Pyromania | The 60th Hunger Games

THREE

It's reaping day. I don't necessarily have to wake up early but it seems that my parents are big fans of the reapings. Sometimes I wonder if the ruthless disposition to the other districts the Academy had drilled into them remains as fierce as it had been when they were my age, or if they simply saw the games as they are- games.

My parents have always been competitive, my grandparents were as well when they were alive. It's often speculated whether I am truly a Garrison due to my passive outlook on life. They mean well, I suppose.

My mother woke me up to a plate of toast and butter. Usually, she whips up something more grandiose under Father's instructions- he always has an experimental recipe tucked up his sleeve somehow. This morning I could still hear Father's heavy breathing floating in through the open door and, once the light turned on, I could see that Mother's eyes were red and puffy. She shut the door to allow me time to get dressed, announcing the District Twelve reaping will begin in half an hour.

I grumble and sit up, accepting the toast and smiling tightly. As I eat my breakfast, I feel an uncomfortable pain on my upper thigh and reach around in the bed to find I had been sitting on my lighter. Muttering to myself as I finish the toast and discard the plate and lighter on the desk, I fish my best clothes out of the back of my draws. They're only for reaping day and funerals- I never attend parties or weddings- so the white long-sleeved blouse and the wide-legged black trousers fitted well for every occasion. The trousers had been my grandmother's, who was taller than I am much to Granddad's dismay, and had been turned down multiple times as I've grown into them.

I join Mother and Granddad on the couch as Caesar Flickerman talks about Haymitch Abernathy- the only surviving victor of District Twelve- and Effie Trinkett, the district's escort. They show a clip of her approaching the stage, a hot pink wig balanced atop her head and a matching dress- with the makeup, she looked to be my age, which wasn't too far off. Effie had only been the district escort for a few years and it is painfully obvious she despises her job.

She tries, however, to appear jolly and attractive for the cameras despite the lack of responses from the crowd. She clears her throat and announces, "Ladies first," before scratching her oversized nails around the glass bowl of names and picking a card out. She smiles and looks up at the crowd of girls. "Ashley Collier." The girls break into a murmur and turn to look at her. A minute passes and the peacekeepers escort a sixteen-year-old brunette up to the stage. Her arms shiver, the bones protruding.

"The poor thing looks like she hasn't eaten in a week," Granddad splutters.

"She probably hasn't." Mother glowers at him and turns back to watch Effie Trinkett, in her Capitol accent, announce "Flint Garland." The boy was much quicker, keeping his head down as he tried to conceal the nasty scowl the cameras decidedly zoomed in on.

As Caesar Flickerman commented on the boy's frown, he directed everyone's attention to district eight. Father entered the room, cradling his head and a glass of water, as the District Eight escort announced the female tribute. "Ester Steppe!" He looked up and watched a small girl, about thirteen, approach the podium while wringing her hands. He put his head back in his hands and squeezed between me and Granddad. As the male tribute was announced, Granddad began talking to Father loudly. The sound grated at all of us and Mother decided she was going to cook a more filling breakfast and I soon joined her.

He all settled back on the couch with a plate full of eggs and ham as the reapings continued. Caesar was talking about the previous District Three victors and their escort, someone who had risen through the escort ranks (if such a thing exists) and has proven to have a higher success rate than most escorts. Apparently, if District Three wins this year, he'll become the Two escort.