Lex Larsons

I found the book by my doorstep a few weeks ago.

It was a leather-bound volume, tied shut with a string and slightly damp from the rain that morning. At first, I didn't think it was meant for me; although much improved, Eight's new system of delivery was still problematic, at best. But I had to take a closer look at it. And lo and behold, it had my name scrawled right across the cover. Mine.

Turns out, it was an old History of Panem (really old), the type that had been stocked in the bookshelves of every school and library in the districts before the war. When I was in high school, education of Panem's history would practically revolve around the Hunger Games. History of Panem was perfect because it had provided Capitol-approved summaries for every year of them.

Thinking about the past was something I did well and often, but it didn't distract me from the fact that there was a reason I had this book. Someone had left it here for me. Someone I probably knew.

I keep close contact with few people in the district; my house is considered as isolated as it gets in Bobbin, on the non-residential side of our town's three factories and down a dirt pass through the pines. It had been my parents' house once.

The week I found that History of Panem, I would take a trip into town to try and get to the bottom of it, but none of my few contacts would admit to sending me the book. The day I found it, I remember thinking: Well, I've seen enough history happen in front of me to last a lifetime. I figure I don't need to learn any more of it.

But in spite of myself, I picked the book up and started flipping through it.

Let me tell you, Panem's history is not a well-kept record. At least, not this record. Of course, there's plenty of information on each year of the Hunger Games, save for the final few. Usually, an updated version would be published annually, following the conclusion of that year's Games, but that stopped after the seventy-third or fourth. It was only a few years ago, but I don't remember. I was recently out of school in those years; I wouldn't have bothered reading about history then.

Along with the considerable chunk of pages dedicated to the Games, there's a list of every President who ever ran our country. It had always been a slow-growing list, especially once the terms were lengthened indefinitely. Someone, probably the book's previous owner, had tacked President Paylor's name onto the end of it; scratched it right across the bottom of the page in red ink. A true patriot. Probably sent books like these to all of the well-known revolutionaries. It occurred to me that, until I had received this gift, I hadn't counted myself among them.

I looked down at the book again, turning to the back inside cover for an author description. I found something better; a handwritten inscription in that same red ink. Slightly smeared, but still legible.

Burn the book. Write your own.

It made me laugh a little, the idea that, whoever this well-intentioned patriot was, they wanted me to start documenting my side of the story. And that my side of the story even mattered enough to be acknowledged like this. Mostly at the thought of my writing a book, though. A history book, too. As if.

Despite this, I had no problem with the idea of seeing History of Panem in flames. So that was still going to happen.

I was, and still am, one of the many people in my district who hold the belief that all of history is written by victors. Not victors as in the remaining six survivors of the Hunger Games (although that certainly would make for an interesting textbook). History is written by the winners of wars, the countries whose armies seized neighboring countries, and all of the capitols out there in the world trying to keep their districts 'in line'. History of Panem is no exception. When the Capitol prevailed in the first rebellion, they didn't care to document the details of battles; to list the names of the lives they took (Though conversely, they did exactly that for each year of the Games). Seventy-five years later, the districts rose up again. This time, we won the war. Now we get to write some history of our own.

As I flipped though History of Panem again, I kept that in mind.

...

It may be different for everyone, but most citizens can name the year they began to resent the Capitol. It's normally rather early on for those living in the outer districts. My own animosity towards the leaders of Panem surfaced for the first time when I was eight years old. That was the year my brother, Jus, was picked to represent District Eight in the 64th Hunger Games.

The Games themselves are a televised fight to the death that once took place every year in Panem. They began just after District Thirteen was destroyed, at the end of the first rebellion, and persisted for seventy-five years. The Capitol's initial way of punishing the twelve remaining districts was by forcing them to send their children to be killed, demonstrating the absolute power they held over us all. People objected, of course, and the first Hunger Games was the compromise. But after that, the Games continued, and the rebels were quelled for generations. I wasn't even born until year fifty-six.

Two kids from each district, between the ages of twelve and eighteen, were chosen to participate in the Games. There were twenty-four 'tributes' in all. Some kids from the wealthier districts started volunteering to go in, just for the glory of it, their possible victory. You could say that their chances of winning were slightly less slim than the other tributes; with their skills, they could afford to be hopeful. The kids would train for a little while in the Capitol, learning how to use weapons and survive in the wilderness. It was only a week before they were thrown into an outdoor arena and forced to kill each other. The Games turned the districts' children against each other. I guess that was part of why the Capitolites enjoyed it so much.

The Hunger Games were also broadcasted live to the entire country. Everyone got to watch. A few years after the Games were introduced, the people of the Capitol started to take pleasure in watching them. Soon enough, they morphed from a sadistic form of punishment into the most exciting entertainment in Panem. At least, the Capitolites thought of it that way. The Hunger Games, the event of the year. A time for Capitol citizens to gloat about their victorious past and watch the children of their enemies slaughter each other.

I spent a while in the Capitol when I was twenty, not by choice. The people in that city all looked like circus performers to me. They'd dye their hair and skin outrageous colors; add gemstones and whiskers to their faces. I saw a lot of overly flamboyant clothes and some seriously garish makeup while I was there. A lot of the women (and some of the men) owned shoes that looked like torture devices. They all spoke about the Games like they were the most anticipated event of the year. Which, in the Capitol, I guess they were. As recently as a few years ago, everyone over there would look forward to the Games as much as the people of the districts would dread them.

Jus was picked when he was sixteen. He lasted one week in a frigid, rocky arena before the girl from District Four cut his throat. Watching it from our home was surreal, as if what I was seeing on the screen wasn't reality. But I knew nothing had been staged. Because the flicker of hope I'd felt when I saw his seven in training—when he escaped the bloodbath alive—went out like a candle on a windy night.

Hatred is a searing, burning feeling; passions like that can boil up inside of you for a lifetime if you aren't careful. It hurts, too, especially when it's all mixed up with the pain of loss. If it doesn't eventually go away, it blinds you. But the real danger appears when you start to feel like you have to do something about it. This, embodied in every broken family the Games produced, was part of what instigated the rebellion.

The other part was Katniss Everdeen, a teenager from District Twelve who volunteered to be a tribute in her younger sister's place. On top of that, she went into the 74th Games with the boy she loved, and they both made it out alive. Her story started off like something out of a Capitol soap. But later on, Everdeen became a Panem-wide symbol of rebellion. It's impossible to talk about the revolution without mentioning our Mockingjay.

Today, when people look back on Panem's recent history, they'll probably recognize District Twelve as the source of it all. The spark that ignited our revolution. And don't get me wrong; it's true that their tribute inspired us all to fight back. But no matter how much good Everdeen did for the rebellion, her district wasn't the one that started the fire.

The real revolution began in Eight.

Hope you enjoyed the first chapter! This is what happens when I'm bored and supposed to be studying for a test… I'll come back to this later, though. Please review and tell me what you think! (UPDATE: Edited Jan 11 2014) (UPDATE: Edited Dec 1 2014, I've begun to revise the first six chapters so I can bring this story back into full swing.)