The lift stopped on the 7th floor. The rooms were impossibly large in comparison to the ones at home. The T.V. flickered into life, and the tribute flashed before me.
District 1; A beautiful blonde girl and boy, both Careers.
District 2; A weak looking girl and a boy twice her height.
District 3; Another quivering girl and a boy volunteering for the thrill.
District 4... 5... 6...
I held my breath.
New names and faces appeared and disappeared on the screen. I wasn't watching for a while. Why would I? I was going to be killing these people. I didn't want to know their names. But when I heard District 7, I forced myself to look up from the floor.
I saw myself in the crowd. It looked like I was day-dreaming. I might of been. I don't remember much. Choux Pip stuck her hand in the glass bowl, which was shimmering in artificial light. My name was read out loudly. Then I heard something completely unexpected. Something I hadn't heard before.
"Scout! Scout, no!"
It was Atticus. The cameras couldn't find him in the cluster of parents, but that voice couldn't be mistaken for anyone else. Again, I wanted to cry, but I refrained myself. No more crying!
* * *
I stood on the edge of the forest, holding my new bow tightly in my tiny hands. Jem was standing beside me with his too. I felt my father's hand on my shoulder. We were about to run into the trees. It was then when he told my brother and I heard something rather out of ordinary.
"Shoot at anything but the Mockingjays." He said. "It's a sin to kill a Mockingjay."
Atticus wasn't a religious man. I mean, he went to church, but everone did, chistian or not. Never before had I heard him say anything was a sin. I didn't understand, so I asked my neighbor, Miss Atkinson. She made everything clear. "Mockingjays don't do one thing but make music for us. They don't eat up people's gardens, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That's why it's a sin to kill a Mockingjay."
I'd never thought much of the Mockingjays before that. But since I considered it an honour to hear them.
* * *
I woke abruptly to Atticus shouting my name. A angry tear burned my cheek when I realised it was my imagination.