Thresh's Hunger Games

The Reaping

                Darius and Akeelah, my twelve year old siblings crowd behind me as I coax them into getting their finger stamped for blood.
         "It won't hurt you," I promise Akeelah. "Yes it will!" She cries.
       "Hold my hand, I'm going to do it too." I tell her. She reluctantly places her left hand in my right, and my large diners close around her hand.
            "Watch me." Her eyes follow me as a peacekeeper pricks my finger and places it on a sterile white paper labeled with my name.
         Squeamishly, Akeelah let's the peacekeepers take her blood, then she rushes away, pulling my hand with her.
        I lead Darius and Akeelah to the twelve year old's section and let them kiss me on the forehead before I make my way to the front, where the eighteen year olds stand.
           Soon, a bubbly woman appears on the stage, along with the mayor and our previous victors.
           She looks out of place, her being so light among district 11, where everyone has dark skin.
          She shows us the video reminding us why the hunger games exist. The war, the rebellion, and thus, the hunger games is born. Every year, every district must give up one male and one female. They are then escorted to a public arena until only one lone victor remains.
        She gives another speech, followed by words from our mayor and she begins reaping.
           "Ladies first!" She squeals, her wig practicality bobby from side to side. Her unnatural red dress shuffles from side to side as she walks to the girls' reaping bowl.
           I can hear people hold their breath as she reaches her hand into the bowl. I pray for Akeelah. She pulls a slip out and folds it open.
             "Rue Wildflower." She exclaims into He microphone. Phew. Not Akeelah. My sigh of relief fades as I see Rue step onto the stairs. I don't know her but I recognize her. She's twelve, with curly hair and brown skin. She's a picker girl. Not her. She's the one that starts our work songs, that whistles to the mockingjays to signal quitting time.
           "Any volunteers?" The woman, her name is Christen Gleetune, asks. You could hear a pin drop.
         "Okay, now for the boys." She continues. I hold my breath, more for Darius than myself.
        She shifts her hand around in the reaping bowl and pulls out a satin white paper, folded into a neat square. Who's name does it hold? I will find out.
           "Thresh Darcin." She announces. My heart drops in my chest. No. I want to scream in protest, but My siblings have covered it. Their cries are silenced soon and I walk to the stage. My legs feel thousands of pounds as I walk. This can't be happening. Not to my family, not to my siblings, not to my dead father.
           I stare at my siblings, on my mothers arm, crying as softly as they physically can.
          I don't speak. Christen talks but I feel no need to respond.
            "Now, an applause for our tributes from district 11. No one claps. All anyone does is put three fingers in the air, meaning honor and respect. It's used a lot in district 11, mostly at funerals and special events, especially when someone important gets reaped.
           Not because I was reaped, but I'd say this reaping is special. Almost everyone has seen or heard of  Rue. Or at least everyone who works in the fields.
                She's the one who starts the whistle.

          We are whisked away by a squad of peacekeepers, and I jerk my elbow away when one tries to grab my elbow. We are brought to the town hall, where I'm put in a small room.
             I try not to show in my face how amazed I am. There is a plush white sofa, with an fluffy white cylinder shaped object in front of it.
         I sit on the couch, and it instantly cradled my large body. It's unlike anything I've ever felt.
          Soon, I hear soft crying and footsteps, then two giant doors swing open and my family burst into the room.
           My siblings climb onto me, sobbing uncontrollably. "No!" Darius cries. "Not you!" Mother stands behind them.
         "Kids." I say firmly. They try to quiet themselves and look up at me. They always listen to me, without question. I guess being as big as I am, my voice so deep, I sound mean.
        "I don't want you to cry. Be strong for momma." I tell them, resting my hands on Akeelah's and Darius's shoulders. "Be strong for me."
           Now, I stand and walk to mother. She's crying, but trying to hold it back, pulling her lips back and contorting her face. I enclose her in my embrace, making sure to keep my massive arms under hers.
        I remember when I was about fourteen, when I was just taller than her, she told me, "Thresh, no matter how tall you get, you ain't ever going to hug me over the shoulder. No matter how tall you get."

         "Never over the shoulder," I whisper to her. She cries harder. "Never." She repeats.
          The kids hug at my legs, Darius at my waist, and we hug until they are finally taken away. I hear them cry, then is cut off by the second slam of a door, almost straight after the first.
             I wait about another minute and  peacekeeper come in again and lead me out of the room and outside.