It's reaping day. I don't necessarily have to wake up early but it seems that my parents are big fans of the reapings. Sometimes I wonder if the ruthless disposition to the other districts the Academy had drilled into them remains as fierce as it had been when they were my age, or if they simply saw the games as they are- games.

My parents have always been competitive, my grandparents were as well when they were alive. It's often speculated whether I am truly a Garrison due to my passive outlook on life. They mean well, I suppose.

My mother woke me up to a plate of toast and butter. Usually, she whips up something more grandiose under Father's instructions- he always has an experimental recipe tucked up his sleeve somehow. This morning I could still hear Father's heavy breathing floating in through the open door and, once the light turned on, I could see that Mother's eyes were red and puffy. She shut the door to allow me time to get dressed, announcing the District Twelve reaping will begin in half an hour.

I grumble and sit up, accepting the toast and smiling tightly. As I eat my breakfast, I feel an uncomfortable pain on my upper thigh and reach around in the bed to find I had been sitting on my lighter. Muttering to myself as I finish the toast and discard the plate and lighter on the desk, I fish my best clothes out of the back of my draws. They're only for reaping day and funerals- I never attend parties or weddings- so the white long-sleeved blouse and the wide-legged black trousers fitted well for every occasion. The trousers had been my grandmother's, who was taller than I am much to Granddad's dismay, and had been turned down multiple times as I've grown into them.

I join Mother and Granddad on the couch as Caesar Flickerman talks about Haymitch Abernathy- the only surviving victor of District Twelve- and Effie Trinkett, the district's escort. They show a clip of her approaching the stage, a hot pink wig balanced atop her head and a matching dress- with the makeup, she looked to be my age, which wasn't too far off. Effie had only been the district escort for a few years and it is painfully obvious she despises her job.

She tries, however, to appear jolly and attractive for the cameras despite the lack of responses from the crowd. She clears her throat and announces, "Ladies first," before scratching her oversized nails around the glass bowl of names and picking a card out. She smiles and looks up at the crowd of girls. "Ashley Collier." The girls break into a murmur and turn to look at her. A minute passes and the peacekeepers escort a sixteen-year-old brunette up to the stage. Her arms shiver, the bones protruding.

"The poor thing looks like she hasn't eaten in a week," Granddad splutters.

"She probably hasn't." Mother glowers at him and turns back to watch Effie Trinkett, in her Capitol accent, announce "Flint Garland." The boy was much quicker, keeping his head down as he tried to conceal the nasty scowl the cameras decidedly zoomed in on.

As Caesar Flickerman commented on the boy's frown, he directed everyone's attention to district eight. Father entered the room, cradling his head and a glass of water, as the District Eight escort announced the female tribute. "Ester Steppe!" He looked up and watched a small girl, about thirteen, approach the podium while wringing her hands. He put his head back in his hands and squeezed between me and Granddad. As the male tribute was announced, Granddad began talking to Father loudly. The sound grated at all of us and Mother decided she was going to cook a more filling breakfast and I soon joined her.

He all settled back on the couch with a plate full of eggs and ham as the reapings continued. Caesar was talking about the previous District Three victors and their escort, someone who had risen through the escort ranks (if such a thing exists) and has proven to have a higher success rate than most escorts. Apparently, if District Three wins this year, he'll become the Two escort.

We watched the escort pluck a name from the top of the girl's bowl and read out in a near monotone: "Mackenzie Packard". We watched as a rotund girl of seventeen stepped out from the crowd and adjusted her glasses. Her eyes darted to the boy's crowd and searched desperately as if she was picking out who she wanted to join her- who she could kill if necessary. With Mackenzie stationed beside her escort, he moved over to the boy's bowl and picked from the top of the pile and read out "Chip Linux".

"What an unfortunate name," Granddad muttered. I didn't stick around to see Chip join his fellow tribute, as soon as the name was read aloud, I was on my feet and running up to my bedroom.

I kicked my draw shut, threw my duvet into place, pocketed my lighter and collected my dirty plate from the desk. As I rinsed the crumbs off the plate, Mother and Father entered the kitchen.

"How are you feeling Tez?" I look between them, they seem nervous. Then again, they're always nervous this time of year. Squinting my eyes, I lean against the counter.

"I'm fine. Can't wait for it all to be over, so I can get back to my usual stuff." Mother crossed her arms and held eye contact with me, as though she could find something I hadn't told her. "Okay, well, I'm going to go find Martial before the reaping." Nodding, Mother tells me to be safe and that she'll see me later.

Many of the older students are already crowding towards Town. I follow the crowd to the gates where peacekeepers stand, waving us off and wishing us luck. Most of them I probably met when I was a kid, considering they would have been friends of my parents from the academy. Martial joined me in the crowd from outside the gate and gave me a smile. I return it to the best of my ability but make no conversation. No one is talking.

Despite the noise of feet and clothes and breathing, no one speaks aside from the peacekeepers. No one ever does. Despite the majority of us knowing we're safe for another year, we all know who we are going to lose- whether it's only one or both of them. To the students around me, they are waving a soldier off to war.

I offer up my blood once again and stamp my fingerprint at registration and nod Martial goodbye. I can make out his dark skin among the paler boys until more students arrive and soon the crowd is too dense.

I stand among the girls my age. All of them have rather muscular arms from their time at the Academy, most of which they will probably lose over the next few months of the holiday while the games are on. I can see the younger girls craning their head towards the back of the crowd where people are actually talking. Of course, that's where Artemis is. All around me there are girls and even boys across the square calling out to her: 'Arty! Good luck Artemis, we're betting on you!' and when Lewis eventually joined the boys, attention turned to him. At first, he winked in Artemis' general direction before clapping hands with the boys closest to him.

I turn back to face the Justice Building. The two of them are acting as if they can win together, which is impossible, everyone knows there can only be one winner of the games. That's the whole point.

Since the uprising in the districts, the Capitol declared that each district must sacrifice a female and male tribute each year to the Hunger Games. And there would only be one winner. The prizes? Eternal glory, money and a place in the Victor's Village. Every family in the winning district also gets a special food supply but that's more of a luxury in the poorer villages like eleven and twelve. It's all appealing, but no one ever talks about the damage winning does; how the Capitol uses the victors as pawns, makes them mentor tributes and make special appearances at the games and the reapings.

The existing District Two victors are lined up along the stage. Some I recognise only from their TV spots and highlights, others I recognise from viewing their games. It appears that there are equal amounts of victors on each side of the stage. Behind the boy's bowl sits two elderly men whose names are absent to me and a younger tribute in his late 30s called Brutus. Behind the girl's bowl is a woman in her early 30s called Lyme, a muscular nineteen-year-old called Trix and a burly, short-haired black woman in her late 20s called Gia. She won her games after being reaped from the boy's pool of names, once winning and having to claim a talent, she caused an uproar by dressing in women's clothes and changing her name.

The Capitol still call her by her tribute name so as to not confuse district and capitol residents and, it is rumoured, to appease President Snow. She doesn't appear to care an awful lot for President Snow, especially since he had her family avoxed, especially when she sits with the women in her best golden dress that compliments her green tapered afro and the glitter eyeshadow around her eyes.

Our District Escort, a short brunette in a metallic gown, that reflected the sun into the crowd with each small movement, left the Justice Building through the propped open grand front doors. She looked shrunken in the wake of the building despite the high heel of her black, heeled, boots.

Running her gaze over the crowd of children looking up to her, she smiled and sighed into the microphone. Her legs opened, revealing that she was not, in fact, wearing a gown but a metallic silver suit with the coat's tail trailing along the ground. As she studied us, she unbuttoned her jacket to reveal her black blouse, buttoned only to the point of decency.

"Don't you all look smart." Her voice wasn't what you'd expect from a woman raised in the capitol. It wasn't jaunty, nor did it have the same pompous attitude as Caesar Flickerman. Instead, it was as if she sang every word. Every year, without fail, she brought a hush over the rowdy teens in the back who clambered to get in the last word with their friend who was volunteering that year. "And so tough. All of you." On the screens around the square, her white smile shone down around us from each angle.

No one liked to admit it, but Lysandra Haven is the guardian angel of District Two. We call her our good luck charm since her first year as our escort Trix won and the two years since our tributes have both made it to the final five. Lysandra Haven is possibly the only person from the Capitol to be adored throughout the District. Or, in my case, she's the most tolerable of them all.

With the newly administered hush over the Town square, she spread her arms wide and motioned to the screens around us as President Snow's speech about the Hunger Games played. It's the same speech every year, about how the Capitol beat the rebels in the rebellion, the downfall of District Thirteen, and how the Games are a symbol of peace in Panem- that each district's fallen tribute is another prosperous year. Only the youngest children pay much attention and the only reason the older students remain silent is that the peacekeepers now have a role to play for the Capitol. When the cameras start rolling, friendships mean nothing.

When President Snow finally stops talking, Lysandra Haven clears her throat,

"Well, wasn't that... insightful?" She nods at our silence and approaches the girl's bowl. She rummages around the bowl, scoops up a handful, and plucks a card from the middle. Standing back behind the microphone, she opens the card and reads aloud, "Claudia Jade". Heads turn in one of two directions. Forwards, towards the front row where twelve-year-old Claudia is clinging to the arm of the girl next to her; or backwards, at Artemis, who is now wide-eyed and barely managing to open her mouth. Of course, the worst outcome has happened and the person everyone was betting on was now paralysed with fear.

I look back at Claudia to see that Lysandra Haven had descended the stage steps and was escorting her onto the stage while whispering to the girl. The victors on stage all wore hard expressions and were looking out at the crowd. This was the moment, the exact time, someone should volunteer. The girls behind me were whispering, multiple girls were nudging Artemis. Of course, what none of us had expected was for her younger sister to be reaped.

"Well," Lysandra Haven spoke into the microphone with her arm around Claudia, "we all know how this works. If any ladies would like to volunteer, you have a minute."

Artemis has time. 60 seconds to be exact, to get her act together and volunteer to give her sister more time to prepare. The square is deadly silent, most people are staring at Artemis, others and looking around to see if anyone else will volunteer, and some are staring at the ground. I watch as Claudia begins to tremble more violently and Trix leans forwards to say something to her. Whatever it was, it seemed to calm the girl down enough to last the next twenty seconds. I glance back around at Artemis. Ten seconds. She's crying. No one else is volunteering. Cowards.

"I volunteer." A few seconds left, no one had heard. I raise my hand in the air. "I volunteer as tribute!"

Claudia seemed to deflate as the nearest peacekeeper lifted her from the stage and to the side of the square where her mother was crying. As I move through the crowd, I look back at Artemis who turns away from me and wipes at her eyes. Somewhere around the edge of the square I can hear wailing but I only focus on my breathing as I ascend the steps to where Lysandra Haven is smiling gratefully at me.

"Fantastic, what's your name, dear?" I lean toward the microphone and find my mother at the back of the square- she's the one crying, she's shaking in my father's arms while he simply shakes his head. I look at Artemis again, but she's run off somewhere. Instead, I find a camera and wrap my hand around the lighter in my pocket.

"Terra." I move to my spot on the stage, in front of the female victors and stare at the group of boys. None of them expected this, and now Lewis is deliberating so desperately his head seems to be flopping from side to side. Lysandra Haven steps up to the podium.

"Martial," she announces from the card, pausing as she sees the crossed-out surname. I look out to watch Martial hesitate and look back at Lewis, who is on the verge of breaking as he looks between me and the space Artemis had once stood. It is painfully obvious Lewis is not volunteering either and Martial joins me on the stage. He shakes hands with Lysandra Haven and the next minute passes quicker than it had for Claudia.

"Our District Two tributes!" Martial and I pump our fists in the air as the crowds start cheering for us... well, for Martial. The bets will surely change only to him.