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Today marked the day of the reaping, and a sense of anticipation filled the air. Like many others, I wore the most genuine smile I could muster for the occasion. In the midst of the excitement, a special gift was bestowed upon all participants. My mother, her gaze fixed nervously on me throughout the morning, insisted that I take a break and handle the preparations leading up to the annual reaping ceremony.
We harbored some skepticism as this year's annual Hunger Games approached, especially in light of the recent events surrounding our Victorious Candidate, Lucy Gray. There was a collective hope that these circumstances might signal the end of our ordeal. Nevertheless, there I stood, casually brushing my hair and putting in minimal effort to appear presentable, preparing for a game where one's own identity became the primary target.
This year, my name will be written again, and each season, a sick and unsettling feeling churns in my stomach at the thought. Note to self : Not to indulge in greasy foods before the reaping day. A lesson etched in my memory. In my defense, I acknowledge the circumstances in District 12. My mother, constrained by limited choices and financial constraints, can't afford the finest meals. Survival here is tough—you either hunt for fresh meat to earn a few coins at the market or face the possibility of starving. Despite the hardships, I find myself grateful for my dad's hunting skills. His abilities have been our lifeline, ensuring both my mother and I are still alive today.
"You look good, don't sweat it, kid." My dad reassured me, as he arrived from another successful hunt, grounding me as I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. The dress, crafted by my mother's sister, showcased her undeniable talent, almost completed just in time for the reaping ceremony. She would often describe it as a gift of grace, emphasizing its significance whenever the opportunity arose. I found myself wondering about the origins of the exquisite fabrics she used, resembling those favored by the people of the Capitol. Curiosity led me to inquire, but her response remained elusive. Her nervous chuckle hinted at the dangers and risks she faced to acquire such fine materials. The unspoken understanding lingered—if she were caught, my mother and I might never see her again.
My mother had prepared my favorite meal, a dish we planned to savor once the celebration of my non-selection echoed through our home. It seemed as though something within her reassured me of my confidence in avoiding being selected once more. In reality, it reflected a shared sentiment among parents across Panem—clinging to the hope that their children would remain unchosen, a small anchor of sanity in a world filled with uncertainty.
As the day of the ceremony drew near, the atmosphere became increasingly charged. I observed classmates from local schools converging on the Hall of Justice, where boys and girls were systematically separated to expedite the reaping process. Amidst the overwhelming anticipation, I couldn't help but view the reaping as a sort of experiment—an unsettling test to determine the strongest among us, those who could endure another harrowing ordeal. In my twisted contemplations, I began to recognize the location where I stood. It wasn't long before an escort entered, wearing a smile that, even if not entirely genuine, hinted at a trace of humanity within the citizens of the Capitol. Or so I always hoped.
"May the odds be ever in your favor!" Exclaimed the presenter, this time adopting a noticeably more cheerful tone. Despite the theatrical facade, it felt like a mockery to all of us. In the heart of our District, uneasy gazes and exchanged looks permeated the crowd. Some seemed to be sizing up potential pairings, while others, in their desperation, sought any means to be reunited with their parents. As for me, I found myself at a loss, unsure of where to direct my attention. The moment arrived when the presenter declared, "Let's see who will be our lucky winner!" The tone in their voice suggested a level of intoxication or perhaps a state of inebriation. It might have seemed amusing from an alternative perspective, but the prevailing atmosphere was one of pity when viewed through the lens many of us shared.
The sound of crumpling paper echoed as long, thin fingernails traversed the bowl, resembling a spider on the hunt. The host wore an eager expression as they reached the bottom, ruffling the papers a couple of times before settling on an unfortunate candidate. The twisted, sick feeling I experienced earlier in the morning returned, intensifying with each passing second as the fingers withdrew from the bowl, ready to unveil the chosen paper. Their expression mirrored the one my mother had years ago, a countenance filled with joyful emotions that seemed distant in my own memory. That is until my own thoughts were completely shambelled by it's announcement. "Y/N Swan!"
It was my name. My name being withdraw from the bowl. The bowl I learned to fear as many of the others did so. "Y/N? May you step forward please." The request was ebay enough for me to completely forget about it, and yet two strong arms held my presence as I did not hoped to be chosen nor to be selected. It was a faithful moment when I tried not to scream, not to hold any tears as my father would say to me. With his warmest of hugs in other to keep me reassured that everything was okay. And here I was, thinking that my parents will have to learn that their child will be up for the Hunger Games. And god knows if they will return alive.
x
In the Capitol's Academy, Coriolanus Snow sat alongside his fellow classmates, captivated by the unfolding reaping ceremony. His anticipation heightened as he eagerly awaited the revelation of the potential candidate who might spell his demise. The tension escalated until District 12 came into view, and all eyes were on Snow, his silhouette being a focal point. The scrutiny stemmed from awareness of his reactions in previous games, coupled with the looming uncertainty of facing another year without knowing how he would navigate the challenges ahead. The underlying premise was clear—to maintain the calmness of his Victorious candidate and ensure they remained non-rebellious.
"Y/N Swan!"
The name resonated powerfully and delicately on the host's tongue, capturing attention. Y/N's presence on the stage appeared vulnerable, with emotions barely detectable. Despite District 12 being among the most to endure hardships, the awareness of the district's hidden struggles was evident. Even with the Capitol's initial fabric adorning them, Snow found himself captivated. The contrast between the pride of being a Panem citizen and the vulnerability on display intrigued him. Though Y/N wasn't like Lucy Gray, Snow, with determination, aimed to make them understand their place and allegiance.
"Y/N Swan..." Coriolanus pronounced the candidate's name with undeniable passion, his confidence growing more pronounced. A quick glance from Dr. Gaul, accompanied by a soft smile, signaled a lack of room for distractions, especially with Y/N being a potential one.
As the reaping ceremony concluded, Snow couldn't shake the feeling that his skills were lacking, particularly in being trustworthy, displaying emotions, and, above all, being the best mentor. This year brought the added challenge of representing a District he neither liked nor understood. Despite the uncertainties, he knew where he would find solace tonight—with someone he trusted despite their differences. Tigris, a person close to him, akin to family, would offer the best advice until sunrise.
