The Reaping - Penna

The Reaping
I didn’t want to return. I wanted to stay in my crystal palace. Stay in the highest tower, watching the swallows fly freely around the heavens and feel the wind teasing me with my hair. But I couldn’t stay. Ash was calling for me. I recognized his calm voice through the clouds around me.
Slowly I returned to the surface. Or should I say fell. Fell through a cloud that was so cold, that I for a moment thought that I would freeze to death. I slowly opened my eyes.
Ash stood above me. His glasses looked as if they were going to fall too, as they clanged desperately onto his pointy nose.
“Rise and shine, Pën! Fir has been up awhile and chopped some wood, so that we could let you have a warmth bath before father awakes.”
He throw a quick glance in the next room, like the snoring wasn’t enough proof that his father, or “Mr. Drunk”, as I call him, was sleeping trough yet another hangover. I shuddered, as I saw how I breathed like a soaked dragon in the crisp morning air. It just took another moment, before I remembered which day it was today.
Reaping day.
My whole body froze in a sitting position, which led to Ash throwing me up over his shoulder like a sack of potato, before he walked away, whispering: “Birch is looking after Rowan, but he’s after you so don’t take too long in there.”
He put me down in front of the wooden door, then turned around, mumbling:”I’ll make some breakfast.”

The warmth embraced me whole heartedly and a smile spread across my face. I didn’t like cold. I like warmth. Maybe is it because it is such a luxury thing here in district 7. I guess I’m one of the few who will have a warmth bath today.
“Mr. Drunk” is head of the lumberjack workers, and therefore not one of the poorest in our district. But on the other hand am I not allowed having warm water. If it wasn’t for my stepbrothers, I would probably not even be allowed to live.
“Mr. Drunk” hates me. Whole heartedly. I think it’s because I look exactly like my mom. Except for the hair. My platinum hair comes from my father.
Today was always the day that I thought the most about them. Thinking, “Will I or anyone else I love join them soon?” I let the water cover my mouth and nose. People tease me for my big lips and small nose.
“They’re jealous”, Fir firmly says. Maybe he’s right.
They thought mum was pretty, according to old Heather; she was the most beautiful women in the district. And she married dad, the districts kindest man. The talented carpenter, Riven Sylphïvia.
But then he was executed, for having steeling some medicine for me and mom, that winter seven years ago. And mom couldn’t get any work. The peacekeepers had marked us. And then “Mr. Drunk” came, and said that if she married him, he would look after us. He was rich. Mom was poor. So she did it. Because of me. Because of me she died while giving birth to wild Rowan.  
I sank beneath the surface. Holding my breath, thinking, that’s why he hates me. Because I’m the constant reminder of what he could have had if it wasn’t for my dad.
Today’s the reaping. I shut up from the tub, my heart stared to race.
Today’s the Reaping. I don’t want too!

I stare into a pair of dark brown eyes, on the other side of the mirror. It’s like a mist is approaching, they seem to fall.
No I can’t zoom out. Not now. I need to help my brothers getting ready. I take one last look at the girl in the mirror.
Her petite body is covered beneath a grey simple dress, and her long, platinum blonde hair is drawn back with a blue ribbon. Around her left wrist is a leather band with a wooden swallow on it that says: “Never stop dreaming” that her father made for her. Today she seems to be paler than usual. It must be the morning light that shines in from the left. The sun has finally risen over the dam.  
Time for breakfast.

But I’m not hungry. I never am this kind of day.
Fir, my oldest stepbrother is hopelessly trying to tame his brown mane with his fingers, while he’s trying to feed Rowan at the same time. It’s his last year this year, so the risk of having his name drawn is bigger than ever, and his otherwise, strong, calm nature is somewhat gone today, something a little wild four year old can’t understand why.
Ash who is just one year younger than Fir, understands, and so do Birch, who turned sixteen a few days ago, and so do I. I’m fourteen, haven’t even passed half of the reaping years yet.
The time was just enough for us to finish up, before “Mr. Drunk”, entered the room. He didn’t even give me a moment to go out, before he started to swear and raised the empty bottle as if he was going to throw it on me.
Fir stepped in. Took the flask, and led the drunken man away to the bathroom. Fir had always looked out for me. Protected me. It was Fir who had taken most of the beatings meant for me.
“I’m the oldest. There shouldn’t even be a question on why.” That was what he usually said.
“I think it’s better you go out an hour or so. You know that he usually is worst this day”, Ash told me. I nodded. I knew. Fir knew. Ash, Birch and even Rowan knew. Today was not a good day.
Today’s the Reaping.

The sun started to awake the air, so I didn’t need to borrow any of my stepbrothers shirts as a walked down a muddy road.
“It must have hailed or something, maybe that was the gold coins that fell on my crystal castle tonight.”
The problem were, that now I couldn’t go to the old stump in the pinewoods, where I hide fathers old inherited books.
Books that grandfather took with him, before the war. Books of stories, and father used to borrow some paper from the factory, and write me new stories. They lie in a box in that hollow stump, so they shouldn’t have become wet, but I wish that I could have seen them again today. I think they would have calmed me down. But I can’t. It’s muddy.
Someone might follow my footsteps and find them. I can’t let that happen. Not even my brothers know about it.
I shall keep them a secret.

"Ladies and Gentleman, welcome to the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games, Panem's First Quarter Quell! Things will run a little differently this year. To commemorate our twenty-fifth anniversary from the dark days of the Rebellion, it is important that we remember all that we have been through," he paused to open a sealed envolope, drawing out a small card, "This year, to remind the Districts how the Rebellion tore innocent families apart, parents will select their own children as Tributes. In order to emphasize what a wide range of people the Rebellion affected, parents will be able to choose any of their children between the ages of 10 and 20." There was another pause, before he continued on, " Twenty four will go in, only one will be crowned Victor. Happy Hunger Games, and May the Odds be Ever in Your Favor."

I couldn’t believe my ears. As I look around, so could no one else either. This just felt more wrong that usual, why they would do something like…I started to zoom out, and this time, I let me. Everything turned dim, and all the sounds seemed to disappear in the wind. I started to calm down. What formerly were the backs of grey people became mountains, and the background sound turned into waterfalls and…Black…somewhere in those peaceful mountains, I heard the name Black, and my lungs seemed to shrink. I panted, and started to zoom in.
Black, not Blackthorn…but it was. I knew it was as soon as “Mr.Drunk” entered the stage. I didn’t need to hear what he said to the other man. I knew. I knew as soon as I saw the grin on his face. He pointed towards me…
”NO!!! Choose me father! I volunteer! Choose me!” It was Fir. His panicked voice flew across the mountains.
“I volunteer!!!”  But he couldn’t volunteer. Not this year. This year, his father decided. I didn’t notice who else got picked. I zoomed out, and this time, I didn’t hear anything, I didn’t felt anything.
I was gone.

I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where I’m heading. The only thing I do know, is that I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to let go of Fir, Ash, Birch and Rowan.
Please don’t let me go!
But they had to. They had to let me go.
I was forced to enter something big and black that breathed thick dark clouds. Maybe it was one of those things called dragons, which are written in fathers old books before the war. Maybe I’m in a dragons belly right now. Maybe I’m a princess that’s been eaten by a dragon.
Princess Swallow of the crystal palace in the mountains. One thing’s for sure.
No prince can save me.
I’m probably already dead.