With the first light of dawn piercing through the curtains, Hazel found herself wide awake, a rarity in her ongoing battle with insomnia. Today, however, her internal alarm had triumphed over her sleep deprivation; it was the day of the reaping. She lay in bed for a few moments, her gaze fixed on the ceiling, her heart thudding with a nervous anticipation that clung to her like a persistent shadow. The sound of the twins stirring in their bunk bed reached her ears, their movements sluggish and reluctant. Breaking free from the grip of her bed, Hazel made her way to the small, shared bathroom. The mirror reflected a girl with disheveled red hair and wide, anxious green eyes. She splashed her face with cold water, a futile attempt to wash away the sleeplessness and dread that had become a part of her very being.
The atmosphere in the kitchen was heavy. Fern moved around the space with a forced efficiency, setting out plates of simple fare for breakfast. Oren sat at the head of the table, his usually strong features etched with lines of discomfort. The twins, Lily and Linden, ate silently, their usual bickering absent. Rowan kept glancing at Hazel and Silus, his expression a mix of worry and stoic resolve.
Hazel noticed a bandage wrapped around Silus's hand. "What happened to your hand?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Silus glanced at his hand as if he'd forgotten about the injury. "It's nothing. Just a scratch from yesterday," he replied, avoiding her gaze. His evasiveness only added to Hazel's growing sense of unease. She didn't remember him getting hurt at work in the forest. Maybe it happened at the paper mill? She wanted to press further, but the tightness in her mother's jaw told her this was not the time.
As Silus casually dismissed Hazel's concern, she couldn't help but notice him favoring his hand slightly. The bandage, a tan gauze, wrapped around a large portion of his palm. She observed how he subtly adjusted his utensil grip, avoiding pressure on the bandaged area. The way he held his fork was awkward, unnatural for someone who was usually so sure-handed.
As they ate in strained silence, each bite tasted like cardboard. Hazel could feel her stomach churning with nerves.
Hazel stepped out into the bright sunlight of the summer day, feeling a significant contrast between the beauty of the day and the dread that filled her. The air was crisp, the sky a brilliant blue, and the trees of District 7 swayed gently in the breeze. It was too beautiful of a day for this.
Hazel felt out of her element, dressed in her dark green skirt and simple top, cinched at the waist with her warm brown belt. She was more accustomed to the practical attire of a lumberjack—sturdy boots, durable pants, and shirts that allowed for ease of movement. Today, her clothes felt foreign, too delicate for her liking, adding to her unease. She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, trying to find comfort in the unfamiliar fabric.
Her family, too, was dressed in their best, even the adults. Her mother, Fern, wore a simple but elegant dress that brought out the blue in her eyes, while Oren looked sharp in a neatly pressed shirt and trousers. Silus stood tall and somber, wearing a clean, dark suit that made him look more mature than his years. His expression was severe, his usually playful eyes clouded with the day's weight. Rowan, slightly more relaxed, sported a neatly tucked-in shirt and dark pants, his hair combed back to look presentable, though his usual youthful energy seemed dimmed.
Lily wore her maroon dress, its color complementing her cheerful personality, though today, her usual brightness was subdued. Linden was in a red shirt paired with dark pants, his outfit a sharp contrast to his usually carefree demeanor. The clothes seemed almost like costumes.
Sage clung to Hazel's hand, his chestnut eyes wide and filled with an unspoken mix of fear and confusion. He was dressed in a neat, buttoned shirt and trousers, looking the part of a young boy forced to grow up too soon. Hazel offered him a reassuring smile, trying her best to hide her apprehension. Her heart aching for the innocence they all had to forgo on this day, she squeezed his hand and gave him as reassuring a smile as she could fake.
Hazel felt the tension in the air as they walked towards the town square. The streets of District 7, usually bustling with activity, were melancholy. Neighbors and friends exchanged solemn nods and tight-lipped smiles as they walked towards the stage and town hall. Some were unknowingly leading their own children to slaughter.
The July sun was already high in the sky, casting a warm glow over District 7 as Hazel and her family made their way to the reaping. She moved closer to Silus; her gaze fixated on the bandage wrapped around his hand.
"Are you not going to tell me what happened?" Hazel prodded, her voice low.
Silus glanced at her, a hint of annoyance flashing in his eyes before he looked away. "It's nothing, just a scratch. Besides, we're facing life and death today, Hazel. My hand is the least of our worries."
"But it doesn't look like just a scratch," Hazel persisted, her eyes still locked on the bandaged hand.
Silus's expression tightened, his gaze fixed ahead. "And you didn't look like you had been crying when you came home last night," his words barely audible.
Hazel's head turned sharply towards him. But Silus avoided her gaze, his steps steady as they walked. "Heath's doing, I'm sure," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.
Hazel opened her mouth to respond but then closed it.
Hazel could feel the tension among the gathering crowd as they reached the bustling town square. Parents clung to their children, their faces etched with worry and fear, a silent prayer in their eyes as they reluctantly parted from their offspring aged twelve to eighteen.
Sage's grip on Hazel's hand tightened before Fern gently took over, leading him away. "Come with me, dear." Hazel's throat tightened as she watched her mother attempt to veil her fear with a brave facade. Fern's embrace was warm. Oren patted the side of Hazel's face and then hugged both of his sons. He then grabbed the hands of the twins and led them away.
Hazel, Silus, and Rowan headed to their designated areas as they disentangled. The siblings shared a heavy look. Rowan whispered, "See you guys on the other side." Hazel's heart felt heavy as they formed orderly lines as required—boys on one side, girls on the other.
Hazel's heart began to race as she took her place among the other girls. Her palms felt clammy, and she rubbed them repeatedly against her skirt. Around her, the crowd's murmurs melded into a dissonant chorus of apprehension.
Hazel's gaze swept across the sea of faces of her district. Mrs. Larkin stood with a group of nurses, her kindly face marred by the day's grim purpose. Foreman Pilner, usually so large and imposing at the lumberyard, seemed shrunken, his usual bravado absent as he mingled quietly with other workers. Even Holt, whom Hazel often found obnoxious, appeared less daunting today, his usual bulkiness seeming insignificant amidst the crowd.
Amidst the throng, Hazel's eyes landed on a flash of red hair. There, on the periphery, stood her father, Heath. His posture was slack, an empty bottle dangling from his fingers, and his expression was difficult to discern. Her stomach knotted at the sight of him. 'Just get this over with,' she thought, trying to push away the rising tide of dread.
Around her, the murmurs grew quieter as the officials began their solemn ritual. Hazel's hands felt icy, her fingers tingling with a nervous energy. She clasped them together, trying to find some warmth, some semblance of control over her jittery nerves. Her breathing quickened, each inhale shallow, as she tried to steady her racing heart. The warmth of the July sun did little to ease the chill that had settled in her bones. Her eyes darted to the peacekeepers circling the perimeter. 'They must be boiling in those ridiculous uniforms,' she thought.
She glanced around, noticing the nervous fidgets of her peers, the wringing of hands, the shifting of feet. Some stared at the ground, lost in their thoughts, while others gazed blankly ahead, their eyes reflecting a resigned acceptance. Hazel tried to focus on the blue sky above, a patch of serenity in an otherwise turbulent day, but her thoughts were relentlessly pulled back to the stage, to the glass bowl that held her fate.
Her gaze shifted across the divide to where the boys stood, a mirror image of trepidation and unease. Silus stood among them, his posture stiff, his eyes locked onto the stage with intensity. A few rows behind him, Hazel caught a glimpse of Rowan. He might have appeared calm to an outsider, but Hazel noticed the slight quiver in his shoulders. A wave of protective instinct washed over her; she yearned to bridge the distance.
She imagined, just for a moment, grabbing their hands and fleeing this madness, running until the Capitol and its twisted games were nothing but a distant memory. But the reality of the situation anchored her back to the present.
It hadn't always been easy; blending families never was. The early days had been a jumble of awkward adjustments and silent meals, each child wrestling with the new dynamics that Fern and Oren's marriage had brought into their lives. They were just kids then, trying to make sense of a world that had suddenly shifted beneath their feet. She pitied the boys as their mother, Dahlia, had gone missing in the District 7 woods when Rowan was an infant and Silus barely a toddler. They had never even found her body. She was declared dead a year later. The mysterious disappearance of Dahlia had left a gaping hole in their lives. It had been a shadow that loomed over Silus and Rowan's early years, an unspoken grief that had, in a strange way, drawn Hazel and them closer together.
As the years passed, the distance melted away. The arrival of the twins and, later, Sage further cemented their bond. They had become a unit, a team that stood together against the world's uncertainties.
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As Hazel stood amidst the sea of anxious faces, she realized just how deep their connection ran. They were her brothers in every sense of the word. Her world wouldn't be whole if they weren't a part of it.
The square fell into a tense hush as the sharp sound of heels clicking against the stage echoed through the air. All eyes turned towards the figure emerging into the spotlight. Indira Lovegood, District 7's escort for the past four Hunger Games, stood tall and imposing on the stage.
Indira's deep caramel skin glowed under the bright July sun, and her long, thick black hair, intricately braided, cascaded down her back, swaying gently with each deliberate step she took. Her vibrant purple dress seemed to capture the very essence of the Capitol's flamboyance – delicate yet undeniably commanding. The bedazzled heels of her shoes glinted as she moved.
Hazel's gaze followed Indira's graceful movements. Indira's deep voice, smooth and melodic, filled the air, her words flowing with a practiced ease. It was a voice that, under different circumstances, Hazel might have found soothing, even captivating. She could imagine Indira telling captivating stories or singing lullabies, her voice lulling listeners into tranquil enchantment. Yet, here she was, the harbinger of doom for two of District 7's children.
As Indira approached the microphone, a hush fell over the crowd. Her clear and resonant voice carried across the square, reaching every ear. Hazel watched as Indira's expression transformed into one of practiced solemnity, a mask that hid whatever true emotions she might have harbored.
"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," Indira began, her tone imbued with a rehearsed warmth that felt oddly out of place. "Today marks a significant moment in our history – the reaping for the 15th Annual Hunger Games. This year promises to be unique, an extraordinary spectacle, especially in light of the... recent developments."
The crowd shifted uneasily, the memory of the old arena's destruction still fresh in their minds.
Indira continued, her voice rising in a crescendo of enthusiasm. "The Hunger Games are more than a mere punishment. They symbolize our unity, a reminder of the dark days we've overcome and the brighter future we strive towards. Senator Snow's decision to renew and revitalize the Games is a poignant reminder of what they represent – not just where we have been, but who we are and aspire to be."
Hazel couldn't help but feel a surge of cynicism at Indira's words. The idea that the Hunger Games were anything more than a brutal punishment, a tool for the Capitol to maintain control over the districts, was absurd.
As Indira paused expectantly, a silence enveloped the crowd. She paused as if she was going to receive applause. It would have been comical if it wasn't so depressing. After a few awkward seconds, Indira decided to move on.
"As per the order established by the Capitol, District 7 will select seventh, following the first six districts."
On cue, the overly large screens around the town square crackled to life with ongoing live coverage of the 15th annual Hunger Games reaping.
Hazel's gaze was drawn to the unfolding scenes, each revealing the fate of another district's youth. The first was District One, where Elara Luxe, a 16-year-old girl with dark brown hair and hazel eyes, was called. Petite but agile, she stood with a mixture of fear and resolve etched on her face. Next to her, Julian Bright from the same district, a 17-year-old boy with dirty blond hair and blue eyes, stepped forward. His tall, athletic frame exuded a sense of quiet strength.
The coverage shifted to District Two, which was known for its formidable tributes and often produced victors. The anticipation was palpable, even on the screen.
The female tribute, Eve Preston, was 16 years old. She had long black hair and piercing green eyes that scanned the crowd with an air of cautious assessment. Her build was lean and quick, suggesting agility rather than brute strength.
Next, Caleb Thornley, an 18-year-old male tribute, was called. His hair was kept short and curly, framing a face that held a stoic expression. His eyes, dark brown and intense, surveyed his surroundings with a calculated gaze. His muscular build was typical of District Two's training regimen, giving him an imposing presence on the stage. He mirrored the last three winners of the Hunger Games, all of whom came from Two.
Hazel swallowed hard, feeling the lump in her throat grow. Each name called, each face shown, brought a wave of empathy and sorrow.
Hazel watched, her heart sinking as each district revealed their tributes, the reality of the Hunger Games hitting closer to home with each name called. The intermittent cries of anguish from parents and loved ones littered the broadcast. Hazel often found herself turning her gaze away from the screen. The faces of the young tributes, some tear-stained, others stoically accepting their fate, were etched into her memory.
Hazel reluctantly returned to the broadcast as the screen transitioned to District Six. The female tribute, Lara Montgomery, was revealed—a 16-year-old girl with short curly hair and dark, determined eyes indicative of her agility and quickness.
Then came the announcement of the male tribute, Ryan Maxwell, an 18-year-old with dark hair and striking amber eyes, notable for missing his left ear. Despite his apparent injury, Ryan's presence on the screen exuded a resilience that couldn't be overlooked. He stood tall and composed, his figure commanding attention amidst the somber atmosphere of the reaping.
The unease in the air was palpable, a mix of fear and anticipation gripping the crowd as District 7's turn approached. Indira Lovegood's voice broke through the tension, her words echoing across the square. "And now, the moment we have all been waiting for," she announced dramatically. "The selection of the tributes who will represent District 7 in the 15th Hunger Games."
Hazel's fingers tightened around her skirt, the fabric crumpling under her grip. The sunlight seemed harsher, the shadows longer, as if nature held its breath for what would come.
It was now their turn. Indira Lovegood turned, her bejeweled heels glinting in the sunlight of District 7. Her head turned to the girls before her and smiled. It would never not be bizarre to Hazel how their escort acted. "Ok, Ladies," Indira began. Let's see who our lucky lady seven is this year." She dipped her elegant hand into the bowl, her purple nails caressing the paper fragments.
The moment stretched, time seeming to slow as Indira's hand lingered in the glass bowl. The crowd held their collective breath, every eye fixed on the stage. With a practiced grace, Indira swirled her hand through the countless slips of paper, her fingers finally closing around one.
Hazel's heart pounded in her ears, the sound drowning out the crowd's murmur. The air felt thick and heavy with anticipation and dread. She watched, almost in a trance, as Indira elegantly withdrew her hand, the slip of paper pinched delicately between her fingers.
She unfurled the slip of paper with a flourish, her eyes scanning the name written on it. Her face gave nothing away, just another bizarrely out-of-place smile before she leaned into the microphone. Her voice resonated through the speakers, clear and unwavering: "Hazel Marlowe."
Hazel's mind raced, each thought crashing into the next with chaotic intensity. She couldn't have heard correctly. This had to be some mistake, a cruel joke. But the weight of the stares from the girls around her, their eyes wide with a mix of shock and relief, confirmed the reality she desperately wanted to deny. She had heard her name, clear as day, echoing through the town square: Hazel Marlowe, the chosen female tribute for District 7.
Her body trembled uncontrollably. It was as if a fire had been lit inside her, its flames licking at her nerves, consuming her with a burning dread. She was frozen but on fire at the same time. It spread through her bloodstream like the forest fires they got every August in District 7, searing her nerves as it went. She was rooted to the spot, her legs refusing to obey her command to move. Time seemed to stand still, yet the world around her spun, a dizzying blur of faces and colors.
Instinctively, her eyes sought out Silus. His gaze found hers across the divide of the crowd, his expression a tumultuous sea of emotions. There was devastation, but something more—a profound sense of helplessness. It was too much. Hazel tore her eyes away, afraid that if she lingered any longer on his face, or Rowan's, or her mother's, she would crumble right there.
With a herculean effort, she forced her foot forward, then the other, mechanically moving toward the aisle. The peacekeepers, stoic and unyielding, awaited her. As she stumbled forward, a raw, heart-wrenching cry pierced the air—her mother. The sound was visceral.
Each step felt heavier than the last, her heart pounding like a wild drum. The faces in the crowd blurred into a sea of indistinct features, yet she could feel their eyes on her, their silent pity. As she reached the stage, a Peacekeeper's firm hand guided her up the steps, most likely knowing she wouldn't have the balance to navigate them on her own. Her mother's screaming continued, but it was noticeably muffled. Most likely by Oren.
The stage felt surreal to Hazel as if she had stepped into a nightmare from which she couldn't wake up. Indira Lovegood's artificially bright smile did nothing to ease the overwhelming sense of dread that clung to her. She was directed to a spot on the stage, where a gentle breeze teased the fabric of her skirt. She looked down at her mother's skirt and into the crowd.
From her elevated position, Hazel could see the crowd more clearly now. Her gaze drifted to Oren, who held Fern in a protective embrace, his face etched with silent anguish. Fern's body shook with uncontrollable sobs, each one sending a jolt of pain through Hazel's heart.
Her eyes then fell upon her siblings—Linden, Lily, and Sage. Their young faces were marked with confusion and fear, and their eyes darted between their mother and Hazel.
Her eyes then caught a glimpse of her father, Heath, standing on the fringe of the crowd. His face, frozen, usually marked by indifference, now bore an expression of shock. His eyes, those hauntingly familiar green eyes, stared at her from across the distance, wide and unblinking.
Hazel's gaze shifted, finding Rowan. His hand covered his face. The tremors that Hazel had noticed earlier had intensified. Her eyes began to well up, the tears perched precariously on the edge, threatening to spill over. She tried to muster a facade of strength, to stand tall and unyielding, but the effort felt hollow. How could anyone be expected to mask such profound heartache?
Moving along, Indira's heels clicked away from her towards the bowl on the other side of the stage with the boy's names. "Alright, next up is our lucky seven boys." The world seemed to hold its breath as Indira Lovegood's hand delved into the glass bowl containing the fate of District 7's young men.
Hazel closed her eyes. The crowd was silent, with the exception of her mother's soft, muffled weeping and the rustling of the papers under Indira's hand.
Then, the rustling ceased. There was a loud hush, a collective intake of breath from the crowd. Hazel's grip on her arms tightened, her nails digging into the skin.
Indira's melodious voice broke the silence like a bird’s song in a coal mine. "Silus Starling."