Midnight Azalea-A Story of the 34th Hunger Games

Chapter 1-Up The Trees

DISTRICT 11

I work the farm on field day, the crops have to be watered, tendered, and fully processed before the Capitol can take it away. Field day is usually the day right before the Reaping, but today that day is also Reaping Day. Here in District 11, we grow crops for the Capitol. As in any crops basically we have to tend to them well, and make sure they're right for eAting. If the crops aren't, then you are put to death as soon as you can. Peacekeepers round you up, take you to the cell. Execute you in town square. That's only the start of what they can do to you. If you send poisoned apples to the Capitol, like one little girl tried to do on Reapingg Day, you get tortured for the amount of Time that poison could've affected the Capitol. Anyways, I'm sure to keep quiet and start my work until two.

I work in the Apple Orchards in Sector Six of District Eleven, the most crowded Sector of the prime eleven. But why are there eleven sectors? Well, that's because we are the biggest district, covering the most land. Some of us could easily slip away, or...if we were all one district crowded in the Square...could leap away. So it's really crazy.

The orchard is packed today, like every Field day, and in my section of the orchard I never really have company, but I like it when I do. I know this fourteen year old Robin, who doesn't work but sits up in his fork of his assigned tree, whistling a tune for the mockingjay story copy. Today he can't do that, actually having to climb his ladder and pluck the ripe apples from the scraggly leaves.

In the morning, I grab my ladder from the Marker, the building where the people of sector six grab their work tools. I get there early, and quickly snaggle off with my ladder and gloves. For a thin, short sixteen year old I am strong, or so says Louise, my neighbor and friend. She works in Row Four, the row above me, while I work in Row Five. Mostly men, older men, but some children like Robin and I. Coincidentally Louise works in the tree across from mine, so on days unlike this one we talk.

Anyways I hoist my ladder up to the tallest point of which there are no branches in my way, and climb up to secure the ropes. The binding of the ropes hurt my hands, and even burn them. Yesterday was my usual last  work day of the week (this day being the exception because it is Field day, unto which all of district eleven has to work) and on that day I recieves a splinter from the wood of my tree. It found a way into my palm and I never retrieved it, showing my lack of interest. I passed it off as a generic injury and ignored it, but for the past day it's hurt a lot and I don't know why. Shows how much I don't care.

Soon in the next thirty minutes people have packed in, and on trees next to mine the usual men workers are accompanied by other strong men. They both secure their ladders and start the picking.

Yeah, the picking gets tedious once you start at age twelve, but it pays a lot to feed you. These days, it doesn't matter. I actually like it. I can pick and pick and pick with no ending. No four note Mockingjay tune to stop me. I could go on and on and on. No ending.

I started at four in the morning, and apparently the sun is now high in the sky. I am sweating like crazy and bend over to pick up my water bottle I placed up on a sturdy branch a couple feet away. I start to sip the water and avoid the sun beating on my face harshly. I wipe away some of the sweat from my forehead and a place my water bottle gently, making sure it doesn't fall. Once I put it up I hear a worker nearby whistle the four note tune that indicates the end of the work day. We unbundle our ladders and ropes and make way for The Marker. I put away my ladder and head for home.

Once I walk away I feel a pair of eyes resting on me, so I whip around and see my father, who picks me up and gives me his signature twirl. "Did you forget?" he asks me.

"Forget what?" I say. I let him put me down, and we watch the workers file out, hands red with burns and faces wet with sweat, blood coming out of their cuts and abrasions. I turn back to my father who seems to be staring at my mother who is on the other end of the room.

"The Reaping."

"Yes?" I pretend to feel arrogant, but there really is nothing to worry about. I won't get picked. Name in only six times. One of the thousands in this sector, the largest one that is. My odds are extremely low. But still, I have this pang inside that asks me with hesitation, "what if you do get picked?"

My father sees through my facade. "You won't get picked, Zales." Yep, my nickname. My real name is Azalea, named for the flower, but I might as well just be Zales because my father treats it as my real name. Even in the most serious of times, like when I first turned twelve and went to my first eligible reaping, about to separate from my parents. I cried until my eyes were just wet puffs. I remember about to go with the other kids in my year, my father leaned down on one knee, his height now as mine at the time, and told me: "you won't get picked, Zales." That made me smile and I embraced him, knowing if I had gotten picked, I would've wanted it that way, because on the other side of those grand doors of the Justice Building, I have no idea what awaits you. All I focused on at the time was not crying if my name was called. Now, four years later, with even greater odds of being picked, plus two tesserae, I doubt my name being imprinted in nice neat writing on the slip of paper our host will choose from thousands.

"I know," I say. I blink. "I know," i repeat.

But on the inside, I know that little twelve year old is still inside of me and I burst into tears because I don't know why. I've held it in for a long time and I didn't know who else I'd trust rather than my own father, who was always there for me even when I didn't need his support.

But still I hold on, clinging to my father in an embrace so tight, tighter than my twelve year old self could when I was more upset. Then one thought crossed my mind. What if I do get picked?