Prim's Reaping

1) The Nightmare

"Ladies first!" Effie Trinket trilled in her strange accent as she reached her powdered, pale hand into the deadly lottery of entries.

On one slip would be my name, Primrose Everdeen, written for the first time in neat black script. On twenty others, my beloved sister's name would be cast. This meant she would be twenty times more likely than me to be to be chosen. Twenty times more likely than me to be plunged into an arena of seemingly inevitable death.

There was a long, tense silence while she unfolded the paper and opened her mouth to speak. It was the kind of solid silence that you could bite a chunk out of, if you so were desperately ravenous enough. Which, let's be honest, most citizens of 12 were.

I watched her shimmery lilac lips move up and down as if they were in slow motion.

"Katniss Everdeen!" she grinned, flashing a smile that should have been sweet.

But in this context, it was sickening.

Traumatized, I shrieked in terror, words slipping out of my mouth in a terrified babble.

"Katniss! No! You can't, Katniss, no! I won't let you go! Katniss, please, no! No, no, no! Don't leave! Don't die! Stay!"

Still screaming my older sister's name, I woke, hyperventilating, in a pool of sweat to see that she was lying next to me on the rough canvas, still sleeping peacefully. Her long, dark, braid still tickled my face as she lay close enough that I could still feel her body warmth and smell her earthy, green aroma. She was still there! I was so violently tempted to turn around and embrace her, whisper in her ear how much I loved her. However, she looked too peaceful, too happy, in her deep slumber. She would wake at the crack of dawn everyday, even on the holiday of the reaping, when even the poor old miners got a lie-in, to keep us alive. Risking a punishment worse than death to give us food and medicines. If that was her daily morning routine, the least I could do was let her sleep

After kissing her lightly on the forehead, I plodded through to the narrow cupboard and stove we called our kitchen, and grabbed the little cream-colored triangles of crumbly cheese, that Lady had so kindly helped me make a few weeks in advance. They were for Katniss and Mother. I had hidden the two rare treats at the back of our small wooden cupboard by the basin. It was usually the only item, of food or otherwise, that was stored in there. This was actually a surprising good hiding place, as we ate one or two meals on a daily basis, using the forage that our beautiful brave Katniss had hunted for. As soon as he returned home, after we would all breathe a sigh of relief that she was safe, the food went straight into a pot to make a stew of mash-up of some sort. But this wouldn't be a surprise for them. I had been giving this small gift of cheese ever since the first year that Katniss brought me home Lady, my goat. She had arrived as my birthday present, with a little pink bow around her neck. She was in a horrible condition. On the brink of death, Mother said. But together, Mother and I nursed her back to health.

So at least I was putting our cupboard to good use. I may have been giving my small family a home-made gift that I could only afford with a goat, but it wasn't a birthday, nor a Christmas. Far from it, in fact. This mood was more suited to a funeral. Except we were being forced to treat it on the contrary. To treat it like a festival or a grand sporting event that only came around annually.

To the Capitol, that is exactly what it was. It was their very own way to intimidate the districts. Us districts, so beneath their colossal wealth and power. Scaring us witless and simultaneously humiliating us by sacrificing our own young people in the most horrific way imaginable. By killing eachother. If we even attempted to rebel, we would also be slaughtered like the poor other young humans that they had brutally murdered.

The dark days must never be repeated.

They felt the need to reinforce that law. Every year. Again and again.

The dark days. A shiver ran up my spine.

They treated them as though they were fun festivities. As if each cannon signified a mere point. A mere point that didn't cost a human being's life. A mere cannon that hadn't caused hundreds of families pain and grief for seventy-three years. And in two weeks time, it would be seventy-four years. And twenty-three more families would constantly feel mentally drained, and question the point in life. As if that would make much of a difference, anyway.

I turned the tap slightly, as freezing cold water came trickling out. I tried hard to do it quietly, but the loud uneven flow dropping against the harsh metal basin awoke my Mother in the room next door, which was visible through the doorless doorway. Upset with myself for waking my lovely Mother, I gave her an apologetic look. She looked tireder and wearier every day, even after a rare good nights sleep. The last thing I wanted was for the bags under her eyes to get a darker shade of grey, or the lines on her sad face to become more prominent. Although, she was still beautiful in my eyes, with her long blonde hair and blue eyes just like mine. She shook her head dismissively and reached out her warm, slender arms, inviting me into her loving embrace. I hadn't told her about my nightmare, but a fool could have guessed. Nobody, I was sure, would be feeling relaxed on the night prior to their first reaping When I extended my index finger to ask for a tiny while longer, she nodded and lay back down.

It was not unseen for us to often have these silent conversations. Katniss and my Mother always said I was an open book; terrible at masking my emotions, even when I try desperately hard to. When it would hurt less people if I just faked a smile. And more often than not, since my dearest Father was killed in a mine explosion, my Mother did not generally have a wide thought range.

For once in my life, I was glad that the water was always freezing cold. I spread it over my clammy hands, and it felt so nice that I couldn't help but wash my face too, and stroke it up and down my arms. My heart rate was still like that of a hummingbird's as a result of my atrocious nightmare. As soon as my breathing had calmed down, I found the dry basil leaves on top of the cupboard. I thought of the meaning of these two gifts as I carefully wrapped them in the greenery. Every reaping day since I was eight, when Katniss first became eligible on the 9th of May, I had given these as gifts of good luck. It was my way of telling Katniss and my Mother that I loved them both unconditionally no matter what happened to any of us. Whether we were the ones reaped to fight in The Hunger Games, whether it was our sister or daughter who was doomed to this dreadful fate, I would always love them. But this year was different.

As I placed it next to Mother's sleeping head, It left my hand with an apologetic gesture; "I'm so sorry for putting you through this, for making you live with the possibility that neither of your daughters will now be safe for the next eight years. I love you so much,".

And as I carefully lay it ontop of Katniss' forage bag, it went with a tone of admiration and gratefulness; "Thank you, my beautiful big sister, for taking the tesserae. Thank you for keeping Mother and I alive when... when he left. Good luck. I love you..."

Because this time I was Katniss' equal. This time I was on death row too. My name was also in that glass ball. There was a slim chance, but there was still a chance.

It would be twice the pain for everyone. I didn't care about myself. Obviously, I was petrified of my name being called out, but I despised myself for hoping it was someone else. Still, I was rather It was me than anyone else. Especially my selfless, courageous, Katniss. Anyone but her.

So, as Mother's skinny arms wrapped around me, and Buttercup curled up, purring, at my feet, I prayed and prayed harder than ever before. I didn't truly believe in God, and I wasn't sure exactly what outcome I was praying for. I would never wish it on anybody. But it had to be somebody. All I did was beg with my hands clasped together tightly for the whole night, until dreaded daylight leaked through the rough black material propped up at the window, and spilt into a yellow yellow puddle on the mucky grey carpet.