As a child, me and my siblings would always joke about how if we ever got selected to participate in the Hunger Games, we would bring a used match as a token, the same one we hang around our necks as we stroll through district twelve.

Standing up there, in front of all my fellow classmates and friends, it suddenly didn’t seem as funny.

“Would anyone like to volunteer as tribute, for, what’s your name again?” The women with crazy pink hair asked. Just as she never remembered her tributes names, me and my siblings refused to remeber hers. She was just another women, who didn’t care if we died right now.

“Hello!” She called again. “Name?” My plan was to keep my mouth shut, in order to hide my massive stutter, but I guess I was speaking.

“Um-my-m-my name is. . . R-Rena Slate.”

Ignoring the fact that my stutter was worse, I tried to find my siblings in the crowd. I focused on the 12 year olds, 16 years olds, 17 year olds, and 18 year olds. Would they volunteer? Or send me to my death. Only time will tell.

“And how old are you, dear?”

“15.” I replied, trying to breath. This. Cannot. Be. Happening.

As much as we had joked about going to the hunger games, our burnt out match by our side, it was a whole lot more nerve raking when it actually happens. See, the joke was that we brought a used match to make an analogy. One of us would hold up the match ( assuming we survived the initial sloughter) and point forward where we assumed a camera to be. We would then point at the match, striking it to show that it was useless. We would then say, “whatever fire the rebels once had had been extinguished.” Striking the match again, one of us would say, “no matter how many times they try, it is useless. So why let them keep stricking it? If you eliminate our need for the fire that the match holds, they is no need to keep striking it! No use striking a match twice.”

The whole thing was some little analogy, and however stupid, we felt proud of it. We weren’t supporting the rebels, we weren’t supporting the capital. We were simply speaking the truth. No use striking a match twice.

But now, apparently my older brothers truth that he would volunteer if any of us were called was not honost, because the silence after the lady asked who would like to take my place, that silence almost made my knees crumble.

I guess I’m going to the hunger games.

(She died during the first 2 minutes of the games. She never got to use the match.)