aphrodite₂ [treech]

i

July 4th. Today is the day of my final reaping ceremony. I stand with the other eighteen-year-olds of District Seven. Since we're the oldest, we stand at the front of the crowd, so we can have the best view of what's to come. The mayor stands on the stage, the Justice Building rising behind him. I've always thought the building to be out of place here, it's too 'Capitol' compared to the shabby buildings surrounding the square.

The mayor gives a quick speech about the Hunger Games. I don't pay too much attention to it; I've heard the exact same words read on this day for the last seven years. This is the last time I'll hear them. At least until Millie turns twelve.

"We'll start with the girls," says the mayor, walking over to a large glass bowl containing the names of every single girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen. Millie's name will be in there in two years. But thankfully, not today. Ma only has to worry about one of her children today. Unfortunately, that one child is me.

"Lamina Mason!" calls the mayor, pulling me out of my daze.

No, no, no. Not Lamina. Anyone but Lamina.

Lamina and I have never been super close, she was a few years below me in school. Her family lives close to mine, and her older sister is close friends with my brother Aspen. She's one of the nicest people I know. She shouldn't be up on that stage, shaking like a leaf in the wind. Lamina shouldn't be sent to the Capitol to die.

There's only one more name to be called. One more name and that's it. I won't have to worry about the Hunger Games anymore.

As the mayor makes her way over to the other bowl. This year, my name is in there seven times. Seven times out of thousands. My odds are worse than the younger boys, but not by much.

"And the male tribute will be," says the mayor. "Treech Bradshaw."

My soul feels like it exits my body. Distantly, I feel myself move through the crowd to join Lamina on stage. I'm conscious enough of my actions to try to seem confident, but I don't think my face reflects it.

Once I'm on the stage, I do my best to find my family in the crowd. They stand towards the back with the other ineligible citizens. My mother is weeping quietly, Aspen and my father have their arms around her to console her. Millie is the only one who stares ahead from her perch atop Aspen's shoulders. Even from here, I can see the tears as they trace down her round face. I don't want them to be sad. If this is the last time I'll see them, I don't want them to be sad. But I can't muster up a smile to tell them it's alright. It's all I can do to stay strong from them, when all I want to do is curl into a ball and cry.

It hurts too much to keep watching my family, so I look at Lamina, who is crying beside me. I want to do something to comfort her, but I don't know what to say or do. I never know.

Lamina and I are grabbed roughly by a couple of Peacekeepers and corralled away. We end up in the truck, where we are driven to a train station. We end up handcuffed in a train car, clearly designed for animals, not humans. But the Capitol doesn't see us as humans, so the environment is fitting.

Lamina automatically sits in the far corner, pulling her knees to her chest and burying her head in her chained hands. Her sobs echo off the metal of the train.

The car lurches as the train begins to move. I stumble a bit before deciding I should take a seat. I debate on joining Lamina, but I don't want to make her uncomfortable, so I sit in the adjacent corner. I probably look like an idiot, like a cornered animal. But I don't care. I'm absolutely terrified.

I remember the daisy tucked in my lapel pocket. Millie gave it to me this morning for luck. She's done it since Aspen and I were first eligible for the reaping. I remove the daisy and twist it between my fingers. I realize that will probably damage the delicate stem, so I put the flower back in my pocket.