pea. ten. cb.

Your mother always told you not to worry about the reaping. So you didn't. Perfectly content with living in your orchard, running amuck about the trees and painting and stitching. Finding friends in bees and birds, finding siblings in your imagination. Dream child, flowers in your hair and nothing but dreams in your head - it's a tragedy your parents raised you this way, but if all the parents of Ten could protect their children this way they would. There were boys and girls at school with hard-worn faces and you stood out amongst them, delicate and fragile in the rough. And when the reaping arrived you remained calm, for your mother had told you not to worry. Thousands of names in there for hundreds of children, your name in once, perhaps twice. The other children frowned, wrung their hands nervously, even cried. But you daydreamed, swaying in your place, humming along to the anthem without a care in the world, back to your orchard full of fruits and vegetables, back to your delicate, beautiful life for a delicate, beautiful girl.