The July heat smothers my body, suffocating, weighted and tinged with salt, as I sit on the crumbling wood of the dock, my feet dipped into the gently rolling sea. The sun cleared the horizon only an hour or two ago, but heat lines already streak the distant terrain- a mirage- distorting it with a strange shimmer, like a splash of oil on a roadside puddle. 

The pier is near silent, ships and boats docked, the usual bustle of a busy morning now gone quiet- save for the occasional screeching of the gulls. The sailors who are usually hurrying to get onto the water are nowhere in sight, but that's to be expected; Nobody sails on the day of the Reaping. Bad luck, supposedly. It's superstitious nonsense, in my opinion, but it doesn't matter. The quiet's welcome, honestly.

A seabird, specifically a young gull flies over my head, descending on a rotted -wooden pole that sticks crooked out of the water. It stares at me with that signature glare that the great white birds always seem to have, and I can't help but smile as I pick up the sketchpad that sits at my side, and scratch a few lines onto the weathered paper with my pencil, roughing the bird's pear-shaped body and slanted eyes. My nimble fingers fly across the crinkled surface, bringing it to life. I've always had a strange affinity with gulls- They're annoying birds, pretentious and loud, but I've always been drawn to them, leading 'Gull', to become one of my many nicknames. And that was one of the ones I tolerated.

I'd had plenty of nicknames in my younger years, usually inspired by my real name- Whimsey. It sounds too much like 'Whimsical' for some of the more witty bullies to leave it alone. They saw my quiet nature, and my name, and ran with it. I hated that one- it made me sound weak and fragile, like one of the mythical beings in the storybooks that are so rare in the districts nowadays. But all it had taken was one boy's bloody nose and a quick trip to the principal's office for it to all but disappear.

Once I'm done, I hold up the paper to the gull, comparing them.

"See that? That's you. You're welcome." I explain sarcastically, watching as the bird tilts its head before flying away.

"Didn't even pay...Rude." My pale eyes track it as it disappears around the bend of the bay, and l look for something else to put on the pages of my sketchpad. It's my ritual; Going down to the docks almost every morning- at least, the mornings when my family aren't on the water- to draw and escape the dreariness of being indoors all day, every day. But this morning doesn't have anything eventful to offer. Same salt-crusted boats, most of them desperately needing maintenance, the same sweltering horizon, same docks, and the same landscape. And it's far too hot to be outside for long anyway.

So, without much other choice, I stand up, tuck a few strands of stray hair behind my ears grazing the small fishhook-shaped studs that are nestled in each ear, brush the flecks of paint and chips of wood off my sun-faded shirt and shorts, and start off on the five-minute walk back home.

On the way, I can tell that things are different today. A sort of anxious silence replaces the sleepy summertime feeling that usually hangs over the small fishing town. I feel the skin crawl on my arms and back as I note the reason for the anxiety- The Hunger Games.

The most brutal and bloody event in Panem, where twenty-four people from the ages of twelve to eighteen would be thrown into an arena to fight to the death. Punishment for the wrongdoings of the ancient Districts, a constant reminder of a failed revolution. 43 years and there was no sign of relief for us- Twenty-three were doomed to die yearly for what could be a hundred years more. It was senseless violence, and from the moment I'd had been able to comprehend the concept of the games, I'd both despised them and been petrified of them and the citizens in the Capitol for enjoying and glorifying them, making them out to be some sort of huge reality show. But there was nothing fake about these games.

They're terrifyingly real.

Being a part of a Career District, there was usually some hype and buildup around the games too. Not as much as in a bigger town, where Pack culture was huge, and volunteering is expected at almost every reaping, but it was there. We'd had a few volunteers in the time I could remember, but far less compared to others.

And I know that realistically, there's a slim chance of me ending up in the arena. My family's comfortable status with money meant that I'd only taken Tessera once, during a hard winter the year before. I have eight balots- four natural, multiplied by two because of the Tessera-eight chances to be pulled out of the bowl at the reaping.

And District 4's huge anyway. I'll be fine.

Living in a smaller town inside the larger District of 4, the reaping rarely happened in person here. But this year was one of the 'lucky' ones, where that was the case. Another year of hearing the insufferable voice of the escort, an arduously expressive woman named Amaralie Sith, as she crowed about the history of the games, another year of watching children I potentially knew be led away, or displayed on the screen.

I've only ever had one person I knew personally be put in the games, a thirteen-year-old boy named Reed- my classmate. From what I can remember, he had dark eyes and dark hair and stood taller than most of his peers. He'd died within five minutes of the bloodbath starting, crumpled on the dry desert ground of that year's arena, bleeding out for the world to see. A traumatizing event for my class who'd been convinced he'd survive and come back as a victor. Looking back, Reed hadn't been particularly strong or exceptionally smart, but we'd had unshaken loyalty to our classmate, fully prepared for him to walk back through the door with new scars and new stories. But that obviously hadn't happened. The death had shaken me, and I'd had nightmares for a week. 

I find myself chewing my thumbnail as a nervous reaction to the memory. Chewing my nails, biting my lip, scratching my arms and wrists and tapping my foot are all random habits I find myself doing when I'm scared, stressed, anxious or have too much energy. It all drives my mother up the wall, but at least it's a distraction from whatever's troubling me. 

Now, walking into my house, I feel the anxiety begin to creep in on me. The Reaping is in only a few hours, after all. I'd laid out a dress on my bed earlier in the morning- long and flowing, with a blue that matched my seabird-like eyes- but I hesitate to put it on. I never understood why everyone had to be dressed so well for what was essentially a funeral, but it's tradition. I have a bit of time to kill before said funeral, at least.

I don't know where my parents, Calyx and Mercy Dearden, are. Likely, they're at the markets or the house of a different family. Sometimes you can get good deals on more lavish food on special days, and the markets are really the only crowded place on the Reaping day.

With the house to myself for once in a rare while, I pace up the stairs, toss my sketchpad to the small table in the corner of my room, and flop onto my bed, the pale sheets rustling under the weight of my body. They're deliciously cool compared to the air inside and outside, and I lie there for a while until my eyelids start to droop, my lashes blurring my vision. The nerves of the day drove me to wake up early, and I'm still tired. Disregarding the two hours between now and the reaping, I let myself fall asleep.

                                                      ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

"Whimsey!" My father's voice jolts me out of my fitful rest, his call echoing through the house. "We're going to be late- Wake up!" I'm disoriented and confused, but I can hear footsteps downstairs, both my mother's and my father's, and I rush out of bed. The dress lies crumpled on the ground, the blue ruffles powdery with dust, so I quickly brush it off, pulling it over my head until it fits right, and turn to face my mirror.

I feel awkward and overdressed standing here, my broad shoulders and otherwise lean frame better suited for tank tops, T-shirts, and shorts. The dress is, undeniably, beautiful- with thick, flowing fabric and a modestly long hem. But it's not the kind of clothing I usually like wearing. My long black hair is unruly and wavy from humidity and sleep, running down my back in messy waves that almost match the dress. I turn to the side and make sure that my calves aren't visible through the fabric. It's stupid, but the scar engraved into my left leg is something I don't like others seeing. 

A quick run-through with a comb, and my hair lies mostly smooth, without putting up too much of a fight. There's no time for makeup, not that I have more than a few mostly-used, cheap products, so I slip on the nicest shoes I can find- White, with a slight heel, adding a bit less than a half-inch to my already 5,7 vertical- and hurry downstairs.

Calyx stands in the doorway, his black hair combed back, dressed in a clean, plain white shirt and gray vest. People often say I look like my father- We share a similar frame, the same colour of hair, and the same shape of eyes, although his are green, and mine are blue. I've taken after her mother, in that aspect. I didn't get many physical traits from her; only my eyes, and a small beauty mark on my cheek. Maybe some less noticeable things, but those are the most major.

My small family of three sets out towards the central square of the town, other people and families passing by. Children dressed in their best with anxious eyes and sweat-slick hair are absolutely everywhere, and I recognize some of my classmates and acquaintances from school. Some of my better friends were yet to be seen, but I'm sure they're somewhere in the crowd.

Calyx gets my attention with a tap on my shoulder, "The weather's a bit hot for being on the water. We'll have to wait a few days until it cools off to start sailing again if that's alright. After all, fish don't even bite in conditions like this." 

"Sure- How long will we be out next time?"

"'Bout a week. Assuming everything goes well." 

I like talking about anything sea-related with my parents. My father inherited our boat, and my mother quickly took to life on the ocean with him. They took a break when I was really young, but as soon as I was able to walk and talk, I was a part of the crew. I've always loved the water- Not the things that live inside the water necessarily, but everything else- And a sea snake attacking me when I was eight only put me off swimming for a few months. Truth be told, I'm still deathly afraid of snakes, but at least I'm comfortable in the waves. I can't wait to be back out sailing, and it'll be a matter of time until I will be.

Peacekeepers are scattered all over town standing in doorways and on the corners of the streets, and they've been here for the last few days in preparation for the Reaping. In their white combat suits and shining visors attached to bulky helmets, they must be absolutely dying of the heat, but they stand tall and collected, guns held on stand-by at their sides, watching the gathered people for disturbances. Peacekeepers are usually, well, peaceful, and one nods at me while I pass.

Before we can go any further, I'm met with a dozen or so long lines of people of all ages. These are the lines to draw blood. It never really hurts- It's only a pinprick, but it's always unnerving to have a stranger hold a sharp object so close to your skin. When I get to the front of the line, I'm beaconed toward a table, and a man with plastic gloves draws my hand forward, and presses a small device to my thumb. I feel a small, sharp pain like accidentally stabbing myself with a sewing needle, and a light blinks green. It seems to get easier every year.

There behind the lines is the main square, with a stage in the centre. The mayor of this particular town sits in a chair off to the side, daubing his forehead with a white handkerchief, beside him standing a familiar sun-beaten face framed with silver-streaked red hair. Mags Flannigan, the only winner that District 4 has alive. There had been another victor- Arbour Graywater, winner of the 30th games- but he'd been tragically killed in a shipwreck during rough weather a few years ago. 

District 4 has been praying for another victor for years- to step up beside Mags as she ages- and we nearly got one last year, but it didn't end in our favour. 

Now, dozens gather around me, shuffling and pressing their arms to their sides to make room as Amaralie Sith takes the stage. She has dark skin, dark hair and dark eyes that shine with excitement as two massive bowls are centred onto the middle of the sun-faded platform. She wears an elegant outfit made out of expensive, extravagant fabrics, silk and satin, and others I can't name. Hues of purple and pink and green, almost, like a peacock, with shoes that are obviously trying to make her tiny frame stand taller. 

It's hard to hate the energetic young escort; She's capitol born and raised, with no idea of the struggles of the Districts. It's all a game to her. She's as oblivious as a child being told their puppy got sent to a nice family down the road. But still, I find that her cheerfulness in such a time of despair is almost sickening. She taps the mic once, the sun glaring down relentlessly on the pavement. 

I shift uncomfortably, sweat prickling my forehead and back, as I pick absentmindedly at a hangnail. My mother taps my arm when she notices me fidgeting. "Sit still, Whimsey." 

I do, and a video begins to play on the massive screen behind the stage, wartime propaganda showing scenes of fire and bones, and destruction. I've seen it a thousand times before, but it's still disturbing, the low, cold voice of President Snow playing over the flickering film.

"War; terrible war. Widows, orphans, a motherless child. This was the uprising that rocked our lands..." It drones on, and I look over at my father. He's staring into space, uninterested in the video. He's seen it even more than I have, after all. I look down at my feet and wish that the ceremony would be over. 

I think about showering. I'd love a shower right about now. 

"...This is how we safeguard our future." It ends with a flourish of music, and the screen cuts abruptly to black. "Isn't that just chilling? Oh, it still just makes me shiver every time I see it!" Amaralie gushes, scanning the crowd. There's no reaction to her excitement. "Well, then! Shall we get onto the main event?"

She takes the silence as an affirmation. "Let's pick out our brave boy first this year." She uses a stepstool and plunges her arm into one of the huge bowls, rummaging around for a moment before drawing out a tiny white envelope exactly like all the rest. My mind jumps back to Reed, and I pray that it won't be a name I recognize. 

"Here we are... The male tribute to compete in the 43rd Hunger Games is... Finn Eos!" I don't know the name and the people around me look relieved, which is a bit twisted considering it's still someone from our District, but at least we don't know him.  It's a boy from a different town or city. 

The screen flashes on once more, and the face of a sturdy-looking teenager is broadcasted over us. He has fiery red hair and eyes that are so pale blue that they look silver or gray, like steel. He's expressionless and emotionless as he's led onto a similar stage, standing still and tall. He's probably been training for years in some elite underground academy, judging by how calm and collected he is. If I had to guess, he must be sixteen or seventeen, maybe even eighteen. A worthy contender; Maybe even a victor. 

Maybe District 4 will have someone come home this year.

Amaralie claps her hands enthusiastically. "Fantastic! Look at him- be sure to consider putting your bets on that one. I know I would if I could!" I wrinkle my nose. Betting- another aspect of the games I don't like. The capitol already treats the tributes like subhumans, they don't need to place bounties on them like dogs. 

My stomach twists as it does every year when she steps down from the first bowl and moves to the second one containing the girls' names. My father squeezes my hand, a mild comfort. 

"On to our girl..." She takes out an envelope fairly quickly and opens it. I close my eyes despite myself, convinced I'm safe, but afraid anyway. 

"The female tribute to compete in the 43rd Hunger Games is- Whimsey Dearden!"

My heart drops into my stomach like a rock. My parents' faces drain of colour, and my entire body slowly fills with ice, until I feel nothing, and I'm afraid I might shatter. I stare blindly ahead, all the people crowded around me blurring into streaks of colour. They step away until I'm standing in the middle of a cleared space on the pavement, frozen. No. Maybe there's a different girl with the same name. There has to be some sort of mistake.

Roughly gloved hands grab my arms and take me forward towards the stage. A strangled, warbley cry emerges from my mother's throat as she tries to reach out for me, but  I'm too far ahead. My legs wobble weakly, and I feel my throat closing up in terror. All of a sudden I'm faced with hundreds of pairs of eyes trained on me, some filled with sympathy and others filled with relief at my expense.

No, no, no, no, no- The chant repeats in my brain as Amaralie's voice echos around me, droning into a high-pitched wailing in my ears. 

"Before this is finalized, do we have any volunteers? Anyone willing to take one of our tribute's places for a shot at limitless riches and glory?" The call for a volunteer brings a tiny flame of hope to the darkness behind my eyes. Perhaps someone will decide to step up onto the stage, and I'll be able to go home. Please. Someone, anyone.

But the only sound audible is the thin cries of the gulls from the pier. The flame of hope is pinched out and dies in a puff of smoke.

"There we have it, everyone! Give a round of applause for our tributes, Finn Eos and Whimsey Dearden!"

It hits me then and there that I'm going into the arena. And I won't be coming out. Up against more than twenty other tributes, most of them stronger than me? I'm doomed. A dead girl walking. It's unavoidable, the truth hanging over my head like a stormcloud. 

I'm led off stage and placed in a train car. It's dim and filled with so many unnecessary luxuries- Silk cushions, padded flooring, a table with finger foods and expensive-looking drinks that I'm afraid to even look at. Everything looks expensive. It looks capitol. It looks fake. I half expect it to give under my touch, like an image printed onto paper. 

It's customary for the family of the tribute to be able to say goodbye, and a minute later, they're allowed in. My mother is sobbing, inconsolable. My father looks grim. He takes my shoulders in his calloused hands and looks me in the eye, green reflecting blue. 

"Whimsey, listen to me. You're coming out of that arena alive, you hear me? This is not the end. Look at me." Tears start to swim in my eyes as I nod.

"Do anything you can to win, It doesn't matter what. Be as brutal as you need to be. You can do it. It doesn't matter if you make friends or allies in there- You have to be the strongest." He has to turn away, blinking hard.

Mercy throws her arms around my shoulders, her body shaking. She's shorter than me by a few inches, and I bury my face in her dark brown hair. She says nothing, half choking on her gasps. She suddenly pulls away from me, tugs a silver bracelet off her wrist, and presses it into my hands. "Take it- Every tribute has a token. This one can be yours. It was my mother's, so be sure to..." Her voice falters and she struggles to keep it steady. "Be sure to bring it back, okay?" 

Just like that, the time is up. Peacekeepers come back in and start to lead them away slowly, back into the blinding sunlight of the world. My father's face is the last thing I see; It's the pain written so clearly on it that finally makes tears start to fall. 

Alone in the tiny train car surrounded by opulence, lavish furniture tinted windows and artificial coolness, I drop my face into my hands and let my shoulders shake with the weight of my tears. 

Okay, wow. I swear to god I rewrote this chapter three times and changed perspective too many times to count, and I'm not sure I'm completely happy with it, so it very likely will change, but here it is- the first chapter! What do you think of Whimsey, and the book so far? Please give me your honest thoughts, ideas or critiques! Let's get on to the next chapter, shall we?

-Your favourite procrastinator, ThatLovelyDove <3