#apog16reaping

 I get off my bed and wonder myself towards my younger brothers room. I knock on his door...no answer. "Caleb." I whisper as I creek the door open. I see him on his bed crying, scared for the reaping. This is his first year. I bite my lip as I run towards him. "Everything is going to be okay, you're not going to get reaped Caleb." I whisper as I brush my fingers through his hair. Caleb looks up at me and hugs me. "I just don't want to be reaped" He said as the tears on his eyes soaked up my shirt. 

"Come on pal." I said as I stood up. I throw a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt on his bed. "Get dressed." I say as I walk out the door. I walk back to my room to find my 3 older siblings standing there. They are all 23, illegible for the reaping. I run up to Mark, Colin, and Pandora and give them a giant hug. "Goodluck." Colin whispers in my ear. I feel the vibrating of his voice enter my hear as I step away. 

I get dressed in green overalls with a plain white t-shirt underneath. I run up back to Caleb's room and see he has dressed himself. I take his hand as we head towards the kitchen where our parents are. I take a glass of water as we hear the reaping bell ring. Caleb gasps and backs into the wall. "Come on Caleb lets go." I say. Caleb begins to scream in refusal. I take him throw him over my shoulders. "We need to go!" I shout as we head out the door. 

Caleb stopped crying but I continued to hold him over my shoulders. As we get to the check in-line I put him down. "They are going to draw blood Caleb its going to be quick and easy." I say to him. Caleb nods. Next thing we know we are separated into age groups. I managed to mouth goodbye to him before I could see him no longer. 

I stand tall at my age group, 17. "Only 2 more years and I'm done." I begin to think as the escort interrupts my thoughts. "Welcome District 10 to the 16th Annual Hunger Games!" A man wearing all orange cheers. The rest of what he says was just a blur to me. Until he walks over to the girls reaping bowl. "Athelea Harte!" The man cheers. I roll my eyes back just waiting for him to call the males.

Next he walks over to the male bowl. I dips his hand in and swerves it around until he reached a note card all the way to the bottom. I managed to catch my last breath of air before he calls it. "Zane Mercade!" The man cheers. 

A second later I hear a scream from the crowd. I shoot over before I could react to my name being called to see Caleb running into the aisle towards me. "Oh.. no." I said as a tear rolled down my face. "Caleb!" I screamed as a peacekeeper comes and tackles him before he could progress any further. I stare at the peacekeeper removing Caleb from the crowd until I feel a slight push from my back. 5 peacekeepers were lined up pushing me towards the stage. Everything is happening so fast I  cant even react. I stand on the stage with no emotion, only confusion. 

The sun was just peeking over the horizon; pressing a button the shades lifted revealing the glittering city beneath me. Today was the day, the day I had always looked forward to with eager anticipation since I was a girl. Reaping Day. By the time the sun set today, we would have twenty-four bright young tributes ready to fight to the death for our entertainment. I wondered if Ariadne was watching this from a certain VIP’s bedroom…or just how many women were taking up Xanthus’ bed as I turned the television on. Belladonna and Demetrius’ faces appearing as they chattered together like a couple of gossipy old women.

District 1 bloomed on the screen and I couldn’t help but laugh at the memory of Anton and Dia, I had to admit…ruining them was probably one of my finest moments from last year. But who knows what this year will hold…District 1 is the same every year, they vote in two Careers to vie for the title and it’s always amusing to see exactly what they think is the best of the best. This year it would seem we have a vain looking little princess followed by a very handsome boy who struts up onto stage like this is his chance. From the looks passing between them, I would bet my inheritance that they know each other…maybe I can persuade him to show me his skills…

District 2 is very similar but this year as the Volunteer raises her voice to the skies it is accompanied by gunshots, a gasp leaving my lips as the girl’s family is gunned down for clinging to tight to her. I have to give her credit, not a single tear has been shed as she stands on the stage. The added security was necessary after the disaster of District 7 and 8 last year, but I had to admit I felt like this was a little bit of overkill? After all, the girls just wanted to have one last goodbye…but nevertheless, it’s part of the world we live in…and as the boy takes to the stage her tragedy moves to the back of my mind.

District 3 had some girl with a weak constitution step onto the stage, if she spewed on poor Ryder looked like he was going to have a conniption dealing with her. I guess District 3 bred weak looking tributes. But as the boy steps up beside her, you can almost feel the atmosphere change. Fear is replaced by anger, and I think if Aspen could have got away with wrapping her tiny little fingers around his neck and choking the life out of him she probably would have. I’ll have to watch them, I have a feeling something dark and mysterious lurks between them…

District 4, a volunteer and the most awkward looking human being I have ever seen. I crane forward, zooming in on her face as I shake my head. I hope her prep team is well-rested. They will definitely have their work cut out for them. District 5 was filled with a very pretty pair, maybe two pretty. But I hoped they knew that I hadn’t missed the boy whispering into her ear, maybe words of love? Protection? No matter…relationships were meant to be broken, especially by me. I had to admit, if Xanthus didn’t sink his teeth (or other things) into Adrienne, I was sure I could make their lives hell.

Something strange happened in District 6, the girl had lingered far too long in the crowd before stepping up onto the stage. I wondered if it was just the shock of hearing her name or maybe something else was going on in that pretty little head of hers. The boy stepped up beside her and I was left trying to compare them to the pair from last year. Chirre and Haven had been a powerhouse, I wondered if Rosalie and Quennel would be too…

The reaping’s break, a chance for lunch time parties and the like to begin as I finally drag myself from bed. Padding to the bathroom to take a shower and curl my hair just so, inspecting my reflection in the mirror as I hear voices coming from the television once more. I missed the girl’s name being called but I’m just in time to watch her arguing, she should know by now that there is no way around this. No amount of begging or claims that this is rigged will get her a reprieve, she is on her way to die…and if she doesn’t come quietly? Well…her parents will have to pay for a funeral either way. I pull my dress over my head as the boy’s name is called, and I can’t help but whistle. First Nox, now Darius? There must be something in the water in District 7…

I’m anxious as District 8 appears, my gaze searching for any resemblance of dissent or rebellion that has carried over from last year but I’m relieved to find it quiet. No rebels clamouring at the stage, no graffiti adorning the walls. Everything is pristine and perfect. All traces of that little bitch wiped from the face of the Earth. Evie and Lazarus seem an unremarkable pair, pretty and smart. I probably would have written them off if it weren’t for last year, but now…now I see District 8 as a District to watch very very closely. District 9 seems simple, quick. Two people drawn out and everyone is too frightened to step up to volunteer for them. The boy seems like he has some muscle to me, I’m sure with the right training he could prove himself to be a powerhouse in our arena.

The image dissolves and I’m confronted with District 10, Tallulah sitting stoically beside their mentor as she watches the reaping unfold. No doubt remembering her own experience last year, I wonder how she feels after losing her ‘one true love’, I have to admit I haven’t seen her around in the Capitol since she was crowned…maybe we could remedy that fact sometime? Athelea and Zane, another beautiful pair and I’m pretty sure I can already hear sponsors throwing money at them. Probably Xanthus is already writing her name on his list…I have a feeling his hands will be very full this year.

District 11 is next and the girl’s last name seems vaguely familiar, weren’t the Verbena’s a wealthy family? I shake my head, no matter, her trust fund no doubt will buy her a pretty gift in the arena if she can’t con the thick-headed muscle-boy that is her partner to step into the line of fire for her. Finally District 12 is announced, a girl is announced. Looking fragile and nervous, but as the boy’s name is called a protest erupts. Shouts and gunfire echoing in the courtyard as the Peacekeepers swoop in. Don’t they learn? That any act of rebellion hurts them more than it hurts us. It’s just another funeral for a pathetic outlier, someone who won’t be missed…they need to learn that we are in control of their fate. Not them. We own them.

My mother already is keeping her distance, keeping silent, and it falls to my father to make sure I'm all ready and set to head out.

"There we go." He says, hands on my shoulder. I'm about his height now, but skinny. I've hardly filled out, but that should come 'round in my 20's. Hopefully. There's a bit of pride in his eyes, probably because I've been steadily growing stronger. But then I feel his fingers curling into the fabric of my cardigan. I don't like the way pain drips into that pride.

I swat his hands away, "You're inspecting me like a corpse in a funeral parlour." And I go past him to grab my glasses, settling them on the bridge of my nose. I look at myself in the mirror, running a hand through my hair as the room's silence grows thicker. In the mirror, I see my father behind me for a moment before he heads to the door. I walk over to my mother--

She's sitting in the kitchen, watching my father who looks back at her helplessly. Kneeling infront of her, I take her hands in mine and look up at her until she looks at me. "I'll be back shortly." I say this firmly, and hopefully, she believes me. She nods shakily, the strong woman, and I kiss her hands before standing and joining my father at the door.

I don't bother hugging her; She hasn't cried yet, and I don't want to set her off.

It's one of those years where my father seems a little more settled as he walks me to the Town Square-- I'm standing on my own, and I don't need to be carried there. Then again, I've never once seen him look at me with shame. It was always... I'm not quite sure, determination? I'm absolute crap with trying to rifle through emotions, I'm more than likely mistaken.

"Are you ready?" He asks me, his low voice rumbling in my chest. I glance over at him, slightly confused.

"... In case I get reaped? Shouldn't I be asking you that?" The frown I have on my face deepens as he chuckles. The look on his face is now twinged with sadness.

"I was ready for you to die since you were born, Lazarus." And mother says my bedside manner was horrible? I suppose this is where I get my attitude from. Such fortunes spat from his mouth, with that tone of his, never failed to unsettle. However, I had to ask.

"What makes you say that?" We're nearing the Square, and he's still got a bitter but bemused look on his face.

It takes him a moment to finally say it, "The world I knew you were going to be born into." It's a heavy, calculated response, but he knew he could be honest with me. It was a kindness on me as well as on him. "Even before we realized how sickly you were. We never loved you any less, just because we knew we shouldn't get attached to you.

"But with the bar set low, and with the very real possibility of losing you at any time, we didn't hold our..." He paused a moment, "Every step of the way, Lazarus, you have made us proud. You always fought. You don't show fear."

And with that, he looked at me, right in the eyes, and continued, "It's something between bravery, and the sheer inability to feel scared."

So he's figuring me out. "I'd like to think that it's sheer logic, and having lived life flirting with death, as well as the knowledge that there are things worse than death."

"You're trivializing your situation."

"And I'm just being logical, father." I give him a hollow smile, one that I'd like to think was of confidence. "There are things worse than death out there."

I take a deep breath and line up, offer my finger for the officials to take a blood sample, then take my place in the crowd of nervous children. I see the dark shadow of my father move off to join the other parents.

This is the part I've always hated. The nervousness simmering, smothering, and bubbling around me. The mass of bodies, so easily able to turn into a mob. Idiots, sheep, every one of them.

I can hardly pay attention to the repetitive, redundant presentation about the War. It was incredibly ironic for them to be showing a video about something that most people still remember, however, it's likely to be reused over and over again, for the children of future generations to see, who will know nothing of what their forebears had experienced.

It mocks us.

But what are we to do, but stand there and listen? Stand there helplessly.

A girl's name is pulled from the overgrown fishbowl-- "Evie Voltaire."

And as I watch the girl take her place on the stage, slowly, I feel like I should know her. But I don't. Social convention requires that I feel embarrassed for not remembering someone that I should, but I feel nothing. I figure that it means she wasn't anything spectacular.

When the boy's name is called, I feel something akin to a cold knife stabbing into my chest, melting into my back, twisting into my gut.

Because it's my name.

I look up at the Escort, and we make eyecontact. It helps that everyone around me looks right at me, signalling me out. The bastards. It's embarrassing.

"Really..." I mutter to myself, fixing my glasses. My feet take me up to the stage, slowly, and I keep my eyes down. I don't dare look up at the other boys, not until I'm above them, looking down.

The final step of the stage is quite high up, in my opinion, and I look first at our would-be Mentor, arms crossed and solemn, perhaps a little disappointed at the male Tribute he's been made to work with this year. He reminds me of my father, however, and I'm sure I'll make him proud, without any of the connotations of consolation and failure. It will be genuine.

Our Escort, I barely look at; I'm too fixated on the garish outfit they're wearing, made from the hands of the people of my District. Again, it's a mockery to wear it in front of the people that made it.

I find my father in the crowd, and he's just as shocked as the rest of them. Our eyes meet, and a moment later, he's running back to our house. If I can hear past the loud beating of my heart, I can hear my mother screaming.

And lastly, I look down at the children, saved again for another year. I look particularly at the boys, and my classmates have a curious look on their faces. But then again, so do I.

After getting all three of us ready and out of the house -which takes longer than it really should- I getting my finger pricked for blood while Tatum and Janie got close spots to the groups of children already enrolled into the reaping system. Now of the guys from training knew who the female volunteer this year would be, or even if there was one this time around. Volunteer or not, I wouldn't hesitate to go after them in the arena. I have no one to worry about. Coming back to Two as a Victor is more than just surviving a killing game in my case.

The same video the Capitol has been playing for sixteen years flashes up on the screen and a voice booms through the speakers in everyone's ears. I get glances from other students in my academy every so often, some with envy of my spot, others with worry flashing through their eyes, as if I couldn't take my place seriously. My attention is surprisingly caught by a odd sounding voice; Two's escort. The escort dressed in an ocean blue gives the same blunt greeting as the other Reapings before. Most of the eligible teenagers' eyes wonder around the age groups, skipping over faces or giving talking signals. Honestly, only two people for each gender need to be here; one to be reaped, the other to volunteer for the spot.

Sebastian opens the female slip carefully, then reads off the name Gretchen Fineman and the crowd goes still. Everyone stops to see if another person will volunteer, while Gretchen starts to walk up the aisle. I let out a laugh that almost echoes, knowing that the girl would never make it two seconds in the arena. Almost every eye flickers over to where I'm standing as a smirk starts to form on my face and my arms cross over my chest.

Then the special words of a Career fly out of someone's mouth from the eighteens crowd. Everyone's eyes move from where I'm standing to the girl and then her little sisters screaming for her not to go, not to do it. They fear that she will die trying to come home. Allyn.

A double shooting sounds off in the air, taking everyone in Town Square to gasp or step back. I stand on my toes to look over everyone's shoulders to see a small body laying on the concrete with blood spilling into her brunette hair, and another small girl holding onto her arm, fighting the urge to cry in pain. Bea and Bane always liked to kid around with me as if I was their older brother when Allyn and I were together. The two were like family to me, a few years ago. A tiny shock of despair shots through me before I can think about what I'm saying.

"She's dead, get on with it."

The words are stern, blunt, and demanding to the stunned faces. I look over to the Peacekeeper shooter to see Allyn's father wide eyed, staring down at the girls who he shot. Sebastian clears his throat, still staring at the little dead girl scattered on the ground as Allyn makes her way up the stage, the pack of Peacekeepers disintegrating when she makes it to the steps. She's strong, she has the intelligence to survive, but its the other tributes that may be trouble for her. The other tributes that make me worry for her.

Allyn doesn't look at anyone off in the crowds of taken aback people. her gaze is dead into nothing. Allyn standing up there meant that one of us would come home, as much as I told myself I didn't regret apologizing, I did and still do. One or none of the two of us will come home, be crowned Victor, come home to our broken families, earn more honor to Two.

Sebastian moved to the round clear bowl, shoving his hand down into the litter of folded names. In outcast Districts, this very moment is when everyone holds their breath. Counts to five, and prays for the name to be someone they don't know. Its a very selfish move but understanding. But wouldn't people rather have a child who is related to them, more prepared, and a winner rather than someone they don't know and a bloodbath victim?

"Nicholas Trif."

The name was familiar, a top ranked but not good enough, hot temper. His serious faced whipped around to signal for me not to volunteer. He wanted the pride of District Two rather than anyone else and he would die doing so. Drama Queen he is. My hand stuck up in the group immediately followed by the words "I volunteer." 

“Leave me!”

“Oh my God!”

“Jarel! Please, Jarel!”

My sisters screamed for me, Savannah voice calmer than Nellie’s, as usual. My heart beat increases as I immediately run down the hall. “Nellie? Savannah?” I call out, sprinting to the living room. “Agnes?” I hear this last one crying loudly, and that just worried me even more.

The vision I get when entering the kitchen makes me stop for a second. Nellie is kneeled on the ground, hugging Agnes against her chest. I see tears in her eyes, that long blonde hair sticking to her face.

Paz is sitting on some guys lap, clearly enjoying the way he kissed her neck, oblivious to her kids crying. She was clearly high, you could see it in her lazy movements and in the way she gave less fucks than usual. But the problem wasn’t there.

Some other man that stood in his boxers was grabbing Savannah by her wrist. Her face was red, with a hand mark on her cheek. “Little girl, you can’t interrupt your mom when she’s in her room with other people,” he said with a rough voice. “She’s not my mother. Now let me go!” This sentence said by my 7 years old sister made me snap out of my daze. Without second guessing my actions, I walked up to that guy and punched his jaw, watching has he lost grip on Savannah and she fell on the ground. Nellie quickly crawled to her, embracing our little sister.

As for me, I pushed the man against the wall. He looked scared, completely helpless against a guy who was younger but clearly stronger than him. “If I ever see you touching my sisters, I’ll make sure to cut every member of your body and just let you to bleed out on the ground, do you understand?” My hand was on his neck and I could feel him gulping before nodding timidly. “Now get out of this house! You too,” I added, pointing at the man making out with mother. And they left, running away without even grabbing his clothes.

The second they were out of that house, my three girly musketeers ran to me. I picked Savannah up, calming her as Nellie so perfectly soothed Agnes. A few minutes pass before I hear my mother talking again.

“Oh well,” she starts, and I put Savannah back on the ground. “If you weren’t my son Jarel...you would learn what being a woman really means. And you would be a happy little man.” Paz gave a step towards me and I just kept a closed expression.

“You’re going to leave this house immediately. Until you learn what being a mother is I don’t want to see you near MY sisters or MY house.” I took a deep breath, trying to do what I have been dreaming off for years. “I’m sick of telling you to grow up. I won’t let my sisters grow up like this. So I want you out.” She just stares at me for a moment and then, without even daring to look at the girls, walks out, facing the floor.

And the door is closed. And we’re alone. We’re finally alone. “Jarel...” Nellie starts, worried as always. “No, we’re not going to talk about this.” I force a smile. There will be time to cry this out at night, when they fall asleep. “Lets eat.” And so we do, talking about work, school and trying to teach Agnes the alphabet. That’s how we spend our time until I know I have to go to the Reaping. This was probably a bad day to kick my mother’s out.

I arrive to the Justice Building with all three of my sisters and Miss Molein, a old lady that never got married and lives in the house next to ours. I don’t want to think about my mother. I just want to get this Reaping over with and then...and then...I don’t know. But just be out of here. I kiss the girls foreheads, before walking into line. It was the same thing every year. Whimpering kids, worried families and vigilant peacekeepers - more than last year actually, but I don’t want to care about that.

When they pick my finger, I walk to meet the guys my age, receiving some pats on the back. “Jarel, look.” Christan points in front, to the girls zone. One of the lawyer daughters was staring at me with an innocent smile and I winked at her. Those perfect human beings always made me forget about my problems. And it’s been sometime since I took a girl home. And I deserve it, don’t I?

I can’t keep on with my thoughts because the fancy Capitol woman gets on stage. So annoying. I end up deciding not to hear a word and just randomly whisper at the girl, Christan randomly elbowing me to shut up. But suddenly I heard a name that took me out of my trance. It’s a name that I know pretty well.

Emma Forsberg.

My eyes widen as I see her getting up on stage. Not this girl. Exclamations of surprise take care of the crowd completely, but I just stand silent, scared for her and strangely more terrified about my own fate. When this flamboyant woman walks to the boys ball, I play with my fingers, not able to be quiet. She fumbles with the paper, realising little giggles. Then, two words are formed in her lips, resonating in my ears painfully.

“Jarel Gweriwen.”

Christan looks at me, shock impressed in his face. The girl I was flirting with puts her sight on the ground. Someone screams. I could recognize Nellie’s voice anywhere.

A peacekeeper grabs my arm, pulling me away from the crowd but I shake his hand off. “I can walk up there by myself.” And I do, trying to keep my chin up. Getting up the stairs, I stare at Emma, giving her a calming nod.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, your tributes from District 9 for the 16th Annual Hunger Games, Emma Forsberg and Jarel Gweriwen!”

My footsteps are almost inaudible, nothing more than soft padding sounds, as I dash from my bathroom down the stairs into the entrance hall. A few more steps bring me to the front door, which I open carefully before stepping out into the morning mist. I smile and close my eyes, inhaling deeply. I love nature, love the freedom of it, that untameable aspect that eludes every other facet of my life.

The breeze begins to pick up, my loose curls blowing freely every which way, my nightgown being swept behind me in the gusts. I clutch my arms as I walk across the well-manicured lawn, rubbing and kneading my skin in vain efforts to warm myself. Despite my discomfort, I always find joy in being among my flowers, a collection which has accumulated to 165 plants exactly - one flower for each tribute who has been lost to the Games. My fingers brush lightly along the outstretched petals, as though by doing so I could comfort their apparent forlornness, as though I could somehow comfort the lost souls they embody.

I can't help but stop at a particular cluster of flowers, kneeling down amongst the blades of grass and tucking a stray curl behind my ear. A low melody escapes my lips, my sweet soprano rising clear over the garden gate so that the heavens themselves might hear me. The neighbors are quite accustomed to it by this point. I always sing in the morning as I tend to my flowers, usually improvising the melodies as I don't know very many tunes. Getting to my feet, I continue on my path to the side of the house, which I enter through the sliding glass door that my father never locks.

"A locked door invites trouble," He always says. He's sitting at the kitchen table when I come in, his nose buried in a heavy book and his pencil scribbling furiously on a scrap of paper. Though it can't be earlier than dawn, I shouldn't be surprised at his early rising.

"Morning!" I skip over to him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head and noting the lack of a dish either on the table or in the sink. My father works too hard, never sleeping and hardly remembering to eat.He turns and smiles at me, though his eyes are weary and sad.

"I'll get us breakfast, okay dad?" I don't wait for acknowledgement, only gripping his hand tightly before going to the cupboards and pulling out a box of pancake mix. I set it on the counter and chance a glance over my shoulder. My dad has a look on his face that I know quite well. I leave my cooking behind me, running over to my father and throwing my arms around him in a desperate hug, as though by the magnitude of my love I could keep him from hurting this way.

"Daddy, I'll be fine," I whisper, despite knowing that no words can possibly console him. Not on this day. Not when he's defied the Capitol and I'm the only logical target for their retribution. Not when he's already lost my mother, too.

I don't remember my mother. She died during the rebellion, when I was less than a year old. I look like her, or say they tell me, they being the family friends who were relocated to District 5 with us. There are no pictures of her in this house.

"I have something for you," My father replies in a gruff voice, one blatantly attempting - and failing - to mask grief. He gets up from his place at the table and I follow him through our house, my arm tucked in his. At five foot eight, I'm what people consider tall and my father dwarfs me completely at almost six foot five inches. Yet somehow, I feel on the same level as him. In this moment, we're supporting each other, and through the fear and trepidation, I smile up at him, and I receive a rare smile in return.

My father is not one who buys gifts on any occasion where it is not required, so for him to retrieve a large garment bag and lay it across the table, and then to tell me that it's mine, is enough for my lips to form a small 'o' shape in surprise. It only lasts a second though, for then I giggle excitedly and pull out the present. Not only has my father gotten me a gift, but he's gotten me a beautiful red dress, complete with shoes. I look from it to him with a radiant smile on my face, and I run to him with the dress in my arms, nestling into him for a hug.

"Thank you! It's gorgeous," I gush, before remembering that my father is hardly inclined to spend his morning talking about dresses with his 16 year old daughter. He does smile appreciatively, hugging me before returning to his proclaimed spot at the kitchen table. I giggle one last time, happy as can be, and practically sprint up the stairs to my bedroom, where I place the dress on my bed and proceed to change.

My night gown and dressing gown on the floor, I slip my new dress over my head, pulling it down and blushing when I discover that it doesn't come past my knees, only reaching half way down my thighs. It's hardly scandalous and I've seen girls come to school wearing much less, but it's different for me, and I bite my lip as I struggle to adjust it lower. Then I look up and catch a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror, and I freeze.

"Wow," I breathe, walking closer to my reflection and pressing a palm against the glass, laughing when my image in the mirror does the same. The dress is gorgeous, the delightful patterns running in crisscross over skin toned fabric, the waist tight and the skirt flowing loosely over my thighs. I spin, my dancer's feet perfectly balanced, one crossing over the other as I spot, my head always returning to my reflection. The skirt rises and I stop, giggling as I pull it back down.

My antics have made my hair a mess of curls, and I sigh, puffing out my cheeks as I hold a strand in front of my face for inspection. I go to my dresser, sitting before the mirror there and hoping for inspiration to strike as I methodically brush through my brown locks. I begin to pin my hair back, not in any particular design, but just as I want to. Within a quarter of an hour all of my hair is pulled back and away from my face, with the exception of several long strands on the top of my head. I braid those, crossing them over to pin behind the opposite ear.

I stand up and look at the clock near my bedside - almost 8:30. I slip on some heels and make my way down the stairs for the second time this morning. My father looks up from his work and chuckles, shaking his head before getting up to hug me.

"You look beautiful, kid," He says, his eyes proud. "The spitting image of your mother."

I start a little, surprised at the mention of my mom. Hugging him quickly, I laugh and skip out the front door, waving him a cheerful goodbye and blowing a quick kiss before the door slid shut.

"Adrienne!" My friend Lyla yells from across the street and a few blocks down.

"Lyla!" I smile and wave back exuberantly, running over to her as best as I can in heels. We collide in a hug unique to friends who have known each other for eternity.

"Adri, that dress!" Lyla exclaims. "I'm already green with envy! Where'd you get it? It looks nice enough to be from the Capitol! And your hair! You never told me you could do hair!"

"My father got it for me," I explain happily, taking her arm in mine as we make our way towards the Justice Building. "I don't know why. He's too good to me, really. I don't deserve it."

Lyla only sighs at me, and I roll my eyes, nudging her in the ribs playfully. We come up on several of our friends and we stop and join in on the playful banter. It's stressed though, the tension of the event we're about to witness is tangible and is infecting our conversation. Eventually we stop talking entirely, walking in familiar silence that is much more comfortable than the strained jokes.

I'm always happy, though, always smiling and joyful about something in life. The eternal mourning which my father has placed himself in has done the opposite to me. The night is darkest just before the dawn, but the dawn always comes. The sun always rises. Hope is an eternal flame.

In what seems to be only a few minutes, we've arrived at the lines snaking their way up the pavement, somber expressions on the face of every child. I get in the appropriate queue, hugging my older and younger friends goodbye as they file off to their own lines. The sting of the needle is hardly noticeable, not nearly as terrifying as my first time four years ago.

Everyone smiles at me as I pass into the inner square before the Justice Building, some whispering compliments about my appearance and giving my arm a gentle squeeze. I return the smiles and the hushed greetings up until  the mandatory video begins to play on the large screen. The words have starred in a number of my nightmares, and I close my eyes in an instinctual response to fear, a childish reaction born from the hope that it will go away as long as I don't face it. Lyla, standing next to me, takes my hand in hers and I open my eyes, turning my face to look at her gratefully. There is not a better friend I could ask for.

"And now!" Our District Escort begins in a booming voice. "The moment you've all been waiting for, the Reaping!"

I go to my happy place, far away from here, where I'll be forced to watch two people I know and am fond of go to a place where they'll be forced into horrible acts, all for show. In this refuge, I'm in a field of flowers, running through the meadow chasing a lark to the edge of the forest. I'm just about to touch it, my fingers outstretched and grasping, when an intruding voice rings loud and clear.

"Adrienne Caladan!"

A collective gasp goes up from everyone gathered, and as though on cue, each face turns my way, various expressions of horror and pity meeting my gaze. I swallow, squeezing my best friend's hand one last time before releasing it and walking to the stage. I don't betray my fear, nor my internal anguish at the thought of my father's despair when someone alerts him to what's happening. I think of him, always hardworking, no doubt hunched over a desk right now, and it gives me strength. My step becomes more confident, my chin raising stubbornly, my eyes unafraid. I reach the stage and turn to face the crowd.

In that moment, I have an out of body experience, one typically reserved for those about to pass into the light. I can see myself standing on the stage, alone but unyielding despite that. I can achieve this. I will not allow my father to suffer. And in that moment, when I make the conscious decision to try, my appearance shifts. My ivory skin almost glows beneath the combined might of the lights and the burning sun, my dress as resplendent and bright as a flame. Yet it's my face that pleases me the most. I am not afraid. Untrembling lips, steady hands, and determined eyes are what all of Panem will see.