing a smile on her face.

The girl who held my hand suddenly lets go. Her mouth drops open and a desperate sob bursts from it. As if a tap where just turned on, tears gush from her eyes and pour down her face. I grab her shaking hand and squeeze it tight. She looks at me for a split second then stumbles forward making her way towards the podium at which Effie stands. As she walks she leaves a path of devastated children, some of whom must have been her friends. That lump in my throat feels like it has doubled in size.

I think about Ivory Hayes as the other girls are reaped but I do not even notice their names. I think about her hiding, I think about her fighting, I think about her killing and I think about her winning. I try to imagine the Gamemaker’s voice booming “Ladies and gentleman, the victor of the last Hunger Games – Ivory Hayes!” I picture her in her interview cleared of marks and bruises and draped in a gorgeous jewelled dress. I imagine her coming home and being adored by the people. I want to imagine more but a sudden tension that falls over the crowd pulls be back to the Reaping.

“And now, the last girl to be chosen as tribute is…” she lets her voice drop out, and swirls her hand around in the bowl of papers. With a sharp stop her hand stop moving.

Time is so painfully slow as she pulls her hand out of the bowl, up to her face and parts her lips to speak.

“Hm,” she sighs. “It appears we have reaped the same girl twice, Dixie Parkins. No matter! So, the last female tribute is…” an excitement is present in her voice now, the buzz reflective of that in the crowd though the emotion completely different.

The heart of every girl still standing stops. Not a single chest rises or falls with a breath.

“Blye Dunbryll!” she squeals.

And I hit the ground.