“Brocadea Rya, District 8. Please step forward.” The judge booms, flanked by his intimidating peacekeepers, no matter how many times I’ve seen them in these past days it never gets easier.

‘Their white uniforms must so easily get stained of blood.’ I think to myself.

‘Present your item, non lethal.” The judge almost growls with an arrogant tone.

I pull out my large spool of thread and throw it on the table with a sneer. Risky but, death is inevitable. I honestly hoped they’d kill me where I stood now. But Clariford said now I was a treasure, a hot commodity. They wouldn’t shoot a horse before a race. Whatever that meant.

The judge responds with a match stare of disgust. He inspects the navy colored thread with boredom. He rolls it back towards me and waves to bring in the next tribute. My male counterpart, Darning Preed. He’s a year my junior but his face looks like a nine year old. His babyish chubby cheeks and ruddy hair make him seem marketable at the very least. I pass him in the doorway. He is shaking with fear and his eyes are beady. The peacekeepers escorting me out don’t seem like they’d want me to dawdle so I ignore him and the aching guilt heavy in my chest.

I toss and turn that night, my room unlike home is quiet and plush. My thick blonde hair spreads out on the pillow. It still isn’t enough. I dread thinking of sponsors and being paraded on carriage rides infront of the capitol elite. My death seems like such a known solution I can barely feel anxious for it. It feels like going to sleep. A conclusion as agreed upon as the sun setting.

As I toss I remember Mother and her blank look of shock. 6 children and none have been so much as gotten close, let alone got picked for the games. My brothers and their wives were hard at work at a factory far on the edge of the district. Promised new opportunities. My sisters, Kovour and Anya trying to steady her. Their own fingers and bones weak with their hours of labor. I remember the capitol spokeswomen gleaming a smile. Her wide geometric patterned skirt standing out in the rags and plain cloth tunics. My brain tires out from memories and falls in a fitful sleep.

The next day I meet with my stylist. A short woman by the name of Scalli. She looks capitol proper. Her hair dyed shaded of purple and green.

“District 8! Textiles! So what do YOU want to wear? I bet we could collaborate!” She exposits while guiding me to a platform in the center of the fitting room.

“I make uniforms…. And…. bedding…” I reply awkwardly, growing red in embarrassment.

“Oh…. I’m… I’m uh…. Sorry…. This is my first year…” she apologizes with a weepy tone. Is she crying? What does she gain or lose? She goes back home to a warm bed and luxury beyond my comprehension. My cheeks flame red in indignation instead of shame.

“Yeah, well, it’ll be my last.” I say with anguish, turning my head to face her. Her eyes widen in a shock. She sniff up her tears and begins to reach for measuring tape.

“Do you have any special interests or things special about you that we could market?” Scalli asks sniffling quickly.

“I uh, have 6 siblings, I’m the youngest. I was the smartest in school till I had to quit last winter.” I reply attempting at friendliness. After all she can ruin my chances at sponsors.

“Ya know… I can work with that….” Scalli continues deep in thought. The theme comes to her immediately after. Accentuate the familial bond and ties. For the carriage ride she makes me a dress comprised of knots reaching up and toward Darning’s matching outfit. Artfully combining the most glittery fabric I’ve seen in my life.

Darning wasn’t any less nervous. He shook in the large skin tight uniform. It only accentuated his young looks and small frame.

Clariford lets out a bark of a laugh after seeing our ensembles. I return it with a sneer. Earning the nickname she bestowed on me on the train ride over (Sneery). She begins to make a comment but we are driven out to the stadium. The crowd continues their cheers with as much enthusiasm as the districts 1-7 had. I see large enclosed seating areas, a small group washed in jewels nods and watches. Carefully whispering to the other oppulent people, sponsors.

The interview with Flickerman passes me in a flash. I’m wearing a dress made of silk. A white and peach color that comes up to my neckIt is decorated with sequined black hands on the back. To represent my family and the district supporting me. Or at least that’s what I tell him. He asks how nice the capitol is, I respond agreeably, he asks if I am prepared. I think of my spool of thread and nod enthusiastically. Although on the inside I’m less convinced.

Finally, the day of days comes. We are fitted into grey colored cargo pants and tight polyester shirts. Scalli can do little else to make me stand out but my hair, which she ties into a long braid that reaches past my shoulders. Despite my disapproval of who she is and what she stands for, I hug her and give her thanks. She only know so much of my life and fate and is able to help change it only by thread. She’s granted me an extension on life if only for a few more days or hours.

With a shove the peacekeepers I’m tossed into the elevator to the arena. Clariford prepared me as much as she could for the unprepareable.

“It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen…Different every year too…… nothing like the mountain of buildings back in 8… but actual mountains…..” she explained her eyes glazed over, as if reliving all of those moments at once.

With a click the elevator stops. The doors drop down into the floor with a hard shaking slam. Suddenly, the arena is revealed. All 24 of us on stands that led to pathways. Each one covered in mud and gross stillwater. In the center is the cornucopia, a sterling silver symbol of our oppulent death.

The real horror is above the cornucopia. Different biome zones stacked in an alternating pattern. Connected by man made mountains. At the bottom, a forested area that seems never ending, the second a bayou filled with murky water, the third a mountain spring with thick green grass and a water fall, which spills slightly to the biomes below, the final biome a Mesa desert stretches high above.

I shiver in a scared awe. The lowest platform is still a mile long according to my naked eye, dozens of feet in the air. The Mesa dessert 100s upwards.

I look quickly at Darning as the buzzer counts down. For once he doesn’t look nervous as he marvels at the biome tower. No fear, what does he know?

The buzzer sounds loudly to signify the start. I break into a sprint, which requires more jumping and tugging to weave through the mud. The girl in district 9 on my right trips and falls into the mud.

I keep running, legs pumping, towards the steel cornucopia.

When I finally make it I grab for a pack that was kicked away by a career. It seems heavy so I’m hoping for something useful. I see a long dagger with a plastic handle closer toward the middle.

Without warning I’m pushed down to the ground. The mess of weapons scrape my skin as I hit the metal floor hard. I turn over, dagger loosely in my right hand. As I look up a career from district 2 or 3 looks at me with blood thirsty eyes. I scramble to stand up, scraping my hands on the sharp metal of the other weapons strung around me. As I am in a crouching position I look back. Seeing the burly career cradling a crossbow in his hands. I attempt to scramble away but slip on my muddied pants. A thin clicking noise sounds as the guy lets out some sort of war cry.

I feel the piercing arrow hit my shoulder blade. I scream in the worse pain I have ever felt. Somehow on only adrenaline I stagger to sit back up. The career is shouting commands at an equally burly girl. Head turned I make the choice to throw myself down the few stairs. When I’m down I play dead.

As the hours pass I only breathe out of my nose. Only when I hear steps fade. I realize how stupid this all is. Laughing at my own cowardice I nearly give myself away. By sunset there are no more steps. I quietly grab the dagger and pack and crawl into the mud. It’s about 4 feet deep so I’m more like paddling then crawling. Finally I reach the fake mountain. I crawl up till it gets nearly entirely vertical. After that I attempt to climb but it ends up as me just throwing my self up till I reach a plateau.

By night my shoulder seers with pain and I stop at a plateau ledge just long enough for my body.

I notice something at the edge of where the mountain begins. As I crawl closer from my plateau I notice it’s a piece of scaffolding left by construction. There is wood that is supported by old looking steel but I make the choice to make camp there for the night. I take my pack apart to search for materials to help with my shoulder. Which has gone cold and numb partially.

With deftness I learned from work I use my good hand to cut the shirt with the dagger. I did wish I’d have kept it on. I can see different layers of skin and dried blood. I lean back in the narrow space. Infection is a slow death. I don’t want to die that way. I tear through the pack to find a minature bottle of rubbing alcohol and a light bag of thin bandages. Missing something…. Something.

I fish out my spool from the cargo pants and let out a shriek of joy. Using the teeth from the bags zipper I fashion a thick needle. I clean the wound ferverently. I do basic ladder stitches on the skin. I’m too excited at my own luck to feel pain. With my one good hand I wrap my shoulder as thick as I can with the measly bandages. By the time I finish the cannons boom. I peak my head out of the scaffold.

Ashin Malt, District 12

Soldo Lai, District 7

Darning Preed, District 8

The last hits like a million crossbow shots. Last I saw him he dove for a throwing star.

So much for the district being like a family. Hot tears spill. My vision splits to a blurry black. I collapse into myself. Alone, damaged.

To be continued