Hunger Games Anthology

Lark: Part 1

I push open the door, slip outside, and quietly shut it behind me. Immediately, I'm greeted by a rush of cold air. I put my hood over my head and tuck my black hair into the fabric. The cold is familiar but I still hate it.

The small cabin that my father and I live in is barely big enough to fit the two of us. Our cabin is amongst a cluster of others, nestled near one of the many expanses of trees in District 7. Since our main output is lumber, we are surrounded by trees. Most people in 7 live as we do: in small cabins near the section of forests in which we work.

My boots step over the damp morning soil as I move past the cabins, headed away from the road that leads into town. I need to be by myself this morning.

The sun has not yet risen and even though I don't have work today, I'm up. Couldn't sleep. Luckily my father is still sleeping, exhausted from yesterday's work. He is responsible for hauling the felled logs onto huge trucks, tiring work. I was careful not to wake him this morning.

The further I walk, the better I feel. Out here I could almost pretend that time is paused, that I could just stay among the trees for as long as I liked. Unfortunately I couldn't. In just a few hours I need to be back home, getting ready for the reaping.

But there would be time to worry about that later. For now I just need to be alone.

I turn around, squinting my eyes against the slight breeze. The cabins all appear to be tiny specks from here. To my left, through the trees I can faintly see a large expanse of tree stumps. It stretches on for miles. That's where I spend most of my days working.

I head for the opposite direction, to my right. Here I can't see any tree stumps, just trees that seemed to go on forever.

I walk through the trees, trying to get lost, hoping that if I get lost I could avoid today's events in the town square. But I know these woods too well; I couldn't get lost out here.

Eventually my feet start aching, I'm not sure how long I had walked for. I start searching, looking at the trees around me to find the tallest. My eyes settle on one not too far away. I approach the tree and drop my backpack to the ground. Every climber has the same pack that we bring to work every day.

My cold hands unzip the bag and pull a sturdy rope out. I throw the rope up, catching it on one of the lower, thicker branches. The end of the rope falls down next to my feet and I secure it with a knot.

I grab the rope hanging from the branch and tug. It's secure. I begin climbing up the rope, leaving my backpack on the ground. If I was working I would have taken it with me, needing the knives and saws inside. But today the trees would remain untouched.

I pull myself up to where the rope hangs from the branch and then swing myself over. I let myself lay there for a minute, catching my breath.

After my breathing slows, I get to my feet, holding onto the trunk for support. Up here the branches are close enough together that I don't need the rope. I begin climbing again, this time just using my hands and feet to scale the tree branches.

Although I climb everyday for work, this is different. I don't usually get to enjoy it. I usually climb up and systematically cut off all the branches from the trees. That way when they're cut down, the logs are easier to transport and we dont have to worry about the branches getting caught on other trees.

I don't really mind the work, but I much prefer to just sit and enjoy the view.

Finally, I reach a point where the branches could no longer support my weight. I sit on a branch, my back to the trunk and my legs dangling off the sides. Up here everything looks peaceful. I can see above most of the trees, giving me a clear view of the morning sky and the birds flitting from tree top to tree top. They are the only sign of life out here.