I feel my eyes grow colder and colder. Today is the day, the one day I hoped never would come. Reaping Day. I tell my sister, at only twelve, that everything is going to be fine. But it isn't. I can feel our escort's hand plunging into the reaping bowl, fingers locking around a slip, and reading my name. My older sister, Morice, is much different. Her mouth is still, but her eyes have silent fear. Determination. Anger. Hurt. So different reactions, but they express the same thing. The Hunger Games is a place of hatred.
Morice sits down on the couch, alongside me."It will be okay, Liz. It will be okay," she says, stroking my hair. Since I was a little girl, I've never done this, but I pull away. "No. It won't, okay? Stop acting like this is just a small thing, because it isn't!" She doesn't get mad at me for saying that. She just looks straight into my eyes, and talks to me in a slow voice. "This isn't just bad for you. I'm seventeen years old, three years older than you, and with the tesserae I need to take my name is in there 30 times. Yours, is 20. Ten times less. If anything, it's my name." In away, her crisp tones make me feel worse. But, a second later, a warm stares comes out of those crystal blue eyes. "Good. Now, go off and get dressed."
I reach for my one fancy dress. Plain brown, with some black buttons at the front. I apply a black cardigan, and some sturdy leggings just in case I need to have something to protect myself from a fall. My clothes aren't District One level, but at least they are presentable. My other clothes are either smudged from falling, gathering, or hunting (even though Mother, Father and Morice do most of it), or trousers and shirts.
I go to the row of fourteen years olds, grasping my friend Ellen's hand. "It will be fine, won't it?" Her voice comes out as nervous, and I try to come with a soothing reply. "Everything will be," I respond, much like Morice, hoping that she can't see the fear in my words.
Perfect, golden pumps. A sea blue wig, knee length. Waist a hand could grasp. I recognise our escort, finally coming to the stage. I can hear my heart beating, forming words with the pumps. To- day- is - rea- ping- day. To- day- is - rea- ping- day. To- day- is - rea- ping- day.
"The male tribute is Edmund Phelps." I can see a twelve-year-old boy, gently crying away. I see his raggedy clothing tremble, his hands fighting to hold still. His cheeks are icy white, and his mane of brown hair is shaking like mad. "No," I hear him say. "No." And, my mind joins in. No. No.
The female name! She draws her hand once more, stretching her cat nails of red. I can see her fiddle through the names, stretching her hand in as deep as possible. I can feel her fingers tracing the finally envelope. Almost sketching my name. This is it. This is it.
"Morice Combrey," she gushes, and I hear the gasps, as I see her skinny figure move across the room. She has the look of fear she started with, and I know there is one thing to do.
To volunteer as tribute.
Hi, there! I hope you liked my story! By the way, her name is Elisabeth, and this is District 9. So, she didn't 'steal Katniss' thunder by volunteering', if that is what you thought. A bit of excitement to have an older sister, don't you think! Bye, anyway!
