Darkness, Ever After (Hunger Games Fan Fic)

Ever In Your Favor

My dress is a sea-foam green color, that belonged to my older sister Rozada, when she was my age. As I stand among the other girls, surrounded completely because my age group is in the middle, I remember her. She must be out in the crowd now, watching, wearing her newest dress. Each year, my mother boughter her one, and I recieved the one she had worn at the reaping the previous year. In the cloudy afternoon breeze, goosebumps rise on my arms and I clutch them across my chest, wishing I was wearing sleeves.

I attempt to catch a glimpse of Virgil in the front of the boys section, but I can't. And then the microphone assaults my ears with a shrill feedback tone, as the woman with a strange accent and huge, violet-colored hair takes the stage. I attempt to see over the rest of the girls, but the way we are arranged, I can't. I do, however notice a few of the Careers in front of me.

They are tall and athletic, and most of them unfairly beautiful. They actually want a part in the Games. Just the thought of it makes me sick. I pay almost no attention to anything happening onstage, only figeting with my dress and hair, wishing the wind would let it lie still.

I eventually give up even trying to see, as most of the girls are wearing heels and already tower inches ahead of me without them. I stare consistantly at the ground, just listening. I count pebbles in the cobblestone, scraping my beaded flat shoes against them and listening to the crushing sound of gravel under my feet.

A gust of wind comes straight through the crowd, making me shudder as a chill runs through me. The breeze off the water comes in sharp gales, and I'm surprised the water never truly freezes--

"Coraline Crane!"

Whispers. My name. Girls I know, and don't know alike tap me on the shoulder, draw me from my world of daydreams and into the real world again. The world of Panem. As they usher me towards the stage I am still in a daze, in a dream. There is silence from the crowd as I take the stage, because they can see I am not a career. As I stand high above the rest of the crowd, I know I look foolish and frightened.

I harden my face to stop myself from shivering, and to hold the tears in. I know the cameras will be all on me now. Suddenly I feel self- conscious in the dress that was Rozada's, as if she is up on stage with me, but she is not hugging me or crying with me. In my daydream she is laughing at me.

"And now for the boy tribute, from District 4," says the woman. Her voice is sing-song, almost taunting me, as she speaks with her accent that I despise. I stare deep into the depths of the reaping ball, not knowing what I should do now that I am onstage. The silence of the crowd kills me, especially when I look out and see the glares from the girls that are careers. They would give anything to be me. But unfortunately, you can no longer volunteer.

My eyes briefly catch Virgil's. His face is hard; his face looks exactly like mine. I hope the look on my face is one that tells my little brother to be strong and not to panic, but I never can be sure. I cannot read myself from the inside out like some people can.

Back to the woman with purple hair. Her hand comes upon a slip of paper, and she snatches it out of the reaping ball. I can practically feel every eye fixed on the stage. On the slip of paper, on the woman, on me. I wish I could shrink back into the shadows. I wish I could rid myself of this death sentence.

Just as I catch Virgil's eyes again, I realize that even though I will not win, there's no point in not trying. If I fight for him, there's just a chance--The woman's voice catches in her thoat. She stammers out carefully, "Virgil....Crane."

An immeciate hush as I watch Virgil step out of the line of 12 year old boys. Where is he going? My feet threaten to collapse underneath me as the words catch up to me. I watch his sullen eyes meet mine again. I watch him cry as he nears me, and I can only hear the collective sigh of the entire district. Those eyes....those thin, knowing lips....

They are like mine. So much like a copy of myself.

I think I hear the slightest bit of strain in her voice as she says, still somewhat sing-song, "May the odds....be ever in your favor."

The despicable line formed by the Capitol to make it appear as though they wish us luck. Make it appear as though they are not sending us off to die, as if they are not waiting to watch out blood be spilt as they tear families apart.

And in the heat of the moment, I cannot shake hands with my little brother, because, even though I can feel the cameras watching my ever move, I can no longer even stand. The square spins around me, turning my world upside down again and again.

And it's not a split second until our hands touch that the blackness of my own mind consumes me and I collapse on the floor, live at the reaping.