The 85th Hunger Games

Reaping Day.

District 12.

I stand, with many, many, more children around me. We were all between the ages of 12 - 18, the thought made me sick to my stomach.

How did we get back to this?

How in the world did we manage, at one point in our past, to keep peace and stop the Hunger Games?

So many questions that many my age now ask, but we don’t get the answers.

Instead all we know for sure is that Katniss Everdeen and Alma Coin are dead, District Thirteen was destroyed, while District Twelve was rebuilt and that the Games are back. No one knows where Peeta Mellark is and where their children are.

There are many rumors going around that he killed himself and gave his kids to someone else he trusted to care for.

Others say he is ‘alive and well’, as if he could be, when the love of his life was killed.

I believe he’s alive, not well, but alive - with his kids. I believe that he’s probably in hiding as to avoid any danger, especially from the people who killed Katniss, his wife.

Using my right hand to shade my eyes, I focus on the present, what’s going on now - the Reaping Day for the 85th annual Hunger Games.

I breathe in deeply and sigh as I glance around to look at all the other children around me, all the families who stand near, all the mothers who are wheeping and sobbing and making such horrible and gut-wrenching sounds.

Then it happens again, all the over-thinking, my mind starts whirring with wild thoughts, with all that’s going on now, all the sounds, crying. This whole nightmare. My face starts to feel hot, and my throat tightens.

I start tapping my hip with my left index finger as to distract myself, to calm myself, and pay god-damn attention to what’s happening. A small girl on my left glances up to look at me, her cheeks were pink and puffy from crying, her eyelashes were all clumped together and her hair was blowing in the wind.

Being seventeen, I felt embarrassed about crying in front of someone younger, and so I shrugged and looked away, avoiding her sad expression and the thought that she could be chosen and sent to her death, to be slaughtered on live television.

″Reese Robynhay!″ A high pitched - and disturbingly enthusiastic - voice announces loudly from the podium.

A female voice wails above all sounds - a guttural sound filled with despair. My mother.

People glance around, some quizzical and some looking for... me.

I look up, confused and scared.

Wait... what?

My stomach flips when I realize that I zoned out the entire time until now, until my name was announced.

A boy, on my right, pokes my shoulder and points to the podium and the Peacekeepers who are coming my way.

Oh shoot.

I start to slowly, very slowly, walk forward, pushing passed other children and people who are murmuring ″Sorry,″ under their breaths. As I get closer to the podium and awaiting Peacekeepers, my legs start to shake and my mind starts whirring again.

Katniss Everdeen, Alma Coin, Dead, District Thirteen, The Games, My name, me, Dead, Volunteering, Dead.

I am dead.

My legs give way, and I crash to my knees when I finally understand what’s happening, and when I realize that no one will volunteer for me like how Katniss volunteered for her sister, Primrose.

I am dead.

Peacekeepers run to me, holding guns, and man-handle me up onto my legs.

Since I can’t stand, because my legs are so shaky, two of them grab each arm of mine and drag me to the Podium.

My mother’s wailing can still be heard from behind all this action, and my heart begins beating faster.

A thin, tall and strangely dressed woman helps me onto the Podium. I feel like slapping her when she keeps repeating, ″Oh, you poor darling...″ quietly as she helps me up.

Standing on the Podium, I get a new view of the crowds of people, children and families. I feel so exposed up here, so vulnerable. Everyone’s staring up at me, wide eyes everywhere, as I shuffle on my still shaking legs.

I want to turn and run off, but I know I’d just get shot by the Peacekeepers.

I want to start a revolution, as Katniss did, but I know I’m not brave enough, and not capable of such power and strength.

I wish to hug my family, tell them to run, to vanish - maybe with me, but we can’t and I can’t.

I also, guiltily, wish that a mysterious boy who has had a crush on me for as long as he can remember would join my side, but that would never happen.

So, instead I stand here, on this Podium staring out at all these people, as if they’re my subjects, next to a tall, thin, and pitiful Capitol woman.

″Now, time for the boy tribute!″ She squeaks, her voice sounding weirder when up-close. I hold my breath when I see mothers covering their faces, fathers shaking their heads and young boys shuffling, looking around as if they were enjoying whatever beauty that can be found nowadays before one of their death sentences would be announced.

''Conrad Rollins!'' she says, finally, after what felt like years.

I frown. Many in the crowds frown.

This can't be right...

Conrad Rollins?

Who is that? I have never heard that name before, ever.

People start moving around, asking each other who this boy was.

Then someone moves.

I find the person and stare.

He was a boy, around my age, standing in the crowds with such a nonchalant expression.

He starts moving forward, as I did, except without falling.

He comes closer, and closer, and I still don't recognize him. I've never seen him before, and it seems like no one else has, either, as everyone's pointing, frowning and whispering to one another. He walks up the stairs, onto the Podium and joins me at my side.

Once he's stopped walking, I turn and lock gazes with him. He was so relaxed, as if he didn't care. I raise my eyebrows at him, as I study him, and he just gives me a wicked smile before turning back to look ahead.

...

19.6.2020