Not Just A Game

Chapter 1

Golden sunlight streams through my muted blue curtains. As I stir in my hard wood bed that creaks under me, my thin blanket falls silently off of my slim body to the floor. I awake with a shiver, partially from the chill running through my family's small, run-down cottage, but more conspicuously as the weight of the day settles in my bones.

Today is reaping day.

My sister, Maybelle turned twelve this year, her birthday bringing the nervousness that follows every teen in Panem. Twelve is the official age when your name is written on a thin slip of paper and dropped into the reaping bowl. One bowl for the boys, one for the girls.

For the past five years, I've lucked out. My name has never been picked. But every year we watch as an innocent teens are dragged away from their loved ones and forced to fight each other.

Although the chance of picked out of about one thousand people are slim, the worries can drive you insane. If the names are called and you end up on the stage, it's almost a death sentence.

Twenty-four go in.

One comes out.

Let's hope I'm just as lucky this year.

I pull on some old faded denim jeans and a green shirt. My boots lie by the screen door in the front of the cottage. My father is snoring lightly in his bedroom. I can hear his deep even breathing through the thin walls of our home.

I twist my sandy blonde hair into a braid down my back, securing it with an elastic. I tip toe toward the door, careful not to make the floor creak and wake someone. I turn the rusty knob of our screen door and feel the rush of cold morning breeze whip my cheeks.

I need to run a few errands before the reaping. I silently think to myself about later today. Worst casenario, Maybelle or myself gets picked. Would I volunteer for her? I know she wouldn't allow it. She's always made a point about being the youngest of three children, she never has a chance to be independent. But now that Willow has died, she doesn't like other people to fight her battles. She sequesters herself from everyone except me.

The damp ground is strewn with fallen leaves and twigs. They crunch under my boots. I walk across the plaza to the bakery. When I open the heavy wood door, a scent of freshly baked bread fills my nostrils. The heat from the oven fills the entire bakery, ridding of the cold shivers I had just a moment ago.

Sitting at the counter is the old woman who owns the bakery. I stroll up to her. "Good morning." I say. She repeats it. "What would you like dear?" She asks sweetly. "I would like a loaf of bread, please." I say. She nods and walks back into the kitchen. She returns a moment later and stops again at the counter. "I'm sorry, but it will be ready in about ten minutes. Do you mind the wait?" She asks. "It's fine." I reply. She nods once more and I turn and sit down at a small table.

I look out the dirty window into the square where the reaping is to be held in a few hours. Peacekeepers are marching around the square with their whips at their sides. Capitol workers busy themselves setting up ropes and speakers. A screen has been put on a stage in front of the Justice Building. Projectors on poles are standing, facing the screen at every angle.

I look around, away from the square and my eyes set on a single post in the middle of the town.

The whipping post.

Anyone who rebels or defies the capitol is tied to the whipping post and publicly beaten by peacekeepers. Most people are killed. Others are seriously injured. Sometimes a few days after a whipping, the wounds open back up and get infected and the person dies anyways.

I tear my eyes away from the post and focus on the kitchen. The bakery owner is busy making dough while bread bakes in the oven. Flour floats into her face while she rolls out powdery white dough. The dough gets thinner and the baker puts the rolling pin down beside her on the table. She wipes the palms and backs of her hands on her messy apron and continues with the dough.

The baker tears the gooey dough into equal pieces and rolls them out into spheres. She begins placing them on a sheet when... ZING! A timer rings through the bakery signaling the bread is done. A few minutes pass and I'm brought a warm loaf of bread wrapped in paper. I thank the baker and leave.

I realize how warm the bakery was when I step out into the chilly air. It's a cold day for as far as days in June go.

I look across town at the small run down building we call the hob. From the outside it looks deserted but inside it's a black market selling food and supplies you can use. No peacekeepers know about it or we would all be dead, or become avoxs.

I've shopped at the hob for a long time. My dad and I used to go there together. It's where I met Griffin, my best friend.

We grew up together, and cared for each other when the other was sick, or just having a bad day. He really proved himself as a friend a few years ago when my mom and sister died.