Charlotte's POV
I sit on my bed, stroking the hem of my dress with shaky hands. My father is downstairs, getting dressed to go to work at the coal mines as soon as the Reaping is over. He is the only family I've got, really. My mother died when I was four, while she was in labor with my brother, who also ended up dying in the process. I am a spitting image of my mom, people say. I wouldn't know, since I can't remember her face. In my spare time, I like to write poems. I try to write them anywhere I can. If I don't have paper, I etch them on the floorboards with my father's knife. He doesn't mind; he loves my poems.
I hear the whistle blow. To me, it is a death call; gathering children 'round the square, choosing two kids who need to die. My district has only won two Games. The first Victor's long dead, killed by some sort of incurable virus, and the second victor started to drink himself to death as soon as he could. The past two years, he's not even been on TV; things hit him hard, his family died and so did some girl he was with.
"Charlotte, time to go," my father calls up the stairs.
"I'm coming," I somewhat shakily reply. I walk down the stairs, meeting my father outside of the front door.
"You look nice," he comments as he takes my hand to walk me to the Town Square. Normally, I would be embarassed to hold his hand. But on days like today, you want to take the opportunity while you still have it.
Once we reach the square, my father leaves to join all of the other adults. I, however, am stuck waiting in line. When I reach the Capitol worker, he is oblivious to everything but his job. He pricks my finger, which hurts, and then ushers me into the fourteen-year-old girl's section of the square. I search for my father among the crowd, but I can't see him from here. Briefly, as I'm scanning the horizon, I make eye contact with a sixteen-year-old boy. I've seen him before. He's the blacksmith's son. He is very tall, has brown hair and golden brown eyes. After two seconds of looking at his face, I turn away and blush.
Soon enough, Missy Vendetta, our district's escort, appears behind the microphone. Her hair is red, her lips are purple, she has two-inch long eyelashes, and a feathery yellow dress on. She goes on and on about how glad she is to be here and stuff like that. Then, the standard video is played, followed by the mayor giving the same speech I've heard for the past two years.
Then, the whole square draws its breath.
"Ladies first!" Missy sqeals. My odds aren't the best. I've gotten so many tesserae that my total amount of names entered is fifty-six. My pulse is blaring in my ears so loud that I'm afraid I won't hear her tell us who got chosen. She lifts her hand out of the Reaping jar, and opens the slip.
Her next two words are horrifying.
"Charlotte Faye," Missy calls. I ball my fists, and force my tears away. I walk through the crowd of scared teens, and up the stairs of the stage. I stand before the whole population of my district; they all look so sad. Even the girls, who should be relieved that it wasn't them who were picked.
"Alright, let's go on to the boys, shall we?" Missy asks. She clicks her heels against the concrete stage, and sticks her hand into the Reaping bowl. She picks a name, and she walks back to the microphone. I see the worry on all of the boys' faces. Who will be picked?
"Daniel Howell," Missy states into the microphone. His name sounds so familiar. But then I realize; it's the blacksmith's son. I think I met him once before, when I was about eight. He was, of course, ten years old then. I met him when my dad and I had to go to the Howell's blacksmith shop so my dad could buy a knife. I shook Daniel's hand then, and those same brown eyes met mine.
He walks up to the stage. I can see that all of the blood is drained from his face, but he refrains from shedding a single tear. I turn, as does he, and we shake hands. Then, we are led into the Justice Building, and into two separate rooms. I sit alone on the worn, red velvet couch. Then, I hear the door open. I look up, and I see it's my father. I stand, and I hug him.
"I never thought it would be me," I cry. I might as well get it out here. The cameras will be on my twenty-four seven after this.
"I didn't either, Charlotte," my father tells me.
"What am I supposed to do? How can I make it out alive?" I plead.
"I don't know, sweetie, but it'll all be fine. You're smart. You'll figure it out," he tries to reassure me. The truth is, he doesn't know at all. He probably thinks the same thing I do: I'll be dead on the first day.
"Okay. I love you, Daddy," I whisper, like a small child.
"I love you too, little girl. That'll never change," my father whispers back. He gives me one last squeeze, and lets go. He wipes the tears from my eyes, plants a kiss inbetween my eyes, and then he is told to leave by the Peacekeepers. He is the only one to visit me. But I'm not surprised at all; he was my only friend. Nobody ever liked me because I was different. They thought I was crazy for carving poems on the walls. Well, excuse me for not being wealthy enough to afford paper.
After the long, boring, and emotional hour is up, I am led out of the Justice Building. Missy, Daniel, and myself ride in a car to the train station. I've only been in a car once before, and that was when I was three years old. When the car stops, Missy leads Daniel and I onto the train. I board the train first, and I'm absolutely stunned by the amount of food in this place. All of these years I've barely scraped by, and here they are gluttonous; eating whatever they please. Disgusting.
My stomach growls at the sight of such delicacies, and my mouth waters.
"If you're hungry, then eat something. I really don't think they would care; might as well do it while you can, you know?" Daniel whispers to me.
And he's right. If I'm going to die in a week, why not eat while I still have the chance?
