Status: chipping away
Golden
Reap
The trident glimmered in my hand, a flashing, golden weapon stained with blood. I thrust it at the District 6 tribute, an unfair battle. I thrust the trident into her gut, pulled it out, and turned to run—there he was. Walking towards me, out of the dunes, was President Snow, leading hardly-clothed women of the Capitol toward me.
“It is time.” He said. Then, he opened his mouth, and a high pitched ringing erupted.
I awoke, drenched in sweat and swaddled in my sheets. Silencing the alarm clock with a firm smack, I laid in bed for a moment longer. Bits and pieces of my nightmare floating through my mind. It was not the first time I had had these nightmares, nor would it be the last. Forced prostitution did that to you. Someday, I would strike back, someday—when I had no one.
The 65th Hunger Games were imbedded in my mind. It was only five years ago, when I was merely fourteen, that I had competed. And, somehow, won. Today marked the day for the 70th Hunger Games, and another brutal round as a mentor. Together, Mags and I would help the two District 4 tributes as they traveled to the Capitol arena, where they would be prepared for slaughter. At the same time, I would give my body to the strange women of the Capitol. As payment for these deeds President Snow forced on me, I would take their secrets. The Hunger Games were a cruel event organized by President Snow, pitting tributes of our twelve different Districts against each other. It was a brutal fight to the death, and even if you won, you would be wounded for life.
“Morning there, sunshine,” Mags swept into the room, her hair was swept into a tight knot on top of her head, and she looked ready for a long day. In her hand she held a tray of my breakfast and a large mug of coffee.
“Did you bring sugar?” I asked Mags, winking at her. She tilted her head back and laughed. For being seventy years old, she was sprite as hell with a wickedly senile sense of humor. I loved her like I loved my mother. Hell, she pretty much was my mother. Mags was all I had, President Snow had removed everyone else from my life one way or another. When Mags was gone, I would strike at President Snow. Until then, I would continue gathering secrets and embracing the knowledge. Mags didn’t talk much, she always had a smile, though, and was brilliantly smart in all things fishing. She’d been around for so long, she had more knowledge than anyone else in our District. Hopefully the new Tributes would appreciate her as much as I did. Besides, I talked enough to make up for Mags.
“I’m not excited for today, Mags. It’s going to be awful. All those kids—under eighteen forced to fight to the death. I hate mentoring them. It’s like reliving my own situation…” Mags sat down beside me on the bed and patted my hand in reassurance. I breathed deeply. “We can do this. We always do.”
The rest of the morning passed by quietly. Mags and I went our separate ways, doing our own rituals to help us get through the morning of a reaping. Around ten, we heard the town bell ring—it was time to head to the square. When we arrived, there were cameras and televisions everywhere. Reapings were one of the most televised events in all of Panem, and one of the hardest to watch. Two uniformed guards came alongside Mags and I, and escorted us on to the stage. The silence was thick with anxiety as I took my seat, looking over the sea of people.
If it hadn’t been for the reaping, it would have been a beautiful day. There was a slight breeze, bringing in the scent of the ocean to wash over the town. From the stage, I could see the sun glittering on the water. My hand yearned for my trident, my feet longed to feel the waves lapping against them, instead I sat in a creaking metal chair dressed in stuffy clothes. Finally, our reaping host took the stage.
“Welcome to the 70th annual reaping!” She cried, “My name is Marla Winslow and I am here to help you find your Tributes!” Her ivy green hair was plastered to her head from the thick heat as she paraded around the stage dressed in the unnerving style of the Capitol. She made a short speech about how lucky we were to have children so happy to participate before she finished with a flourish and a shout of, “May the odds be ever in your favor!”
Stepping back from the microphone, a guard stepped forward and extended a large bowl towards her. With a sharp-toothed smile at the crowd, Marla dug her hand in and pulled out a slip of paper.
“Burr Phillips!” She announced. A young boy of around thirteen came forth, his face green with sickness as he climbed the steps to the stage. Just by looking at him, I could see he wouldn’t win. He was skinny and small, just a mass of red hair, freckles, and pale skin. He wouldn’t even be able to lift my trident.
“Now for our lovely ladies!” Exclaimed Marla, repeating the act. The crowd fell silent once more as Marla shouted out our final tribute’s name.
“Annie Cresta!”
“It is time.” He said. Then, he opened his mouth, and a high pitched ringing erupted.
I awoke, drenched in sweat and swaddled in my sheets. Silencing the alarm clock with a firm smack, I laid in bed for a moment longer. Bits and pieces of my nightmare floating through my mind. It was not the first time I had had these nightmares, nor would it be the last. Forced prostitution did that to you. Someday, I would strike back, someday—when I had no one.
The 65th Hunger Games were imbedded in my mind. It was only five years ago, when I was merely fourteen, that I had competed. And, somehow, won. Today marked the day for the 70th Hunger Games, and another brutal round as a mentor. Together, Mags and I would help the two District 4 tributes as they traveled to the Capitol arena, where they would be prepared for slaughter. At the same time, I would give my body to the strange women of the Capitol. As payment for these deeds President Snow forced on me, I would take their secrets. The Hunger Games were a cruel event organized by President Snow, pitting tributes of our twelve different Districts against each other. It was a brutal fight to the death, and even if you won, you would be wounded for life.
“Morning there, sunshine,” Mags swept into the room, her hair was swept into a tight knot on top of her head, and she looked ready for a long day. In her hand she held a tray of my breakfast and a large mug of coffee.
“Did you bring sugar?” I asked Mags, winking at her. She tilted her head back and laughed. For being seventy years old, she was sprite as hell with a wickedly senile sense of humor. I loved her like I loved my mother. Hell, she pretty much was my mother. Mags was all I had, President Snow had removed everyone else from my life one way or another. When Mags was gone, I would strike at President Snow. Until then, I would continue gathering secrets and embracing the knowledge. Mags didn’t talk much, she always had a smile, though, and was brilliantly smart in all things fishing. She’d been around for so long, she had more knowledge than anyone else in our District. Hopefully the new Tributes would appreciate her as much as I did. Besides, I talked enough to make up for Mags.
“I’m not excited for today, Mags. It’s going to be awful. All those kids—under eighteen forced to fight to the death. I hate mentoring them. It’s like reliving my own situation…” Mags sat down beside me on the bed and patted my hand in reassurance. I breathed deeply. “We can do this. We always do.”
The rest of the morning passed by quietly. Mags and I went our separate ways, doing our own rituals to help us get through the morning of a reaping. Around ten, we heard the town bell ring—it was time to head to the square. When we arrived, there were cameras and televisions everywhere. Reapings were one of the most televised events in all of Panem, and one of the hardest to watch. Two uniformed guards came alongside Mags and I, and escorted us on to the stage. The silence was thick with anxiety as I took my seat, looking over the sea of people.
If it hadn’t been for the reaping, it would have been a beautiful day. There was a slight breeze, bringing in the scent of the ocean to wash over the town. From the stage, I could see the sun glittering on the water. My hand yearned for my trident, my feet longed to feel the waves lapping against them, instead I sat in a creaking metal chair dressed in stuffy clothes. Finally, our reaping host took the stage.
“Welcome to the 70th annual reaping!” She cried, “My name is Marla Winslow and I am here to help you find your Tributes!” Her ivy green hair was plastered to her head from the thick heat as she paraded around the stage dressed in the unnerving style of the Capitol. She made a short speech about how lucky we were to have children so happy to participate before she finished with a flourish and a shout of, “May the odds be ever in your favor!”
Stepping back from the microphone, a guard stepped forward and extended a large bowl towards her. With a sharp-toothed smile at the crowd, Marla dug her hand in and pulled out a slip of paper.
“Burr Phillips!” She announced. A young boy of around thirteen came forth, his face green with sickness as he climbed the steps to the stage. Just by looking at him, I could see he wouldn’t win. He was skinny and small, just a mass of red hair, freckles, and pale skin. He wouldn’t even be able to lift my trident.
“Now for our lovely ladies!” Exclaimed Marla, repeating the act. The crowd fell silent once more as Marla shouted out our final tribute’s name.
“Annie Cresta!”