The End of Innocence: The 72nd Annual Hunger Games

Reaping

I wake up. My eyes flutter open, taking in the sight of my small, but comfortable home. The bed is cold. Emptiness is the only thing I feel when I reach for my Mother's side of the bed. I can't believe my Mother isn't beside me like always, it seems almost surreal that she's gone. I sit up and wonder why I awoke so early. The birds chirp soothingly outside, the moist air breezing into my home through the crack in the roof. Then it dawns on me immediately. The reaping, it's today.

I step off the bed to the cold wooden flooring, colder than usual, the heating does nothing to the house. I walk over the fireplace with a fire in it that's almost dead. I poke it with a twig my Father found on his way to the Vernam, a good strong one too. The embers almost come to life again when the force of the stick relights them.

"You'll make it worse if you poke it hard like that." A voice says behind me. It's my father. The tall man towers over me, his grey stubble growing out but he'll probably trim it for later. He is a District Official, he has that authoritative look about him, a school master, a cunning thief. He has that aura about him that makes others immediately notice his presence when he enters a room. 

"Why are you up so early?" I ask. Genuinely curious and not faking an act like I always do, it's what I'm good at, lying. I remember one time at school, when the Peacekeepers came storming in, because a boy in my class stole a piece of bread. They tore the school house upside down because his home lacked that single loaf of bread they were causing havoc over. They asked me if I knew if he did it and of course, I lied because if I said I did I would have been hung for withholding information to the Peacekeepers, and they believed me. After them taking three other students for stuttering saying they didn't know, they believed me out of all people.

"The Reaping always gets me up early, Max, you are only thirteen after all, only a few more years then your free, to work to slave away in the Grain Fields till you die." Father says sarcastically. He walks over to the part of our small, two room home that we use as a sort of cooking area. He pulls out a cup from the overhead cupboard and takes out an old metal cup. It's grimed in filth and the dark metallic marks from smoke from a fire.

"Great way to look at life." I say flatly.

"The Reaping's in an hour, go hunt or go to the fields to earn some extra money." He pours in some water from the huge bottle we ration out. "Your choice, but don't be late either, it won't be my fault if you get whipped for not attending the Reaping." Father says almost bitterly.

"Where's John?" I ask, stretching my back out.

"Out with his friends. Seems to be a tradition, now every Reaping morning they meet up near the Lofend and just talk." He says.

So I agree to hunt. I head into the only other room that contains all our valuables. This room is usually under lock-and-key because we get many rooters around District 9. Not many would dare rob a District Official, and they're wise to. Father could have their deaths televised if he wanted to. I open the old wicker basket and pull out my hunting clothes. A simple leather jacket with some boots and some jeans. These are all hand-me-downs from John, so they have holes and tear marks all over them. 

When I'm done, I say goodbye to Father and I grab the small rucksack lying on the table and I walk out of the foor. The houses around my area aren't the worst in the District, we have much more poorer parts. The further out you go from the town centre, the living conditions worsen. The most unsanitary parts of District 9 are around the perimeter of the district. The grain fields branch out from the centre, as do the houses. We don't have many businesses in the town centre, except for the basic needs. A pharmacy, bakery, we even have a fish-selling area from fish that's imported from another district. At an extremely high price, of course.