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ch. 1 |
The air was warm and held a bright hue throughout the district as the sun rose in the morning sky, igniting colours across the blank horizon. Pluto had been up long before the sun, however, in an anxious anxiety, pacing across the rough, wooden floorboards of her family's home. The occasional splinter jabbed into her bare toes, but Pluto didn't notice the pain, feeling numb and sick, stomach churning with bile. The little pricks of wood would not quell the sputtering of her heart.
Twenty names were in the system this time. All bearing the same namesake, all stamped with her letters, Pluto Miller, sealing the possibility of her fate. Pluto was well aware that there were others in District Eleven that were far worse off, many with names in the system double her amount.
Even still, the thought lingered. The possibility of her name being pulled scratched at the back of her mind and clawed against Pluto's torso with bated breath. Pluto couldn't be picked this year, she just . . . she just couldn't. Of course, Pluto realised how selfish a thought that was, but her still let it seep deep inside her mind.
Pluto's dark, cracked feet stopped in their tracks, bringing her swollen frame to the window sill of the worn house, so she could see the sun spread its dawn over the agricultural city. Morning glowed soft and sweet, filtering gentle light across the wheat fields and bountiful orchards. The scent of honeysuckle and lilac mixed with tilled earth and rust floated in the most peculiar way. It beckoned to soothe her, as it did on many mornings before, but not today.
In the distance, she could see the Peacekeepers erecting the metal stain on the land, hoisting the banners of Panem and the capitol's symbol, preparing for the Reaping. Large sound booths were already erected, and Capitol cameramen scurried around as they searched for the best lighting for the show.
The thought of the Reaping being here already was enough to floor Pluto. Hatred burned at the thought of how fast time had passed. It wasn't fair that some would never know the horror they, outside of the Capitol, faced annually.
Even though she had only been alive to witness seventeen of the forty past Hunger Games, Pluto could see the toll it had on taken on her mother. Sharline Miller was born in a different time, a time that remembered the Great Rebellion well. A time that knew true pain, pain far worse than the Reapings and Games every year.
The sound of a door clicking shut echoed behind Pluto. As she strained her ears, she could hear the quiet murmurings of her older brother, Bronx, as he spoke in low tones with their mother in their modest kitchen. Neither of them had addressed Pluto so far this morning, and she was glad that they stayed away, mild and quiet in the background of the early hours. Their words of reassurance would only darken her spirit.
Pluto kept her eyes on the outside world, waiting for the Reaping to come to a head.
In little time, a dark cast face walked past the small, dirt-clouded window pane. The woman's dark, blurry little eyes peered in for only a moment before shuffling past, to knock lightly at the door. Recognising the face, Pluto quickly toddled to the door but paused as her hand reached for the scratched, brass handle.
