Sunrise on the Reaping

Sunrise on the Reaping

The sun rose blood-red over District 12, staining the cracked rooftops and coal-choked skies in hues too beautiful for a day like this.

Haymitch Abernathy sat on the edge of his porch, boots muddy from the morning run, shirt clinging to his skin. His mother had begged him not to go jogging today—said it made them look too healthy, too strong. Too tempting.

As if shrinking could save him.

But Haymitch didn’t shrink. Not from bullies. Not from hunger. And he wasn’t about to start shrinking for the Capitol.

“Don’t be stupid,” his best friend Sammy had warned the night before. “Look tired. Look sick. You don’t want them picking you.”

Haymitch had just stared at the stars, arms crossed behind his head, and said, “And if they do?”

“Then you die.”

He hadn’t answered. Because maybe dying was better than watching someone else go. His little brother was twelve now. Name in the bowl once. His mother had traded her wedding ring for an extra ration—just to keep his name out again. And Haymitch couldn’t stand the thought of her sobbing through another Reaping, praying the odds stayed in her favor.

So he went running. Strong, proud. A dare to fate.

The square was already packed when he arrived. Peacekeepers lined the stage. The mayor cleared his throat. The Capitol's anthem blared from the old tin speakers, warping on the high notes.

And then she stepped out.

Cornelia Crest.

The escort for District 12 wore a lavender suit with a collar like eagle wings and a smile like ice. She spoke the usual script about sacrifice and glory, the honor of serving Panem. Haymitch tuned her out.

His eyes scanned the crowd. His mother clutching his brother’s hand. Sammy beside him, fists clenched. The other kids—some stoic, some crying. All of them waiting to see whose life would end today.

Cornelia dipped her manicured fingers into the glass bowl.

A hush.

A name.

“Haymitch Abernathy.”

The square went silent. Then, a gasp—his mother’s, ragged and broken. His brother screaming “No!” until a Peacekeeper clamped a hand over his mouth.

Haymitch stood still. No shock. No fear.

He stepped forward, his legs steady. His eyes didn’t water. He didn’t look back.

In the Justice Building, time slowed.

Sammy was the first to say goodbye. He punched Haymitch hard in the shoulder, eyes wet. “Win,” he whispered. “Spit in their face and win.”

His mother came in shaking. She pressed something into his hand—a silver token. A small, flat stone with his father’s initials carved in it.

He closed his fingers around it. Didn’t let go.

The train was too clean. The food too rich. Cornelia’s voice too shrill.

Haymitch sat across from her in the velvet seat, arms crossed.

“You’re handsome,” she said brightly. “That’ll get you sponsors.”

He said nothing.

“Oh come now,” she pouted. “This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Haymitch finally spoke, voice cold and level. “You mean the chance to kill other kids so the Capitol can get their entertainment?”

Cornelia blinked.

“You’ll need to lose the attitude,” she said stiffly.

“I’ll keep the attitude,” he replied. “Might be the only thing that keeps me alive.”

That night, while the Capitol glittered outside the window, Haymitch stared at his reflection in the glass.

He thought of Sammy.

Of his mother’s trembling hands.

Of coal dust, and broken promises, and the cracked voice of the mayor telling them every year that this was their “duty.”

The Capitol didn’t want fighters.

They wanted puppets.

He would give them a fighter.

He would survive not because they wanted him to—but because he refused to let them own him.

In the arena, twenty-three tributes would die.

But not him.

Not yet.

When the sun rose again, Haymitch would walk into the blood and mud of the 50th Hunger Games.

And somehow, some way, he would walk back out.

The End.