Four Weeks to Live
Reaping
“Good morning, and happy Hunger Games!” The overenthusiastic figure on the stage shouted. The sunlight was hurting my eyes, mostly because I hadn’t been outside in nearly three months. I was too busy working for that. Such is life in this hellish district. I’d rather live in any other besides this one.
“Wonderful District 6”, where all the victors are morphling addicts and everyone else is so afraid of travel, people try to run if they’re called up as tribute. None of us like travel, it always reminds us of family members who died making the train you’re on. Whoever runs is shot. Peacekeepers were spread out across the audience to control us, or try to. Our district was apparently “unstable” enough for that. We were, after all, the largest. We beat both 11 and 2 by almost 1,000. I looked out over the crowd, at all of our black-haired, pale-skinned people. Most of them were lucky, being too old or young to be tribute. I, on the other hand, was the perfect age.
“Ladies first!” She said, apparently stealing a page from Effie Trinket’s book. Though there was a 1 in 3,000 chance for my name to be called, I wasn’t surprised when I heard it.
“Ivory Wellwood!” Shouted the woman happily. She was new. Last year we had Katri Flamsteed, a rather chubby woman with everything on her painted in gold. Even her skin had a glittering yellow tint. I walked up on stage, my head hung low. I would have to go the Capitol or die. The boy tribute was someone I didn’t know. His name was Griffin Wyhart.
“Lets have a very good 71st Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!” She shouted her last words to the crowd and quickly shuffled off stage, leaving us staring into the audience until the peacekeepers grabbed us by the arms and led us off as well. There, we greeted our mentor for the games. He was a morphling.
“They couldn’t have given us a non-addict?” Griffin said jokingly. There weren’t any non-addicts. I gave him a small, false smile before we were led into our separate rooms to say goodbye to our respective families. My mother cooed and hugged me, telling me I would be fine, everything would be alright. My older brother looked on blankly for a while before patting my head twice and leaving. He was too old for the games. I was 17, the “perfect age”. Every person who’d ever won in District 6 had done it when they were 17.
“May the odds be ever in your favor.” My mom said. Those words quite literally made me sick to my stomach. I threw up on a potted plant in the corner of the room. No one else came to say good bye, mostly because I wasn’t the most likable person. I joined Griffin on the train to the Capitol and refused to look at anyone. Griffin was busy playing with the massive amounts of food we were given. The woman who’d called our names, who’s name I’d learned was Lovage Amber, was staring at our mentor with a disgusted look on her face. I turned to stare out the window, as there was nothing better to do.
“Wonderful District 6”, where all the victors are morphling addicts and everyone else is so afraid of travel, people try to run if they’re called up as tribute. None of us like travel, it always reminds us of family members who died making the train you’re on. Whoever runs is shot. Peacekeepers were spread out across the audience to control us, or try to. Our district was apparently “unstable” enough for that. We were, after all, the largest. We beat both 11 and 2 by almost 1,000. I looked out over the crowd, at all of our black-haired, pale-skinned people. Most of them were lucky, being too old or young to be tribute. I, on the other hand, was the perfect age.
“Ladies first!” She said, apparently stealing a page from Effie Trinket’s book. Though there was a 1 in 3,000 chance for my name to be called, I wasn’t surprised when I heard it.
“Ivory Wellwood!” Shouted the woman happily. She was new. Last year we had Katri Flamsteed, a rather chubby woman with everything on her painted in gold. Even her skin had a glittering yellow tint. I walked up on stage, my head hung low. I would have to go the Capitol or die. The boy tribute was someone I didn’t know. His name was Griffin Wyhart.
“Lets have a very good 71st Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!” She shouted her last words to the crowd and quickly shuffled off stage, leaving us staring into the audience until the peacekeepers grabbed us by the arms and led us off as well. There, we greeted our mentor for the games. He was a morphling.
“They couldn’t have given us a non-addict?” Griffin said jokingly. There weren’t any non-addicts. I gave him a small, false smile before we were led into our separate rooms to say goodbye to our respective families. My mother cooed and hugged me, telling me I would be fine, everything would be alright. My older brother looked on blankly for a while before patting my head twice and leaving. He was too old for the games. I was 17, the “perfect age”. Every person who’d ever won in District 6 had done it when they were 17.
“May the odds be ever in your favor.” My mom said. Those words quite literally made me sick to my stomach. I threw up on a potted plant in the corner of the room. No one else came to say good bye, mostly because I wasn’t the most likable person. I joined Griffin on the train to the Capitol and refused to look at anyone. Griffin was busy playing with the massive amounts of food we were given. The woman who’d called our names, who’s name I’d learned was Lovage Amber, was staring at our mentor with a disgusted look on her face. I turned to stare out the window, as there was nothing better to do.