They'll Never See Me Cry

Chapter 1 - I smiled.

I smiled.

My neck snapped.

Darkness.

Let me backtrack. My name is Flicker Stallheath. I am dead. And this is my story.

I woke up on my thin mattress, covered by the gray threadbare blanket that served as my means of warmth in the cold nights of District 3, my home. Poor, crippled District 3, forced to provide the Capitol with one of their most essential aspects - technology. District 3, a place of poverty and pollution, wedged between 9, 6 and 12. The other forgotten districts, with no notable victors or industries. Tech, grain, coal, transportation. Shoved off to the side, forgotten in the light of the luxurious or essential Districts of 1, 2, 4, even 11.

In the Dark Days, 3 was a big player in the rebellion. Once we lived in luxury, like Districts 1, 2 and 4. Now, we might as well be slaves. From the age of fourteen we are forced to make the trek into the factories, or 'smog shacks' as they are known colloquially. Scraps of food and a few coins are all we obtain from our backbreaking work, without the spoils of which the Capitol would be crippled and at a loss.

We are the creators and manipulators of electricity here in District 3, but it is a rare commodity for a family to obtain any electricity rations of their own. Stealing results in harsh punishments and public whippings, meaning most of us live our days and nights by candlelight.

The Games aren't big here like they are in the other districts. I guess the rebellion was never really quenched here. If you listen carefully, there's always whispers that can be heard. Whispers of things and ideas from long ago; Secrets survived after seventy-four years, albiet with some changes in the stories. We've always been restless for action, for freedom. You would too, if as a young teenager all you breathed seven hours a day was smoke.

I turn fourteen today. Tomorrow will be my first day in the shacks, where I'll see if the rumors I've heard are true. If I make it past the Reaping. That's right, my birthday is on the Reaping. July 4th. Lucky me.

Once someone told me July 4th was a day of celebration for our ancestors, when they rejoiced in the freedom of their country. I give a mirthless laugh as I get ready; Funny how on the former day of freedom the Capitol now reminds us how they own us.

I quickly run my fingers through the basin of water that I collected from the town well this morning and comb my hair back best as I can. The Reaping is early for us, around 10:30 am. I get dressed into my best trousers and shirt before grabbing a small, square roll off the counter for breakfast. Our district bread. It's a rather lovely bread, as despite the poverty we live in, many do not need to sign up for tessarae in our district. There's a certain grain which is found wild throughout our district, one of the only plants able to choke down the foggy air, which many plant in their backyards. It grows in abundance, meaning we are never short for bread. Meat and vegetables are the problem here, being worth a week's wage.

I give my father and mother a hug before heading to the town square for the Reaping. They'll come later, as the Reaping is always hard for them. My parents are extremely neighborly people, meaning they know many in our community. It's lovely, except that for half the time whomever is reaped is someone they know personally. We live in quite a populated area of District 3. I'm about to turn onto the town square before I swerve and head down the street. I stop at an alleyway and grin.

"Hey Viridi."