The 37th Hunger Games: The Beauty of a Pearl

Chapter One

I wake up to my mother's high pitched voice.

"Up, up, up! Today is a very important day! Let's hope you get picked!"

My mother places my reaping outfit on the bed and jumps up and down with a look of excitement on her face. She's just as bad as the people from the Capitol. For her the reaping is something to celebrate. She thinks that one of her children being picked would be an honour. She's been brainwashed I say.

I sit up and examine my outfit. Most people chose shades of grey and dull blue to match the depressing mood of the day. But not my mother of course. She chose a pale pink dress with a detailed black design. She also lay out shoes to match. This outfit would stand out in the dreary crowd like a brightly colored flower in a cemetery. 

I reluctantly hop out of bed and put on my outfit, not feeling one bit as excited as my mother. She rushes into the room, giving me a hug.

"Oh my baby girl you look fantastic! I pray that you'll be lucky enough to be in the games this year!"

I block out the sound of my mother's chittering and look at myself in the mirror as I run my fingers through my dry, salty hair, getting rid of any last few knots. My mother protests against leaving my hair down, tying it up in a ponytail. As soon as I get the chance I take it out. My mother's love for the Games makes me sick, but over the years I have learnt to ignore it. She turns to me and kisses me.

"Alright let's get going, we wouldn't want to be late, would we!?"

~~~~~~~~~

I walk into the town square and leave my mother as soon as I can. After having my identity approved I make my way to the eighteen year olds and stand amongst them, ignoring the fact that everyone around me is dressed in grey. I stand in line for at least ten minutes until the Capitol escort, Seraphima, walks across the stage, her heels clicking on the concrete. Some people in the Capitol-who am I kidding, everyone in the Capitol, goes to great lengths to make themselves look like a ridiculously bright lollipop, but Seraphima is not into that. She wears makeup yes, but she does not make herself like look a clown. Her hair is the colour of chesnuts and has small strings of gold woven into it. Today it is tied up in a bun on top of her head, secured with gold-coloured chopsticks. Her skin is ghostly pale but a black tattoo of a vine runs up her right arm, making a statement against the white skin. She wears winged out black eyeliner and mascara. Her makeup is mimimal, making her appear normal compared to other people from The Capitol who covered their faces in makeup, even the guys. Her clothing, however, is stunning. A long white dress with gold detailing on the corset and then a skirt of light, flowing fabric that touched the floor, letting you see only a glimpse of her silver heels. She looks somewhat like a goddess with her dress and dangly gold earrings. Overdressed for a reaping some might say, but beautiful indeed.

Seraphima stands in front of the microphone, not needing to say a word to get everyone's attention. All eyes are already on her. As she goes to speak she opens her blood red lips to reveal a set of shiny white teeth. She speaks with no irritating lisp like several other Capitol members, and shows barely any expression in her face or voice, a sophisticated mood hanging about her. This was something about her that I was always fond of. I am glad she doesn't act and talk like we are a group of three year olds, my mother is perky enough for the both of them. 

Seraphima goes through the usual speech about the rebellion and the history of The Games before clearing her throat and looking at all of us.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, time to choose the District 4 tributes of the 37th Annual Hunger Games. Ladies first."

She makes her way over to the glass bowl containing thousands of slips of paper, each with a name printed on them. Fear courses through my body, making my palms sweaty. She dips her delicate hand into the ball and fishes around for a slip of paper. My heart begins to skip beats. She takes her time to grab a slip, building the tension. When she finally plunges her hand into the bottom of the ball and pulls out the slip, everyone is silent, a tense feeling hanging in the air. She opens it with her long, perfectly shaped nails and takes a long breath before leaning back to the microphone.

"Ariana Banks. Come up here darling."

I feel as though my legs could give way. I stumble forward, finding it hard to breath let alone stand. All eyes are on me as I make my way forward. I walk up the steps, my footsteps echoing through every corner of my head. I stand on stage and Seraphima gives me a nod and motions for me to stand beside her. I peer out over the building to the blur of deep blue in the distance, the tears in my eyes distorting my sight. I strain my ears for the faint sound of the crashing waves. I will never hear that sound again, never smell that salt again. I am going into these games and I am not coming out.

I wake from my trance upon hearing the sound of Seraphima's calm and steady voice as she reads out the name of the boy tribute. Nathaniel Cross. I watch the small, ghostly boy walk onto the stage. He is a twelve year old who is as pale as my bed sheets and has arms and legs as thin as sticks. Straight away I know that my job will be to protect him. My life may already be over, but I have to make sure that the last thing I will do is protect this boy.