DIVESTED: A Hunger Games Story

CHAPTER 2

I wake up groggily. My body is heavy with exhaustion. It was one of those nights when sleep eluded me, and every toss and turn only brought temporary relief. As I rub my eyes, I feel the weight of fatigue tugging at my every movement. I must have stayed up too late talking with my mom.

Dragging myself out of bed, I stumbled into the living room. My footsteps are slightly muffled by the unusual silence reminiscing in the house. The sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a dim glow on the room. My mother is standing by the stove, seemingly lost in her thoughts, her face devoid of the warmth there was yesterday. The stillness outside is eerie. At home, I would be woken by birds chirping every morning, but today, there is only an unsettling quietness. As I approach my mom, I can see the lines of worry etched on her face. Without a word, I wrap my arms around her, seeking comfort in her embrace. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken emotions, and I can feel the weight of it pressing down on us both.

"4 times. That's how many times my name is entered." I say, taking a deep breath and hugging her tighter. I'm going to stay strong for her; I mean, what are the chances It's my name that's called? Everything feels so natural with her like I was meant to be here my whole life. It can't end now.

"I know-" She mumbled. "It's just that I thought the same thing with your brother. This day worries me yearly, even with the girls being too young to participate." I can't imagine the hurt she has to feel every time she has to go to the Reaping, having to hear another child's name called. Another mother screaming in tears as their child gets ripped away from them. An hour's worth of goodbyes, most likely never to see them again. Everyone is sick in the head, but that doesn't matter because today's the day-My first Reaping.

The rest of the day leading to the Reaping goes by too fast. I am getting ready with my family for the first- and maybe last- time. I am wearing a dress my mother gave me; it is crème with a colorful floral pattern. My hair is half up, braided into a crown around my head. As I am walking to the square, anxiety starts to take over. Some 12-year-olds go into the games every year. Their names are only entered once... I really hope the odds are in my favor. "Finger," The worker at the entry says to me. I stick out my finger for them to record the data needed, then press my fingerprint onto the paper in front of me. I walk to my designated spot right after: oldest in the front, youngest in the back. Two sections are separated by gender, leaving me in the middle to the right. Now it's time to play the waiting game until everyone is checked in and the guards check the houses. If you try to get out of the Reaping, you get in trouble- Most likely killed. It takes about an hour of anxiety and boredom before they announce it's time to begin. The announcer walks out of the justice building's double doors. Wait- Dad? This is the district he escorts? Now that I think about it, that makes a lot of sense... Otherwise, how would he have met my mom? He looks different than usual, with dyed royal blue hair and matching eyebrows. His suit is ridiculous. It is entirely full of golden glitter with blue accents, correlating with his hair. I really hope he doesn't see me. I'm glad I can conceal in the middle of the group.

"Ladies and Gentleman... Welcome to the Reaping of the 73rd annual Hunger Games!" He cheers, "Before I start, a message from President Snow." A video shows on the projectors aligned on both sides of the building. The video starts to play.

War, terrible war. Widows. Orphans. A motherless child. This was the uprising that rocked our land. Thirteen districts rebelled against the country that fed, loved, and protected them. Brother turned on brother, until nothing remained. And then came the peace. Hard fought, sorely won. People rose up from the ashes. A new era was born. But freedom has a cost. When the traitor was defeated, we swore as a nation we would never know this treason again. And so it was decreed that each year the various districts of Panem would offer up in tribute one young man and woman to fight to the death in a pageant of honor, courage, and sacrifice. The lone victor bathed in riches would serve as a reminder of our generosity and forgiveness.