Becoming Adamant [#1]

Chapter 2 - My 'Lucky' Day

The minute I step inside the door, I see my mother has been worried sick about me getting home too late to get cleaned. I don’t really care though. I’m rather casual about it, just like I have been the past two years. I go and wash up and put on the clothes my mother put out for me. As I mentioned earlier, I hate dresses. Mum’s learned that by now as she puts forward a top and pants…something nice than I like, but it beats every dress in the crowd. Because the things is: if, and I really mean if I ever get reaped, I want to look cool. I want to look anything but a frail girl in a ‘pretty’ dress, because I’m not, and the rest of Panem is damn well gonna know it too.

When I’m done ‘playing dress-up’ in my room I walk over to the kitchen. The first thing that happens is my little brother running to squeeze the life out of me. Well, that means he’s hugging me. He’s an annoying brat that’s for sure, but he’s my brother. “Don’t worry, Sharpy. You’re still gonna be my alarm-clock when I’m done at the reaping.” I let out slightly ironical. This time he gets it. Sometimes he does, not always. He’s only eight years old after all. After he hugs me, my parents give me a short hug. They don’t say much because they know I’d rather they don’t. If I should end up as the unlucky soul to get reaped, they do get thirty minutes to say what they haven’t said all these years…when I come to think of it, thirty minutes might not even be enough when it comes to my parents.

I get to the Square as one of the last ones to register. The peacekeeper on the other side takes my finger and taps it for blood. Ouch! That’s what I hear most of the kids whisper, but I just shrug. I actually find it kind of tickling if I’m perfectly honest. Anyways, I find my spot among the girls my age in front of the big stage. The girls make room for me as they all know who I am. I’m probably the only one not really playing dress-up for this sad piece of tradition. I’ve heard whispers of there being a rebel in me. Sure, I wouldn’t mind being one. I hate all of this: the reapings, the Games, the Capitol. Sure I could be on the frontline fighting against it. Hah, who am I kidding? What frontline?

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the reaping of the 66th annual Hunger Games!” The escort says as I turn my eyes up towards him. Yeah, it’s actually a him this year. I think I’ve heard his name too. I just can’t be bothered to try and remember it. He’s a poor excuse for a man if I’m honest. All escorts are the same…too overly excited that the Games are on again and that another set of tributes will die. I’d really rub that in their faces if I ever saw the opportunity for it, but as long as I’m not reaped, I won’t have to. “Before the actual reaping, we have a film for you all the way from the Capitol!” Oh yey, the film. How they bother to bring us something from the Capitol…except for their stupid Capitol asses that is. I can barely watch that things as it’s the same as it has ever been: districts rebelled, one got terminated, and the rest shut up and then had to pay…in short.

“And now on what we’re really here for: the actual reaping. The moment when we will all know, which young boy and girl that will get the distinct honor in representing District 7 in this year’s Hunger Games!” The escort says as he walks over to one of the bowls. I shrug silently and roll my eyes at the way he says ‘distinct honor’. Those escorts really have to be brainwashed people to even feel comfortable saying those words. Where the hell is the honor of getting reaped, sent to the Capitol, only come back in a coffin? It’s a death-sentence. Getting reaped is a freaking death-sentence and in the Capitol they’re actually celebrating that. God, what is humanity anyways? As my thoughts run wild, he’s at the bowl with the girl’s names. “As the custom is, ladies first!” He says as he sticks his hand in the pool of notes.

Just get the whole thing done already, would ya? No need for pleasantries! We know you live wealthier, better…well, more ignorant as well. Just avoid one of my three little notes in there and we’ll be cool. The girls around me take deep breaths as the man in front digs for a note in the bowl. They could have many notes if they’ve put tesserae to their names. That makes them eligible to get extra rations of oil and grain to the family. I on the other hand have been forbidden to do it. What we have is enough and we don’t need more…that’s at least what my parents tell me anyway, but I’m not stupid. We barely have enough to get by and actually could use more grain and oil if I’m perfectly honest.

I’m not really feeling that uptight when I see that the man has found a note in that bowl and is now walking back towards the microphone. I should probably be nervous at this point. As I look around me, I know every other girl in this crowd is. One of them has been sentenced to death in the Games in the Capitol. Me, surprisingly even to myself, I’m not that uptight. It’s like I think my odds are so infinitely small that they don’t even exist. However, I’m about to be surprised when he reads up the name. 

“Your female tribute to this year’s Hunger Games is: Sylvia Mason!”

What is it that they say about the Games: may the odds be ever in your favor? Well, screw them! The odds just screwed me big time! I just got freaking reaped to the Games. I had three teeny tiny notes in that bowl and he managed to find one of them! How the hell is that even possible?! Many girls in the crowd have in between 20-40 notes and yet one of my three was picked. I’ve been reaped! Me! Sylvia Mason, the girl with the feisty attitude that could scare the crap out of the entire District…

I can feel my heartbeat raise as the girls around look at me. Just by looking at them I can tell many of them are relieved…actually, all of them are. Jerks! I’m only fourteen year’s old! You bastards, one of you should be taking my place! I can feel my hands are shaking as I look at the peacekeeper’s who’s already figured out that it’s me. I get out of line and I walk slowly towards the stage. God, my legs feel like they’re weighing a thousand tons! And as a result of that, I’m walking at the speed of a snail. I take my time though. I try to give someone out there the time to shoot up their hand. I know if Axel could volunteer, he would. I look back to find him in the crowd, but the peacekeeper starts pushing me. I shoot him an angry look. “Get your filthy hands off of me…” I warn him. “…I’m getting there, aren’t I?”

I’m by the steps now, and still there is nobody that wants to take my place. Well, of course nobody wants to. But if there was a family member, they would…too bad everybody is too scared of me. They think I can mentally handle this. Well, news-flash, I’m just fourteen years old! “Stand right here, dear.” The man says to me as I finally get to the top. He basically just places me next to the microphone as he walks over to the boy’s bowl of names. I just look out at the ocean of people staring back at me…well, thanks for nothing, District 7. “And now over to the boys…and this is always a treat!” I hear him say as I look over at him. In the background I hear people talking…or whispering. Apparently the escort’s name is James Dess…oh well, finally a name to that poor excuse of a man.

I finally spot Axel in the crowd as I look back out towards them. I didn’t find Axel earlier, but this time I couldn’t fail to even if I tried. He’s keeping his eyes steady on me as Mr. Dess walks back to the microphone with a note in his hand. My thoughts keep spinning as I hope for dear life that it isn’t Axel he’s just picked. I could never go with him to the Games. That would just be even more unfair than what it already is. My attention turns back to Mr. Dess as I hear him clear his throat.

“Your male tribute to this year’s Hunger Games is: Talon Branch!”

Good God, I recognize that name. I think I’ve run into him at the school-yard a couple of times in the past. I see him step out of line, pretty much as paralyzed as I was. I think he’s the same year of age as Axel, around 16 or something like that. Oh lord, I’m going to the Games with a bully. Damn it, I’m dead already, aren’t I? He walks up to the stage and is guided to the other side of the microphone. “District 7: this year’s tributes!” Dess says as if he’s introducing us to a roaring crowd…instead he’s met with silence. He’s forcing me to shake hands with Talon as we’re District partners now…sort of. No, we’re not. We’ll never be.