Chapter Text
The sun has not yet fully risen, there is a pleasant breeze blowing in the air, bringing up a strand of hair from my face. Today is the Reaping of the 66th Hunger Games. Today is a day that many people fear and have to love, some fear that they will be judge for their certain fate at the drop of a hat because of a stupid note, others fear that their child, sibling will be chosen to die in that unforgiving arena. But many more will quietly cheer because they finally don't have to go hungry today. After all, who wants to go hungry? It’s not like food supplies are scarce in District Twelve for a day or two, especially for those of you who live in Seam. The poorest part of this already the poorest district in Panem.
“Pa, you alright?” The sound is accompany by coughs coming from behind the door, I frown tightly as if I was trying to see through what’s behind the door. It’s getting worse and worse now.
“Don’t worry about me, you go have breakfast. I’ll be out later.” A weak voice comes from behind the door, hoarse and almost inaudible. I hesitate in front of the door for a few moments, but eventually do as he says.
He has been so sickly for a while now, the doctor said there was nothing he could do but let nature take its course in this run down little house. Me and my pa have been living together in this place for fourteen years. Every part of the house feels so familiar to me, but now, the whole space is filled with a strange sense I cannot describe.
The Reaping happens in afternoon, so I decide to go somewhere else. The Meadow is quiet in the early morning, untouched by the weight of the day to come. The wild grass sways gently, dotted with stubborn yellow flowers pushing up through the earth. Beyond the thin layer of mist hovering over the field, the graveyard comes into view. A collection of leaning headstones and unmarked mounds, settled into the land like they’ve always been there.
I step carefully through the grass, my boots damp with morning dew. This is where the forgotten rest. The ones who died in the mines, in the factories, in their beds from hunger or sickness. The ones no one could afford to bury properly. The ones who simply faded away. My pa always said that death was not an end but a presence. That the dead don’t leave; they settle into the soil, into the wind, into the spaces between breath and silence. I’ve never been sure if I believe it, but I’ve spent enough time here to understand what he meant.
I kneel beside an old grave, fingers brushing against the worn engraving — a name barely readable now, the stone softened and blurred by time and weather. But I don’t need to read it. I know who lies here. My ma, who died the day you were born. The grave is simple, nearly forgotten by the world, but not by me. Never by me. I clear away the weeds that have grown around it, smoothing the earth with my palm like I’ve seen my pa do countless times. The wind shifts, brushing against my face, carrying with it the distant sound of voices from the district. People are beginning to stir, soon, they will gather in the square. The Reaping is only hours away. I sit still for a few seconds longer, staring at the grave. Finally, I exhale slowly, rise to my feet, and leave the dead behind.
The woods are a different kind of quiet. Still, watchful. Not empty, but waiting. I slip through a familiar gap in the fence, my movements quick and practiced. I been doing this for all my life, this little gap exists the day I born. The smell of damp leaves and pine fills the air as I tread lightly over the uneven ground. The lake isn’t far. Its surface ripples under the soft morning light, a deep blue that darkens toward the center. I set my snare first, just in case, before crouching at the water’s edge. No rod, no line, just a sharpened stick and patience to wait all morning.
My pa taught me how to fish like this. “Watch the water,” he would say. “Not just where the fish is, but where it’s going to be.”
I wait. Still. Listening. Then—a flicker of movement. I strike fast, spearing a small fish clean through. A quick death. I pull it from the water, adding it to my sack before resetting. After a while, I manage to catch a few more, small, but enough. I check my snare on the way back. Empty. Maybe something passed through and was smart enough to avoid it. Maybe nothing came at all. Either way, I don’t have time to reset it anymore.
The Hob is already buzzing when I arrive. Low voices, careful glances. The usual air of quiet desperation. No one looks at me for too long, of course, no one wants to think about the kids who might not come back. I move through the crowd, bartering my fish for a small loaf of bread, and a handful of dried herbs. Things my pa might be able to eat. I tuck them carefully into my sack, pulling the strap tighter across my shoulder.
The sun has climbed higher, it’s time to head back. The house is quiet when I step inside, save for the faint, uneven breathing coming from behind the closed door. The air smells faintly of damp wood and herbs—a mix of sickness and failed remedies. I set the sack down carefully, pulling out the bread before pushing open the door to pa’s small room. He is still in bed, his face is thin, his breathing labored. The sickness has hollowed him out in a way that frightens me, though I’d never say it aloud to anyone. His pale gray eyes lift when he hears the creaking sound, tired but aware.
“You went to the Hob?” His voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
I nod, placing the food on the small wooden table beside his bed, trying to sound normally. “I got bread, cheese from yesterday, and some herbs. You should eat.”
Pa shifts slightly, suppressing a cough into his sleeve. “You didn’t trade too much, did you?”
I shake my head, though I had to part with more than usual. “I caught enough fish today.”
He doesn’t argue, only gives a slight nod. After a moment, he sighs, reaching for a piece of bread. “I know you’re not afraid, and I know I said the same thing every year.” He looks at me as he speaks, I can feel his gaze slowly moving. “But if your name is called, don’t… don’t let them turn you into something you’re not.”
I hesitate for a moment. The idea of being called—of walking to that stage, of stepping into that arena feels distant, unreal. But I meet his gaze, steady. “I won’t.”
The words sit heavy in the air, I don’t know if they are a promise or a lie. Pa watches me a moment longer, then lowers his gaze, breaking off a small piece of bread.
Soon, half the day passes, the square is packed, the air thick with a quiet, unspoken tension. The younger children cling to their parents’ hands, wide-eyed and silent. The older ones stand stiffly, trying not to look too afraid. The smell of coal dust lingers in the heat, I stand among the fourteen-year-olds, hands loose at your sides, my face carefully blank. I already washed shortly after noon, and changed into few of the only nice clothes I had. Pa said if I continue to grow bigger, it’s not going to take long for me to wear some of ma’s old clothes.
Around me, murmurs ripple through the crowd as the mayor steps up to the podium, clearing his throat before reciting the same speech as always, history, sacrifice, the Capitol’s generosity. I stop listening, my eyes drift past the rows of people, toward the distant trees beyond the fence.
I wish I was there instead, with my feet in the dirt and my hands in the water, smelling like as if I’m part of the woods. But then, Effie Trinket is on the stage, her bright wig absurdly out of place in this town of coal dust and sunken faces.
“Ladies first!”
She reaches into the glass bowl, fingers sifting through the slips of paper. My heartbeat doesn’t quicken, I don’t believe in luck. She pulls a name, unfolds the paper, reads it aloud.
“Murphy Spector!”
For a moment, the world is still, then the silence shatters. I don’t hear the reactions, don’t feel the eyes burning into me. My body moves before my mind catches up, my feet carrying me forward as if pulled by an invisible force. I do not hesitate, not a bit, I step onto the stage, standing beneath the Capitol’s golden emblem. Effie is saying something, probably praising my bravery, my composure, but it all blurs together.
I turn back toward the crowd, searching for pa. He is not here. I can almost feel it. I blinked, trying not to dwell on it; doing so would only be a waste of mind in this situation. The moment stretches, the weight of it settles over my shoulders. But the nose beside me continues.
“And our male tribute is… Pavel Meyer!”
I know him. It’s not really surprising, I know nearly everyone here.
Pavel Meyer is also from the Seam, freshly eighteen, almost able to escape from the Capitol’s sickening game. He has four younger siblings to raise; their pa is long gone, buried deeply under the mine years ago, part of him, is in the graveyard too.
Pavel will be buried beside his pa, and I will be buried beside my ma. Soon.
A heart-wrenching cry came from afar—it was his ma. A wholly different sound emanated from those solitary gamblers, men who had either long since lost their loved ones or had never known companionship. Each year, bets were always placed on someone like Pavel. People like him are the popular choice; the eldest child of a big family always gets the most tesserae, has the most name in that bowl.
I look at him, there is not much I can tell, it’s all on the surface. Fear. Just like all the unlucky ones before him. And also anger. A barely perceptible anger. Being almost getting out of all this. Being this unfortunate.
What are the chances for a kid from District Twelve to survive after all? Almost none.
In the past sixty-five games, there is only one. My District had only one victor. And now this once-great victor is long gone. Pa barely talks about him, but he told me what a person Haymitch Abernathy once was before that fire. The fire that took his little brother and ma not long after his victory. But most of the time, pa keeps his mouth shut about him. I’m guessing it’s because no one wanted to talk about something this horrible.
I could almost smell that scent of strong alcohol behind you. The presence of the person I am going to spend a whole week with, the person who’s supposed to help me and Pavel survive.
It all doesn’t matter now. I know my chances. There is no hope, so why despair and panic if I already know the ending.
Effie’s voice rings out again, chirpy and hollow. “Let’s have a big round of applause for our brave tributes!”
The clapping is scattered, reluctant. A few forced hands from the merchants. Some quick, awkward pats from the town families. The gamblers clap the loudest, their eyes already calculating odds. I feel them watching Pavel like vultures circling a body that hasn’t fallen yet.
A Peacekeeper gestures sharply. Time to move.
But Pavel didn’t move. His shoulders are rigid, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the crowd. Not crying. Not yet. His mother’s wail cuts through the air again, sharp and broken, and for a second his expression falters, just a crack, but he forces it shut. I understand that look. It’s the look of someone already mourning themselves.
I step forward without resistance. Pavel follows shortly after. The crowd parts, but not kindly. People shrink away, as if proximity alone might infect them into my fate.
As we head to the custody, I hear Pavel’s footsteps coming from behind, it’s almost like he’s dragging it. Of course, he is feeling more deeply than me. He has got five people in the house to feed, while all I have is a father that has one foot in the grave.
The peacekeepers “escort” us each into a separate room. I sit in the room, alone, wondering what is going to happen. After a few minutes, the door opens. Surprisingly, it’s Pavel’s ma.
She still has got the tears on her face, but that’s not what I’m focusing on right now. Why is she here?
“Your pa told me to bring this to you,” she pulled her hand out, showing me a necklace. It’s a necklace with an almost heart-shaped rock on it. Pa and I used to pick rocks by the river all the time, but I had never seen this one before. She paused for a moment and explained, “He prepared this for you.”
So it’s a token, I’m guessing. It’s really nothing fancy. To put it simply, this necklace is just a black string with a stone strung on it. But when she hands it over, it feels heavy, different.
“Thank you, Mrs. Meyer.” I wear the necklace on my neck, looking at her. She smiled back slightly as a response. I watched as she prepared to leave. I barely spoke to Pavel myself, nor his siblings, let alone his ma. Maybe pa used to work with Mr. Meyer when he was alive.
Finally, when her hand palms are halfway on the door, she says. “Don’t worry about your pa, we’ll take turns taking care of him.”
I nod. I know she only said this to make myself feel a little better, and appreciate it. But I know it’d be hard for her to keep her promise when people in the Seam can barely feed themselves.
I sit back on the soft couch, the first time ever to put myself on something this comfortable and lavish. But I prefer sitting on the grass more, at least I feel like myself. I sit there a little longer, I guess Pavel has a lot more people to meet than I am.
When Pavel’s finally done, we take a short ride to the train station. I probably would never be in a car if not reaped, you can barely see this around in District 12.
After the long and torturous process of having cameras poking at your face, flashing your eyes, we finally get to be on the train. Everything is new here, the inside of it looks more luxurious than what I imagined.
Effie Trinket guides us to our own chambers. “Do anything you want,” she says, and points to the big closet. I check the inside after she left. There are not many clothes that I liked. I casually picked up one or two clothes and head to my bathroom. Even the shower room looks fancy, I step inside, touching the walls.
I cannot believe that I am actually reaped, and in less than a day, I end up here, standing on things I couldn’t even dream of. But I just wish I could be with my pa, in our little shack.