Ok so because I love you guys I kinda wrote a thing…..
Thirty-seven. Thirty-seven times my name would be entered in the pool; the odds were definitely not in my favour.
Even though I am seventeen years old and should only have my name entered six times, the last three years have been especially meager and I have had to trade for tesserae more times than I can count in order to keep my family fed. But it is all worth it knowing that Anna’s name will stay at the minimum of three.
My sister has laid out one of my nicer dresses for the occasion and I dress feeling a grim sort of amusement. It seems odd that we are expected to look pretty for a day such as this but I suppose if you are chosen to visit the Capitol one must look presentable.
I try not to dwell on what I know is to come but my fears get the best of me and I feel the frost gather at my fingertips, crusting my nails.
Conceal, don’t feel, I chant in my head pushing the emotions away. It is hard keeping my magic at bay but I know it is for the best.
For reasons unknown, I was born with the power to manipulate ice and snow, a quality that I have fought long and hard to keep hidden. If the Capitol were to find out there is no telling what they would do and I don’t care to find out. The only ones who knew about them were my parents, but the secret died with them, even Anna is ignorant. I decided to keep her in the dark a long time ago; it would be unfair of me to burden her with my curse.
“You look beautiful, Elsa,” Anna says from the doorway, her small voice chases the frost away. She is looking at me with that jealous sort of adoration that causes my heart to clench.
Whenever my little sister is anything but the bright, happy girl that has been my only source of joy for the last three years causes me physical pain and I will do anything I can prevent it.
“Not as beautiful as you, snowflake,” I say, pulling her into a comforting hug and placing a tender kiss on the top of her head. I can tell she is anxious by the tension in her shoulders the slight tremble of her hands as she returns the embrace; I know she is fearing the worst. When we part she is smiling and for a few moments I forget what day it is.
Today is the day of the reaping for the 74th annual Hunger Games. Each year, during the reaping, one boy and one girl from ages twelve to eighteen are selected as tributes from each of the twelve districts. The twenty-four tributes are then thrown into an arena and forced to fight to the death until only one remains. The Games were created after the Dark Days when the districts rose up in rebellion against the Capitol, to serve as reminder that we are completely at their mercy.
It is almost two o’clock, which means everyone is to make their way to the square; failing to show up has nasty consequences.
When we arrive Anna is led to the roped off section for the fourteens while I join the other seventeens. I see my hunting partner, Kristoff, standing near the front for he is eighteen and this is his last reaping. He catches sight of me watching him and gives me a reassuring nod of his head trying to signal that everything is going to be fine, neither of us believe him.
The clock strikes two and district twelve’s mayor steps up to the podium and gives the same speech he gives every year; a history of Panem and the importance of the Hunger Games. As I listen to his hollow and well-rehearsed speech I clench my jaw in barely concealed rage, as if it wasn’t bad enough we are made to watch children murder each other each year, we are supposed to treat it like a celebration, like entertainment. It’s disgusting.
He then reads the names of past victors from our district, there have been exactly two, only one of which is still alive. Kai Anderson sits in a chair at the head of the square, a haunted blank expression paints his round face. He is a big man with a large belly that shows he has made use of the rewards that come with winning.
When the mayor has finished his speech he steps down from the podium and a excited young woman takes his place; Ella Cinder, district twelve’s escort. It is clear from her bright pink wig, huge blue dress covered in glitter and taking up far more space than necessary, and her elaborately painted face that she is from the Capitol. Loud and bright is considered fashionable over there while we wear rags.
“Happy Hunger Games everyone! And may the odds be ever in your favor.
The appearance of Ella makes the reality of the reaping sink in and everyone stands frozen in their terror. Even though I have faced this day four times I still feel the same fear as I did the first time and in my nervousness I begin to pull and twist at the gloves that coat my hands – somehow they help me find some semblance of control, small though it is. But right now they don’t little to quell the storm that rages in my veins.
Ella has begun the drawing.
“Ladies first,” she says in that high girlish voice that I have come to associate only with dread; she alone decides their fate.
I watch as she floats across the stage, coming to rest next to a huge glass bowl filled with small slips of paper… thirty-seven of which read Elsa Arendelle.
I hold my breath as she digs through the girl’s names and dare not look down for fear of finding ice spreading beneath my thin shoes. I want to throw up, I want to run into the woods and never come back, I want to scream, but most of all I want her not to read my name.
“This year, our female tribute from District 12 is… Anna Arendelle!”
I’ve stopped breathing and my world grinds to a sudden and jarring halt. All of a sudden it’s too bright, too loud with the sound of my pounding heart and I barely register the drop in temperature - people are looking around in confusion at the odd change in weather. There is a hand at my elbow; I hadn’t realized my legs gave out until I looked up at the sympathetic face of the boy who caught me.
I hadn’t prepared for the shock of hearing that name being called, hadn’t even considered the possibility. Three times. Her name was only in that bowl three times! I’d done everything, everything to keep the odds in her favour, forbidden her to trade for rations and allowed my name to build up each year.
None of it matters now as I watch two peace-keepers pull my baby sister from the crowd and walk her to the front of the square, she’s so small, so innocent. Her eyes are wide with panic and I can see the shallow rise and fall of her chest as she struggles to breathe.
She is looking around frantically and our eyes lock. I wake up.
“Anna,” I gasp as I break the surface of my shock. “Anna!” And suddenly I’m running. There is no need to shove my way through the crowd as they have already cleared a straight path that leads to that head of red hair my vision has narrowed to solely focus on. I reach her just as she reaches the bottom of the steps that lead to the stage. Gently but forcefully I push her behind me, shielding her from the hell that lives on that stage.
“I volunteer!” I cry loud and clear. “I volunteer as tribute!” There is no waver in my voice, no hesitation, and I brace myself for what I know comes with that declaration.
At first there is confusion. Never in the history of the Games has someone from District 12 volunteered to be brutally murdered, that is reserved for the richer districts who seek fame and fortune.
Ella seems unsure of herself. “Normally, we would introduce the tribute then ask for volunteers,” she says hesitantly.
“What does it matter,” the mayor says as he looks on with a pained expression. “Let her come forward.”
Two skinny arms wrap around me, so tight I feel my ribcage shift painfully. “Elsa, no!” Anna screams. “No, please you can’t do this! You can’t leave me! NO!” With overwhelming difficulty I pry her arms off of me because the agony in her voice is tearing me apart. I am certain that if I don’t get her away the square will soon be filled with snow and I am now very aware of the cameras all trained on me. I know I must conceal it, can’t let them see what I am.
Anna’s arms are gone and I turn around to find Kristoff has picked her up and is carrying her away. She is screaming and thrashing in his arms, trying desperately to get back to me. “ELSA! ELSA! NO! ELSA!”
My heart is shattered, broken, dust. I turn away and force myself to go numb, as I have done so many times before.
I am not listening as Ella introduces me. I am too busy fighting the ice as it bucks inside me and trying to block out my sister’s hysterical screaming. As I look out into the crowd I notice no one is clapping as they normally would at presentation of a tribute. Instead they are silent. It is the only way they are able to convey their disapproval, their acknowledgement of how wrong this all is.
To my never ending surprise I watch as not one but several people press the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and lift them towards me, and then it is the entire crowd.
It is a sign of respect, of appreciation, a way to say good-bye.
dededos
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
blakekathryn
