I never really knew what it was like to be rich. And, quite frankly, I probably never will. Even moderately close to wealthy is out of my reach.

District Twelve isn't known for riches and glory, nor strength and prosperity. We are more looked down upon as weaker, and put down as poor and dirty. Which, of course, I can't argue with.

But maybe there is a side of the Coal District that many people pass by on. Cast a mere glance at it, and brush it off as stupid and measly.

We have the willpower to never give up, and the hope and faith to keep us going.

Well, most of the time, at least.

{:} {:} {:}

As I wake up, I note the light of dawn flooding into my room, flowing freely through the planks of wood that board off intruders. Even if I had tried to sleep in, it would have been impossible. Not only because of the light, but because of what the day held in store.

I grunt as I throw off my covers, exposing myself to the placid morning chill. My spine shakes as I shiver. The cold temperature seems to have no impact on me compared to how hungry I am, though. Apparently my stomach agrees, for it growls as well.

The wooden floor boards send out an eerie creak as I stand, which makes me cringe. My mother sleeps nearby, an angel as she rests. My father has an arm over her shoulders, seeming to be protecting her from what lies outside our little home.

I am their first child, the second being my younger brother. Despite the weather, a smile spreads across my face as I recall the little, wobbling toddler referred to as Oak. I would easily give my life for his.

I walk to the other side of the room, stepping only on the floor boards of which I have remembered to be stable. It is a difficult job, for our house is rather old.

As I finally reached the wall, I bend down, picking up a simple dark grey shirt. It is usually used in the warmer seasons, for it is sleeveless, but it will have to do. I also grasp some brown pants of which my father bought from The Hob. They were very expensive, but he says that he bought them for good reasons.

I quickly undress, trying to do so before my parents wake up. I slip on the top, which fits almost perfectly. It is slightly tight, and sticks against my body instead of hanging off. I then put on the pants, which are more of leggings, but are none the less comfortable.

I turn around, blowing my parents a kiss, before quietly walking out of the bedroom. I enter our Main Room, which is a simple square with a few old squeaky chairs and a small table.

Pursing my lip I continue on, heading to the coat-hanger by the door. I swiftly unhook my sweater, swinging it over my shoulders and torso. I also flip on the hood, which protects the back of my neck and head from the wind.

On the other side of the door are my boots. They are plain brown leather, and they go up half way to my knees. I slip these on as well, pulling them up my leg and tying them off at the bottom.

The door creaks loudly as I open it. We do not have the supplies to fix the cringe-worthy sound, for any form of oil costs more than most in the Seam can imagine.

I softly shut the door behind me, determined not to slam it as loud as I can. I hate squeaking noises. I always have.

I instinctively walk to the fence. The fence that divides me from my natural habitat. The forest.

A gate was rooted around District 12 after the major rebellion that spiked up against the Capitol. It hums with electricity for almost 24 hours a day.

Almost.

For about 4 to 6 hours a day, depending on the weather and amount of electricity provided, the fence is shut off, as is the rest of the Seam and District Twelve. During this time of day, it is perfect to hunt.

I recall back to the time when I was twelve, and had miscalculated the hours. I had gone off to hunt, sure that I would have enough time. I had a successful day, shooting a rabbit and picking a few strawberries.

It was a huge shock when I returned to the fence. Literally.

My eyes widened as I noticed the wire mesh buzzing with life, sending off tiny sparks that cooled before touching the forested ground. There was no way that I could make it home.

I ended up having to stay in the forest over-night, climbing up in a tree and curling up in my jacket to stay warm and rest. Of course, I didn't get any sleep.

I had to wait until 10 in the morning. It was music to my ears as the electricity shut down, ending the life of the gate. I instantly leaped down from the oak tree, wriggling my way under the gap that my father had made in the fence.

I cried the rest of the way home, until I finally opened the door. My mother and father sat on our small couch, my mother sobbing. My father patted her shoulder, failing in attempt to calm her.

They both lifted their heads as I entered, my cheeks red from the chilly night. My mother was the first to get up, followed by my father. They rushed over, hugging and squeezing the life out of me until I couldn't breath, and had to shake them off.

Luckily, they hadn't warned the Peace Keepers yet. Otherwise, I would have received a public beating upon my return.

The thought of this doesn't stop me from continuing on my journey to the gate. As I near the 12-foot-high electric mesh, my muscles relax. I am about to enter my home, my territory.

Very carefully, so that my coat does not catch, I rest down on my stomach, squeezing my way under the jagged hole that my father has cut in the fence.

Birds seem to greet me as I stand, brushing the grit and dirt off of my pants. I whistle softly, knowing that the mockingjays will answer. Sure enough, they sing back my little tune, each one picking it up to create a beautiful melody.

I sigh, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach. For now I need to hunt. I can worry about the approaching event later.

I trek through the forest, following the trail that I could walk with my eyes closed.

There it is. It is a small, yet distinctive mark that nobody except the creator, and those who looked hard enough, could ever notice. An intricate pattern that consists of many lines and curves, implanted in the bark of a small willow.

I place my right boot in a low fork between two branches, placing my hands on two farther up. I huff as I pull myself up, placing my left foot in the fork as well. My hands are slightly red and bumped with the form of the bark. I am oblivious to this pain, however, for I have scaled this tree multiple times.

A few branches up, a slight movement crosses my gaze. I lift my head, eyes narrowing at the sound. Is there a feral animal up there?

I am proven wrong as a young boy appears, about my age. I lean back against a branch, for I have no need to be scared. His hair is blonde, streaked with some darker marks, while his eyes are a dull blue. A smile spreads along my lips.

"Hello, Haymitch."

Haymitch nods, sliding from the tree. My bow is in his hand, which he extends his arm to return to me. "Hello, Vine," he rumbles, giving a little bow. I roll my eyes, for this is an inside joke, only shared between us. My name is not Vine, but rather Ivy. Ivy Duskright. "I hope you don't mind me using your bow."

I shrug, sliding down from the tree myself. My skin burns as I rub against the bark, once again creating red marks along my skin.

Haymitch gives me that crooked smile that he always plasters on his face. He has a new bruise on him, this time along his jaw. "How did that happen?" I question, my eyes narrowing.

He does not have to answer. The young boy just purses his lip, his hand reaching up to the swollen, purple-ish blue bump.

Haymitch's parents are always drinking. They spend all of their money on spirits, leaving their family starving and poor. Haymitch is the oldest of his 3 siblings, and has dedicated himself to hunting in the forest, hoping to trade prey for food in return.

I sigh softly, patting him on the shoulder. "Why don't we hunt? We have a big day today."

Haymitch bites his lip once again, his fists clenching until his knuckles are white. "Oh yes," he murmurs bitterly, "The Hunger Games."