Hunger Games short stories/headcannons

Thresh

"Thresh, I've got a bad feeling about today." Willow turns to me, gripping my hands, and staring into my eyes. 

"Of course you do. It's the reaping." I say, rolling my eyes.

"I mean, I've got a feeling on of us are going to picked."

"You feel like that--"

"Don't you dare say I feel like that every year. This time it's different."

I don't fight back. Willow doesn't back down, she's too stubborn, despite how small and fragile she looks at first glance in her green reaping dress, her hair tied in a loose bun. But I know better. I know how she fought to be with our grandmother when our parents died, despite how the Peacekeeper saw her as too old to take care of children.

She said we were old enough to take care of ourselves, just not old enough to live in a house alone. Eventually, after she had been hit a few times, they gave in, saying they had agreed to it all along. She didn't push it. She may be stubborn, but she's not stupid.

I feel how she does though, it's like a slight ominous wind blowing through my brain. But I ignore it. It won't be me. This is my last year of the reaping, it won't be me, and it most certainly will not be my sixteen year old sister.

Our grandmother walks into the room, her back hunched, but a smile on her face. The smile isn't genuine, she hates seeing us worry before the reaping, but she would never be negative on this day. She says there is too much pessimism already. 

She won't come with us to the reaping, she has to weave baskets for the crops to be collected in; the job of an elderly woman in our society. As much as I hate hearing her cry out in pain about her arthritic fingers at least she's not dying in the heat all day.

Our grandmother leaves for her job, and we still have thirty minutes. Willow and I sit in silence, until it's time to leave, and when it is I wrap an arm around her shoulders protectively. She will not get chosen. She will not get chosen my mind chants, reassuring itself. Even if I get chosen, at least it won't be my little sister.

We seperate with a reassuring squeeze of the hand, she goes one way and I go the other. This is one of the most cruel things, to me. Seperating us from our family as we wait for the names to be called.

I watch the tattooed girl from the Capitol reach into the girl's bowl. My ears tune back in just for the first name; Rue. She's twelve, I remember her from the fields, and it hurts to know someone so little will die, but it's not my sister. Thank god it's not my sister.

After greeting Rue she reaches into the bowl and calls out "Thresh Hollow." My name. I rise, robotically, and walk to the stage. My name, but still not my sister's. She will live, and perhaps I will die. That's better than her dying, much better. 

I stand stiff on the stage, I will let no emotion cross me. This is who I am to people who don't know me, quiet, strong, and perhaps even deadly. I hope that's what the other tributes will think. 

They lead me to the visiting room, and my sister comes in. 

"I knew I felt it, I told you." She falls into my arms and begins to sob.

"I'll get out, Willow."

"No you won't. I know your strong. But I don't want you to go in there and become a career, and come out a different person. Like all the others. Even if your body comes out, it won't be you."

"Willow, I'll still be me."

"Try, and if you don't, show me it's okay. Alright?"

I nod and she pulls back, handing me a silver ring with our last name etched into it. It's our dad's and she's always worn it on a chain because it doesn't fit. I take it and slip it on. 

"Wear it like dad would, with pride."

"I will. Tell grandma I love her, just in case?" 

"I promise." She has stopped crying completely. She stares at me with strength, and I almost think she would do better as a tribute, but that doesn't mean I want her in my place. She's right. She wouldn't come out the same.

Just like I won't. If I even do.