Chapter 5

5.

As soon as the anthem ends I don’t even have time to think of what will happen next before something does. A group of Peacekeepers rush forward and literally push me forward towards the Justice Building. I think to myself if any past tributes have tried to run and that’s why they were so determined on keeping close watch on me. Even if I did decide to run, they wouldn’t be able to catch me, but running was the last thing on my mind. I couldn’t run because then they would go after my family.

I’m guided through the intricately decorated hallways to a small room at the far end. There are a few plush chairs that line the walls and I am instructed to sit and wait. Wait for what? I’m not exactly sure, but I know that if I don’t something bad will happen. I force my feet to move my upper body towards the couch and it’s all I can do not to collapse on the furniture piece.

I look around the room and try to take it all in. This was definitely by far the most fanciful place I’ve ever seen. There was a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling and the wallpaper was painted to make the room seem as if it were made of pure gold. I dig my fingers into the crevices of the chair I sit in, taking in the feel of the strange material. Velvet I think it’s called. I’m not sure. My family was never prosperous enough to afford such luxuries.

Then I realize what this room is for. This is what they call the ‘goodbye room.’ My family will be ushered in here soon to wish me their final goodbyes. Their final goodbyes. This may be the last time I see my family and I begin to prepare myself for the worst. I know my mother will cry, and I am praying that my father won’t be crying anymore.

And then there’s my brothers and sisters; Lazula, who is so young that if I do die in the Hunger Games, ten years from now when she’s my age she won’t even remember she had a sister named Rue and the twins who are old enough to remember me, but not old enough to understand what happened.

And then there’s Lamium, who works with me at the orchard every day who sneaks berries with me so we can bring them back home. And then there’s Amaryllis. That will probably be the worst for me in all honesty. She already has had the life sucked away from her and a blow like this is probably just ripping the heart out of her lifeless body.

I begin to cry silently to myself as I struggle to find the words to say to them once they arrive. I find nothing but despair and I finally lose myself in the moment. I manage to compose myself just as my mother arrives.

She carries baby Lazula in her arms and the twins follow closely behind her. The twins race forward towards me like it’s a competition to see who can jump on my lap first. Pyrus sticks her tongue out at Prunus as she beats him to my lap. My mother slightly nudges her off of my lap and places Lazula into my arms.

Lazula snores lightly in my arms as all children her age do when they are asleep. I gently force my finger into her fist and she responds by lightly grabbing it. I hold her so close my chest I can feel the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. My mother gently wraps her arms around me and I fall into her.

She runs her fingers through my hair and hums a light tune as she rocks me back and forth. I can feel the tears drop from her cheeks onto my scalp and I clench my eyes tighter to prevent my own tears from coming out in front of her. The twins now have some idea of what’s going on for they stop their giggling. They both sit by my feet and lean their heads against my legs.

Be strong, my mom gently whispers. I love you, she whispers. She says everything she possibly can besides ‘its ok’ because she knows it’s not. She knows this may be the last time she may ever see me and she doesn’t want to make me even more upset.

“Take care of them ok, mom?” I finally say when the silence is so uncomfortable I can’t bear it.

“Of course,” my mom responds without second thought. “Of course I will.”

“Where are you going, Rue?” Pyrus asks. She looks up at me with her amber eyes. Innocence and purity shine through in them. She doesn’t yet know the tortures of the Capitol. That’s good. I hope she never will.

“What’s wrong?” Prunus asks seeing mom getting upset. He tugs on the hem of her dress repeating his question until she lightly brushes his hand away telling him that she will explain to him in the morning.

I hand Lazula back to my mother and I hug her, pulling her so tight as if I were trying to meld my body into hers. I suddenly find myself hard of breathing and I shake as I attempt to breathe the air I desperately need.

“I know…I know…” is all my mother can say.

She must know I can’t win. I know she hopes and believes with all her heart that I will be able to win, but she must know that with twenty-three other tributes the odds of me coming out alive are almost slim to none. Kids form wealthier districts, who have been training their whole lives for this are looking forward to the honor of representing their district.

Boys who are two to three times my size. Who knows? Some may be bigger than Thresh. Girls who are cunning and smart enough to kill me in ten different ways using nothing but a rock and a branch. And of course, I’m sure there’s going to be a few other people who are just like me. The people who know nothing about killing others for my own safety. The people that the Careers will be picking off one by one until they have to kill each other off. I know I’ll be seen as a weakling, but I’m determined to prove them wrong. I want to be a force in this game.

I don’t want this to be the last of my mother’s hugs. I don’t want this to be the last time I hold my baby sister. I don’t want this to be the last time my siblings have a race to jump up on my lap. I do not want this time to be the last time. But for now, I have to treat it as such and sure enough as soon as I think about this the Peacekeepers rush in and usher my mother out with the baby and the twins.

I didn’t even get the chance to say I  love you or goodbye for that matter.

I wait only a few more minutes before my father and Lamium walk in supporting Amaryllis with one arm each. I immediately stand up to my feet and assist them in helping her to a chair. She collapses onto the nearby chair and tries to force a smile. I attempt my best for her as well. Suddenly she bursts into tears.

In the nine years of her life I never heard her cry like she was now. She didn’t cry this hard when the doctor told her she was dying. If I wasn’t sitting her watching her myself, I wouldn’t have believed that she could have mustered up enough energy to sob as hard as she did. She gasped for air as she forced the words out of her mouth.

“Please!” she cried. “Don’t…die…Rue…please…don’t…die!”

She reaches out for me with all the energy she has. I can see her arms shaking like leaves clutching to the branch of a tree as the wind pulls them off. I fall into her arms and listen as she sobs loudly into my shoulder. She says words but they’re so clouded by her sobs they’re hard to make out.

I knew this would be hard for her. And I was right about one other thing. Saying goodbye to her was definitely the hardest, and I still had two left to go.

I stayed in Amaryllis’ grasp until her sobs silenced. Poor Amaryllis. She was so exhausted. I maneuvered myself out of her arms so and tenderly placed her back into the chair. I turn to face my brother and my father and Lamium has something in his hands.

Without saying a word he walks behind me and places something around my neck, a necklace.

“Hold your hair up I need to tie it,” he says to me. I grab the hair ties around my wrist and tie my hair into two separate clumps, making room for him to tie the necklace around my neck.

I then look what he placed around my neck. It was cold to the touch. The necklace was a bright green spotted with a brown earthy color. It was made of grass. Lamium had tied the grass in knots in a beautiful fashion to make a necklace. And attached to it was a wooden star.

It was extremely intricate. He must have carved it himself. It looked as if was burning; such wonderful detail. I look to him to thank him.

“Lamium,” I say. “It’s…beautiful.”

He shrugs his shoulders and looks away from me as if he can’t bear to look at me.

“I wasn’t finished with it,” he rambles. “I was going to make a bead necklace from the cones that dropped from the tree in our backyard, but since you got picked I figured I might as well give it to you now…I…I…”

I knew what he was trying to say. This might have been the last chance he had to give it to me. He races forward and kisses me on the cheek whispering he loves me and then dashes out of the room as the tears he was holding back finally broke through.

I look at the only person left to say goodbye to. My father.

He lovingly pulls me into a hug and traces the back of my neck with his finger. He doesn’t say anything just like my mom at first. All he does is just hold me and all I do is hold him back. I feel the pace of his breathing as he exhales onto the top of my head.

He releases me from his hug and kneels down to the ground. He was so tall though that even on his knees he still had to look down to look into mine. His eyes both looked like they were holding back dams. They scan over my face as they were looking for the words that were failing to escape his lips.

“Dad…” is all I can say.

“Rue Rue…” he immediately replies. He takes me by both of the shoulders and the sadness vanishes from his eyes; replaced with a look of pure determination. “You are a smart girl. Much smarter than any other girl or boy they can put in that arena.”

What was he doing? Was he actually giving me advice on how to win? Did he honestly think that I stood a chance? He must, because he keeps going.

“Get some kind of weapon. I know you don’t know how to really use them, but you need to be able to defend yourself. You’re quick Rue, you always have been. You’ll be the first one to the Cornucopia. You’ll have your first pick, but you have to be quick.”

My mouth falls open in shock. I never thought that I would have a conversation with my dad about killing kids my age, but I realize that I have to listen. He’s right. I need to be able to defend myself and any advice he can give me is probably more than anything I can think of on my own.

“Run straight for the woods. Don’t be stupid and try to fight over the supplies like half those other idiots. You’re smarter than that. You know your way around the woods. You can outlive anybody they put in there.”

Something suddenly comes over me and I begin nodding with him. Maybe I can win this. I know I can win this actually.

“Think of it as an adventure Rue Rue. You always were so enthusiastic about adventures when you were younger with your brother and sister.”

A smile spreads across his face as the memory comes back to him.

“You, Lamium, and Amaryllis would make up the craziest stories and play them out in the backyard. You were the queens and king of a kingdom that you all would create.”

“I remember,” I add as I think about it. “We would play for hours when we got back from school until you got home from the orchards.”

“Yes,” my father laughs in the joy of me remembering. “Do you remember what role you would give me when I would come into the backyard?”

I close my eyes and try to remember. It’s been a few years since we imagined a world of our own in the backyard, escaping the cruelness of the world that surrounded us.

“Didn’t we make you a magician?” I guess.

“I would cast spells over you,” he says as he waves his arms over me. I can’t help but to laugh. And he smiles back at me.

This wasn’t a moment for smiling though and we both knew that. I look at Amaryllis sleeping in the chair. I think of what she would be saying about dad and me joking about our past.

“Think of that arena as your kingdom, Rue,” he says to me suddenly. “Think of it as an adventure. An adventure that you need to survive.”

I nod.

“I can do that.”

The Peacekeeper walks into the room signaling that our time is up and my dad pulls me into a hug so tight my back cracks.

“I love you, Rue,” he whispers.

“I love you too, dad,” I whisper back as I kiss him on the cheek.

The Peacekeeper clears his throat as a silent signal. Quickly finish your goodbyes, he’s saying. I’m not going to force you, but if you don’t hurry up someone else will.

It was probably that I was so young that he was being a little kind to me. No one liked the fact that twelve year olds had to fight to their death, not even the Peacekeepers.

Finally my father releases me and goes to pick up Amaryllis from her slumber. She slumps into his arms like a doll, with no life in her movements. She cried herself into exhaustion. I grab her hand as it falls from her side, thinking this may be the last time I may grab her hand.

I press it against my cheek. The coldness of her hand almost shocks me as it hits the warmth of my skin. I let go and almost immediately the Peacekeeper grabs my father and shoves him out the door almost dropping Amaryllis in the process.

I can’t help but to think to myself that it was the last time I would see them, but I couldn’t let myself think that way.

But a lot of things were happening to me that I didn’t want to happen, lately.

I can’t help but to think about the twenty-three other tributes that are saying goodbye to their families right now. Only one of us is going to be able to come back.

It’s going to be me.

Chapter 4

4.

I stand in front of the crowd desperately racking my brain to find something to think about other than the current situation. I am almost pained by hard this is proving to be.

I feel so exposed. I feel as if I’m standing up in front of the crowd with nothing but the dirt smudged into my skin as a cover. I feel so violated that Marcel might as well just poke me with a stick as if he’s displaying some kind of art piece placed in the middle of a viewing area for everyone to walk by and stare at.

What are these people staring at?

I wish they would look at something different or that Marcel would or the mayor would speed things up. I wish that someone would jump from the crowd yelling something obscene. At least then all the eyes directed at me would be looking at something different.

I rack my brain to remember if there ever was a time that I had felt so violated and so exposed as I do right now. No. I can’t.

I’ve never really been able to put myself into that kind of a situation. I mean of course there was the time I fell from the tree when I was child after I got stung from tracker jackers, but I was so young and so delirious at the time I hardly remember at all if there was anyone else besides my dad.

Besides that I don’t think there ever was a time I felt so uncomfortable. Wait. Yes, there was a time. It happened rather recently now that I think about it.

I remember that time was about two years ago, young enough to not be eligible for the reaping, but old enough to understand what it meant.

I was walking home from school with my brothers and sisters joking about the day of we had. I was holding Prunus’ and Pyrus’ hand as they rambled on and on about how their teacher had taught them about the spelling of animal’s names and the noises they make.

“C-O-W! Spells our cow! Moo! Moo! Moo! As he pulls the trough! P-I-G! Spells our Pig! Oink! Oink! Oink! And he’s pink and big! H-O-R-S-E spells our horse! Neigh! Neigh! Neigh! Are his sounds of course!”

Lamium repeated the noises they would make only twice as loud only adding to their enjoyment and they screamed in delight. I smiled as my siblings joked with one another, but almost my complete focus was on Amaryllis.

She walked beside me struggling to keep pace with us. Her face, flushed of all color, struggled to keep a faint smile on her gaunt face. Her breathing was short and rapid and she made these horrible little wheezing sounds that I could only pick up because I was paying such close attention to her.

Amaryllis woke up in the middle of the night complaining of a stomachache. I let her sleep beside me for a little while but she remained restless clenching my hand every time she felt a pain in her side. She tossed and turned and when she puked I finally went to wake my mother.

My mother said it was the stomach flu though and that she shouldn’t be worried. That put Amaryllis at ease, but it didn’t put me at ease.

I hate whenever one of my siblings is sick. I hate when anybody I love is going through any kind of pain. I would take the pain from them if I could but unfortunately it never worked that way.

My mother went to the cupboard and picked a few medical leaves from the shelf. She mashed them up in a bowl, added a little bit of water, and fed it to Amaryllis. It was a temporary fix, but within an hour, Amaryllis was complaining of a stomachache once again.

Mom and dad had work, and Amaryllis was still too young to stay at home by herself so she was sent to school. I had no classes with her so I wasn’t able to keep a close of watch on her as I wanted to.

I wasn’t able to see her for the whole day, so when I saw the gaunt, pale girl that stood before me after school I was almost at a loss for words, but Amaryllis hated attention on her and that was the last thing I wanted to do for her.

She walked beside us with one of her arms wrapped around her stomach as the other hung limply by her side. She leaned forward as if she were about fall flat on her face. Sweat beaded on top of her forehead and every time she blinked her eyes remained closed for a brief second.

She conversed with us only briefly as we continued along our way, and I seemed to be the only person who noticed how much she was struggling. I made everyone stop at the local market so she could sit down for a bit, but I let the others go off and explore by themselves.

Lamium found his way over to the ornamental markets. He loved wood carving. He made little trinkets all the time for the twins to play with and even made himself a necklace once. Prunus and Pyrus followed him singing their new song.

Amaryllis and I sat down along the curb of the market. She laid her head on my lap and I could feel the heat emanating off of her forehead and I immediately grab my bag. I pull out some of the medical leaves that mom had given her in the morning.

I didn’t have my mother’s medicine bowl so I shove them in my mouth and begin chewing them. They tasted bitter to me, but then again I wasn’t the sick one. I spat the mixture into my hands and tried to place it in her mouth. She made feeble attempts to chew, but it would only seep out through thte corner of her mouth and back onto my lap.

I yelled ofr Lamium and the twins as I helped her to her feet, we had to leave. I dragged her in the direction of home, knowing my mother would be back home by now. Lamium!

Lamium! Hurry! Sure enough he was running carrying the twins on each side. A look of panic struck across his face as he recognized the situation. Amaryllis then threw up. The twins shrieked in disgust. Lamium gasped and dove to catch the falling Amaryllis. She threw up again, this time blood.

Her eyes rolled into the back of her head then. She began to shake and soon enough the slight tremors began to turn into flails. She was having a seizure. I tried to hold her arms down the best I could, but she was heavily seizing. I glimpsed at Lamium who was crying out of confusion. He looked at me desperately hoping I would know what to do.

The twins sobbed hysterically at his side as well. They didn’t know what was going on, they were so young. They were scared. I was scared too though. I was horrifically scared. I didn’t know what was happening besides the fact that my sister was ill, deathly ill.

I began yelling for help. I didn’t know who exactly I was yelling for, but I was trying to find them. I then noticed we had a drawn a crowd around us. All eyes were on me, the one yelling my lungs out of their function. The one who was trying to desperately trying to help their sister.

Everyone was looking at me, waiting for me to do something. I didn’t know what though.

I felt helpless. I felt weak. I felt alone.

How I felt at that moment is exactly how I feel now. Hundreds of eyes focused on me waiting for me to do something, but I have no idea what to do. All I can function to do is stand there. Stand there and not cry and that was proving as the biggest challenge.

As the mayor begins to read the Treaty of Treason as he does every year signaling the end of the grievous year before and the start of a new torturous Hunger Games, I struggle to keep my composure. I am a twelve year old girl from District 12. Already I know that I am going to be considered a weak competitor amongst the other tributes. I have to keep my composure in some way.

I cannot look at my family, for that would just break me down on the spot. I look for something to tear my attention away from the depressing situation. I look first to the surrounding crowd of boys and girls that crowd the stage, but I cannot look at them for long, for they are all looking at me with pity. I hate when people have pity for me. It makes me feel weak and that is not what I need right now.

I then switch my view above them, focusing on the horizon of the trees in the distance that I would climb every day. I begin to daydream. I imagine myself sitting at the top peak of my favorite tree; the one with a mockingjay nest at the highest branch.

I imagine myself sitting on the closest branch whistling my favorite melodies and songs to them longing for them to lull back the tune. I can see the brilliant birds flying around me filling the air with their joyous sound. I see myself smiling as I watch them, longing to be one of them; to be flying amongst them singing the melodic jingles of Mother Nature.

I can feel the wind seeping under the gaps between my torso and my arms making me feel as if I’m almost flying. I lift my arms up by my side and close my eyes in brief second pretending that I am a mockingjay. The sounds of the forest surround me.

The pinecones plummeting to the ground as their tips break off from the feeble branches. The dew dropping from the leaves hitting the flowers that bloom on the ground beneath me. The howl of the wind as it tries to tell me its secret. Oh how I wish I would be there right now.

But I’m not there. I’m standing on the platform of District 12 waiting for my time when they separate me from all that I’ve known and love. I’m waiting for the time where they tell me my life is over. But I won’t let them tell me that.  No one dictates my life but myself and it’s then when I open my eyes to bring myself back to reality.

The mayor had just finished reading the dull treaty, and I can see that not a lot of people were actually paying attention. I can tell by the looks of several viewers in the crowd that they were daydreaming just like me. Maybe they were also pretending they were far away from the evil clutches of the Capitol. He steps away from the mike and the anthem of Panem begins to play over the deadly silence that fell upon the crowd.

I glance quickly over at Thresh who seems nonchalant about the whole situation, as if he volunteered for this. He has such a look of determination in his eyes that it scares me. I think again that if I am to win the Hunger Games, he will have to die.

I look at the muscles on his arms as I feebly rub the foreskin of mine. Definitely wouldn’t be able to strangle him. I’d have to shoot him with something and oh what a horrible thought that is. I’ve never killed a spider yet alone a human being.

The idea of me actually killing someone is so repulsive that I have to hold back the bile that comes up my throat. I can feel the burning of my throat as I force it back down the way it came. Small tears form on the bridge of my eyes and I think to myself how great that must look.

There was a height difference of at least three feet between me and Thresh. Odds are that he would kill me before I even got the chance to kill him in the Games. The only thing that I could bring myself to think of was that these are the Hunger Games. Thresh and I were not the only competitors, there were twenty-two other tributes. Hopefully someone will kill him before he kills me.

Chapter 3

3.

“Rue Jessamine!” Macel Canver reads. He looks up through the crowd in excitement hoping that he’ll get some lumberjack woman or something.

Everyone in the crowd begins murmuring. Who’s Rue Jessamine? Who is she? Where is she standing at? Is she not even here? Did she try to run?

The few kids around me seem to recognize me. One boy starts pointing at me with one of his gaunt trembling fingers. The girl standing next to me, even though I have no idea who she is, begins to bawl her eyes out as if she was trying to prevent a drought. If not for her touch I would have thought I was just standing in a dream.

My chest can’t relax as my breathing becomes rapid. Tears had begun falling down my cheeks but I wasn’t sure when they started. My feet were glued to the spot I was standing in. I find myself struggling to breathe, as if someone had forced a cloth to my mouth.

“Rue Jessamine!” Marcel Canver repeats looking a little bit annoyed that the tribute wasn’t overwhelmed at their picking. What did he expect? That I would scream with joy? That I would run up to the stage and thank him for the opportunity?

I couldn’t run though because my body is figuring out a way to respond yet alone move. I know he said my name, but I can’t move my feet. I stand there unable to move as every wisp of air that escapes my chest comes with a struggle. I prepared myself for the moment, in the off chance that I would have been picked. But still, I find myself in complete shock. I feel a hand grab a hold of my arm. I guess I am able to move because I swayed on spot. People probably thought I was going to throw up or something. I don’t know what I’m doing in all honesty. I could be standing there naked and it still wouldn’t size up to how exposed I feel right now.

Finally a girl that I work with the orchards comes over to me with a teary expression. She can’t be more than a few months older than me. She stares at me as if she’s known me her whole life and I see the pity in her face. She takes my hand and pulls me in the direction of the stage. It’s at this point that everyone in the square knows who I am. The sighs and the exclamations of the families whose children who weren’t picked, silence at once.

I know what they’re all thinking, because it’s what any human being would be thinking at this point. A twelve year old girl had been chosen to compete in the Games. I can hear the murmuring start to begin with the unhappy sentiments that everyone is sharing. Everyone thinks of the Games barbaric to begin with, so seeing a little twelve year old girl fight to her death is appalling.

Somehow I make my feet move. They lead me towards the stage where Marcel has finally recognized that I was the name that he picked. You can see the disappointment on his face. I know he’s not disappointed because I’m so young. He’s disappointed because he doesn’t think I’m going to win, and he wants a winner.

My feet somehow keep moving. I pass the crowd of thirteen year olds.

Stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying.

I pass the fourteen year olds. Some of them can’t even look at me, and that’s ok because I do not want to look at them right now either.

Stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying.

I pass the fifteen year olds. I concentrate on taking slow deep breaths. Every breathe is more painful than the last. I feel as if my throat was stung by a tracker jacker. I struggle so much to take in the air that I so desperately crave.

Breathe. Stop crying. Breathe.

I pass the sixteen year olds. I have to stop crying before I get up on that stage. My father will be watching and he would want me to be strong. He would want me to be brave. That’s how he raised me. To view everything in life as an adventure that you’re ready to take on full force. I wasn’t ready for this adventure though. At all.

I pass the seventeen year olds.

Just a few more feet until I’m up on that stage. My breathing begins to cool down, but now I can feel the sweat dripping from my arms. My body did react to the shock before my mind did. My mind is actually still processing it. I was picked. I was picked out of thousands of people. My name was drawn from that stupid bowl with even more thousands pieces of paper.  This can’t be happening, I think. How could this happen? Nine slips held my name out of an easy ten thousand slips. Nine! There were people who had their names in their twenty, thirty times! I can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it. But I have to.

Stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying. My breathing has calmed down at least.

I pass the eighteen year olds, the last obstacle before I get to the stage. I hear the kids around me talking amongst them. I try not to look at them because I know what they’re talking about. I overhear one of the boys talking to his friend. Bet you she’ll be one of the first people gone, he says. That’s when I realize, I cannot be. I have to view this as a challenge, as an adventure.

I’m coming home alive. I’m coming back from these Hunger Games if it’s the last thing I do. Then I realize, it might be, but I have to make it back home for my family.

Oh. My family. Now I have to stop crying. I don’t want them to see me like this. I’m sure they’re crying and if they are, I don’t want to be. I can’t stand to see them cry, though. No one can see me cry.

I take that moment to wipe the dried tears from under my eyes. I do it with one quick motion of my hand so that I’m sure no one in the crowd will notice. But I’m sure that when the capitol re-airs footage of this reaping ceremony, there will be a close-up of me doing this. I don’t care at the moment though.

Let them see me cry. Let them think of me as a coward, because from this moment on I am not. My parents did not raise me to be a coward. Oh, I think to myself again. I forgot about my parents again. I forgot for a moment that they were watching me more intently than anyone else in the crowd. I’m facing away from them now, but I’m sure they’re looking at me with more intensity than Marcel who waves his golden-lined gloved hand at me, beckoning me to the stage. I step onto the steps to the stage even though my leg weighs a hundred pounds right now. Or is that just my mindset? I can’t really tell at the moment, but I force myself up the stairs.

Marcel says something to me, but I don’t understand him; my head is so full of thoughts I’m surprised I can make clear sentences form in my mind. I only stare back at him. And that’s when I realize how, it’s hard to find the word, perfect he is.

The Capitol’s idea of perfection I guess. His skin is clear of any scars, freckles, or blemishes giving his skin a rather luminous look. But what really makes his skin shine, are the faint golden tattoos spread all over his face. Everyone in the capitol has some variance of these, I don’t understand why though.

His pearly white teeth are so brilliant, I find myself almost repealed by them. His sky blue eyes are looking at me with such disappointment, but I know it’s not the same reason why everyone else is staring at me. He doesn’t feel bad that I’m only twelve years old. He agrees with the eighteen year old I overheard, he doesn’t think I’m going to win and that’s why he’s upset. He wants to be a advisee to a winner, not someone who he thinks will be the first one killed.

He guides me to a spot directly left of the microphone and I realize that I will be able to see my family now. I prepare myself for the worst because I’m sure they’re crestfallen. I turn to face the crowd on Marcel’s demand and that’s when I see them. And I was wrong about preparing myself for the worst. Because if imaginable, it was worse than what I thought.

My mother was openly sobbing into the chest of my father. Wailing at the top of her lungs the only reason why she remained on her feet was that my father was holding her up. Pyrus and Prunus stand on either side of my mother tugging on the hems of her dress trying to understand why mommy is so upset. Prunus is saying to something to my mom, but from this distance I can’t tell what exactly. Lamium stands to the side of my mother rocking baby Lazula in his arms. I’m guessing he took her away from my mother once my name was called in fear that she would drop her. He’s crying as well, even though he is forcing them shut. He does reasonably well at standing his ground. I can see that he’s biting his lip to the point where he’s drawing blood. I force myself to look away at Amaryllis who sits at the feet of my father.

As sick as she looked before, now she looks like the picture of death. She was not crying. She sat there in complete silence as a blank expression covered her face. Her eyes looked almost midnight black as she stared at a spot in front of her. Her arms lay limply at her side and I’m sure if she were touched she would fall over. Her skin, if any color was remaining, was gone. She looked like a corpse. 

And then, I looked at my father. He wasn’t crying either, but I knew what look he had on his face. It was a look that I’ve seen from other tribute’s parents from previous ceremonies. It was the look of a broken man. He held tightly on to my mother, not only so that she wouldn’t fall, but also I believe that he wouldn’t fall either. His eyes were closed but his head was shaking back and forth in disbelief. He was shaking. Even at this far of a distance I could see. It broke my heart, and that is when I compelled myself to look away at Marcel who stood at the microphone beside me.

“Now is the time in our ceremony, where I will ask the remaining eligible females if there is anyone of you here today who would have to honor of volunteering to take her place as the female tribute in the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games. Are there any takers?” he asks almost too happily.

He scans the crowd as if there would be hundreds of girls jumping up and down on their feet to get a chance to compete in the Games. The crowd answers back with complete silence, that is, except for my mother’s sobs. I look at some of the girls standing in front of me. Almost all of them are avoiding eye contact with me. Some girls are looking up to the sky, others looking directly at the ground, and others have their eyes closed shut.

But a few girls look directly at me with such a look of despair, as if they’ve known me their whole life. They are trying to tell me that they’re sorry. They would, but they can’t. I understand, because I would never volunteer either.

This wasn’t District 2, where they volunteer at the chance of competing. District 2 detainees fall in line at the chance to compete in the Games. I guess they view it as kind of an honor. It wasn’t viewed as an honor in District 11 though. In fact people probably don’t volunteer because it almost always means certain death, or at least, for our District it did.

District 11 tributes have always had difficulty competing against other Districts in the Games. Mainly because Districts that are closer to the Capitol actually train their children to compete in the Games, although it is highly illegal to do so. It never stopped them before though, and I don’t think it will be stopped anytime soon.

I was never trained though. The only thing that I was trained to do was to climb trees. Climb trees and sing and I’m pretty sure that only one of them would be somewhat helpful to me. Inside my head I can picture the Gaming arena already. Filled with thousands of trees, more than the amount that fills the orchard. I can see myself climbing them already, avoiding the other dangers that fill the place. I can see what kind of sick twisted ideas the Gamemakers will put in it this year.

After Marcel has finally accepted that no one will take my place, he nods quickly and almost dances over to the opposite glass bowl filled to the brim with the eligible male tributes. He quickly slides his gloved hand into the bowl and retrieves a slip from the very bottom of the bowl. The crowd goes silence again.

I can see the eighteen year old who was talking about me to his buddy. He clasps his hands together, and closes his eyes whispering something to himself. I secretly hope he gets picked.

“Thresh Grumly!”Marcel shrills over the crowd. I see the boy take a giant sigh of relief knowing that his last year of eligibility had slid through without problems.

Then I think, Grumly. Grumly…where have I heard that name before?

I scan the crowd of the boys searching for the one who looks as if he had the wind knocked out of him. I look for the one whose life was just yanked away and placed into the manipulating hands of the capitol. The crowds of boys look amongst themselves as well trying to spot the one who was picked. It takes me a while to realize that he was already up on stage. I guess he was standing in the very front row of eighteen year olds. The eighteen year old boy standing on the opposite side of the stage of me did not look eighteen though; he could easily pass for mid twenties.

He stood at least six and a half feet tall so I almost had to crook my neck to see him in full. He wore a white dress shirt that is about to bust by the seams due to the size of his arm muscles. He was built like an ox! It was hard not to be intimidated by him and even Marcel flinches when he goes to shake his hand.

Thresh’s strange golden-brown eyes were intensely staring directly to the front of him. He had short black hair that was matted down on his head. I could tell that he worked in the fields of the orchards, because even though you could tell he tried his best to look proper today, it was clear the amount of dirt smudges he could not remove from his dirt brown skin. Suddenly, he turns to look at me. I’ve seen those eyes before and its then when I remember. I know how I remember Thresh Grumly.

It was two years ago at this precise moment. The reaping for the 72^nd Annual Hunger Games. I remember a girl who worked with me in the orchard, I believe her name was Jasmine, was picked as the tribute for the year. I was standing with my parents, I was still too young for the reaping that year. I barely remember anything about the girl, but I do remember what happened when she was picked. Her older brother forced his way through the crowd to hear wailing at the top of his lungs in despair. Take me! Take me instead of her he yells. He was screaming in hysterics as he pulled his sister into his arms as if he would let go she would die instantly. Please he cries. I volunteer for her! I’ll take her spot!

No, rules must be rules Marcel exclaimed. Male tributes cannot volunteer for female tributes or vice versa, but the brother would not take that for an answer. He pleaded to be heard. He begged for her to be spared in some possible way. He eventually had to be torn away from her by the Peacekeepers, but his cries were not silenced until she was shipped off to the Capitol and even then I swear I could hear his whimpering from my house, still begging for her to be spared. She wasn’t though.

And if I can remember correctly, she actually died very gruesomely. If I can recall it correctly, it’s been two years since I watched those particular games; she was pinned down to the ground by a fellow tribute. He taunted her gently tracing the knife over her skin before he finally slit both her cheeks open. Her tears mixed with blood as he cut the bottom half of her eyelids as well. He then proceeded to cut off her ears so ‘she couldn’t hear herself scream.’ He continued by putting small gashes all the way down her arms and then finally ended his enjoyment by stabbing her repeatedly in the chest.

He stood up and left her for dead, but she was far from it. She laid there for three hours before the cannon shot signifying that her heart had stopped. I could only imagine watching that if I knew her. It was bad enough watching her death as an acquaintance. I try to imagine the thought of myself watching Amaryllis being tortured to death. I can’t even stand the thought of it.

The boy standing across from me looked nothing like the boy from two years ago though. He was a good two feet taller. He gained about one hundred pounds of muscle, but those strange eyes that were glancing at me were definitely the same. I’m surprised he is holding his composure as well as he is, considering it’s his own life on the line now, but maybe he valued his sister’s life more than his own.

Thresh then stretches out his hand towards me and it brings me back to reality. I assume the mayor had just finished reading the Treaty of Treason, as per tradition it is to be read every year after both tributes were picked. I missed when Marcel asked for volunteers for Thresh, but of course I’m sure that no one would volunteer for him either.

The mayor stands at the microphone besides Marcel both looking at us waiting for us to shake hands. Although both showing different expressions. While Marcel looks like he’s holding back so much excitement he’s about to burst, the mayor looks rather sullen. He was in our shoes once. He was chosen as tribute and forced to compete. He knows what obstacles we face now and I’m sure if he could say something to us without the whole crowd overhearing he would, but all he does is just stare at us with those defeated eyes.

I reach out for Thresh’s hand, and with someone of such great strength, he shakes my hand with such gentleness. All of a sudden I start crying again. I don’t know exactly why. Maybe it’s because I keep looking at my family who are all sobbing uncontrollably. Maybe it’s because I’m realizing this may be the last day in District 11. Everything that I’ve grown up with might vanish before my very eyes.

The trees vast as a jungle full of the mockingjays singing their perfect melodies to their viewers, I may never climb them again. The bushes full of berries that I may never have the chance to taste the succulent juices again. The small field in the back of my house may never feel my footsteps chasing around my siblings with some crazy game that they made up.

I close my eyes and try to focus on emptying my thoughts. All this does though, is make me more upset. I clench my teeth in the sad attempt at stopping the tears flowing from my eyes. I feel a small pressure on my shoulder and realize that Thresh has placed his opposite hand on my shoulder. As quickly as I felt his small attempt at comforting me, the feeling of his hand against my chilled skin had vanished.

“Don’t let them see you cry,” Thresh whispers to me through closed teeth. I assume he means the Capitol viewers watching this from their televisions right now. I nod quickly and we release each other’s hands. We turn to face the crowd and Marcel steps in between us one more time. He grabs both of our hands and pulls them into the air as if we just won a boxing match.

“Ladies and Gentleman! May I present to you,” he yells ecstatically, “the male and female tributes for District 12 for the seventy-fourth Hunger Games! Rue Jessamine! And Thresh Grumly!”

Then Thresh looks at me, and I’m scared. The look in his eyes is pure determination.  And then it dawns on me. He has to die for me to win. And without a doubt in my mind, I know he's thinking the same.

Chapter 2

2.

You see, the Hunger Games were just a cruel way in which the Capitol reminds us that they are in complete control. They are the ones in control ever since the uprising.

The history of Panem is a difficult one to explain. The country practically rose up out of the ashes of a place once called North America. Droughts, storms, fires, and the encroaching seas swallowed up so much of the land, leaving barely anything left to rise from. But still from what little sustenance remained, Panem was created. Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens or at least that’s what history tells us. The Capitol was looking out for us. And as some historians may tell you, “Don’t always believe what you read.”

Soon came the uprising of the districts against the Capitol, known as the Dark Days, the war that put us in our place; ‘us’ meaning the districts. Twelve were defeated, and the thirteenth was completely obliterated. New laws were made to  guarantee peace. These laws were known as the Treaty of Treason. Our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, is the even called the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games were made to be simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one girl and one boy to participate. They would be called tributes. Quite a barbaric name for my thinking.

Then the twenty-four tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert or a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.

this is the Capitol’s way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy –taking  the kids from our districts, and forcing them to kill one another while the whole nation watches on television . They made it clear that we would stand little chance of surviving another rebellion.

 “Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there’s nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen.”

You could look at it anyway you want. But no matter what words they gave us, this is the message that they give us. To behave, like pets. Not even like pets. Like slaves.

The Hunger Games are to be celebrated as a festivity as humiliating as it sounds. To the Capitol it was viewed as a sporting event pitting every district against the others. And just to show their ‘appreciation’ the last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar while the rest of the Districts continue to battle starvation.

This was the first year I would be entered into the Hunger Games reaping list, for I just turned twelve. You become eligible for the reaping the day you turn twelve, even if your birthday was a few short days before the process. That year, your name is entered once. When you turn thirteen, twice. And so on and so on until you reach the age of eighteen, the final year of eligibility, when your name goes into the pool seven times. That’s true for every citizen in all twelve districts in the entire country of Panem.

We exit the orchard and enter the high end of the District. This is where the few rich people of our District live, right on the edge of the orchard. They are the ones that hold all the power in the city. The mayor and his family. The Peacekeepers. The high end merchants. It’s because they can afford to live there. They can afford a lot of things that we can’t. Like food and water.

I smile to myself as I think of the few berries that I hid in my pockets when I was working. I would get in a lot of trouble if any of the Peacekeepers found out about it, for it’s against the law to take food back with you, no matter if you’re on the brink of starvation. Most people were put in the stalks, whipped until they’re senseless, some were put into jail, and then the very misfortunate ones were even put to death. Something about the whole danger of the aspect of me stealing these berries was adventurous to me. It’s not that I laugh in the face of danger; I just find it fun to hide underneath it sometimes.

My father must have sensed me thinking about them for he warns, “Keep those in your pocket until we get home. If anybody here catches you here, you’ll be whipped and then for sure be put in the Games.”

Lamium gives a little chuckle as I’m sure he has a few berries hidden on the inside of his jacket as well. I see him glance towards the windows of the mayor’s house and my eyes follow his as well.

Inside we can see the mayor and his family getting ready for the reaping ceremony already. The mayor is dressed in his suit and tie adjusting the fake hair on top his head as he stands in front of the mirror. His wife sits on one of the plump velvet couches dressed in a silky white dress that flows from her shoulders to her knees. Her daughter stands in front of her playing with the strands of her blonde hair as her mother adjusts the ribbon on the back of her dress.

“Bet you she’s not going to be picked,” Lamium states glumly as he continues to watch. My father lightly smacks the back of his head yelling at him it’s ill-polite to stare into other people’s houses.

We turn the corner and walk down the pathway to our house just at the end of the block.

I can’t help but to laugh. Of course she’s not going to be picked. The mayor’s daughter is only 13 years old so her name is only entered twice. And with a family like hers of course she doesn’t have to worry about starving to death, so her name will never be entered more than the required amount by age.

The one thing about the reaping system that was completely unfair, especially to the poor. Say you are poor and starving as my whole family was. Any kid can choose whether or not to add your name more times in exchange for tesserae. Each tessera is worth a meager year’s supply of grain and oil for one person. You may do this for each of your family members as well. So, last week, the moment I turned  twelve, I had my name entered nine times. Once, because I had to, once again to receive the tessera for myself, five more times for my siblings who were all still too young to put their name in for tessera, and two more times for my parents. My parents initially refused to let me put my name in, but once my younger sister Amaryllis got sick, they eventually succumbed. They weren’t going to let her deteriorate and starve to death. So when my brother stared into the mayor’s house, he couldn’t help but to feel a twinge of jealously. It’s hard not to resent those who don’t have to sign up for tesserae, and even I feel some resentment towards those who are older than me, but yet have less entries to be picked than I do.

Before we know it, my father is pushing open the door to our home. It’s not much at all, but it’s all that we have. A two bedroom, kitchen and one bathroom apartment. The twins and the baby, Luzula, would sleep with my parents in one bedroom while Lamium, Amaryllis, and myself would share the other room. But since Amaryllis got sick, my parents gave her their room to herself and know the twins sleep in my room, while my parents and Luzula sleep in the kitchen on makeshift beds of the few sheets we own.

I see my mother cradling Luzula as she stirs something at the stove that smells absolutely wonderful. This is quite a change for usually we just have some oats or mush potatoes. Lamium and I retrieve the berries from our pockets and place it on the stove for her.

“Thank you,” she says barely audible than a whisper as she attempts to smile at us. My mother. My poor sweet mother, who would sacrifice anything in the world for us can’t even look at me right now. She hardly has anything to sacrifice but I’m sure she feels horrible guilt inside that I had to sign up for tesserae so many times. I hear her cry to my father many times at night when I stay up to make sure my sibling have fallen asleep.

I offer to take Luzula from her, but she insists that I go with my father to get my reaping outfit on. Oh. I forgot about that. Everyone is supposed to be dressed to impress at the reaping. I should have noticed that my mother was already dressed differently than usual. She wore a deep brown dress that almost matched her skin tone, with a white ribbon tied around her waist that made her look slimmer than what she already was. Her black hair was tied back into a small bun on the back of her head. She looked stunning.

I turn to see that my father has already wrestled Pyrus and Prunus into matching outfits. Pyrus dressed in a little white dress with a black ribbon and Prunus was dressed in dress shirt and pants with a white tie. Lamium was behind them already fixing the tie around his neck. It was astonishing to me how much he looked like father who stood only inches behind him by my bedroom door.

“Come on Rue Rue,” he said. “Let’s get you ready.”

He steps inside and I follow him within seconds. I gasp as I enter the room at the dress lain out for me on my bed. It was a new dress by the looks of it and my father only confirmed my suspicions when he nodded and told me that they had bought it for a good price at the market.

It was a black dress with a white stripe going across the waistline. Very slimming I thought. What is there to slim though? I hardly have enough to eat as it is. I let my father pull my dress over my head and I sit at the foot of the bed as I let him comb my hair.

Taking one strand of my hair with his callused hands, but you could never tell they were. For he took each strand of hair so delicately and combed my hair with such precision I could hardly feel that he was touching me.

“You’ll be ok, Rue Rue,” he whispers into my ear. I don’t want to look around in the fear that my dad was crying. I’ve only see him cry twice in my life. Once when my grandmother died and the other when Amaryllis was diagnosed with her disease.

“Don’t be surprised when I’m picked,” I say back to him once again. Although this time I do not mean it as a joke. I’ve been preparing myself for this for days. I know the chances of me going into the games was almost slim to none with my name only entered nine times. There were kids in our district who had their name in twenty, thirty, or fifty times. And there were easily over five thousand kids in our District.

As soon as my dad finishes my hair I turn and I hug him. We hold the hug for several minutes until my mother calls us for lunch.

Lamb stew. A rarity in my household. I don’t remember the last time we had it actually. I sit and wait as my parents help Amaryllis to her seat so she can eat with us. When she was healthy, people would tell us that we look exactly the same.

Looking at her now it’s hard to see how people could compare us. Her once brown skin was almost yellow now. Her brown eyes once filled with innocence and purity, were now almost black as death and filled with dread and sadness. Her once brilliant black locks that flowed from her head had almost completely fallen out and left nothing but a few stringy curls.

She attempts a smile at me, but I can see the pain in her face. And it kills me.

I can’t stand to see any of my family in pain. And everyone at the table at such pain in their face. They all knew what I had done to keep food on our plates, except the twins and Luzula for they were still too young to understand what exactly what could happen for it.

We sit and try to enjoy the small meal prepared for us. When I look to my left I see that Lamium has already eaten his whole entire bowl, so when my parents aren’t looking I spill some into his bowl. He smiles at me as he wolfs down the remainder before our parents know what we did. Again the danger of getting in trouble with my parents just thrills me.

Before we know it though, it’s one o’clock. Time to head out.

We head for the square. Attendance is mandatory unless you are on death’s door, but Amaryllis absolutely refused to stay home. So mother had dressed her up as best as she could and my father carries her to the square. This evening, officials will come around and check to see if anyone is skipping out by pretending to be sick. If they are, they’ll be imprisoned.

The square’s surrounded by shops, and on public market days, especially if there’s good weather, it has a holiday feel to it. Bright banners hanging on the buildings today ‘celebrating’ the reaping, but there’s an air of grimness. The camera crews, surrounding us like a pack of crows, only add to the effect.

After the reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate, and most people will, only out of relief that their children have been spared. At least for another year. But at least two families will hide themselves in their homes, pulling their shutters, locking their doors, and trying to figure out how they will survive the painful weeks to come without their son or daughter.

My parents give me a quick hug as do Amaryllis and Lamium. I kiss Pyrus and Prunus on the forehead and kiss Luzula’s hand before I turn and walk my way to the center of the square.

People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population as well, especially considering the massive size of our District. Twelve-though eighteen-year-olds are herded like sheep into designated marked off areas sorted by ages, the oldest in the front, the young ones, like me, toward the back. Family members line up around the perimenter, holding tightly to one another’s hands and I can see my mother and father standing there with my sibling desperately looking on.

The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as kids arrive. And families struggle to find an open space to stand to watch as their children face their horrible fate. The square’s quite large, but not enough to hold District 11’s population of about fifteen thousand. The adjacent streets are used for latecomers, where they can watch the even on screens as its televised live by the state, as it is in every district.

I turn my head and look at the well-dressed kids as they take their place in the age-separated sections. I can see siblings kissing each other goodbye as they take their respective places. Hardly anyone is talking so everyone notices when the mayor steps up on the stage centered in the middle of the square for everyone to see. A huge hush falls over the crowd as he they take their seats as they wait for clock.

Situated right at the front of the stage is a microphone where he’ll come up to address the crowd. And on either side of the microphone are two huge bowls filled with tiny slips of paper folded up to hide the name of the possible tribute.

I stare at the crystal ball that holds the tiny slips of paper with all the names of the possible female entrants for the hunger games. Nine of those slips have my name written on them, but only nine. There’s easily thousands of those slips. Mine won’t be picked for sure.

Just as the clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. It’s the same story every year of the history of Panem and the beginning of the Hunger Games and blah blah blah. I’ve heard it so many times that I really don’t pay attention.

“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,” intones the mayor. Then he reads the list of past District 11 victors. Out of seventy-three past games, District 11 has only had five victors. Four of which are still alive.

The oldest, her name I believe, was Cacti? She hasn’t shown up for the past four years. Probably because she was the winner of the second hunger games and is ninety years old now or something so everyone is waiting for the day that falls over dead. But this year she sits right next to the mayor. Her fluffy white hair is curled and matted on top of her olive toned skin. She’s dressed in a green outfit that almost makes her look like a cactus herself. I find it kind of funny.

Then the mayor describes Chaff, the winner of the 45^th Hunger Games. And who could forget that year. He volunteered for a complete stranger that year, one of the few times someone has volunteered over being forced to compete. Even sitting down you can tell that the man was at least six feet tall. His stump of an arm, he had lost his arm in his games, sat beside him with as much life that showed in his eyes. He was obviously drunk, but was attempting his best to hide it.

Then the mayor gave a brief recount of his win in the 48^th Hunger Games but is quick to change it to the last living victor. Everyone in the District knows that he is still haunted to the day about his Games and no one gives him grief about it.

Seeder, the last living victor, sits beside Chaff. She was a winner of the 27^th Hunger Games.  She looked like a woman of nobility how she carried herself on stage. She held back straight letting the straight black hair fall to her hips. Her olive skin glimmered with the green dress that Seeder wore. Her eyes were intent and you could tell that the smile upon her somewhat round of a face was forced.

The mayor plays the anthem of the Capitol and we all listen to the last sound of music before the most stressing activity. The mayor switches places with the bizarrely dressed man on the end. From the Capitol sent to facilitate the reaping of District 11. His name was Marcel Canver.  Every time I looked at the guy, I couldn’t help but to giggle. Just something dressed about a grown man wearing a bright pink suit with matching flaming pink hair. His giant blue eyes viewed the crowd as if he already knows who is going to be picked and is excited about his secret.  He smiles at us with more enthusiasm than I see in the squirrels in the orchards after finding a new nut.

“Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!” Marcel exclaims. “It is indeed an honor! A privilege! To be chosen to be the Capitol representative for District 11 in the 45^th annual Hunger Games!”

I kind of tuned out the rest of what he was saying. All I could focus on were the girls around me crying in fear for the oncoming event. I couldn’t help but to think of Amaryllis and Pyrus standing right next to me and that’s what made me nervous. I couldn’t stand to see them that upset or nervous.

It’s time for the drawing. Macel yells to the boys, “Calm yourselves down gentlemen! I do believe that the saying says, ‘ladies first’ doesn’t it?” He crosses to the glass ball with the girls’ names written on the tiny sips of paper. He reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. You could hear a pin drop as the silence in the crowd doubles as it was before.

Thousands of eyes watch as the Capitol loon unfolds the slip of paper and forms the name on his lips.

I turn to look at my parents. My mom’s eyes are closed but the tears continue to flow. Lamium, Amaryllis, Prunus, and Pyrus are standing close as my father begins shaking his head.

Marcel crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice.

My father knew it was me before I even heard my name.

Chapter 1

Part 1

Preparation

1.

Climbing.

It’s what I’ve been doing for the whole of my day these past few weeks.  Picking berries and cones from the highest of the branches that soar over the terrace of District 11. I was never exactly sure if no one else really wanted to climb up to the height I always did, or that the other workers just knew that I was the best at it.

I always thought of it as a little of both. I was old enough that the workers would let me go off on my own, high into the trees, where their hands could not reach. Old age kept most workers on the ground picking the bushes for berries, harvesting the grains and oats from the fields, and growing wheat while managing the production of the orchards, plus I thought that the mass amount of tracker jacker nests in the trees swayed people’s interest in climbing as high as I did.

I didn’t care though. When I would be climbing, I felt free. Free as the mocking jays that flew around my head at an hourly basis. I would have to urge myself many times of the day not to stop and listen to their melodic tunes. Their songs would fill the air as I swung myself from tree to tree collecting the precious fruit. I sometimes would pretend that their singing was my theme song to my own superhero television show.

But I’m not a superhero. Far from it actually. There are no super heroes from District 11. Only those who can escape the wrath of the Capitol, and those are few. I have to tell myself that quite often to bring my mental state back to reality.

My name is Rue Jessamine. Rue, the brown skinned tree climber. No super hero I ever heard of had skin as brown as mine, or hair as dark as mine. All I see are the Capitol’s ideas of super heroes. You know… hair that stood five feet above the head that was dyed with some bright color, golden tattoos all across their arms, torso, and face. Muscles that could break a stone wall with just a simple flex. Such the perfect idea of a hero to Capitol dwellers.

I think they look silly.

But I did not have dyed purple hair. My shoulder length dark black hair was dyed only with the sweat and dirt that would gather after a hard day’s work, sometimes a week’s. It was hard to get fresh water sometimes at my home, so drinking water always overruled showers.

I didn’t have golden tattoos all across my body. Instead I had dirt smudges across my brown skin. The occasional scar would be spotted up and down my arms, but that was a rarity. I got them from the stupid things that I can only help but to laugh at myself for. Like the one just under my elbow was when I was pretending to be a monkey that swung in the branches beside me as I worked. Well the vine I clung onto was not meant for anything but monkeys and it snapped under my weight. Fell only about ten feet before I clung on to a branch that stuck out.  The branch had done a real number on my elbow, but I always manage.

The three scars behind the back of my neck were from tracker jackers when I was only six. Tracker jackers are the genetically-altered wasps conceived and created in the labs of the Capitol. Just another one of the Capitol’s sick and twisted ideas of keeping “peace” in Panem.

If anyone disturbs the nest, they will track down to kill them, hence the name “tracker jacker”. Most people can’t tolerate more than a few stings, and I’ve heard that a lot of people have actually died at once. If you’re lucky enough to live, the hallucinations brought on by the venom have actually driven people to madness.  It’s why I am very glad that my father was there when I got stung.

Even though I was only six years old, the Capitol shut down the schools and put all the children to work. I was still very young so my father was uncomfortable with the fact they had made me crawl into the depths of the trees that not even he could see. He didn’t move more than an inch away from the trunk of the tree I was climbing.

He saw me falling before I even knew I was stung.

I don’t remember much, but from what he tells me I was stung three times by the beasts in the back of my neck. Devils as they already were they came up behind me. He tells me that the stings formed lumps the size of small plums almost immediately, but he had seen the stings before so he knew what to do.

My brown eyes turned into a glossy gray he says, so he knew once I started convulsing what exactly had happened. He always carried the leaves that excreted a remedy for the sting. He shoved a few into his mouth as he pulled out the stingers and gently pressed them into the wounds. Of course, that is not what I remember. They don’t kid when they say the venom causes hallucinations.

As I was falling, the trees around me came alive. The branches that extended from their trunks turned into arms. Arms that moved with the fluidity of water that were reaching out for me, reaching out to strangle me. And then arms did catch me. But I didn’t see the arms of my father. I saw that I was trapped in the arms of a monster.  My father’s grayed hair turned into maggots that crawled over his scalp seeping into his mouth and ears. His brown eyes were fire red now, burning holes through my skin with every glare. His white teeth grew points that protruded several inches from his mouth. I couldn’t feel my arms and when I saw him chewing on something I only assumed it were my limbs.

Of course since then, I would always keep an eye open for the tracker jacker nests, as well as carry a few of the remedial leaves that my father had used on me. I’m smarter now. I no longer am the little six year old girl that was unaware of her surroundings.

As of a week ago, I am twelve years old and am wise beyond my years, or at least it’s what the other workers tell me. I don’t think I’m that smart. After all, school’s been shut down so many times over the course of my life, technically I still am in grade one. But there are some things that I pride myself on.

My father had taught me the ways of the trees. Teaching me what berries are safe to eat, and which ones are poisonous. How the look and feel of a tree branch can tell you if it’s safe enough to stand or hold on to. How the branches smelled if there was a scent of tracker jacker so I would know to avoid those branches.

My father had taught me the ways of the woods. I could survive out here for weeks, and that’s something I am very proud of, for some workers still don’t know the difference between a delicious blueberry and a poisonous nightlock berry. Of course those who do have the knowledge hold the difference between life and death.

So even though I really learned how to read, my father taught me how to survive. He also taught me how to climb, the thing I am more proud of anything else in my life. After the work hours were over when I was young, he would take me home and we would climb the tree in my backyard that soared high above the roof of my house. Every day he when we got home, he would take my doll and place it a certain height in the tree, every day the placement of the doll would be higher and higher.

I thought he was teasing of course, at that age who wouldn’t think that? But now I see what he was doing. He was training me per say. He would climb the tree behind me in case I would fall, but even he was surprised by how quickly and easy it was for me to maneuver myself among the branches.

I would swing from branch to branch without almost any thought. It just made sense to me. Swinging from a branch and to grab a hold of another to step in between the divot between the space the branch and the trunk. My ability only grew as I did.

The other workers would call me ‘Squirrel Girl’ because the agility that I would climb the trees, they said, would envy the squirrels. I was given the trees that absolutely no one else dared to climb; either because they were so high or because no one else could climb them.

It went without saying most days that each day I would be asked to climb to the very top of the highest trees to pick the luscious fruit that grew where only the sun could reach, as do most of the children my age. The berries gleamed as the sun hit them almost giving off the sense that they were rubies, only meant for a royal’s touch. In part I guess, this was always true, for most of the fruit I picked, as well as the other workers, would be shipped off straight to the Capitol.

The Capitol.

Just the thought of that place makes me sick to my stomach. Knowing that I work from sunrise to sunset and have almost nothing to show for it, while most Capitol people don’t even see the sunrise unless they’re coming home drunk, reeking of the alcohol they consumed at a party that served foods I couldn’t even dream of.

The Capitol.

Where they never have even heard of the word ‘work.’

The Capitol.

Where the children never had to worry about going to work to supply for their needs. After all everything is provided for them. Why would they need to work like the rest of us?

Everything is shipped to the Capitol. Everything. And not just from our District. But the other eleven Districts have their responsibilities as well. District 4 for example sends multitudes of seafood. District 7 has to ship in lumber. District 9 is known for its mining equipment. And even District 12 has to provide with the only thing its good for, coal.

Agriculture is what District 11 is used for. Even being one of the poorest districts, almost everything is shipped out to the Capitol every day after work. We would work from sunrise to sunset every day, but today was different. Today was the day of the reaping.

I begin my ascent to the very top of the tree very early today. I find myself doing it quite often today as well. From my tree, I can see the white flag that they raise to signal that the work day was over. Wow. Ten o’clock already. Those four hours flew by like nothing, or maybe because it was because it meant that it was time for something that none of us were looking forward too.

I look for my special friends and of course there they are, lining the branches as if they were waiting for me. The mocking jays truly looked just as magnificent as they always do. The blue lining of the feathers seemed to just blend in with the skyline.

They fill the air with their glorious singing; so glorious I could sit there for hours and just listen to them. It almost upsets me when they stop, but they always stop when they see me. There were the few birds that continued on with their song, however, almost as if they were saying hello to me. Call me crazy, but some of the birds were looking at me as if they were saying, “Why are you up here so early today, Rue?” But they knew just as much as I did.

I began to sing my four note song to the birds, the same song my dad taught to me when he told me about the mockingjays. They sing their own tunes most of the time, but if they hear any kind of tune, song, or jingle from anything else it only takes them a few seconds to start singing it back. It was possibly the one thing I enjoyed more than climbing. The music.

 My dad would take me into the orchards and demonstrate by singing the four note song; something simple for the birds to take in, as well as for me to learn. They began singing back almost immediately and I was thrilled.

 Some of the birds began singing with me immediately, for it’s the same song I sing to them every day. It only takes about ten seconds before the mass amount of birds are repeating the four note song back to me. As if on cue they begin to fly in all different directions of the orchard to sing the song to all the workers. I came up with the idea only a few days after my dad first taught me the song. I would sing the four note song to the mockingjays and they would fly to different parts of the orchard singing the same song to all the workers, telling them that the work day was over.

After I make sure that all the birds surrounding me have flown off, I begin my descent and sure enough there he stands. My father. Standing beside him is one of my younger brother and the twins.

The twins danced around my father at the excitement of the work day ending so early. They were so young. They didn’t know the reason behind it. Of course they would be happy to be able to go home, they’re only six years old.

My younger brother and my father on the other hand did not have the intensity in the smiles as the twins though, for they knew what could happen today. We pray it would not, but there always was the possibility.

“Hey Rue Rue,” my father said as I slid from the trunk into his arms. He held me tight with his muscular arms and held me tight. I could feel my brother, Forrest, hugging me from behind as well.

“Rue Rue! Rue Rue!”  Pyrus and Prunus would scream joyfully around us. They did this every time my father greeted me. They were unaware that this might be the last meeting that we share.

“You’re not going to get picked, Rue,” my father whispers into my ear.

“She can’t be,” Lamium stated as he hugged me tighter. “She can’t be…”

My father took hold of Pyrus’ and Prunus’ hands and guided us back home, where we would have to get ready for the ceremony. It was the first time that my father was truly nervous for the games ever since he was eligible to be picked.

“Don’t be surprised when I am,” I joke back with them although this is probably the most inappropriate thing to be joking about. The Hunger Games were forced down upon us and it was not a joking matter.

How ironic it would be if I actually were picked.