Work Text:
Chapter One – The Reaping
I gazed into the mirror, my own reflection staring back at me as I got ready for the reaping. I tamed my coily hair, but the dark circles surrounding my eyes weren't something I could fix. I don't usually have eye-bags this big but the days leading up to this I haven't exactly gotten that much sleep—nightmares of my name being called at the reaping plague my dreams, and I can't bury the thought they could be a premonition, like the stuff my grandma used to talk about.
I contemplated what do with my mess of hair before deciding to leave it plain, I don't have much time to get ready now anyway. It's an hour till the ceremony and half of that will be spent getting there. I grow bored, studying the cracks in the mirror to pass the time. The room is dull and very unentertaining, with only a bed, a mattress on the floor, a dresser and a mirror hanging from the handle.
The floorboards squeaked behind me, I turned to see my older sister, Pomegranate, in the doorway. She was in her best dress, a long blue frock she had gotten from my mother specifically for this occasion, her hair in twists and tied with a bandana. She strode over to the bed where I sat and placed herself down next to me.
“I know you’re nervous, everything's going to be fine,” her voice was soft, comforting, “there's thousands of kids in the district, many of those the sole tesserae provider for their family.” Pomegranate squeezed my shoulders, but she knew my chances of being called are somewhat low, but not zero.
“I know... but what if they do call my name!’ I add, anxiously gripping my best dress, a plain white thing, but the only one with no clear damage or stains. This is the first year my sister won't be eligible for the games, being 19 now, and my younger sister, Bean, is only 9 and isn't yet eligible for the reaping either.
That means this year had to take out tesserae for my family when we couldn’t eat or we needed money—something to sell.
“C’mon, mum and Bean are waiting outside,” Pomegranate said, gesturing to the door. I rose, smoothing out my brown striped vest I wore over my dress. I fidgeted with its hem as I made my way out of the room, my thick brown boots pattering on the wooden floor.
“Here, in case your name is called.” She lifted her necklace from off her neck, positioning it on mine. “Really? Grandma’s necklace?” I said softly. This was the old necklace grandma gave her shortly before passing away, the only thing of much worth in our name, one we refuse to sell. The necklace was ornate, it had a golden chain and rim, in the centre was an old photograph, withered by time, all was left of it was a weird brown circle with dark spots, it was allegedly meant to be my great grandfather, a rebellion freedom fighter from the dark days.
As pomegranate said, my mother and my younger sister, Bean were waiting outside on the coarse brown dirt outside my house, it refused to grow grass because of how often people walk on it. My mother was in a regular worn brown dress, dappled with stains from her cooking hobby, from before she had to provide for the family all day; her favourite red cardigan draped over her shoulders to make herself look more presentable. My mother's frizzy dark hair tied behind her head with a piece of old cloth, her face was sad yet hardened, she'd seen many reapings before, but she still worries.
My younger sister, Bean was in a short green frock, a belt loosely hung around her hips. Her hair braided into pigtails like how pomegranate always did for her, but this time onion flowers were braided in to pretty it up. She donned a worried look on her face, like she did at every reaping. It pained me to imagine her name in the reaping bowl one day, stricken with terror as she gets herded into the square.
The sky was miserable and overcast, it seemed to be like that every reaping without fail, like the sky knew how depressing today was going to be. The identical houses line the poorly planned streets, streets starting and ending at random places. When the population for the district grows, new houses are built and families are moved in. Most houses are small, about one bedroom, a kitchen, dining room and lounge room in the same room and a small bathroom, the houses are only really built for about two people, maybe 3, but most families here have three or more kids, plus their parents.
As we neared the justice building, I could see the temporary stage they had built, the flag of Panem hanging from the justice building, a large marble structure which functions as the local government building for official business, but also home to the reaping ceremony.
I go to stand with the children eligible for reaping, but I feel a small fist tug at my skirt. “Your name won't be called, right?” Beans small voice squeaks from below me. “it's gonna be fine, ok?” I say. I don't say it won't be called; I can never promise that, and I wouldn't want to get her hopes up. “Ok...” Bean says softly before retreating into my mother's arms, joining the adults and small children outside the square.
We are herded into two roped off squares, girls in and boys in the other, ascending in age. I go and join the other fifteen-year-olds, fidgeting with my dress yet again, anticipating the start of the ceremony. My best friend, Willow Appel stands beside me, “Are you okay? How much tesserae do you have this year?” she whispers, clasping my hand. She wears a white blouse with a red and white gingham dress over it.
“11, you?” I whisper back in reply. It's not her first year taking out tesserae, she's an only child because of complications after her birth making it so her mother couldn't bear another child.
“14...” she murmurs, before the mayor walks to the microphone, signalling silence and the start of the reaping ceremony.
Mayor Thorne is a stern man in about his 40s, his cropped curly hair is streaked with grey, frown lines worn into his face after years of scowling.
Mr Thorne is not regarded as a very nice person, he's especially cruel and has little to no regard about the districts wellbeing and keeping people in check. He cares so much about this because to the point he encourages the peacekeepers to punish people more severely than they should. Most people are poorer than they were before he was instated as mayor, because he got rid of all illegal trading which was most people's secondary or even primary income.
“Happy reaping day to all of district 12, this year marks the 69th anniversary of the Capitols defeat against the district rebels, and may the odds be every in your favour.” his stern voice boomed out from the speakers, his usual speech.
“I welcome our district’s victors to the stage, Seeder--” a woman in around her 50s with tan olive skin and short dark hair walked onto the stage, she looked unlike most of our district but there were a few outliers with an appearance like hers, though majority of the district has dark skin and darker coily hair, “--and Chaff.” Mayor Thorne continued, and a man with dark sun-tanned skin and a missing arm walked onto the stage, before taking his place next to Seeder.
The anthem began to play over the speakers, playing the video we were shown at every reaping, some old video narrated by president Snow about the hunger games, how they were created and why they're important. ‘
As the video came to an end, an unfamiliar face waltzed onto the stage, instead of our usual capitol escort to announce the names, we had a new one, she was younger with her sleek black hair gelled down to her hair in carefully crafted waves, wearing a bright floral dress with sleeves that puffed out at the shoulders.
Her unsure steps echoed across the silent stage, stepping towards the microphone to begin the drawing of the names.
“Happy 69th hunger games to the eleventh district of Panem! Im Cassiopeia Nereus, your new escort!” She piped in her high-pitched Capitol accent. Her diamond inlaid knee-high boots glittered in the early afternoon sun.
“Now, enough about me, on to the reaping! Of course, may the odds be ever in your favour!” I felt Willow squeeze my hand from beside me, I squeeze back. We don’t have many tesserae, but the readings tend to be a surprise. One year it could be someone with almost a hundred tesserae, and another would be someone with less than ten. The Capitol lady takes a small stride over to a bowl identical to the one on the other side, its glass with paper names folded carefully inside, propped up on a small podium.
“Ladies first!” The woman remarks, before reaching her manicured hand into the bowl.
I feel tension rise in my chest as she draws out the name of the first lamb to the slaughter.
And then it happened.
“Harvey Belle!”