Stay Alive

Haymitch's POV

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Rain gently pounded down on the roof of the town square, making a rhythmical pattering on the rooftops and the old wooden stage.  The mood of the square was dismal at best, and the rain didn’t help.  No one wanted to sit around waiting for four children to be picked to die; especially sitting in the damp, dark rain. 

A strange looking woman, who was short with a light blue wig, stood in front of the somber crowd, an always-present smile apparent on her face.  Even with the storm coming in and the gray skies flowing above her, this woman was happy. 

It was the 50th hunger games; this was the year of the 2nd quarter quell.  Chances are it was going to be no more fortunate for district twelve this year than it had been for any other year.  District twelve was probably the only district who had never had a victor in 50 years.

100 tributes dead so far, four more to go.  History repeats itself.  We don’t win.

          About 2000 people stood under the stage.  On the left stood the girls, looking fearful and pale; on the right stood the boys, who looked no more pleased.  Most of the district had dark hair and dark skin.  They were distinguished by their gray eyes.  The other part of the poor coal district had blonde hair and blue eyes.  They didn’t have to fear being picked, as they hadn’t many slips of paper in the bowls.  They had no reason to fear for their safety.  They only had to fear for the safety of their friends and friendly customers.  Haymitch wasn’t so lucky.  He had 42 pieces of paper in the glass bowl.

          The stout escort, Shonee Winter, who had been an escort for as long as anyone could remember, stood looking like an idiot with her 7-inch heels in the hard rain, and the wind that almost blew the petite woman off her feet.  She put her mouth to the microphone that refused to work with the rain pounding on it, and every camera focused on her.  They always did.

          The condition of District Twelve was worse than it had been in a long time. Everyone was starving.  Disease struck the seam.  Everyone was either sick or starving, and now District Twelve was about to lose four members of its family.  There was nothing that anyone could do about it. 

Unless you were reaped, you could only watch as people that you knew and loved were brutally slaughtered.  The only thing that you could do was watch and hope that they would die a painless death.  Oh wait, sorry, you could also cheer in the face of your friend’s death.  Sorry, forgot about that.

  You could hope that the careers didn’t get to the people you loved.  But in the end, they always did.

          The ladies would be called first, but being called wasn’t what bothered Haymitch.  He worried for his girlfriend.  She was standing on the other side of the square, her dark hair covered with a thin, cold jacket.  Her blue eyes narrowed in disgust at the escort in front of her. There was nothing he could do if she was reaped except sit in a chair and watch her die.  If she was reaped, he hoped for a quick death.

          Haymitch only hoped that if she was called, that he could go with her.  She was 17 years old, and it wasn’t unlikely that she’d be picked.  Haymitch worried for her, but there was nothing he could do if she was reaped except sit in a chair and watch her die.  If she was reaped, he could hope for a quick death.

          He hoped that she wouldn’t get picked, but if she was, he hoped for a quick death.  They never died quick deaths.  Most people from district twelve were caught in the blood bath.  He hoped she survived if she was picked.  He hoped that someone from District Twelve won.  But they never did.