Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or any of its characters, settings, and plots.

Author's Note: This is my first attempt at a legitimate Hunger Games story, as well as my first shot at first person, present tense. I am very eager to hear from my dear readers what you think, both compliments and constructive criticism. Because the writing will always be ahead of the posting, reviews will also remind me to update. Please note that this is mostly book-verse with movie-verse thrown in occasionally for the ease of the story. So, without further ado, here is my tale.

. . .

As the sun's first morning rays stream through my window, my eyes flutter open and I yawn. I have slept surprisingly well for the night before the Reaping; I only awoke once that I can recall. I do not fear this day as much as most of District 11's young population does, but I am still very nervous. I remind myself that I am fortunate; though I am seventeen, I have never had to apply for the tesserae, so my name is only in the drawing five times. Considering the amount of people in 11, I think the odds are in my favor.

But what are the odds, really? It is obvious to most that the odds have never really determined anything of importance. Usually the greatest things are also those which are unexpected, the hope that comes while all despair of such a possibility. That thought brings a smile to my lips, but not for long. My philosophy will not make the Reaping go away.

I hear my mother call from the other room, and I quickly dress in my nicest clothes. I enter the center of the house, our main room, and plop down at the colorless table, awaiting a meager breakfast. My mother comes to the table, carrying several bowls of the same bland, watery oatmeal we have every morning. She sets them down and looks at me, forcing a smile. The rings around her eyes reveal that she had little sleep last night.

"Good morning, Amaranth," she says as pleasantly as she can manage.

I only nod in response and begin to stir the contents of my bowl purposelessly. But I will need this food today, especially considering how much I will probably sweat and shake. I let out a sigh and shovel my breakfast into my mouth.

My father now makes his first appearance, walking in from his tiny bedroom and giving me his genuine, joyful smile. Nothing ever fazes him; he is the rock of the family. He takes a couple steps towards my mothers and lightly kisses her lips.

"How are you this morning, Amaranth?" he asks me as he sits beside me. "Get much sleep?"

I nod. "Woke up once, but otherwise it was good."

"Lucky for you," a voice says from behind. I turn to look at the speaker, but I already know that it's my older sister, Emmer. "I never got a wink back when I was in the Reaping."

Emmer is now twenty, out of danger of being reaped. I remember when she came home after her final Reaping day a couple years ago, her face so full of joy and hope. I was too inattentive at the age of twelve to notice when my brother, who has long been married and out of the house, "escaped" the Hunger Games, but I am sure that he was just as glad, too. I wonder what it will be like next year when I come home and the family is finally free from the shadow of the Reaping.

"Well," I say, returning my mind to the present, "perhaps you've made up that sleep since then."

Emmer attempts to laugh, but despite all she's said, I know she is tense, too. We all are, and I know that the feeling won't go away until I walk back into the door, safe and sound. I can't even imagine what it was like for my parents when they had three children eligible for the Games at the same time. And what about the other families with more kids? Some have five or six who could be reaped today. How terrible this morning must be for them.

After breakfast is over, I return to my room and put on my shoes, tie up my hair, and look into the mirror. I favor my mom in most of my physical features. I have tan, not quite brown skin, something that is fairly rare in District 11, but I have the chocolate eyes that all my neighbors boast. My hair is long and wavy—not truly curly, but almost so—and my body is fairly slim. This is actually a benefit for me, because although I don't store my food as well as a girl of stockier build, I can harvest the fruits of the orchard more easily than most.

I finally step away from the mirror and head back into the main room. I know I must leave now and head for the justice building, but I want to look over the place one last time. A sense of foreboding stirs in my bones, and I am suddenly afraid. I look around at the faces of my family, taking in all the details that I can. My mother comes over to me and hugs me tightly, rocking slightly back and forth. I am her baby; always will be, I guess.

"You'll be just fine," she whispers in my ear, just as much for her assurance as mine. "You're going to be okay."

"Thanks, mom," I say back as I step out of her warm, safe arms and towards the door. "I'll see you after it's over," I declare as fearlessly as I can to all in the room. My three family members nod, and before I can take time to think about the situation and start crying, I walk outside and shut the door.

The walk to the justice building seems longer than normal, and I now wish I hadn't insisted yesterday that I take it alone. At the time, I had not wanted to have to say goodbye at the square, but now I would give a lot for some company. There are a few others on the dirty roads who are making their way towards the Reaping, but they all walk silently with their eyes fixed on the ground.

After almost forty minutes, I arrive at the long line where my blood is to be drawn. The air is quite warm by now, and I know that by the time the names are drawn, it will be uncomfortably hot. I search for a spot in the line that has shade, but there are none, so I simply fall into the group closest to me and advance at a snail's pace for half an hour.

An emotionless woman takes my hand when I reach the front of the line, pricks my finger, and stamps it onto her record book. I wince slightly as I pull my hand away, but the pain is very minimal. Each year at harvest time, I spend all day in the tops of trees; cuts are not uncommon for me.

Now comes the worst waiting of all, and as I find a place to stand with girls my age until the Reaping, I feel the terrible weight in my gut of ice-cold fear. Every year I think I have never felt something so consuming and terrible as this kind of fear, but then each Reaping seems worse than the last. This year I do have something I could be fixing my eyes on, something transcendent to the Games to cling to, but it feels distant at this moment. Since the object of my thoughts is very illegal and in this state I am liable to say anything if startled, I shove it from my mind and let my fear cause me to shake. It isn't what I should be doing, but I do it anyway. Perhaps that is childish, giving into something when you know it's wrong, but after all, technically I am a child. That's what makes these Reapings so repulsive in the first place, isn't it?

The square begins to fill up very slowly, and the people at my sides press against me, making my skin even more hot than I already was with just the sun's oppressive light. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to ignore the cries of fright that come from the large group of twelve year olds, but my ears hear them anyway, and my stomach twists itself in knots. Will this never end?

Finally, all the children are present, filling up the square and several blocks all around. I wonder briefly is this crowded result is even legal, but since the speakers loudly project the names every year, I am sure it doesn't really matter to the officials. The district's escort makes her way up to the microphone on the stage and welcomes everyone to the annual Reaping for the Hunger Games with her usual accent and enthusiasm.

"And may the odds," she coos, "be ever in your favor."

The propaganda video that the Capitol plays every year starts up on the screen, and I clench my teeth together as the lies float from the speakers over the crowd. There are just enough facts about history to make the Capitol's reasons sound plausible, but anyone who has watched the Hunger Games knows better. This is not political, this is not honorable, and this is certainly not a holiday. This is murder.

The screen fades to black and then reinserts the feed from the various cameras as the escort comes to the microphone again, her vacant smile too big to be real. She makes some comments that I don't listen to about how touching the video was, and then she gets down to business.

"Ladies first," she chirps, her heels clicking as she struts to the massive glass ball containing thousands upon thousands of names of innocent children.

I clench my hands into fists and bite down on my lip until I taste blood. Please don't let it be me! I pray silently. Not me, not me, not me! The air seems sucked out of the square. No one moves, and I can easily hear the slip of paper open. My heart feels like it will burst. Just read the name! I want to scream.

"Rue Meldar," the escort announces, her lips pursed and her eyes scanning the crowd for the victim.

For a moment, all that I can hear is a few shrieks from the youngest group of girls. A mother begins to weep openly from the crowd somewhere, but I still can't see the girl who was called. Then, after a few moments in which the child was probably in stunned shock, a small figure emerges from the mass of people and slowly mounts the stairs to the stage.

My jaws part and my brows crease slightly as my heart groans within me. Rue is so young! She reminds me of a flower bud which has just begun to open, but is not yet ready to put out its petals. Anger soon kindles in my spirit as I think of the death which surely awaits her in the Arena. How dare the Capitol destroy such a fresh flower?

"Ah yes, just stand right here, dearie," the escort instructs as Rue makes it to the top of the stage. "Now, do we have any volunteers?"

It is dead silent for a few moments. Rue has no one to go in her place; no one to save her from the horrors of the Games. Then suddenly, without any prior thought or consideration, I realize that I should to be that person. I should go in her place, bearing the burden that he Capitol wished to place on her young shoulders. It's what I should do.

"I volunteer as tribute!" I say loudly, my voice cracking since my throat is so dry. I raise my hand so that I will be acknowledged and repeat the line more steadily. "I volunteer as tribute!"

. . .

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