Tip:
Highlight text to annotate it
X
This is the Capitol Station 99.1 in the Capitol, and 104.5 in the Districts. My name's Chad
Silver!
And I'm Britney Gold! Today we've got a very special program for you, isn't that right,
Chad?
Right you are, Britney! And after the program, the weather and traffic. Plus, what does President
Snow think of the new mint fashion rage in the Capitol?
Sounds exciting, Chad. Remember, you're tuned into 99.1 TCS.
The Reaping Journal, a series of audio-dramas based on the characters from Suzanne Collin's
The Hunger Games trilogy. Written and produced by Gil Segev. Episode number 1 - the Escort.
Starring Shelby-Lynn Prioriello as Effie Trinket.
I wake up, although I can see through the dusty faded curtains that the sun has not
yet risen.
I focus my eyes on the diamond-encrusted watch that I wear around my wrist, and groan. It's
barely five o'clock.
It's been like this since I arrived at the Diamond Inn, as the locals call it. I go to
sleep late, and wake up early.
Fortunately, today I'm leaving this cursed place.
Slowly, gently, I stepped onto the dirty, worn beige carpet. It clashes rather horribly
with the dark chocolate brown of the walls.
I run my hand on the dark mahogany of the desk, then inspect my fingers and am flabbergasted
at how much dust they picked up. I will most certainly not be leaving a tip for the staff.
The old wooden floor of the hotel creaks and groans as I walk, so I am relieved to finally
find myself in their pathetic excuse of a bathroom.
The shower is featureless, and the selection of soaps and shampoos is utterly dull. I sigh,
and breathe deeply, trying hard - very hard - not to think about what today will bring.
Hey look, it's Effie Trinket!
The TV announcer from the Capitol would say.
The talented, well-groomed escort that was so wrongly appointed to the lame District
12.
I snicker quietly at how unlikely it is that things will ever change for me. I will always
be the Effie Trinket, the one that draws the names, the one that nobody wants to see, nobody
wants to hear.
I look at myself in the mirror, and find a new wrinkle that I'm sure wasn't there last
night. Somebody will have to fix me up when these Games are done with.
Then I'll be able to mourn the death of this year's tributes, and my career.
After I apply a layer of foundation to even my hideous complexion, and an obscene amount
of lipstick, I pick up my Capitol-issued tablet computer.
The stupid guards at District 12's border had to stop me, having never seen anything
like it before. It took three Peacekeepers twenty minutes to figure out that it poses
no security threat to the meager existence of the citizens here.
I check my email inbox and find ten new messages. Information about the train schedule, a recap
of the meeting about photo shoots, training sessions information... there's nothing personal
here.
No messages from a long-lost relative, friend, or secret admirer. I know that I will one
day retire from being Effie, the peppy escort, to Effie the loser. The loner.
I push the thoughts out of my mind, because they're almost as depressing as what I have
to do today.
Send two children to sure death.
At seven thirty four, a pimply boy with greasy hair knocks on my door to wake me up. I'm
frustrated that I really should just be waking up now.
I put the tablet away in my bag and look around the room. My green velvet suit is folded on
the bed, along with matching hat and scarf.
My bags are packed, and my makeup is in my purse. I smile, satisfied, and pick up my
luggage. I do not trust these people with my belongings, and I never will.
Even thought the Diamond Hotel promises a hot, free, fresh-made breakfast, I do not
stick around to find out what is on the menu. If it's anything like the wild-dog soup that
I was served last night, I don't want any of it.
After giving my bags to one of the Avox's that accompanied me on this annual trip, I
begin to walk out into the warm air.
Just as I'm breathing in the fresh, sweet scent of the morning, my cellphone begins
to vibrate from inside my coat's pocket, and I hurriedly fish around for it.
I wonder how I even have reception here.
Hello?
This is an official Capitol phone call. Hello, Effie Trinket. Please stand by.
Of course, it's a call from the Capitol. All official Capitol phone calls have to be verified
first.
Effie? Thank goodness you picked up! Is that lousy BlackBerry of yours holding up?
Yes, Pricilla, it's a small wonder, really.
Hmmm. So listen, I just got a call that there's this one Primrose Everdeen at your District,
who the Gamemakers really want.
They did a general screening, and she is absolutely camera-ready!
Fabulous.
So listen, no matter what name you pick this morning, read that girl's name. It's crucial
for the success of the Games that we have just enough young charisma.
Of course. And President Snow authorized this, I assume?
Uh, don't you worry your pretty little pink head with that, darling.
I want to kill her. Strangle her, throw her into the Arena.
And for the boy, I'll read whoever name is drawn, correct?
For now yes. I want you to arrive at the square an hour early so that they have time to set
up the microphones for you.
Pricilla hangs up before I manage to say another word. Primrose Everdeen. I will not forget
that name.
It sounds so young, so innocent. She's probably sleeping at home now, unaware that her fate
has already been sealed. That's the unspoken power of the Capitol.
I walk between the buildings that line the square, and watch three men try to hang a
Capitol banner from a rooftop. It's comical, really, because as soon as one side is right,
the other side falls.
I step into the bakery I've been coming to every morning for the last four days, and
the bell above the door jangles loudly.
The place is very much unlike any in the Capitol. Dark and smoky. If a bakery like this operated
in the Capitol, nobody would come.
But here, it's got charm. I like it.
There's a series of short round tables near the front of the store. Though most are empty.
Probably because it's Reaping Day.
But there, at the very last one, almost hidden from view behind dusty posters and dry flowers,
are sitting a pair of children.
One, a girl, is irresistibly feminine. Long blonde hair, skin like snow. She can't be
older than twelve.
The one, the boy, has olive colored skin, with straight dark hair.
They laugh while they share something, a cookie it would seem.
I smile, knowing that although I may be sending two children to their death today, all least
these two look happy.
I walk to the wooden counter and notice that the big woman who is usually here is absent,
and that instead there is a blond teenage boy.
He's kinda handsome and tall, slightly muscular. He reminds me of Haymitch, the way he looked
when I had that crush on him.
He smiles when he recognizes me, probably from past Reapings.
You're Effie Trinket, right?
Yes, darling.
After I order, he hands me a white paper bag with three croissants, and I pay with a couple
of coins.
Keep the change.
I begin to walk away, but then I stop and turn around, facing both the blond boy and
the pair at the table.
Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor.
This has been The Reaping Journal, on the Capitol station 99.1. Tune in next time for
another eye-opening behind-the-scenes session of the making of this glorious country's most
thrilling event. My name's Chad Silver, wishing you a good day.