Something terrible is going to happen today.

Of course it isn't, stop being ridiculous.

My sheets are sticky against my legs and small beads of sweat linger around my hairline. A small hand drags over my collarbone and Aspen rolls on top of me, pressing her chin into the nape of my neck. She must've crawled in with me in the middle of the night.
"Annie?" she whispers, opening her eyes heavily
"Mm?"
"It's reaping day"

My stomach drops then flies up to my throat. Aspen's only 5, she has years until the Capitol can try to kill her. My eyes close and I take a deep, shaky breath. I run my hands along her head, fingers ghosting over her hair.
"I know," I murmur. "Let's get up now, maybe we can go to the beach before we have to go."
She smiles into my neck and jumps up, bouncing across my bed and on to the wooden floor, her bedraggled hair shining golden in the sunrise seeping through the window. My stomach won't seem to un-tense itself when I stretch.

Aspen has disappeared into her bedroom so I take the time to get dressed in my ordinary clothes, refusing to acknowledge my reaping dress hanging on the wardrobe; the sickly pink fabric resting on layers of mesh netting contrasts garishly with the green and blue of the room. I'd much rather wear fabric shorts and a t-shirt than a dress to the reaping. Dresses are tight and stuffy and make you feel like your stomach's being constricted. I can't run a brush through my hair because of the hundreds of ties my mother put it in last night, so I cover it with a sun hat. Apparently the ties make me have pretty bird nest hair, not rampaged bird nest hair. She only does it on reaping day.

"Penny?" I ask, lingering at her closed door opposite mine.
"Wait!" She cries. I stop abruptly and hold my breath slightly until my presence fades. Before long I hear a small clattering of objects and the closing of a drawer and Aspen is back at the door, beaming proudly at me. She takes my hand tightly and presses something bumpy into it, making sure I can't see it until she instructs to do so. "Now look!" She commands. I inadvertently roll my eyes at the domineering tone in her voice and open my palm. Inside is a necklace made of a cluster of different beads, worn glass, messy knots and small shells strung on a rope that was no doubt made with a five year old's hands. "I made it myself for your good luck!" She beams. I can feel my nose block and damp threatens to touch my eyes- but I can't cry, never in front of Aspen. She knows today is my second to last reaping.
"Why, it's the most beautiful thing I've seen in my life!" I exclaim, feigning the sickly voices of the Capitol women on TV, earning a giggle from my sister. I wonder if they still sound that pleasantly surprised when children are dead on TV. "Thank you Angel," I say normally, kissing her head after I clasp the string around my neck.

We spend a few hours at the beach in the cove near the Victors Village's private one; you can't get any closer to it without accessing directly. Any strip of beach would've been empty, but this is our 'secret beach'. Aspen swims, collects more shells to stick to her mirror and begs repeatedly for me to let her braid my hair. It's not until the sun reaches high enough to beam directly at my eyes we leave.

Our mother unties my hair and lets me comb through it while she bathes Aspen, much to her disapproval. I don't look like my mother- I don't have her blonde straight hair or pristine bronze skin, qualities she shares with my sister. I'm pale and covered in freckles, and my hair is dark and curled. I look like my father. He drowned when I was 13, not long after Aspen was born, when the boat he was on capsized. It killed my mother from the inside out, which is probably why her eyes are always narrowed and her lips are always pursed, as if she's dying to say something terrible and brash but she won't say it. I miss when she used to smile all the time.
"Annie, you need to get your dress on now, or your hair will spoil," she instructs. I always watch the walls as I ascend the stairs to find the small spots of colour that couldn't be covered by the white paint that covered the house after my father died. He would always joke about reaping day, calling it the circus animal's lottery, the circus sortito. Maybe he was right, calling us circus animals. Four is a privileged District, and we are lucky, but we will never be more than the fishermen and glassworkers cooped inside their pen; the tributes that will make for a disappointment or a stunning win.

I ponder over my thoughts as we walk to the square for the reaping, using my hair to shield my face. My brother Trent meets us on his way. He's 21 now, and works his hardest at the docks day and night. I don't see much of him any more. He's reserved and quiet, but has always been calming to be around. Once at the square, Aspen hugs me tightly and checks I'm wearing my necklace several times before I can put her down, and my mother squeezes my hand too tight for it to be relaxing. Trent smiles weakly, never being one to offer contact. It helps my shoulders drop slightly and my teeth un-grit, but is useless against the hurricane inside my stomach. The sun is relentless in an area with closely packed bodies and no shade and I suddenly feel nauseous. The sight of our Escort trotting on to the stage causes me to flinch; Seraphina Findlay has ditched last years metallic golden skin and has now adorned herself in obnoxiously large interlocking hexagons across her entire body that are in blues, yellows and reds so bright it could give a headache to someone miles away. Her dress is merely rhinestones glued strategically on to a transparent latex wrap that ends at the tops of her thighs. Her teeth glint in the light as she sings her welcomes and rebellion history to us all. Maybe someone will volunteer this year, but after the disastrous follow ons of volunteers inspired by Finnick Odair's win 5 years ago, it seems idealistic. No; not idealistic, or hopeful. This shouldn't be happening at all. I shouldn't hope for death.

"And now ladies and gentlemen of District 4, we will discover the lucky two chosen to represent us all!" Seraphina chimes. Her voice drips with grotesque excitement. I divert my eyes to my feet and stare intently at the brick, willing something to be there.
"The female tribute for District 4 is…" She drawls, taking far too long to announce the name of the person who will be dead too soon. I now pray for a trapdoor to carve itself into the floor so I can slip silently away, like I always have. I fiddle with my necklace and try to ignore a drum that is beating faintly in my ears and that lungs are resisting my instructions to work properly.

"Annie Cresta!"

How many Annie Crestas have lived? Maybe there's one right here, one who is unheard of, like me. Poor thing, she probably doesn't deserve it, does she?
Do I?
The drum beat now resonates so loud it hurts and my lungs have won. Everyone's eyes are stabbing me and I can't even feel my feet leave the floor but I'm now I've tripped on to a stage that's spinning like a whirlwind and the dampness behind my eyes wants to rip me apart. Aspen is 5 years old and always told me that she wants to get old like Martha at the bakery, and I have to look after her when she's old like that. Logically, I couldn't anyway, but I definitely can't now, because I'm dead. Trent has a girlfriend but refuses to tell me who, and now I won't meet her, because I'm dead. I don't dare look up. People don't want to see a dead girl without the protection of a TV screen.

"Parker Hagan!"

He's dead too. He's 12. His father owns a stall that sells pretty clocks and wall furnishings. He could've done that one day. Someone says something I can't hear, but Seraphina cheers in delight.
"Oh, we have a volunteer! Marvellous!" Someone different for the grave.
I don't look at anything but the floor. The dampness has beat me and it's making marks on the stone and my cheeks. The boy who volunteered is called Isaac Thadal. I haven't let go of my necklace. When we have to shake hands I find comfort in his hand being as clammy as mine, but nothing but unrest at him being only marginally older than Parker, 15 at the most. He managed to beat the selected Career's reactions to volunteer. Volunteers are always 18 year old Career superstars, ready to take a younger child's place if needs be. He is brave, I'm not. Either way, none but one can win these Games. We are not that one. We are four.

A/N: Thank you for reading :) feedback is always welcome x