BORN TO DIE | CLATO (THG)

FIVE

CATO HADLEY

Sunlight streams in through the windows, casting golden beams of light directly into my eyes. I grunt, rolling straight off my bed and landing in an undignified heap on the ground. I lie there for a few seconds, listening to the sounds of shuffling footsteps and the clinking of plates against cutlery from downstairs.

So, it seems like my parents were up and about already. I scoff, pushing myself off the floor. Of course they were. They only ever rose early to "eat breakfast together as a family" on one day of the year, and that was the Reaping. Good God, this was going to be hell.

I decide to go ahead and prepare for the Reaping. Although my stomach is growling in dissent, pleading me to just go ahead and just eat the delicious meal that must be awaiting me downstairs, I ignore it. No matter how tempting the smell of sizzling meat was, I would not cave in. I would not eat anything my parents had made. And I would not go down there and risk having any type of interaction with them until I absolutely had no other choice.

So I take my time in the shower, take my time grooming myself, take my time getting changed for the Reaping until my appearance is impeccable. Anything less than that, and it would be unacceptable: by my standards and Two's.

The Reaping was a huge deal in my district, and probably in every other district as well, but especially in Two. It was something of a holiday, some kind of celebration. A ceremony in which another future victor would be selected. It was especially more enjoyable for us, the children of Two. Experiencing the thrill of standing in the Square, hoping that it was your name that was pulled from the glass bowl, hoping that the opportunity to participate in the Games was yours. Hoping that the chance to prove your worth and bring your district glory and riches like nothing else was yours.

None of that for me this year, though. Or any year before this one. I am only given one chance to volunteer, and that will be next year, once I've finally turned eighteen. Next year will be mine for the taking. My time will come, and I will make the most out of it. For now, though, I'll just have to watch and wait.

Still, despite this, the Reaping's still entertaining. It's exciting to see who'll be granted the honour of representing Two, and even more exciting to bet against their odds of surviving. I hope this year's tributes will be competent enough that at least one of them has a chance of winning. I certainly hope this Games wouldn't be as depressing as last year's.

The tributes from last year had both been Careers. Skilled, well-trained and the odds entirely in their favour. At least we had thought. Before we knew it, both of them were dead. Killed off, before they had even made it to the final ten tributes. Our district had gone into a state of misery; it was awful. We hadn't experienced anything like it in a few years. The shops had all been closed, and even school and work had been suspended. Everyone had locked themselves away in their houses, their curtains drawn shut, mourning their loss. Not the tributes' lives, of course. But rather, the blow the reputation of their district had taken.

As for the dead tributes, they were shipped back to their grieving families in simple wooden boxes, and had respectable enough funerals held for them. Sure, they would be missed in some way or another. But no one would really make an effort to remember them; not their faces, not their names. Especially after they had disgraced the entire district that way. Not only dying, but not even making it to the final ten tributes. I really do wish the tributes this year will be a vast improvement from last year's.

Although if I had the chance to go, nobody would even need to worry about anything. Finally, I decide to head downstairs. I sigh deeply as I enter the dining room.

Jaelyn Hadley sits primly at the end of the table, sipping tea from a mug. Her posture is ramrod straight, like it always is. She's clad in her 'finest dress' , although it changes every year, and her thick, blonde locks are piled extravagantly on top of her head. Expensive looking gemstones and pearls adorn her throat and dangle from her ears and wrists. Her face is caked heavily with make-up, her eyelids heavy with glitter and her cheeks and lips painted a rosy pink. No question people would be fawning all over her as soon as she entered the Square, admiring her beauty. But to me, I think she just looks clownish. Someone old trying so pathetically to look young.