Author's Note
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. The fantastic and incredible Suzanne Collins does. I wasn't sure what to put as Rue's surname, but I thought 'Bayley' suited her well. My apologies to anyone who thinks otherwise. This is my first fanfic, so I hope you enjoy! Please R&R, and add any thing that you think I've gotten wrong in this. I want to make this story as accurate to Suzanne Collins' description of Rue and her family as possible.

"Rue Bayley."

It's me! Me! My name has been called. All the wind is knocked out of me. No! I can't go! I have my family to help support. Daisy, Joy, Rose, Lilly, Annabelle, Mom! I can't leave them.

But I have to.

A murmur of dissent rumbles through the crowd, as it does whenever a young child, a twelve-year-old, is chosen. I guess I had it coming. My name was in the reaping ball nineteen times. Nineteen times on my first year. Out of thousands, maybe millions. Who knows how many twelve-to-eighteen-year-olds there are in District Eleven.

I'm given a little push by someone behind me, a push that says, "Up you go. I'm sorry." Sorry it has to be you. Sorry you have to die.

I slowly make my way through the crowd, my face pale, feeling the cameras zooming in on me like predators watching prey before they pounce. It's as if I'm wading through thick mud, or a neck-high bush. Every step hurts. Eventually, though, I reach the stage and shakily take my place on the stage.

"Any volunteers?" the District 11 escort asks in his ridiculous Capitol warble. How on earth do people talk like that? Barely opening their mouths. Raising their tone at the end of questions, making it sound like they're asking questions. Their voices going up and down in odd places. Hissing on the 's', like snakes – and acting just as slippery. I hold my head high, not daring to look my family. I wonder if any of them would volunteer in my place, if they could? No one speaks up, except for the wind, which whistles past me and swirls around the district. I expect this. If you're chosen, you're on your own. District Eleven is the largest district. There's an uncountable number of eligible people, and no one dares to volunteer to take the place of a girl in a family with six kids.

My throat tightens, as it does whenever I try not to cry, and I clench my fists. There's this heavy weight in the pit of my stomach; I know something really, really bad is going to happen to me but the full realisation hasn't quite hit me yet. I just have this horrible feeling of dread.

The escort calls out the name of a boy called Thresh. I watch Thresh with wary eyes as he takes to the stage. He mustn't be from around where I live – I've never seen him before in my life. I would remember if I did. He's a massive guy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, real heavy and bulky. The biggest teenager I've ever laid eyes on, as big as a lot of those District Two boys. They're real giants. Thresh lumbers up to the stage and takes his place. Of course, there are no volunteers. At least Thresh looks like he has a chance at winning. Me, on the other hand...

I nervously tuck my thick, dark hair behind my ear with trembling fingers and face the monster who will soon be my enemy. Who already is my enemy. I hope he has a soft spot for small, young girls like me. We're directed to shake hands, and my hand is lost in his unbelievably large grasp. His hand is warm but his eyes are the opposite, and I have to avert my gaze in fear of breaking down.

I hear a few sobs in the crowd and I recognise them to be my sisters'. I take a big, ragged breath and face the crowd once again as the escort trills, "Welcome to the 74th annual Hunger Games."

At those words my life just falls apart.

A strangled sob escapes my lips and I desperately hold back any more of them. I have to be strong. Thresh and I are swept away into the Justice Building by a whole lot of Peacekeepers. My breaths are coming in quick pants and my hands are clenched so tightly into fists I swear my nails draw blood. Now the worst part comes: Saying goodbye to our families.

My heart squeezes as I think the word goodbye. It's goodbye forever. This is the last time I'll ever see them. They'll see me, not in person, but on TV. In the Hunger Games. But from this hour on all I'll have left of them are memories.

No, Rue, I think sharply. Don't think about that now. Not while the cameras are staring at you like wide, unblinking eyes, drinking in your every move, your every emotion, your every word. I struggle to keep my emotions under control. I'm ushered into a room and left alone. I use the short time to find the right words to say to my sisters and my mother – words that will leave them sad to see me go, but not absolutely devastated. I scratch the soft, smooth material on the seat that I'm sitting on. I don't know what it is, but it's sure relaxing. I inhale the musty, moldy scent of the old building, using it to settle my nerves. Well, a little.

I look up as I hear the creak of the unused wooden door and see my family file in. We all look pretty much the same, except Mom's face is lined and weathered from squinting while working under the hot sun. We all have dark skin, all of District 11 does. My sisters all stand slightly on their toes and their arms slightly extended, like a flock of little birds. Mom says I do that too. Makes sense, I guess. Working in the treetops at the orchard with the mockingjays has given me the skill of hopping from branch to branch as easily as walking on the ground.

I smile weakly as my younger sisters all rush over to me and pile on top of me in a group hug. I clutch them all tightly to me, never wanting to let go. Then I stand up and throw myself onto my mother. She holds me close.

"I don't want to go," I whisper.

Mom pulls back and we sit on the floor, not on the chairs, in a circle like at home when we're listening to each other's stories or listening to each other's songs. Music is important, Mom always says. It fills your heart and helps you work through the day. I join hands with my sisters, but all five want to sit next to me, so I end up in the centre of my own miniature circle, each of my sisters placing a hand on me somewhere – my arm, my hand, my shoulder, my back, my knee. I reach over Lilly to grab Mom's hand.

"Mom," I choke.

"Hush, Rue. Don't worry," Mom says softly. "You will be fine."

But we both know I won't be.

"Will you be OK, though?" I ask, holding her hand tighter.

"We'll be okey-dokey karaoke, Rue," Daisy says.

"Yeah. We'll work extra hard. And Rose can get tessera in a few years," Joy agrees.

"No! No, I don't want any of you taking tessera. I don't want any of you to go through what I'll have to go through," I say firmly. Tessera is what you're given if you enter your name into the reaping ball more times, but all it is a meagre supply of grain that tastes like wood-chips and cooks into a yucky brown mush.

"But you will win, right, Rue?" Annabelle asks, squeezing my arm. Her eyes are so full of hope and love that I struggle not to cry.

"I'll try my hardest, Belle. You can count on that," I choke.

"Pinky promise!" Daisy says, sticking out her hand. I wrap my pinky finger around hers and give it a shake, then do it with the rest of my sisters. Mom's eyes tear up. I hold out my hand to her.

"Pinky promise, Mom," I breathe. She nods, beginning to cry now, and curls her little finger around mine.

I tell my sisters what they have to do to help out now that I won't be able to – if they're given my old job at the orchard, the job at the very top of the trees, then they mustn't forget to pass along the message of closing time through the mockingjays; give Mom a hand in the kitchen, even when she doesn't ask for it; go to bed early and work hard during the day; and above all, keep their heads high and be brave. "If you're brave, then nothing can ever knock you down," I say. "No matter what happens, you have to stay strong."

Then I address each of my sisters individually, then my mother, telling them how much I love them in turn and the best things about them.

"You can win, Rue!" Lilly says fiercely. "You can fly like a bird! Just let the other people fight themselves and then you can win because you'll be hiding in the trees."

"Yeah! Just keep running. At the Corncup –"

"Cornucopia," I correct Daisy.

"Cornucopia. At the Cornucopia, just run from the fighting in the other way."

"That doesn't make sense, Daisy," I say gently, rubbing her shoulder.

"This whole thing doesn't make sense!" Annabelle cries.

"You have to win, Rue. You can," Lilly repeats urgently.

"Maybe," I murmur. I look to Mom. "Make sure you raise them as well as you raised me," I say. Mom just nods, crying too much to speak. "Don't cry, Mom," I say, tearing up myself.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice ragged and uneven. "It's just… my little flower. She's finally bloomed, and now…"

Now I'm in real danger of crying. Mom hasn't called me her little flower since I was a toddler. After all, I was named after a flower, one that sits high on the mountains. "Mom…"

I hear the Peacekeepers footsteps and I pull everyone in for a great big hug. The Peacekeepers have to all but pull them off me and I'm yelling after them how much I love them. My mother tries to come back in, screaming, "Wait! Rue! Rue! Wear this in the arena!" She throws a braided necklace at me and it slides across the floor. "I will, Mom! I'll never take it off," I yell. But the doors are closed, and I'll never see her again. I hear a tune being sung. I strain my ears harder. There it is again – my four-note tune that signifies that it's time to go home. It must be Mom. I run to the door and sing it back in a clear, loud voice. I don't hear it again.

I collapse on the couch, my arms wrapped around my stomach in an attempt to hold back the tears. You can cry later, I tell myself. There are cameras out there; hold it in until you get to the train.

I can't breathe. The wind has been knocked out of me, as if I've fallen out of a tree and landed on my back, as I've done plenty of times. All that's going through my mind is breathe, breathe, breathe…

Soon Peacekeepers pull me to my feet roughly and guide me outside with guns trained on me. They'd be happy to shoot me; it's easy to get another female tribute. We're expendable. Thresh is out there, too. He doesn't even look like he's had a rough time saying goodbye. There're cameramen absolutely everywhere, like leaves on the ground in fall. They crawl along beside Thresh and me. I purse my lips and stick my nose in the air, showing that the viewers in the Capitol shouldn't count me out. That I know what I'm doing and I'm going to do it with ferocity. In truth, I'm completely lost inside. How can they expect a twelve-year-old to just act OK with leaving all that she's left behind to fight to the death against twenty-three other tributes while the Capitol citizens sit by and enjoy the show? Ever since the districts had an uprising against the Capitol way back in the day and District 13 was obliterated, the Hunger Games have been put into motion. One boy, one girl from each district, thrown into an arena. Kill or be killed. There's only one winner, of course. There can only be one winner. Which means only one person can live.

And I know that person can't ever be me. Oh, I want it to be. How I desperately want it to be me. But there's no way. There are boys the size of Thresh there, but even more deadly as they know how to handle weapons too. And girls who can hit a bull's eye with a throwing knife from a million miles away. There are kids like me too. But we won't last long. We never do.

I stumble onto the train after pausing for a moment or two so the cameras have a better chance to devour our images. I lean against a wall as the train doors slide shut. We speed away and I feel a bit weird from moving so fast but not moving my legs. I'm not good at math, but I'm guessing at this pace we should reach the Capitol in less than a day.

I'm directed to my cabin and I lurch into my temporary bedroom in a way that suggests I'm drunk, lock the door behind me and tumble onto the bed. I hug the pillow, rocking back and forth. And finally I allow myself to cry.