It's the things we love most, that destroy us

Chapter 1

My guitar rested on my lap as I watched the bright sun slowly remerge from the darkness of the night sky, my father's favourite colour. The lemon grass around me slightly swayed in the early spring breeze, a sure reminder of what is to come. The reaping ceremony.

Every time I think of the reaping, my stomach twists and turns like knots in shoe laces, I know this time I won't escape without being reaped - my parents know it as well but they would never admit it. The odds are never in one's favour - especially for those who are a child of two victors. Sighing, I rose from my spot against the willow tree, that had become frail with time, making sure I don't forget my guitar ; for some reason it felt overly heavy in my grasp as I walked towards the cobblestone pathway. Ironic how it perfectly matches the feeling in my chest.

The old autumn leaves crunched under my boots and the old stones on the path, that had crumbled like chalk, cracked under my weight. District 12 had become more and more run down as the years passed, the people became weaker with the lashings and the regular shortages of food, the square was almost always empty due to the fact that everyone was too poor to afford anything in the shops and the seam had never seen worst days. It was always covered in a layer of thick black coal dust and grime, that infected every space and crevice in the area. My lungs would tighten, my throat would become deathly dry at every visit with my mother. The narrow streets, depressing grey houses and the malnourished bony children almost always had the same unnerving feeling about them - maybe it was the sadness or fear in the children's stare or how the lopsided homes made you feel as if you were hallucinating. All I knew was that I was grateful to not be in that situation and there was no chance of a near rebellion. Just how the Capitol likes it.

My slouched posture straightened a bit as I arrived into Victors Village, which were the homes of those who had won the Hunger Games. In 100 years, there had only been 4 victors in district 12 ; My parents, Haymitch Abernathy and a unknown victor, who was lost by time. On days where I'm bored, I find myself wondering about that unknown victor - when did they win ? What did they look like ? What did they do to become almost forgotten ? However in district 12, there is this unspoken rule about talking about them - that's why I never questioned my parents on the subject.

Careful not to make a noise, I lifted the lever on the tiny metal gate in front of my house and walked through to the porch. Under the two long windows , that surrounded both sides of the front door, lay two flowerbeds with blossoming primroses. I crouched down to observe the delicate flowers, gently I touched the soft petals like you would do as if caressing a baby's soft, fresh skin. It's hard to believe there are things in this world that are actually pure when everything else is corrupted. I release my touch, rise from my position and stretch my free hand over my head in an attempt to soak up the last of the morning sunlight - probably the last of the morning sun I will see for a long time.

I wrap the strap from my guitar, which was quilted with many types of vibrant greens, around my shoulders and slowly open the front door with trembling fingers. If my parents knew where I had gone, they would've grounded me in a minute however since it's reaping day, they may let this one pass. Cautiously, I hold my breath, slip out of my brown leather boots and tip toe in my socks all the way towards the staircase - wincing every time a creak was made by my feet on the wooden flooring.
However even then I must've still been too loud...