The Tribute From District 12: Araschia Fiare

The President's Address

"Araschia, honey, could you please turn on the TV? I'm busy preparing dinner, and we won't want to miss the president's announcement." I look up from the worn, dusty book I am reading at my mother's voice.

"Okay, mom." I reach for the dusty remote -watching television wasn't, and still isn't something that my parents and I did often- and flip on the screen. The face of President Jenkins flickers onto the old television set. He appears to be past the opening sentences of his speech now. I turn up the volume so my mom can hear as well. The sound of the knife on the cutting board cease, and my mother joins me on the couch.

"-One year since Panem was forced to sent firebombs to District Thirteen. Now, to remind us all that the power and glory of Panem cannot come without a cost, it has been decreed that each of the remaining twelve districts must offer up one young man and woman to make the ultimate sacrifice. The rebellion of the districts nearly destroyed our great nation. So, now as a reminder, on the anniversary of the end of the rebellion, a new tradition shall begin. The Hunger Games will commence, winning will mean fame and fortune and losing will mean certain death." The President finishes his speech and leaves the whitewashed stage, our national anthem playing in the background. Frowning in curiousity, I turn off the television.

"Mom, what do you think those Games could be like?" I ask her, running the President's words over in my head.

""Certain death"...I don't know, honey, but I wouldn't want you to get involved. It looks extremely dangerous," my mother replies holding my arm in worry.

"I wouldn't want to participate either. Hopefully, they choose those above my age group," I say. There are numerous questions circling my mind. How does it work? Why are they called the "Hunger Games"? "I just don't understand why our President has to create a tradition in memory of the rebellion. It's better if we just let it go; it's something in the past. Can't we just sign a contract to never rebel again?"

"Oh, honey, I wish we could settle things as easily is that. There are those that hold grudges, and want to teach the offenders a lesson, even if it's unnecessary, for going against them. The President is one of those people. You know the rebellion was a serious matter. We saw the commotion about it, and the President's reaction," My mom tells me, thinking a year back, when the rebellion ensued. I look at her, at my closed book sitting on my lap, and back at her again.

"How are they going to choose the tributes? By random selection?" I ask aloud, the curiosity of the Hunger Games budding even more inside of me.

"With luck, you won't be chosen," my mom says, more to assure herself than to me. I sniff the air, detecting a smokey and burnt scent.

"Mom, I think our dinner is getting over cooked," I point out. My mom jumps to her feet, the sound of the old, creaky floor bearing her weight, and rushes over to the stoves.

"Whew! Thanks, honey."

I glance once more at the book in my hands, feeling as if the pressure of my hands would make the pages come apart at its current fragile state. I don't feel like reading it anymore. I look up at the black television screen, replaying the President's speech in my head. I know that these Hunger Games are fatal, but I can't help but wonder how it all unfolds, the intense action of it all, like in the rare, second-hand adventure book my parents are sometimes able to save up money to get me for my birthday. Getting up from the worn sofa, its shades of blue turning into those of a dull grey, I go up to my mom to tell her I'll be going over to my friend, Villyianne's, house, intending to discuss the Hunger Games to her.

I knock on the door of her house, admiring the vivid shade of cedar brown the door has. Our door is a dull brown. Villyianne's mom opens it, and welcomes me inside. I visit Villyianne frequently, so I am familiar with her house. Every time I come in, I admire how the colors of the furniture, though they have grown worn as well, remain vivid. Her household isn't much more wealthy than mine. Nobody in our district is wealthy, for that matter.

"Araschia! How are you?" Villyianne bounds over to me.

"Have you heard the President's speech?" Is the first thing I ask her.

"Yes, everyone has. I've been analyzing the information he has given us about the Hunger Games, and I've deduced that..." One thing I really like about Villyainne is that she is a real thinker, and can draw conclusions when given only a few pieces of information. For someone in our District, she is exceptionally intelligent, mostly due to her habit of reading any informative writing she can get her eyes on, whether it is on a piece of paper on a busy pathway, growing dusty and muddy as numerous pairs of feet step on it, or a barely intact book, whose pages are no longer held together. As a very young child, she did that, and she was the one who inspired me to start reading books. Now in particular, I can rely on her predictions to satisfy some of my bursting curiosity about the Hunger Games, and hear an idea of how it might work.

"-It looks like there can only be a few winners, or maybe even just one winner, so the participants might have to fight each other near the end instead of machines doing all the harm. Or, they could turn up the speed of the machines, and do damage to their opponents, still using the machines, and not harm the others themselves. The winner would get money and possibly be recorded in the President's charts, which explains the "fame and fortune" part," Villyianne finishes. She shrugs, and leans back on the sofa. "That's my idea. It might not be correct at all."

"Whoa, that was so detailed, Villyianne. Even for you. It really sounds reasonable," I comment, picturing what the Games might be like based on Villyainne's hypotheses. She grins.

"When you think and dig deeper often, like me, it becomes a natural process to form predictions like these," she says. Although Villyainne is only one year older than me, it occasionally feels like I look up to her.

"I don't want to participate, of course. I don't think anyone wants to. That's why I predicted the President will pick names out of a hat," she says after a few minutes of silence.

"Me neither." Villyainne glances at me, her green eyes shining through the glasses she wears seriously.

"I definitely wouldn't want you to go in the Games. Who knows what the age limit actually is, but I have a feeling it's an age range close to ours. There is a great chance of you, or anyone in the Games, to lose, which means "certain death." I'm sure that out of all the district's young population, you won't be selected," she says. I smile to know that she really cares about my safety.

"Yes. We might find out more about the age range later, I guess." I rise from my seat. "Well, I probably have to leave now. See you, Villyainne." She accompanies me up to the door.

"Bye, Araschia," she calls, waving as I exit. It doesn't take too long for me to return home.

"Hurry, dear! Dinner's getting cold!" I sit down to a meal of some now slightly overcooked deer meat my dad must have managed to raise enough money to buy at the merchant section of the District, nearby our house. He, like most of the men in our District, is a coal miner, and it is because of his job that I don't get to see him often, and when I do, he always looks so exhausted. It's not often we can afford this kind of meat, I think, grinning at my better-than-usual meal. I begin to eat, thinking less about the Hunger Games.