The Hunger Games (The Hunger Games, #1)

by Suzanne Collins

“District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety,” I mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.

“No, it’s no one’s fault. Just the way it is,” says Gale.

“It’s to the Capitol’s advantage to have us divided among ourselves,”

I let him yell though. Better he does it in the woods than in the district.

Attendance is mandatory unless you are on death’s door.

He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained.

The twenty-four tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch — this is the Capitol’s way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion. Whatever words they use, the real message is clear. “Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there’s nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen.”

“Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it’s not me. It’s Primrose Everdeen.

“I volunteer!” I gasp. “I volunteer as tribute!”

So instead of acknowledging applause, I stand there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. Silence. Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong.

Starvation’s not an uncommon fate in District 12.

The heat of the bread burned into my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life.

Wearing a token from my district is about the last thing on my mind.

In school, they tell us the Capitol was built in a place once called the Rockies. District 12 was in a region known as Appalachia. Even hundreds of years ago, they mined coal here. Which is why our miners have to dig so deep.

So the centers were shut down and the birds were abandoned to die off in the wild.

How you’ve both successfully struggled to overcome the barbarism of your district.”

I know there’s truth to what he’s saying. If you appeal to the crowd, either by being humorous or brutal or eccentric, you gain favor.

Apparently, I’m too “vulnerable” for ferocity. I’m not witty. Funny. Sexy. Or mysterious.

I am not pretty. I am not beautiful. I am as radiant as the sun.

I’m so nervous, I could be eating coal dust. The one thing that distracts me at all is the view from the windows as we sail over the city and then to the wilderness beyond.

Go for a month, rewatch the Games, tour the catacombs, visit the sites where the deaths took place.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!”

Now when it is dark, and I have traveled far, and I am nestled high in this tree, now I must try and rest.

I remember him shaking his head, telling me not to go into the fight for the supplies, when all along, all along he’d planned to throw himself into the thick of things. Just the opposite of what Haymitch had told him to do.

No, I need to look one step ahead of the game.

The weapons give me an entirely new perspective on the Games. I know I have tough opponents left to face. But I am no longer merely prey that runs and hides or takes desperate measures.

“Don’t go.” Rue tightens her grip on my hand.

I give a small cough, swallow hard, and begin:

Here it’s safe, here it’s warm Here the daisies guard you from every harm

Everything’s still and quiet. Then, almost eerily, the mockingjays take up my song.

For a moment, I sit there, watching my tears drip down on her face. Rue’s cannon fires. I lean forward and press my lips against her temple. Slowly, as if not to wake her, I lay her head back on the ground and release her hand.

There’s no way to take revenge on the Capitol. Is there?

I climb dangerously high into a tree, not for safety but to get as far away from today as I can. My sleeping bag is rolled neatly in Rue’s pack. Tomorrow I’ll sort through the supplies. Tomorrow I’ll make a new plan. But tonight, all I can do is strap myself in and take tiny bites of the bread. It’s good. It tastes of home.

Sometimes when things are particularly bad, my brain will give me a happy dream. A visit with my father in the woods. An hour of sunlight and cake with Prim. Tonight it sends me Rue, still decked in her flowers, perched in a high sea of trees, trying to teach me to talk to the mockingjays. I see no sign of her wounds, no blood, just a bright, laughing girl. She sings songs I’ve never heard in a clear, melodic voice. On and on. Through the night. There’s a drowsy in-between period when I can hear the last few strains of her music although she’s lost in the leaves. When I fully awaken, I’m momentarily comforted. I try to hold on to the peaceful feeling of the dream, but it quickly slips away, leaving me sadder and lonelier than ever.

“Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed,” he says. “Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor.”