Chapter One

My body tells that I am awake before my eyes open. I hear the birds in the trees, twittering joyfully, and the soft, familiar snoring emerges from the room to my left. I roll over onto my side, the bed creaking, and curl my body into a ball. If only the world would let me sleep a while longer…

It doesn't seem to work that way. The birds are still persistent; flapping their wings like it is them with my fists. My shoulder hurts from where I've been sleeping on it, and I message it with my hand to get the numbness to go away. It works, somewhat, and I roll out of bed, sleepily undressing out of my silky pajamas, green and white made of expensive fabric, and wrap my robe around my body. It is still early, and I shiver, hurrying down the hall after I creak open the door.

The bathing room is steaming, the tub looking inviting, but I can tell someone has been in here before me; there is a splash of water on the floor that I almost slip in. I throw a towel down and close the door behind me, spinning the lock. The steam fogs up the mirrors, and I rub away a spot to see my face.

The same freckles I have had since I was born freckle the bridge of my nose, more sun-induced ones spread out over my cheeks. I have a sharp chin, so sharp my brother, Vander, and my father used to tease me I would poke a hole in all my shirts. My mother used to defend me, though now that I reflect, it wasn't truly a defense. She always used to say if I did happen to poke a hole in my shirt, she would sew it for me.

My black hair hangs in loose strands down my back, looking slept on and matted. I would say my hair is my best feature, most people say so. I'd like to think it attracts attention from my chin.

By now, the mirror has fogged up, and I pull away from the small portion of my reflection I can see. I drape my robe around the hook on the back of the door and climb the two steps to get to the large bath. As soon as my first foot hits the bottom, the rest of my body follows in one fluid motion, sinking into the bubbles like it is a warm embrace. I feel myself smiling, breathing in deeply.

I dunk my head under after I close my eyes. The water stings my eyelids, trying to make its way through to my eyes, and my hair fans out on the top of the water. I stay beneath the surface until I count to 20, and then slowly come up for air.

Realizing I've used up too much of my time already, I wash my hair more hurriedly then I usually would have, digging my fingers into my scalp in the process. I use my mother's expensive shampoo, the kind we've had for ages and only use on special occasions. My mother hardly buys shampoo anymore. Come to think of it, I can't remember the last time she bought us anything.

I wrap myself in a towel, a big fluffy white one, and comb out my hair so it is flowing down my back again. Someone has put a nice neat pile of clothes outside of the door, and I dress in the bathing room. The clothes smell like starch, but I can tell they are new, made especially for me. I remember my father taking me to the fitting months ago, for my new Reaping clothes. This is a big deal in District 2.

I smooth my hand over the new green blouse I am wearing. It fits me tightly, hugging my body in all the write places, but the tailor seems to have brought it in a bit too much at my hip. The seams of the black fabric stretch and pull at my skin, but I pull the darker green skirt on over it. It makes it look a bit better, but I will have to remember not to breathe for a while. Overall, I look sophisticated, or as much as I can be on a day like this

I come down the stairs barefoot, making as little noise as possible. It is impossible to tell which sort of mood my mother will be in. I am hoping it is one of her highs, her busy-body stage where everything must be perfect, everything must be done. But then again, I almost wish she were at a lower mood, then she wouldn't have such devastation when she lost interest in whatever she was doing to cause her high. Her disease is something you are forced to live with. Her moods change rapidly; she will have interest in the strangest things that have nothing to do with anything reasonable. And then when she gets bored, she gets really depressed and angry. It's hard for any of us to remember a time when she was sane.

It seems she's at one of her lows right now. No breakfast on the table like she made last year for Reaping. There had been bacon and eggs and an entire plate of golden toast with orange juice and jam. The table is bare this year.

"Disappointed?" I hear a voice from the kitchen. Vander is sinking his teeth into an apple, leaning against the counter.

"No, I expected it." I snap back. He grins and tosses me an apple, a sour green one. I take a bite and pucker at the bitterness. "It was sort of nice last year, though."

My brother smiles ruefully and straightens the collar of his stiff shirt. He was probably miss-measured too; I can see it's a bit tight on him. Vander is 17, a year older than me, and just as heavily trained as I am. They call us Careers here, though neither of us will be volunteering until we are 18. "Yeah. But I haven't seen bacon in the house since then."

I sit down at the table, drumming my bitten fingernails on the surface. "You look nice."

"So do you. Your hair's a little damp, though." He teases, taking another bite of his apple.

"I was hoping maybe Mom would be okay enough to do it for me." I tell him with a snap. He knows that I am the most sensitive about our mother's disorder. Our father works, gets us into training, yet never takes care of his wife when she needs him most. That is the reason I hate him.

"Sorry, maybe I could try to?" he offers. Sometimes Vander is very protective over me, I'm pretty sure he would take a bullet for me if the chance came along. He's more of a parent then our mother or father ever was. "I'm not very good at braiding, I should warn you." He sits down beside me.

I lean up and kiss his cheek. There is still a bit of morning scruff he missed while he was shaving. "Thank you."

He smiles that smile I love, the one where the one corner of his mouth can't help tugging up towards his right ear.

We sit in silence, stiff in our Reaping clothes. Neither of us is afraid of the Hunger Games. District 2 is full of Careers that train at the Academy since they were young, like us, and volunteer in the place of whatever name is drawn. Next year, Vander will have to decide whether he will volunteer or retire from the training and pursue a different career.

Our father comes into the kitchen, dressed in his best clothes, similar to Vander's. His black eyes look tired and droopy, like he's stayed up all night for something. I don't understand why, both I and Vander are safe from the Reaping until we decide to volunteer. He immediately looks to me, picking with my stubby nails at my apple core.

"Irina, I need to speak with you." He growls under his breath. His face is thick with facial hair, and I can tell he hasn't shaved in a few days. I don't see my father often, seeing him like this is a shock. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Vander's sharp, green eyes widen, and his body becomes stiff.

"Al-Alright." I stammer, shooting him a glance from the corner of my eye.

"Vander." He turns his attention to his only son. "I need to speak to Irina alone."

Vander puts his hands up and backs out of the kitchen, into the living room. My father calls an annoyed "Keep your clothes clean!" and turns his beady eyes back to me. I raise my thin eyebrows at him.

"Happy Reaping Day." He tells me half-heartedly. I can tell my eyes are darkening, as they always do when I am angry.

"Sure." I shrug, keeping as calm as I can. My father angers me more than anyone does.

"You're handy with a knife, Irina." Says my father. "I've seen you, you're the best in your age group."

It's true. If someone stood against a wall and let me throw knives at them, I'd probably be able to give them a professional haircut while doing that alone.

"Yeah." I pick out a seed from the core of my apple that is suddenly very interesting.

"Your mother is sick, you know." He clears his throat. Of course she is, she was diagnosed years ago. Not that you would know, I'm the one who takes care of her. "We're losing money, Rina."

"I'll get a job." I say.

"I need you to do something else." He reaches out and takes my hand. He hasn't held my hand in years, probably not since I was 8 years old. You grow up quicker when you're in training to kill people professionally. "Irina, you know I love you, don't you?"

"No." I feel my mouth becoming a flat line. I can't remember the last time he told me something so affectionate.

He growls and throws my hand back at me. "Irina, you're going to volunteer."

"I'm only 16." I growl back. Careers are almost always a strict 18 years old, the maximum age for the Hunger Games. I should have expected he would try something like this. I am more of a fighter than Vander ever will be. "I'm not going to."

My father reaches out and smacks me hard across the cheek. I hardly flinch, watching him clench his teeth. "Yes. You are, Irina."

I lean back in my chair, staring at him. His handprint stings on my cheek, but I don't reach up to touch it. The realization is just sinking in; I will be volunteering for the Hunger Games. A shiver runs through my body, and I suddenly feel too exposed in my Reaping clothes.

"Irina, do you understand me?" he takes my sharp chin in his hand and jerks it around to look him in the eyes. I look down and try to pull away.

"Yes." I finally separate from him, pushing my chair back from the kitchen table, making loud skidding noises on the hardwood floor. My jaw clenches as I turn to leave the room, angry at my father for expecting too much of me, for wanting me to kill children on live television. "By the way, you got my Reaping clothes too tight."