Play my game

Chapter Two: The Reaping

Fifty-one years have passed since Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark challenged the Gamemakers and still the Games are held annually. Still more young men and women are sent to their deaths for the entertainment of the privileged few in the Capitol while the Districts mourn their children, their sons and daughters, brothers and sisters. As the day of the Reaping draws closer the peoples' fear is almost palpable on the air, and all they can do is pray that their loved ones will be spared for one more year.

I tried not to think about it. I didn't want to think about all the eligible boys and girls in District Twelve shepherded into the center of the town to await the Capitol representative to call their names. I didn't want to think about the looks on the faces of my neighbours as they heard that their children were condemned. I didn't want to think about the weeks ahead, of having to watch the Games play out on our televisions at home or on the large screen across from the Hall of Justice. I didn't want to think about the knowledge that all those kids, some as young as my own little brother, would be butchered.

I lay awake in bed, trying not to think, concentrating only on the feeling of warmth coming from my brother's back as it pressed against my side. I calculated my chances of having my name drawn in the lottery. I had just turned sixteen in January so my name would be written down on fifteen crisp, white pieces of paper. Not only that, as soon as I turned twelve I took three tessera- one for each member of my family- and have done so yearly to help us keep from starving. With the extra tesserae- and because they are cumulative- my name will be in the lottery another twenty times. Now there is a grand total of thirty-five pieces of paper with Dean Winchester written on them in the reaping balls.

Only a week ago President Ever officially announced the new set of rules for this year's Games- the 125th which means they are also a Quarter Quell- on live television. Sam sat right beside me as we stared at our old, dusty television, his small hand squeezing mine while our father crouched on my other side. All our eyes glued to the President as he picked the neat, square card from its gold ornamental box.

"For the 125th Hunger Games, two male tributes will be chosen from District Twelve, two female tributes will be chosen from District Eleven..." President Ever read the rule change as though it was a list of items to be bought at the market, his tone held no interest or emotion. My heart began to thump wildly in my chest in fear. Now my chances of becoming a tribute had doubled. So had my brother's. I gripped Sam's hand tightly as he peered up at me, his mouth trembling and his green eyes as wide as saucers.

Dad groaned as he stood and to my surprise, pulled both Sam and I into a hug.

"It'll be okay, boys," Dad rumbled, "Don't worry."

Don't worry. All I did after the seal appeared on the television screen and the anthem trumpeted out of the speakers was worry.

I couldn't help but stare at the other boys I passed on the streets or saw coming out of the school building when I went to walk Sam home and wonder if one of them would be picked and if they were, would they ever return?

Sam was terrified of the rapidly approaching Reaping. He had always been susceptible to nightmares and in the weeks leading up to the lottery, woke crying and thrashing every night. All I could do for my brother was hug him and rock him, singing an old song I had learned from our mother under my breath and assure Sam that he was safe, that since he was only twelve his name was on one piece of paper in those reaping balls.

"But what about you?" Sam whispered late at night, his breath tickling my ear.

I would close my eyes and promise.

"I'm not going anywhere, Sammy," I would whisper back to him, "It's my job to take care of you and I'm gonna keep doing just that."

Sam would nod his head and then fall asleep in my arms like he used to do when he had been really little, soothed by my presence and the rhythmic sound of our father's snoring from the bed across the room.