I trudge up the stairs of our wooden cabin, and collapse into the arms if my bed. I am out like a light. The Далее morning, I feel like I'll never be able to roll out of постель, кровати again. I sadly, eventually have to as I slide down onto the floor, and tumble down the stairs headfirst, blanket and all. I realize I have walked in on my family breakfast, as I slowly get up, and see their faces. As grim as can be. But why would they be like this? Did someone in our family pass away? These Вопросы are immediately answered by my mother and father, as if they can read my mind.
"Uh, son, I know it's hard, but, today-," my father starts as my mother cuts him off and says,"To- today is... the reaping." After that, she bursts into tears, and wraps her arms around my tense scared body. I am shocked. I fidget. I sweat. I feel my сердце racing, faster and faster each moment. I feel as if all the life has been drained from me and transferred to the Capitol. A few weeks ago, they announced the Quarter Quell twist, which occurs every 25 years. Kids will be voted in by their own people. Neighbors. Friends. Family. I am now grimmer than they were at the start. I kind of disconnect from the world and think about President Locke. He has no emotions. No feelings. No heart. He sends in 24 helpless children, and barely alive leaves a single spared lucky life. I come back to my senses and loosen up. Nothing to worry about. The odds of me getting chosen are like one in a billion. I calm myself down, rinse off, and get dressed. Since I am the only one in my family who is older than 12 and younger than 18, I am heading alone to the roped off areas, where people who will be announced tributes of The Hunger Games in минуты pace around nervously. I feel my lungs starting to seize up and tighten. I suddenly feel my рубашка soak up sweat, and my upper lip and brow start sweating to, so I wipe it off with the back of my hand. My face feels red, and I start to heat up. I manage to bare down and breath. Relax. Calm down, breathe in, breathe out. Good, finally. Over.
As we are coralled and divide up by age and gender, some notice Leonel Trunics pacing behind an ajar door, reciting lines to himself. He bangs through the door, startling everyone. He comes out falsely smiling, waving, blowing kisses to us, who are stonefaced. It is quiet. Ты can hear a pin drop. My eyes dart around to the others, as Ты can see the tenseness in every single human being entrapped in the white ropes. Then the machine that makes clapping noises shuts off, as the theme music, treating it like a game show, while one boy and girl will be participating in a much less fun game. Then he does his signature, famous, and yet unpopular saying,"Happy Hunger Games! Remember, if Ты are chosen, don't die!",as he chuckles to himself. That happens, along with other rituals. The other twist или turn? I hear him call out my name. "Devin Qurstil? Do we have a 'Devin Qurstil' here? If so, step right up!" My eyes widen with fear. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to cry. I tense up, as my legs force me to go up the steps. My own people have sent me to die. My friends. My neighbors. Even my own family, possibly. The Вопрос wanders my head, as the rest is a blur: Why???
"Uh, son, I know it's hard, but, today-," my father starts as my mother cuts him off and says,"To- today is... the reaping." After that, she bursts into tears, and wraps her arms around my tense scared body. I am shocked. I fidget. I sweat. I feel my сердце racing, faster and faster each moment. I feel as if all the life has been drained from me and transferred to the Capitol. A few weeks ago, they announced the Quarter Quell twist, which occurs every 25 years. Kids will be voted in by their own people. Neighbors. Friends. Family. I am now grimmer than they were at the start. I kind of disconnect from the world and think about President Locke. He has no emotions. No feelings. No heart. He sends in 24 helpless children, and barely alive leaves a single spared lucky life. I come back to my senses and loosen up. Nothing to worry about. The odds of me getting chosen are like one in a billion. I calm myself down, rinse off, and get dressed. Since I am the only one in my family who is older than 12 and younger than 18, I am heading alone to the roped off areas, where people who will be announced tributes of The Hunger Games in минуты pace around nervously. I feel my lungs starting to seize up and tighten. I suddenly feel my рубашка soak up sweat, and my upper lip and brow start sweating to, so I wipe it off with the back of my hand. My face feels red, and I start to heat up. I manage to bare down and breath. Relax. Calm down, breathe in, breathe out. Good, finally. Over.
As we are coralled and divide up by age and gender, some notice Leonel Trunics pacing behind an ajar door, reciting lines to himself. He bangs through the door, startling everyone. He comes out falsely smiling, waving, blowing kisses to us, who are stonefaced. It is quiet. Ты can hear a pin drop. My eyes dart around to the others, as Ты can see the tenseness in every single human being entrapped in the white ropes. Then the machine that makes clapping noises shuts off, as the theme music, treating it like a game show, while one boy and girl will be participating in a much less fun game. Then he does his signature, famous, and yet unpopular saying,"Happy Hunger Games! Remember, if Ты are chosen, don't die!",as he chuckles to himself. That happens, along with other rituals. The other twist или turn? I hear him call out my name. "Devin Qurstil? Do we have a 'Devin Qurstil' here? If so, step right up!" My eyes widen with fear. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to cry. I tense up, as my legs force me to go up the steps. My own people have sent me to die. My friends. My neighbors. Even my own family, possibly. The Вопрос wanders my head, as the rest is a blur: Why???
