The First Hunger Games (ON HOLD)

Chapter 1.

I tied my hair back into a ponytail, letting some of the strands escape from the hair ties' grasp. Its the only one we have in the house, but lately Mum has been letting her hair loose. She says it is a sign of freedom, but we don't get much of it here.

I walk through the corridor and into the bedroom that we all share. My brother, Noah and I share a bunk which is on the verge of breaking, and Mum sleeps on a threadbare mattress on the floor. Noah is sprawled across his bunk, his limbs hanging around. He looks he is about to smile, the ends of his mouth turning up.
"Noah......wake up...we need to go to the Hob".
Noah blinks a few times, adjusting to the light. He opens his icy blue eyes.
"A-Alannah?"
"Yes, it's me. Now get your shoes on and let's go."

Muttering grumpily, he swings himself out of bed and puts his old sneakers. I walk towards the door again, picking up my canvas bag and he follows. I already have my sneakers on, plus a patchy grey top and my dad's jacket. It's a bit big, but its nice and comfortable.

Noah clings close to me as we walk through the ruined streets of the Seam. He may only be twelve years old, but tends to get very nervous when it comes to getting out of the house. A person wearing a dirty bandana and a teared dress carrying a bucket half full of water stares at us curiously, eyeing the jacket. It is made of leather, a seriously rare material in these parts, so our neighbors often try to buy it off us. I've gotten tired of refusing.

District 12 isn't a very popular district. There are already 13 of them, so the Capitol don't need to have favorites. Our job is to mine coal, but sooner or later there is going to be none left. Our father died from a disease in the mines. It was a slow death, with no medicine or anything that could help him. That was a month ago. Since then, my mum has succumbed to the darkness of grief, and now all of the weight of the jobs that needed doing was placed on my now sixteen year old shoulders.

Noah helps by picking herbs and flowers that help keep us alive. I mostly supply the meat, bringing down game with my bow and arrows. I made the bow myself using my dad's old carving tools and a heap of wood from the forest, and the arrows are too. Noah hates hurting animals. One time when I took him out hunting, I shot a runaway goat near the forest, and instead of bringing it to the Hob for money, he took it home and healed the arrow wound. So now we have a useless goat tied to our fence and seems to be months from actually producing milk.

I push open the old wooden door to the Hob. It used to be a shed to store food, but it all died out and someone had the idea of turning it into a black market. It was probably the best idea anyone's ever had in the whole district. I started going since I was twelve, when I shot a rabbit and sold it to Old Sally for a loaf of bread. She's the best deal maker in the Hob. You can always count on Old Sally.

We walk through the aisles, Noah pulling his hoodie over his head. I stride over to Old Sally's stall. Her crooked teeth do their best to smile up at me, with her old, worn, wrinkles sinking into her skin. A large pot sat in front of her, featuring her dog meat soup, which tastes bland, but anything that is eatable is welcome in District 12. Several other dented cooking appliances and trinkets were laid out in front of her on the rickety folding table.

¨Whatcha got today, honey?¨ she grins.

I chuck the canvas bag up from my shoulder onto the table, then take out a dead squirrel, wrapped in re-used newspaper. The blood is still soaking through. I shot it this morning with my friend, Diego, in the early morning. Squirrels aren't that hard to get, though.

"This for some soup. You think you can do that?" I challenge. Old Sally thinks, weighing up her options.
"Where'd you shoot it?" she asks. This matters to her, mainly because she can't use some of it's body parts, depending on where the wound is.

"In the eye" I reply, matter of fact.
She nods approvingly. "I suppose a darn squirrel is better than this little nipper over here" she says nastily, pointing a knobbled finger towards Noah. I pull him closer to me.

Old Sally gestures for something to put the soup in. I nod and get a dented tin bowl out of my bag and hand it to her. She ladles some soup in and Noah grabs it. She grins and I push the squirrel over to her. Old Sally takes it and stores it under the table. We turn to leave.

Suddenly a an explosion echoes through the streets. Everyone starts muttering to each other. Even though the Capitol is powerful, the Rebellion has started attacking the Justice Building to try and defeat them. The riots have been happening for ages.

Noah starts breathing heavily. I grab his shoulders and steer him towards the nearest corner. His terrified face is inches from mine.
"Alright. We're going to go out the back door of the Hob to get away from the riots. You're going to protect the soup. I will protect you. Let's go, now". Noah nods vigorously and hides the soup behind his hoodie jacket. Getting him to take care of something is a great way to calm Noah down.

We run towards the door. Another loud explosion unsettles our footing, but we eventually make it. I use my elbow to prop open the door and Noah and I run down behind the houses.
When we are about halfway there when a Peacekeeper appears. They are the guards of District 12.
Oh no, I thought. He thinks we're rebels.
The Peacekeeper was carrying a bow and a quiver full of arrows. I was confused. They usually carry swords or whips. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess.

He grabs an arrow from the quiver and takes aim. I shield Noah with myself, bracing for impact. Or, to be more specific, a fatal arrow wound.
Peacekeepers probably don't have good aim, mainly because the weapons they use do not need much skill.

The arrow whizzes past. I can hear the sharp whistling sound as it cuts through the air. It lands in a pile of dirt nearby. I sprint forward, pushing Noah out of the way. It is raining now, and mud is gathering on the ground. My face is wet from sweat, tears or rain, I don't know.

The Peacekeeper pulls out another arrow. He takes aim.
This time it doesn't hit the ground.
It hits me.
A spurt of blood hits my face. My ear. The arrow hit my ear.
My running pace starts slowing down. I feel dizzy and can only hear the sound of Noah screaming and the Peacekeeper falling onto the muddy ground in a mixture of mud and blood.

Through the kaleidoscope of my hazy vision, I see Noah, attempting to pull me through the mud. His voice sounds weird and distorted. I can't believe an ear wound could hurt me this much. It could be from all the stress, maybe.

¨Alannah! Are you okay? Here, I'll pull you up.¨ Noah grunts as he drags my thirty-eight kilo body. He weighs a lot less than me. A lot of people are underweight in the Seam.

Suddenly, everything goes black.