The 122nd Annual Hunger Games: The Anti-Careers

District 6 Reaping

VI - Nicholas Lambrecht

"You don't have any friends," I once heard, sometime during my years leading up to my first reaping. "And you'll never have any."

Grant said it to me when we were both ten, that messed up loser. After being pushed rough to the ground, I received this message as I gently rubbed the staining dirt off my cheek and feeling the scrape on my knee. I lifted up my head afterwards to reveal his dusty fist racing towards my face but he halted himself. Something was odd, as I used to get hit by him at least once a week at the time.

"Nah, I'll get you when you get reaped for The Hunger Games in a few years, loser," he added with a sinister laugh as he walked away.

It stuck with me for years; I sung it every day after that uneventful day. You don't have any friends, Nick. You don't have any friends. You. Don't. Have. Any. Friends. And you'll never have any.

I walked to the town square for the reaping-by myself-glancing around secretly but keeping my eyes forward, my hands dug into my pockets like I had purpose. Some meters to my left was Carla, a girl from my class, walking with her older brother; both were in the reaping pool. Following them were their two caring, loving parents. Off to my right and ahead of me was Raymond quietly talking to his friend Poppy, another two people in my class. There was nobody directly adjacent to me; I was isolated, but it was all my fault.

No friends. And you'll never have any. For a moment, I halted myself and slammed my hands onto my head and tugging at my ears, feeling physical pain beating my head. A grunt escaped my lips as I tried to catch myself in my place and nobody tried to help me, no parents or siblings following me. My parents only birthed one child, me, and my mother was apprehended for being insane when I was only eight. My father on the other hand had no experience dealing with other people and caring for others so I was forced to fend for myself; it was odd District 6 officials never did anything about him and left me to rot and care for myself. Sometimes I wouldn't even see my father for whole weeks at a time.

When I recovered, I was bumped from behind on my right shoulder and knocked to the rough, stone ground by another teen pedestrian. I could see the ground merely a few inches from my eyes before I caught myself. I looked up, that disgusting fiend narrowing his eyebrows at me as I laid on the ground trying to restrain myself mentally; I would never go full rabid on somebody like my mother.

"Hey Nick, get picked today, okay?" he joked as he walked with his friends. Slips of laughter escaped the other boys as I picked myself up. "Then I can finally punch you again."

I couldn't remember more; I spaced out as always but somehow ended up where I needed to be. Then, once I snapped back to attention, I found myself standing in my section waiting for the reaping to begin.

"I'm your District 6 escort, Yvette Zamalow in the flesh!" the oddly dressed lady announced, too eager to continue with the Capitol's evil doings. "It's time to select our tributes for the 122nd Annual Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" she added while pulling out a slip of paper with an unlucky girl's name on it. "Our female tribute this year is," she began, but paused. "Shelby Shane!"

She made her way up to the stage as her hands quivered in place and her eyes froze downwards only to view the ugly ground the entire way to the stage.

"And how old are you, sweetie?"

She shuffled slowly to the microphone and whispered with a tear, "seventeen."

"Goody! And now for our male tribute!" She waltzed over to the other side and fumbled with the many papers inside, smiling lovely while her sterling sequins from her dress burned specks of light in my eyes. She opened it up with no regrets and looked out to the crowd. After taking a moment to check the paper and the crowd back and forth, she read the name in such a dragged manner that the suspense was killing me. "Nicholas Lambrecht."

I could see eyes around me narrow onto my figure.

"Come on up, dear!"

I hesitated for a moment as if I was trying to force myself to go up but I then refused and stood silent. I let my head fall back and stare straight up into the clear, azure sky, taking in the District 6 sky. Then, I was grabbed on both sides by my arms and dragged forward; I at least used my feet every few seconds to lessen the struggle of dragging me forward. As I was halfway to the stage, I looked back to my section where the fourteen year olds were, to Grant in the same section. Then I tried to say something but all my mouth did was move. I tried to again to speak, but I failed again. Wait a second, I thought. When was the last time I've ever said anything? Ever spoken a word? I haven't talked since Grant decided not to punch me.

"You don't have any friends. And you'll never have any."

"But I- "

"But Nick, you don't have any friends."

Those were the last words I had ever spoken before that reaping, but I. Then, as I looked back to Grant as the peacekeepers dragged me forward, I let my voice ring for days.

"Grant!" I shouted, louder than I had ever let it. "Grant Dawson!" I let my voice echo throughout the town square. I saw him trying to look away from me. With slightly free arms, I felt up on my arms, unbruised for four solid years. "Grant Dawson, asshole! Don't leave me untouched four years to hit me when I get reaped then not do it!" I saw his fist tighten, his trusty left punching fist as he shut his eyes closed and forced his head off to the left. "At least give me this," I muttered as my tears rushed, my voice faltering into a grotesque, croaky whisper. I simply let my head fall back as I fell into a daydream like stance for what could have been hours.