“I’ll be back soon father!!!” I yell down the hall. I heard him say something like, “Alright. Love you Rey.” But it was more of a mumble. He had grown wearier these past few years but he was all I had and I loved him with all I had. You see, I used to be normal. I had a mom, dad, older sister and brother named Raven and Rye. My mom was a Victor and won her games when she was only fifteen. But when I was six, she died from an accident. Apparently one of the cables she was working with in the factory had electrocuted her and she died. That’s when my father first started grieving.

                 Then, when I was eight, Raven went into the arena by volunteering in place of a little twelve year old. She made it to the Final Eight but was killed by a Career tribute from Two. My brother Rye also went into the Games but he never made it past the initial bloodbath. He was only thirteen then.  By then, my father barely ate and spent most of his time outside of work digging through boxes that kept all the memories of my mother, Raven, and Rye. Even though our family had enough money, I still went to the factory every now and then to help the others build new technology that the Capitol people have been dying to get in their hands. But it was simple things like music chips that hold hours of songs, and new apps for Capitol cell phones.

                Today was Reaping Day. I remember when my sister Raven was first reaped.

                “What’s the Hunger Games?” I asked. Back then I was eight and she was sixteen.

                She sat me down and began a long explanation but I always had looked up to her for wisdom. “It’s where two people from every district are selected randomly and are put into the custody of the Capitol where they are put into an arena to fight each other to the death. Only one can survive.”

                “You’ll win and come back for me right Raven?” I had asked her.

                “I hope so Reyna. If you ever get reaped remember what mother taught you,” With that bit of advice, the Peacekeepers then called for me to go and that was the last time I ever physically touched my sister again.

                 The last time I saw my sister was in the arena on a big screen. She was in the Final Eight when the tribute from Two scared her from where she was sleeping, a tree. She landed on the ground with a thump and he sliced her head off with his sword. He was from District Two and he actually won that year. But when he was done cutting her up, you couldn’t recognize her. They didn’t return her body either. They said it was “too dismembered.”

                  Ever since that fateful day, I have always practiced throwing knives. When my mother was still alive, she taught each of us to wield a weapon. Raven was a master with bow and arrows. Rye had started to work with spears. And I was taught how to throw knives and daggers. Each day, I would go out to our backyard and throw a couple knives at the targets I had marked on some of the trees. Now, I was so precise in my throwing that I could throw the knives centimeters apart in one straight line.

                Every time I ready my stance, I feel as if my mother is there behind me again, correcting me in any place she can. Sometimes I even imagine me and her having a throwing contest like we used to when I was six. My mother was a strict woman but she also had a caring heart. She was very determined that we be ready if we ever went into the Games. Sometimes, I think she knew we would go into the Games.

                Father says that he can see her through me. I know just what he means. We both have the same thick, straight black hair that reaches to mid-back, heart shaped facial structure, and a thin frame. We both have the same fierce and determined look in our electric blue eyes. The only difference is that my mother stood short at 5”2 while I tower over my friends with an impressive 5”8. I’m pretty sure I got that gene from my father. While I was like a carbon copy of my mother, Rye was almost identical to our father. Raven was a mix of both our parents.

               I made my way through the backdoor and into the backyard. One of the perks of having a Victor as a mother is that we live in Victor’s Village in a big mansion. There aren’t many people living here but more than the other districts, aside from One, Two, and Four. So there is a lot of privacy.

               I walk into the shed and retrieve my bag full of knives. Then I walk out into the center of the yard and bend my knees a little, my feet shoulder-width apart so it’s harder for me to be knocked down. I tighten my grip on the handle of the knife in my hand and raise it up towards the target I am aiming for. I pull my hand back and then jerk it forward, sending the knife flying. It impales itself deep into the center of the tree and I groan in frustration.

               The harder I throw the knife, the harder it is to get it out of the tree. But if I didn’t practice throwing it hard, then I would never progress in my training. This is what my mother would call “no pain, no gain.”

                I hold my foot in place on the tree and use both of my hands to pull that knife out of the tree. I yank it out too quickly and fall on my butt. Then I get up, rubbing the place where I bruised it. I grab another knife but before I can throw it, my father sticks his head out the door and calls out, “Go get dressed Reyna! Or you’re going to be late for the Reaping!”

                I sigh and put away my knives. Guess I’ve have to practice later. If I ever come home tonight.

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This is just a prologue of a story I actually might continue with. I've always loved reading Hunger Games fanfictions and finally decided to make one of my own. Hopefully I'll be able to upload more often!