petros. twelve. fin.

I should cut my hair but the pair of rusty scissors that live in the kitchen drawer aren't in the drawer any more.

I stole my sisters hair ties and she snapped one right across my face, little shit. Pink streak on my cheek as a reminder of our latest brawl, I take an old piece of string and tie my locks up from behind my head instead. It's from our latest bag of rice, we get a little bit more this year. I don't know how Stella Blakesley managed to get out of that place alive but she did, and now we reap her tragic victory. I'd say thanks if I wasn't so cynical.

Mom tells me I should be more polite, hits me over the head and shrieks about manners. I simply readjust my shirt and grimace - yeah, okay Mom, whatever, I'm sorry. She doesn't deserve teenage angst but what can I say, I'm a growing boy. Growing boys need to roll their eyes at everything and everyone, maybe someday I'll know why - if I make it to nineteen years.

My parents say I don't have anything to complain about, pointing at the shoe-less, dirty kids from the Seam whose sad eyes drag me back down to earth. Maybe I don't, maybe I'm luckier than some kids, most kids. Maybe I am too cynical. Doesn't stop me from feeling so fed up all the damn time. No child from Twelve is lucky. Even if you age out of the reaping or make it back home with your heart beating next to a coffin you're still trapped in this miserable district. Nobody smiles, not even when they're young - I don't know. Am I selfish for wanting more?

Yeah. I am.