Hope's Lost (51st Hunger Games)

Chapter 3- When the Fog Rolls in...

Chapter 3

          Waking up on the white sheets of my “bed” I always felt dirty compared to it. The pure white seemed so soft compared to my figure lying stark against it. Sleeping on the floor next to my father’s bed I sat up and ruffled my red hair while rubbing my eyes in a state of wakefulness. Snoring softly, my father’s chest rose and fell. Standing up I started my morning ritual to get myself ready. It was a “special” day apparently.

          I dreaded the Reaping only for the reason that I had to act like I enjoyed being there. I would have a better time managing the lighthouse during the day instead. Putting on the turquoise colored dress I looked down at myself, since the only mirror I could possibly use would be in the lighthouse. I looked nice enough. My father had awakened as well. He trudged down the hall of our one floor home past the bathroom where I had finished changing.

         Getting out of the restroom I showed myself to my father to ensure that I didn’t look badly in his opinion. After all, it was his that counted to me. He looked at me solemnly. Though he took much pride in our family and our appearance, he too as every parent would, dreaded the Reaping. I saw his bearded face go down in a frown. My mother would be alone at the hospital at this moment, watching this televised since she was dying and was completely immobile… Even though that now she’s been administered the cure I would imagine that she will be fine in a few weeks.

         “Good.” Was all he said before walking out with me trailing behind him. My hair was tied on my head with my corkscrew curls raining down my back. The unpaved streets were chock full with people. Rich and poor alike. Everyone’s children were tributes at this point. Some were walking straight-backed and happy (since our district technically produces Careers as well) and others slumped down and it was the last place they wanted to go.

        Seeing Grafa and Randal across the way, I watched as the two held hands. Their names were entered over 20 times because of their desperation for the tesserae. They had their eyes closed and I saw Grafa begin to lean on his shoulder, breathing calmly as Randal led the way. Approaching them, I placed my hand on Grafa’s back, seeing her smile whole-heartedly as we walked on. Compared to me, they had it hard. They worried whenever the Reaping came while I didn’t even care for it.

        But now the worry spawned in me as I awaited the fateful time for the names to be called. The tesserae almost guaranteed Grafa and Randal a spot in the name-calling. My name only went in once so the odds were completely in favor on the terms of not participating in the Hunger Games. Filing into our roped off areas separating the boys and the girls my eyes found Grafa at the very front of a different column, close to the stage itself. I always thought that Grafa’s mean, sullen personality was shaped by the tragedy that had befallen upon her. Whatever that tragedy was, of course, I had no recollection.

       She does not speak too much of her personal life and can sometimes be a nuisance to keep around because of her rudeness and attitude. It’s obvious she’s had it rough as a kid. People aren’t just born mean and crabby, they’re made that way. It filled me with warmth though, seeing Grafa and Randal make ends meet. The two had so much in common. Living in the Lows by each other, they’re lives are intertwined by hard work and love for each other. They would NEVER admit love though. It took me years of teasing them in school about their chemistry.

         Grafa’s pessimism would be balanced by Randal’s encouraging optimism. Thinking of the two of them, the morning wind that rolled from the ocean blew through my hair as I turned my head. The sound of the rushing air whistled in my ears and I shivered a bit. The fog was still set upon us and it was cold, and I was dead tired. Finally reaching the place I wanted to look, I met eyes with Randal almost immediately. He was straight across the aisle from me and looking at our section with eyes that forlorn and laden with the weight of sorrow and worry.