District 6 Boy
Installing confidence is not something the Capitol people do. It’s like a game of chance – heads or tails – kill or be killed. It drives me crazy to think how the people in the Capitol enjoy this stuff. The early morning sunlight is welcoming on a day of dark intentions.
Life never changes the way I think or feel. The Reaping’s are every kids nightmare – it’s the stuff nightmares are made of – I can still here the screams at night from the terrible hallucinations the kids in their first years still have.
Stuffing my hands in my pocket, I studied the quiet empty street through the strands of my hair. The reapings’ not till’ later – might as well sleep in – if you can. The air is crisp and chilly, but that only adds to the shadow of sadness overhanging all of Panem.
Returning home, I see my mother staring vacantly out the kitchen window. Her arms crossed her blue eyes dull and unyielding of the terror she faces every year I am at the risk of losing my life in the dreaded Writer’s Games.
Slowly, I move over and hold her hand. We stand there, in silence until it’s time for the Reaping. I file in with all the other sixteen-year-olds on the left side of the town square. The worry faces of parents and children alike cloud my vision and before I’ve even had a chance to breathe, the tributes are been called. The first is a girl my age who faints and is woken up by a friend before taking her place, shakily, on stage.
Its now the boys. I watched, horrified as the escort from the Capitol dives her hand into the dreaded glass bowl and plucks a slip of paper from it. She flattens it out then reads out the name in a clear, but shrilly voice.