May The Odds Be Never In Your Favour.

I had never felt more tense. More scared, more alone, more desperate, than I did in this moment. My eyes were drawn to the tanned, bulky hand of our only ever Hunger Games victor, Chaff. His whole stature screamed strength now, but I am sure it has never always been that way. His left arm is proof of that – or, what’s left of it. Apparently, he lost it in the Games. I never asked how – I don’t want to know.

Nobody in District 11 has ever exuded strength, despite the way in which we repay an unknown debt to the Capitol. No, he has most likely bulked on the unlimited supply of food that his winnings provide him. His grand home, copious amounts of coin and supplies, and even his freedom from work or education, though, did nothing to spark my envy or displeasure. The horrors he would have undoubtedly faced within the Games Arena were unforgivable, and no money or furniture could make me wish to be there.

It is for this very reason, then, that I stand so rigid, my long legs threatening to collapse with nerves and my irritable dark fringe hiding my terrified eyes. His hand, the one I so intently stare at, is nestling into a large glass bowl, provided by the Capitol for the Reaping. Inside the bowl, looking as harmless as a single grain of wheat, sit hundreds of small, folded pieces of paper. Inside each is a single name.

On 78 of them, my name.

One for every year I have lived from the age of 12. That’s 6. Then, one for every month that I have signed up for Tesserae. Once a month, every month, for 6 years. Tesserae is the one thing that keeps most of the District 11 kids alive. Allowing us a meagre helping of grain to help feed us for that extra month, the cost almost feels worth it until the Reaping. Merely allow your name to enter that doomed glass ball one extra time, and feed your entire family. Seems a fair enough deal, right?

It’s hardly worth it, with the food we get, but without it my family wouldn’t even be alive. Maybe that’d be better, anyway. I don’t know any more. What I do know, though, is that I can guarantee that nobody in the higher Districts is suffering this much.

District 1 were drawn first, and a huge, hulking boy and girl took their proud places as Tributes. Districts 2, 3 and 4 were not far behind them, each person seeming to welcome such a challenge. Reaching District 5, though, and the fear becomes ever more prevalent. By the time we’re being forced to watch District 10’s Reaping draw, the tiny 12 year old girl is crying and shaking, and though her competitor, a slender and skinny looking 18 year old, tries to calm her, she has to be dragged away by Peacekeepers to their Justice building. It’s gut wrenching, knowing that a girl of such an age will have to enter the Arena. However, I can’t be too concerned – up next, of course, is us.

I can see my friends, my family, everyone from District 11 unlucky enough to be in the correct age group for the Reaping, shots of all these groups shown on the huge screens featuring us. Weak, defenceless District 11.

Chaff’s voice drags my gaze back to his hand. It has locked onto a small, folded piece of paper and he has pulled it out. I don’t notice that I’m holding my breath until I feel my throat tightening. That piece of paper is far too small to have my name on it, right? One fold, then another. It is getting bigger by the moment, and Chaff flattens it between two thick palms. Anyone can see that he takes no pleasure in this. Unlike the higher Districts, or that awful Effie Trinket, we make no show of pretending we enjoy this sick torture.

Then his lips part. He takes a deep breath to read the name, his eyes saddened but having to remain strong and reasonably light for the Capitol’s pleasure. One name. One girl. One of hundreds.

 “Aralia Harrow.”

One name. One girl. One of hundreds.

Me.

Nothing registers now, except the audible gasp from what I assume to be my father in the crowd. Then again, it could be anyone. Everyone here knows me, and it isn’t hard to think of people that may be stunned. After all, I have worked with nearly all of them out in the fields, harvesting crops and helping provide for dozens of families, alongside my father and brothers, my friends and their parents. We are all connected here, locked in this eternal, back breaking work. The gasp is what truly paralyses me, the idea of someone being audibly afraid for me. Terror, anger, determination and childish denial all flash through me, and if it were not for someone gently nudging me into the aisle, I fear I might’ve just fallen down right there.

Instead, I stand in the gap between pens, boys to my right, girls to my left. My head turns, dark hair catching the wind. Hazel eyes meet green ones as I seek out my sibling, the only one old enough to enter the Reaping at 13. I can see the tears welling in his eyes and I have to tear my look away, to the rudimentary stage outside our own, decaying Justice building. Holding my head high, the breeze lifting my hair slightly to push my fringe from my face, I step forward, slow but purposeful, and take my place upon the stage beside Chaff. He shakes my hand and gives me a small nod, before stepping back to the two glass bowls. My attention, though, is on the crowd. I search for my father, the man who works 12 hours a day to feed 5 children – me included – and still doesn’t have enough for any of us. I can’t find him. I don’t know if I’d want to.

My ears catch the name of the male Tribute, but only just. I recognise it, and my head jerks to the aisle I just trudged up. Colt Pullet. I had worked with him before, clearing stalks and chaff from the fields after the main harvest. Through this, I knew his background and my heart broke to think of it. His mother was painfully ill, and two of his sisters had died last year of starvation. Just one year older than me, I could only imagine the extra amount of Tesserae he had signed up for, only to have his family slowly starve to death.

He is strong, too. I had seen him move armfuls of thick, heavy stalks of wheat without even breaking a sweat. Even as he walked up the aisle, scowling, anger and a hint of fear staining his features, his muscles flexed under the ruddy, tanned skin that most men seemed to develop in their teens here. I stood no chance against him if it came down to it. I can’t imagine many will.

“So there you have it! Our two Tributes, to represent District 11 in the Games!”

To their credit, only a smattering of the audience applauds, and even then it is half hearted. I catch a glimpse of myself on one of the many screens, and am surprised at what I see. My features look strong and surly, with a cool anger that is burned into determination. No fear can be seen there, which I am silently grateful for – to show weakness now would be my biggest mistake. I work hard to keep this look present as Colt and I follow Chaff and the Peacemakers into the Justice building.

I might not be in the Arena, but the Games have most certainly begun.