The Hunger Games

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"C'mon Kara!" Hollers my best friend Pandora, pounding on my bedroom door. I stumble out of bed and stare at the clock. 5:37.

Groaning, I open the door for Pan and then crawl again under my blanket again.

She lets out a low whine from the back of her throat, tugging desperately at my pillow.

"For the love of Snow, how can you still be sleeping? Don't you remember that training is early today?" She groans, pulling my arm forcefully and dragging me out of bed. I flop to the floor and try to recall what she just said.

My eyes snap open in fright and I twist my head to stare into her glaring green eyes. "Training is early today?"

Pan grits her teeth and smacks me in the face with my pillow. "You're going to make me late for training again, and you should know by now the rules; two lates make a skip and-"

"-And two skips mean a beating. I know, Pan." I interrupt, rolling my eyes.

"Alright, alright. Go get on your cameo, soldier." She orders. Then she gives me a sloppy salute and marches out. I listen to the thumps as she runs bounding down the stairs.

Pan and I have been best friends ever since she moved into town when we were six. Eight years later, we're still so close that it's casual knowledge that she may barge into my house at any given moment.

Once I hear her slam our front door and disappear off to training, I quickly grab my training gear out of the closet and lay it out across my bed. I slip into my camouflage outfit and put on my shin pads and chest pad. Snatching a brush off my dresser, I stare into the mirror and try to tame my bedraggled auburn hair. My electric blue eyes stand out, so I then try to nervously brush my bangs again over my face. Being invisible is key to my everyday life.

As I put away my brush, I glance onto the long mahogany wood shelf stretching over my bed and gaze at a photograph. It shows two people.

A little girl, with flaming hair, smiling, happy, gripping a package of candy floss in her grimy toddler hands.

A tall man, crouching in the grass, cradling the girl and gazing down at her with big puppy-dog eyes of adoration.

"Hey, dad." I whisper, clutching it to my chest. "I know you'll come home."

Tears start to well in my eyes, so I quickly brush the dust off the frame and replace it back on the shelf.

I grab my boots, closing the door tightly behind me, and dart down the stairs.

I see my mom standing in the kitchen, waving around a frying pan while she watches the pre-reaping program on the living room Techscreen.

Caesar Flickerman, the young new host, stands grinning demonically on the stage with a mountain of purple hair. He is explaining about some so-called adjustment in the Games this year called the "Quarter Quell".

I roll my eyes. The Games have been going on for twenty-four years and there has never been a rule change.

Shaking my head dubiously, I creep for the door. My boots squeal on the hardwood and I cringe, my mom whipping around to stare at me, eyebrows raised.

"Where do you think you're going, young lady?" My mom chides, and then hands me a crumbly breakfast pastry, which I try to hand back to her. "Eat some breakfast, you know how tough the Tournament is."

I stuff the pastry into my mouth and give her a thumbs up.

"Love you, honey! Have a nice day!" She calls.

Then I slip out the door, careful not to wake my grouchy brother sleeping in.

Once outside in the crisp morning air, I sprint along the crumbling gravel trail snaking through the neighbourhood, until I reach the concrete road that runs throughout our city, where loud cars rumble around. There I slow to a jog and try to sneak through the ramp shortcut. A Peacekeeper glares at me from the boulevard.