87th Games

The Grim Reaping

I was trembling with fear.

I stood near the front of the crowd anxiously trying to count on my fingers the amount of times my name was placed in the reaping this year.

It was the 87th Hunger Games and after counting and recounting, I was certain my name was in the tribute pool exactly 22 times this year.

22 times.

I watched the Capitol’s propaganda video before me in disgust. I was still 17 years old, which meant only one more year to go ‘till I would no longer be a potential tribute. If I made it through this reaping I was going to get the hell out of my district and out into Panem.

I have had this plan mapped out for years. I was going to steal a horse from the valley, head west out into the country and live off the land. I wasn’t the best at hunting but I knew how to ride a horse which could go a long way in finding edible food and water. It hurt knowing my siblings were too young to join me, but leaving them here was only going to benefit their lives. If I left then maybe my family would finally be able to earn enough to sustain themselves, probably never having to apply for tesserae like I had to.  

My stomach was turning and I fought the urge to hurl my guts out. Every reaping was just a reminder of the cursed lives we live and callous rules we are forced to abide by. I live in district ten which is a hot farming country, focusing primarily on livestock. We bred animals for a living which meant producing the materials, aid and provisions the Capitol required.

We worked constantly, often in unforgiving weather to produce wool, milk, eggs, leather and kinds of meat in order to receive a measly weekly ration of ‘food’ for our families. But since I had a large family, it was never really enough for us, hence why my name is in the pool 22 times.

We used horses for transport and the last town hanging was about two years ago so I would say we had relatively nice peace keepers with us.

22 times

All I could think about was the 22 tiny pieces of paper that had my name written on it. 22 times wasn’t considered too bad because I knew a lot of people my age whose names were in there more than 30 times. The odds weren’t exactly in their favour at all.

“And now on this beautiful day, ladies and gentleman…” A man named Magnus called out to my town’s people. He was a short and stubby man and judging by his bulging stomach he seemed very well fed. He had a lime green suit and a checked green and white handkerchief sitting perfectly in his breast pocket.

“It is time to select our male and female tributes for the 87th hunger games! Beautiful!” he yelled and clapped in excitement trying to instil his enthusiasm into the crowd.

22 times

22 times

We all just stood there with blank faces. Two people in this crowd were going to die soon and that was a grim fact. There was no noise but his heavy breathing over the microphone as he extended his stocky arm into a large bowl.

22 times.

22 times

22 times

“Please not me, please not me” a young girl beside me sobbed quietly. She wouldn’t last a second in the games. I immediately felt guilty for judging her. I was tall and had a thin frame. I had absolutely no definition on my arms and legs and certainly no ability to use a sword or to throw knifes.

Besides, she must only about twelve years old which meant her name was only in the tribute pool once. I shouldn’t judge her for being scared after all the only thing my mind could possibly process was the phrase “22 times”.