Katniss & Gale - The Story of What If?

Chapter One

I clutch Prim's hand as we follow the monotonous train of people to the square. Her hand grips mine so tight, I'm not sure if she'll ever let go. We arrive at the sign in table, give our data and continue to the roped off sections for the children to line up. Prim stops in her tracks when she sees the other kids her age standing in a group, faces lit up with fear. I stop and turn to her, and she is staring straight ahead, eyes locked, her breathing getting more shallow and rapid.

"Shhhh, Prim. It's ok, I'm right here. Hey, look at me." I cup her face in my hands.

"It's ok, your name's only in there once. They're not going to pick you. It'll be alright." I pull her in close and wrap my eyes around her small frame and squeeze, so she feels my presence even when I walk away. I lead her into her section, give her a last squeeze of her hand, and follow the other 16-year-old girls to our own section. This is where it begins, the torture, the fear and dread for when Effie Trinket, the Capitol escort, reads out those two names of the children going to the Hunger Games. But the tributes from District 12 almost never win. This isn't a reaping. It's a death sentence.

I reach my section and stand next to Macie Grimmor, a girl in my class at school. I give her a slight nod, but this is no occasion for warm welcomes or polite conversation. We both remain deadly silent, our eyes trained on the front podium. Effie is standing expectantly at the microphone, with Haymitch Abernathy, District 12's only living victor of the Hunger Games, seated on a chair on her right, almost passing out from what I can only assume is a result of the bottle of clear liquid sticking out from his jacket pocket. I clutch onto the sides of my dress for dear life, not frightened for my safety, but the safety of my little sister, for whom I support, feed and love. I scan the crowd of awaiting children and I spot her, face white as a ghost, just as nervous as I was four years ago on my first reaping. But they didn't pull my name out then, and they won't pull hers out now.

I continue to scan the crowd, and my eyes reach the oldest of the boys. There, sticking out as clear as daylight, is the distinct figure of Gale. Just the sight of his face, those grey eyes we share, gives me comfort. He sees me, and the corner of his mouth raises ever so slightly, not in a joking way, but almost as if to say "fancy seeing you here, Catnip". Even this small gesture gives me hope, fills me with something indescribable. I've always felt a connection to Gale, I mean, we practically grew up together. Ever since that day in the woods, we have a mutual respect and interest in the other's survival, and have stuck together ever since.

But he drops my gaze as Effie Trinket tap, tap, taps on the microphone to silence the distant murmur circulating through the square. Silence falls.

"Welcome, welcome. It is time for the reaping of District 12 for the 74th annual Hunger Games!" Her warm comments are met with nothing but blank stares.

"We will now enjoy a wonderful film, supplied to you all the way from the Capitol!"

A clip begins to play on the large screens behind the stage, a compilation of images from the conflict that gave us the districts, the consequences of this, and hence, the history of the Hunger Games. Each year, 24 children between the ages of 12 and 18 fight to the death to remind citizens of the tragic impact of rebellion. Every year, 24 kids are stolen from their homes, locked in an arena and forced to commit murder, only to die days later themselves. It's horrific, but it's what's done. For three quarters of a century, it's what's been done. And there's nothing we can do to stop it.

The film comes to an end, and Effie turns back to the crowd.

"Now, for the selection of the tributes! As always, ladies first."

She walks ever so lightly towards one of the glass balls, with hundreds upon hundreds of little white slips of paper containing every young girl's name in District 12. Her hand extends into the ball, gently circling the slips, before diving in to retrieve one. She then proceeds to walk back to the microphone, unfolding the slip of paper.

This is it, I think. This is the moment we all come to dread each year. But it's never me. The odds have been in my favour. Well, in my favour up until now. That's when I hear Effie's voice from the stage.

"Primrose Everdeen."