The room is hot when I open my eyes. I am sweating, an unfortunately common way for me to wake up during the summer months. Our air must have been shut off again last night, turning the small apartment I call home into a sauna.

I quietly slip out of bed and peel my oversized tee shirt off, dropping the wet garment on the floor. I pull a tank top out of my closet and pull it over my head before opening the door to my bedroom, exiting the space and heading down the hall towards the kitchen.

There is not a sound in the whole apartment—Blaine must still be sleeping. He normally sleeps in, but how he can sleep in on Reaping Day, I will never understand.

I flit around the kitchen quietly, preparing a pot of coffee Blaine and I will share when he wakes. I grab the few strips of bacon we have as well as two large eggs. I even pull out a few packets of sugar, something we save for special occasions. I wouldn't call Reaping Day a special occasion, but it could be the last time either of us enjoys a meal in our small kitchen. We like having a nice breakfast one day out of the year.

After all, District 8 tributes normally don't come home alive.

Blaine, who also happens to be my cousin, and I share a small apartment in one of the rundown buildings in what people in District 8 call "The Pit." It's not an actual pit, but it got its name for being the armpit of the district. It's the poorest area of District 8, the area where those who never seem to have enough of anything live. I was born in the Pit, grew up in the Pit, and if I'm lucky I'll die in the Pit as well.

Of course, I most likely won't die here. It's more likely I will die in the Hunger Games arena at the hands of some fifteen-year-old who has trained his whole life to kill me.

From the moment I was born, the odds have not been in my favor.

My mother, Shelby Corcoran, was one of the few victors District 8 has had. She won the 48th Hunger Games when she was only fourteen. I don't know how—she never let me watch the old tapes of her games. She claimed they would traumatize me. I never believed her. I think she didn't want to see them again more than she cared about me seeing them. When she was sixteen, she married Leroy Berry, my father. Four months after their wedding, my sister Beth was born. My mother found out six months later she was pregnant with me.

And for that brief moment in time, everything was okay in the world.

But on my father's last reaping, his name was called. No one stepped up to volunteer to take his place—who would when being a tribute in District 8 was essentially a death sentence? My mother left Beth with a neighbor while she was forced to mentor her husband on how to survive a fight to the death.

He fought to the death, never giving up even after he'd been stabbed multiple times by a boy from District 2. He eventually died, but not before taking two others with him. The people in the Capitol still talk about him today, a rarity for someone who didn't win their games.

Growing up, my mother never smiled. She refused to live in the house in the victor's village, preferring life in the Pit to it. I think she stayed there because it reminded her of my father. Beth and I tried to cheer her up constantly, but nothing ever seemed to work.

When Beth was twelve, her name was pulled during the reaping, and my mother was once again forced to mentor someone she loved, knowing they most likely weren't coming home with her. She died the first day of the 62nd Hunger Games. My mother decided to play Russian roulette with a loaded gun a week later, two weeks before I turned twelve. I don't think she could bear the thought of mentoring her only other child just to watch her be sent into the Hunger Games arena like cattle for the slaughter.

I've been on my own ever since.

Blaine's parents died in a factory explosion when he was fourteen, so he's been living with me ever since. His older brother, Cooper, lives with us as well, but only when he's fighting with Taffeta, his girlfriend. Blaine and I both work in textile factories, the industry of our district, as well as going to school. Most people from the Pit are factory workers. For their first job, at least.

As a girl from the Pit, I know how my life is going to turn out. I will never get married. I will spend my life working in a textile factory, and I will spend my nights working on the streets like every other Pit girl does. Clothed in tight skirts and low-cut tops, their specialty is pleasure for the richer members of District 8.

Pit boys have a different option if they wish. They can choose to go into the business of pleasure like the girls, though there isn't much of a market for it in District 8. Most of them choose to spend their nights in the underground arenas, beating the shit out of other Pit boys while the upper class of District 8 place bets on the winner. At the end of the night, the boys split all the money they've made before returning home to nurse their injuries. Then, it's back to the factory a few hours later. It's dangerous and there are deaths all the time, but it's the way of life here.

Blaine has done everything in his power to make sure I don't end up there, but we both know it's inevitable, just as it's inevitable that he'll end up in the sewers fighting the other Pit boys. We'll need the extra money for food when neither of us is eligible for tesserae anymore. Cooper's been fighting since he was sixteen. Now, at 26, he never loses.

My name is in the bowl 10 times this year while Blaine's is in 36 times, having taken tesserae for both him and his brother, as well as his parents when they were still alive. Every year he begs me to let him take tesserae for me, but I refuse. It wouldn't matter if my name is in one time or 100 times—the odds the paper Persei Roxen pulls out will say "Rachel Berry" are extremely high. I don't know why the Capitol has it out for my family, I just know I will become a victim to their Hunger Games by the time I turn eighteen, just like my sister, mother, and father before me.

I hear footsteps and Blaine walks into the kitchen, dressed only in his boxers, his chest damp with sweat. "They shut off our air again?" he asks. I nod my head. "Damn, I thought I sent in that bill."

"Are you sure you sent that in? And if you did, are you sure it was enough?" I ask.

Blaine seems think about it for a moment before shrugging, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He grabs a pack of sugar from the pile before looking up at me, a lazy grin on his face. "Oh yeah, happy Hunger Games."

"Happy Hunger Games to you as well," I say, raising my mug to him. "And may the odds be ever in your favor," I say, mimicking the ridiculous Capitol accent Persei has.

Blaine laughs before coming around to my side, peering over my shoulder and into the frying pan. "Mm, bacon," he says. "You spoil me, Rach."

"Don't get used to it, Anderson. This is all the bacon we have. I figured Reaping Day is the perfect excuse for me to fry it up for us. Hell, we might as well put a little meat on our bones, just in case." Pit kids are skinny. We never have enough to eat and we're always working when we're not at school.

"Well, I love bacon. I'll take what I can get. You should give me your helping as well—you don't need any fattening," he teases, sticking his tongue out in my direction. Blaine of course, is joking. If either of us needs fattening up, it's me. If I went into the arena as I currently am, I'd be sure to be one of the first to die.

The fact is I'm 16 and much skinnier than I should be. I'm not as bad off as the kids in the Seam in District 12, but I'm just a step above them. I'm naturally small for my age, but the small rations of food we get in the Pit do nothing to help me grow at all. I'm five foot nothing and weight maybe 100 pounds soaking wet. My dark brown hair is usually braided into two pigtails that hang on either side of my face. I have chocolate brown eyes and pale skin. In my own personal opinion, I'm nothing remarkable to look at, though Blaine says differently.

I scoop the food onto two plates, handing Blaine his, which he quickly inhales. Neither of us is very good at making food last. We get meals like this so infrequently, we eat them before they have a chance to go bad. Within a few minutes, we are both finished the bacon and eggs I cooked for breakfast. All that remains is the tough, tasteless bread our district is known for. Neither of us particularly likes it, but food is food. We split the roll, our chewing being the only sounds in our apartment.

Once breakfast is done, Blaine and I retreat to our respective rooms to change into our outfits for the Reaping. Cooper will pick us up soon to travel with us. Attendance at the Reaping is mandatory, even if you are not a potential tribute. The only way to not attend is if you are on your deathbed. Skipping a reaping is punishable by death. It's the same way in every district.

Every year, I make myself a new dress for the Reaping at the factory where I work. It's technically against the rules and punishable by public whipping, but it's so common that the local Peacekeepers don't care enough to discipline us so long as you're subtle about the materials you take and you don't do it all the time.

This year, the dress I'm wearing is white and coral made from silk. The top half is white with a coral skirt. The sleeves come to my upper arms while the skirt falls to just above my knees. I've paired it with cheap, white flats, a fake gold necklace, and earrings that resemble flowers. It's the only jewelry I own.

Blaine comes into my room, dressed in a short-sleeved button-up white shirt, grey slacks, and a red tie. He looks me over once, a grin on his face. "Are you feeling lucky today? You don't look as flawless as you normally do on Reaping day," he teases.

I roll my eyes, but don't say anything else about the Reaping. I don't like talking about it or the Hunger Games in general. They're too painful.

Cooper walks in just then, Taffeta on his arm. Taffeta is tall and skinny with long blonde hair that falls just above her waist. She's not from the Pit—her father actually owns a factory that produces ladies gowns. Yet, for some reason, she chooses to date Cooper, a Pit boy. Her parents seem to love Cooper anyways. They'll most likely get married one day.

Taffeta is dressed in a tight-fitting dark blue lace dress that comes above her knees. She's paired it with a pair of matching heels and earrings that I'm sure cost more than I make in a month. Taffeta is beyond gorgeous. She could have her pick of any boy in the district, yet she chooses to be with Cooper, someone who will never be able to give her the life she is used to living.

Blaine and I follow Cooper and Taffeta out of the apartment and down to the lobby, choosing to take the stairs rather than risk getting stuck in the elevator for an hour. The four of us make our way over to the subway which will take us downtown where the Reaping is held. The station is crowded since everyone in the Pit is going to the same place as us, but we manage to squeeze onto the train, standing close for a 30 minute train ride.

When we arrive downtown, Cooper and Taffeta lead us to the center of the city where every year they set up the Reaping. Many other kids are there, having already been checked in and sent to stand with the other kids their age. Cooper wishes us luck and gives us each a hug. I know this year is especially stressful since it's Blaine's last year. He's hoping Blaine will once again be safe. I'm praying for the same thing.

My finger is pricked by a Peacekeeper. My blood is taken and scanned before I am sent over to the area with the other sixteen-year-olds. I wave to Blaine who is standing with the eighteen-year-olds, giving him a smile.

Persei Roxen is up on stage already along with our mayor, Will Schuester, and Noah Puckerman the only living victors. Will won his games when I was two, so I don't remember them. All I know about him is that he's in a constant state of being either drunk off white liquor or out of his mind on various hallucinogenic drugs. As a victor, he is assigned to mentor the tributes before their games, doing his best to prepare them for the arena.

Noah's games I remember a little more. He won when he was 12, something unheard of. I was ten during his games and watched them with Blaine and Cooper while my mother was in the Capitol watching Noah compete. He played weak the whole games and hid, then came out and slaughtered the careers in their sleep. It was all a bit unsavory, but he's one of the few success stories our district has.

Once everyone has arrived, Persei walks up to the microphone, tapping it a few times. "Why hello everyone!" she says pleasantly, her Capitol accent dripping on every word she speaks. "Happy Hunger Games. It's so wonderful to see everyone's faces again." She falls silent as the video starts, the one that reminds us why we have this yearly event.

Before the Hunger Games ever existed, there was a rebellion. All the districts revolted against the Capitol in what was known as the "Dark Days". We lost, obviously, but not before district 13 was bombed into oblivion. As punishment, all the twelve remaining districts must give two tributes, a boy and a girl, to pay for their part in the rebellion.

"Well, let's get things started, shall we? Ladies first!" Persei trills, reaching a hand into the large glass bowl. In there, ten slips of paper say 'Rachel Berry'. Persei pulls one out, opening the paper and reading the name off. "Rachel Berry!" she calls.

A hush falls over the crowd before I hear Cooper shout, "No!" in the back. This is the day he's been dreading. He lived through his time at the Reaping without having his name called. This is Blaine's last year, and I only had a few years lest. I know he prays every night that we'll be spared. It's only the three of us left, and I know he can't bear the thought of losing one of us.

I look over and see the color has drained from Blaine's face. He's not moving, but is gripping the fence he's standing next to. His knuckles are white as a sheet and he doesn't seem to be able to move.

A Peacekeeper comes over as I make my way to the front. He doesn't look at me. Instead, he walks me up the stairs until I am on stage.

Persei even seems a little startled by my appearance. I know everyone in District 8 has been hoping my name would never be called. The Hunger Games has taken everything from me already—the least they could do is let me keep my life.

Persei puts an arm around my shoulder in front of the microphone as Will looks on. I saw the pain in his eyes when my name was called. Will and I have history—he's like an uncle to me. My mother was his mentor in his games, and he mentored my sister with her. He stops in and sees me every so often to make sure I'm alive. I saw him yesterday and he told me, in a rare moment of lucidness, that this was the year.

I guess he was right.

Noah doesn't even look in my direction. He and I met for the first time after he won his games, though we were both children then. He was there for my mother's funeral and stops by from time to time to check in on me. I know he doesn't like being in the Pit-people who aren't from there find the desolate state of life there unnerving and the people unsavory. He mainly stops by to make sure I'm still alive. I assume it's some promise he made to my mother shortly before her death. Besides her, the two of us share nothing in common. He has more money than he could ever want from winning his games while I've recently been at the mercy of the older men in our district who have a penchant for younger girls to make ends meet. I don't know if it is possible for two people to have less in common.

"Your mother must be so happy right now!" Persei squeals. "Well, it seems you're joining the family business," she jokes with a small chuckle. No one else laughs. I can sense the outrage they're feeling, but no one steps up to volunteer.

No, my mother most certainly would not be happy right now. This was the exact reason she deserted me in the first place. I am not the ideal candidate for a tribute. I'm short, skinny, and have no combat training. I'll be lucky if I make it five minutes in the arena.

Persei ushers me off to the side where I take a seat next to Will. He's staring at me as though I've sprouted horns or something. I can smell the alcohol on him. I shift away from him, uncomfortable. "Now, for the boys," Persei announces. I send a silent prayer that Blaine's name not be picked. I can kill strangers, but I'll never be able to kill Blaine. "Knot McQueen!" she announces.

There is a loud scream and a woman in the crowd faints. A young boy—no more than 13, starts heading towards the front. He doesn't seem to be able to think. He makes his way to the stage, all the blood from his face gone at this point. I don't know how he is still standing now. I expected him to pass out as soon as the peacekeepers came to lead him up to the stage.

This is even more wrong than my name being called. He's only a kid. I've never even seen Knot, though that isn't very surprising. District 8 has that largest population of any other district. There are lots of people I've never seen before.

Persei attempts to talk to him, but the poor kid is in a state of shock that all he can manage to do is tremble and shake his head. Persei eventually gives up and sends him over to me. I know Knot has heard of me-everyone knows of Rachel Berry and how her entire life has been ruined due to the Hunger Games. I am used as a cautionary tale as to why people don't go against the Capitol. They say my mother defied the Capitol her games and that's why all her family members have been killed off one by one. I couldn't tell you if it was true or not since I've never seen her games. And it looks like I never will.

Perse concludes the ceremony, and Knot and I stand up to be led off the stage while Persei, Will, and Noah board the train, allowing Will to get an early start on his liquid lunch. I'm not a maternal person, but seeing Knot trembling beside me breaks my heart. I reach my hand down and take his in mine, giving it a squeeze of comfort as if to say everything will be alright, even though we both know that isn't true.

Then, something unexpected happens.

District 8 is not known for being a unified or respectful district. We have more pleasure workers than even the Capitol as well as the underground fighting rings that are illegal. Almost everyone is addicted to something—morphling, alcohol, hallucinogens, gambling, sex, you name it. Typically, our tributes are underprepared for the game, having grown up in an urban setting as compared to the wilderness like District 7. Yet, people here still care for others. Everyone in the Pit has looked after me since my mother died, bringing me small scraps of food to make sure I didn't starve.

As Knot and I are led off stage by a few Peacekeepers, everyone in the crowd bows their head, a sign of respect and mourning. It is a unique gesture to our district, something we usually reserve for funerals. Still, I am moved by the gesture and begin crying as I am led off the stage and to the back for my final goodbyes before I am sent off to the Capitol for my death.

AN: So, I hope you like this so far. Please please please review! It will make me so happy!