Hazel

My pillow is damp with sweat when I wake up, from one of my many nightmares, rapidly gasping for air. This is very typical for me, especially since I remember that today is Reaping Day. And it's not just Reaping Day that's bugging me, but the fact that this is the very first Reaping that I will attend, for I had just turned twelve years old. Therefore, there was a chance that I could be reaped for the Thirty-seventh Hunger Games.

At that thought, a shudder runs through me, and my breath quickens in panic. However, I steady my breathing and dismiss the dread and excitement in me. Well not dismiss, more like reduce. Don't worry. I scold myself. This is your first year, and your paper slip is only in the wretched glass bowl once. One paper slip among thousands. It won't be you.

I decide to worry about the Reaping in the afternoon, when it really happens. Rising up from my bed-or at least, the pile of sheets and pillows I call a bed-I head to the bathroom to wash myself and dress.

As I make my way down the long hallway, the wooden floor creaking with age under my feet, I bump into Poppy Branch, our two bodies colliding against each other's with the same amount of force.

"So sorry!" Poppy gasps. Her voice sounds more stranded and hysterical than usual, and now that I have a closer look at her, her usually cheerful blue eyes are red from crying.

"Hey, it's fine." I assure her. "What's wrong?" As soon as those words escape my mouth, I immediately give myself a mental facepalm. Of course I know what's wrong. All the orphans in this cabin do.

You see, I live in this huge house that's supposed to be a center for kids who are homeless, don't have parents because they died, or have some other cause that happened to them so they ended up here. For me, I'm not sure which option I'm under. I do remember having parents. I recall them feeding me, tucking me into bed, brushing my hair. However, I stopped having these memories when I turned seven years old, and that was when I found myself here at this orphanage instead. My hatred and anger points towards my mother and father who suddenly deserted me and left me to hunt and take care of myself. Luckily, the kids here at this cabin hunt together and share their kill.

"You know what's wrong." Poppy sniffles. "Hazel, what if I'm reaped? I'm only twelve, too. I'll stand no chance against all those people!" Her words turn into sobs, and she quickly wipes her eyes, only to have more tears stream down her cheeks.

I wrap my shoulders around her into an embrace. I don't enjoy getting into the middle of mushy events, so I'm not the first person expected to give anyone a hug. Poppy, however, really needed one right now so I let my disgust for lovey dovey things slip, and gave her one.

After I let her sob into my shoulder for a while, I wipe my dampened sleeve and say, "Hey, come on. Let's hit the baths, and just go ... chill."

Poppy nods, and we continue to scamper towards the washing room. Even though we're pretty early, there's still a line of girls as young as five and old as eighteen extending from the door towards the hallway. Probably feeling an urgency to bathe in order to look good for the Reaping. Although I still don't fully understand why you need to dress up and look the best for a day where your death may be announced in public.

Outside the window, a bunch of eight year old girls play some sort of hand slapping game in order to stay cheerful. And there are still many people who were still in our bedrooms, moping about this horrible day. Even though this wooden cabin isn't large, many inhabitants stay in it. Especially since we live in District Twelve, the poorest and most undeveloped of all districts. Here, it's typical for a child's father to die in a mining accident, or their family to starve to death because they couldn't manage to sell their belongings to other people who were careful to not spend a single cent if necessary, since they lived in poverty as well.

"Hey, the line's cleared up." Poppy says.

She steps into one of the two stalls, and I go in the other. Using a bar of soap, I scrub myself until I'm completely covered in soap suds. Then, I dumped some water over my head, making sure I didn't use all the water because I knew that I'd make an enemy out of the rest of the people in line. Drying myself with a towel, I hastily shove on the collared white shirt and blue skirt I brought with me after hearing a "Hurry up!" from another person outside the stall.

At about the same time, Poppy exits her own stall, dressed in her Reaping outfit. Compared to me, she looks so stunning and pretty. Not only is her green dress glamorous, but her short strawberry curls-which is extremely rare for District Twelve-and blue eyes make a nice additional touch. Meanwhile, my long black hair, light gray eyes-some people call it silver, but whatever-white shirt, and blue skirt seem very ordinary and plain.

We stride back to the room we share with about ten more people-some of them are still in their beds-and she asks, "Can I do your hair?"

After hesitating for a moment, I answer, "Sure."

Poppy walks behind me and starts finger combing my black strands. I guess that you can say that we're friends, but the whole cabin has basically formed a bond with each other since we basically grew up together. However, we do seem to have this bond stronger than the ones I have with other kids. But I'm pretty sure Poppy can have a strong friendship with anyone because of her cheerful, kind personality. I, however, tend to be overprotective, sensitive, and maybe even sarcastic. And many people say that I can easily pick a fight and hold grudges for long periods of time.

"Done!" Poppy grins, and steers my towards a mirror. There, I find myself face to face with a girl who barely seems to be me. She is dressed in a crisp white shirt, a blue skirt that brought out her pale skin color, and her hair is done up in a fancy 'do, as if it has been braided and then wound up in a bun.

After a couple seconds of complete silence, I stutter, "Poppy, I barely recognize myself."

She snickered. "That's cause you don't look like this that often."

Of course I don't look like that. I am usually dressed in some faded jeans, with a cotton shirt and, if I'm lucky, a hunting jacket. My hair is either down or held back in a ponytail. I never bothered to question my looks, for how pretty can you get when you're about to spend an entire day sweating and killing animals so you can feed your friends?

As the afternoon sun shyly peeks through one of the windows, someone calls out, "Reaping!" and I stand up from my chair, taking a deep breath, and follow the line that's already heading towards the building where the Reaping will take place.

Once we get there, I notice that a huge crowd has already gathered below the stage, gazing warily at the two glass bowls that held our slips of paper with our names. I walk towards the table where they scan you, and when I reach the front of the line, a lady dressed in a white jumpsuit says, "Hold out your finger." I do, and she stabs a plunger into my right index finger and stamp it onto a piece of paper, so that it has a marking of my blood on it.

When everyone finishes getting scanned and fills into the crowd under the stage, Lavender I-forgot-her-stupid-last-name, in her ridiculous spring green outfit and fluffy pink wig, prances up to the center, where she taps a microphone to get our attention. Not that she deserves it, of course.

"Welcome, welcome." She began. "To the Reaping for the Thirty-seventh Annual Hunger Games!" At this, she hops up and down in excitement, her face turning red when she noticed that we were watching. I stifle a giggle. So does Poppy beside me. In fact, all of District Twelve was snickering under their breath.

Lavender's face turns even redder with anger, but she brushes that off with a delicate sniff. "Before we get started, I have a video to show you, brought to you all the way from the Capitol!"

A screen to my right lights up, and we watch a video clip explaining how the Hunger Games came to be. Something about war, rebellion, and all that other stuff. Because I was in the back with all the twelve year olds so Lavender can't see me, I tap Poppy on the shoulder and mimic the video, dramatically mouthing the words and making stupid faces, and she covers her mouth in a giggle.

"Now, it is time to pick one courageous young man and woman to represent District Twelve in the Hunger Games!" Lavender smiles brightly, but I glare down at my feet. "Ladies first!" She digs her hang deep into the glass bowl, and pulls out a slip of paper...

"Hazel Slivers!"

At first, I glance around to find out who the poor, unfortunate owner of that name is, when someone taps me on the shoulder. That is only when I realize that I have been reaped for the Games.

My whole body feeling like lead, I almost robotically walk down the aisle everyone made for me. All around me, people shoot me sympathetic glances, but no one volunteers to take my place.

Once I reach the steps leading up to the stage, Lavender takes my hand and leads me to the center. "What is your name, dear?"

"Hazel Slivers." I choke out, still too shocked from the fact that my name was drawn.

When she hears my name, Lavender's face pumps up into a small gasp, and she asks, "Slivers, you say?"

"Yes." I frown. What is wrong with this lady? After a few moments of awkward silence, I demand, "Why?"

"Oh, um ..." My escort's face turns bright red and she mumbles. "That name just sounds familiar to me."

To clear the tension, Lavender exclaims, "Now, time to pick the boy," and walks up to the other glass bowl, where she reaches in and reads the name she takes out. "Alexander Atwood!"

A group of boys who seem to be around fourteen years old move to make way for a young dude who I never met before. He sports spiky dirty blond hair that's slightly ruffled and brown eyes. Although he looks pretty calm, his eyes wear the frightened gaze my eyes probably had when I got reaped.

Lavender escorts Alexander up, and forces us to shake hands. Both our hands are cold and sweaty, and we quickly slip from each other's grips.

Then the mayor recites the Treaty of Treason, and Alexander and I are each shoved into a room of our own, where we're supposed to receive visits from people who want to send us their final farewells.

My first visitor is, no surprise, Poppy. Like in the morning, her eyes are teary and red, and she runs in sobbing. "I should have volunteered for you, Hazel. Can you at least try to win?"

"I will win." I answer, but what I just said sounds so dumb, for I have absolutely no chance of winning.

"Use your knife skills. Those will help you the most."

Throwing knives are my best weapons, for I always use them to nail my prey, but I'm not sure that I can use them before another tribute kills me in the bloodbath in the beginning. "But..." I start.

She cuts me off, and I notice that she is no longer crying. Instead, there is this type of urgency in her eyes. "Here, keep this." She slides something off her wrist. It's a bracelet, wound from some kind of thick, dry pale yellow dress, decorated with some colorful beads I never saw before.

"Thanks."

Before anything else can happen, a peacekeeper opens the door and yells, "Time is up!" Poppy walks out, shooting me a pleading look.

I don't have any more visitors, so I am escorted into a shiny silver car, where Lavender sits at the front in the passenger seat. She doesn't show any sign of embarrassment from what she did after I got reaped.

Soon, Alexander gets in as well. He hasn't been crying, but he looks like he's on the verge to. I shoot a quick glance at him, and his eyes meet mine. We share the same sort of fright and dread on our faces. Then, we turn away and the car starts driving.

I stare at Poppy's bracelet wound tightly around my wrist, and I think, I'm going to win. I'm coming back for you, but I don't know how I'm going to...