Two Words

I volunteer.
It only took two words to change my life. I stepped forward and repeated it, when the escort was up on the stage, asking for someone to take my best friend's place. At first I was reluctant. I could make new best friends, right? My life didn't have to revolve around her. Then I saw her family. Crying, weeping, sobbing. Each in a different state of despair. That would be my own family if I volunteered. However, I knew that I had a better chance than her. Maybe I could win. And if I didn't, I still figured that it was worth a shot.
I volunteer.
I scream it out once again as I run up the aisle. It's almost like I'm afraid no one will hear me. My best friend starts sobbing all over again. Bunching my dress in one hand, I climb the steps. Because she knows she can't argue, my best friend runs down the steps, almost losing her balance on the way to her family. The escort, Velia I think her name is, sticks the microphone in front of my mouth. It is smudged with her dark yellow lipstick.
Her lips are moving, but no sound comes until she's halfway through her question.
"-your name?"
"Eunia. Eunia Fairbain."
My voices breaks slightly, which I hope no one will comment on later. My throat hurts badly, and I would like nothing better than to weep like my mother. There is applause that I don't really think I deserve. At the very back of the crowd, I can see my best friend and her family. They're relieved, hugging each other and murmuring reassurances. My mother and older brothers aren't. One of my brother is trying to comfort my mother, while the other grips a ribbon of railing, and stares down at the ground.
"What a brave volunteer!"
I've gone numb. I can't feel anything, because there isn't anything left to feel. I've been through shock, doubt, fear, sorrow, anger. What is there left to feel?
It only took two words.
The second round of applause I get starts off as deafening, then fades to silence. Hands still clap, but I can't hear it. I see one my brothers look me in the eye. His mouth moves, and I can tell he's screaming all sorts of awful things. He'll blame me for taking my friends place, He'll scold me for bringing my mother immeasurable, insufferable pain.
Just two words brought forth all these ugly emotions.
My face is wiped blank. The red pinpricks on the cameras remind me that I am being projected to the Capitol. I try to hold my head high, but I feel like everything, my whole world,  has just unravelled. Which I suppose it has.
Although it feels like it's already been hours after I gave my name, it has only been seconds. Velia walks over to the boy's glass ball, microphone in hand.
"And now we're to choose the male tribute for District Eight this year!" she beams. "Let's see if we get another volunteer!"
The microphone picks up the rustling noise of the sea of white paper slips. Velia digs to the very bottom, her colourful nails making a clicking noise as she accidentally taps the glass of the ball.
My mother is still weeping, despite my brother trying desperately to calm her down. In the pit of my stomach, guilt swells until all I can think of is how I've messed up. Why, this one time, could I not have been selfish? Why could I not have simply watched my friend arrive in the Capitol, take part in the Tribute Parade, be interviewed by Caesar Flickerman, run for supplies at the Cornucopia, make alliances with other outline districts, die an excruciating death?
Velia's heels tap against the stage. She has a precarious perch on the edge of the stage, and is in danger of falling into the flowers that have been planted at the bottom if the stage.
"Gladius Lapworth!"
One of the boys steps forward from the back of the cildren eligable for the Games. He's an eighteen year old, who is lean with a shock of white-blond hair. His eyes are pale blue, and it's eay to tell who he is. This boy doesn't labour over sewing machines or the cotton fields, does not make dye out of pigments found in flowers. He's the son of a merchant, which means all he does is stack boxes and occasionally mind the counter.
What was expected of him? Avoid being reaped, but attend the reapings, as is mandatory. Once he was no longer eligable, he would have found a pretty girl and married. He isn't the volunteering type. I don't think he's ever gone hungry, worked for weeks without breaks longer than a couple of hours. He could pass as a citizen from the Capitol, apart from the lack of make up. Even though he lives in what is considered an outline district. An outline district is considered anything past District Six. The only reason our district is a favoured one is because we produce something that the Capitol residents think invaluable. We produce clothing, ribbons, buttons, thread and so forth.  
He joins me on the stage. All my family has momentarily stopped weeping and is staring up at me, trying to see how I handle this. Gladius obviously isn't handling it well at all. He's been named a fancy name, a name from the Capitol. His blue eyes are full of fear, instead of the excitment Capitol citizens get when they watch the reapings.
I am beyond fear. It has built up in me as we sang the national anthem, watched a clip explaining the Games in detail, with shots from previous arena and Caesar commenting on the scene where a tribute becomes a victor. Then came the Treaty of Treason, recited by the Mayor, followed by speeches from the six surviving victors from District 8.
Gladius's shaking like a leaf, and I think he might be hoping one of my brothers or relatives or friends will volunteer for him, so they can keep me safe in the Games. It's a long-shot for him, but he's hoping for it regardless. The problem is, the younger of my two older brothers had their last reaping a couple of years ago. Everyone knows I have brothers, because they resemble me rather closely. Not everyone knows their ages. My friends and other reletives would never volunteer for me in a million years.
His fear grows greater when Velia gives a forced smile. She'd rather have any other district than ours. One volunteer is a major event for her, and she was obviously hoping for another. However, the crowd remains silent.
Could I still get myself out of this?
It only took two words to get me into it.
"May I present the tributes of District Eight!" Velia says. Then she turns to us.
"Shake hands, you two," she says in a low voice. Gladius's hand grabs mine, and I blush. He shakes it firmly.
Before we are ushered into the Justice Building, I see my family once more. They are shocked, standing there with expressionless faces. My mother tried to protect us, tried to ensure that this would never happen. I wasn't reaped, though. My name was not drawn from the glass ball. My mother never let us accept tesserae, so she worked extra hours. I only caught brief glimpses of my mother during my first ten years, she was working so hard to feed us all. She thought it was worth it, spending years and years making sure that we were not picked.
I tore it all apart with two words.
My friend has not watched any of my being onstage. As soon as I climbed the steps, she turned away, buried her head in her father's shirt. Her long hair is coming out of its braids. She has always had to take tesserae. Our family would have offered her something, had we not been starving ourselves. Her chances of being picked were high, but she and I always found some way to joke about it. I remember how we shared a smile this afternoon, right before the reaping began. She had been worried that she was to be picked, but I assured her she wouldn't be, and I threw a witty comment in there. That made he forget about it. Until Velia walked on stage, which is when everyone realises just what is about to happen. Two innocent children will be sent off to the Capitol to be dressed up and slaughtered. Before two o'clock on reaping day, you can joke about the Games and the Capitol all you like. When the clock in the Justice Building strikes two, the grassy plaza with all its bright shops and flowers settles down, and becomes sombre and crowded and imposing.
There isn't any way out of this, unless I somehow die before we reach the Capitol. Which is pointless, considering that in the Games, I'll at least have a chance. Not a good one, but a chance none the less.
Volunteering is rare in the outline districts. The ones who do it are spread far and thin, and do it because they are desperate. There are things no one knows about the Games until they step foot in the arena. What will the arena be like? What are the capabilities of the other tributes? What will be at the Cornucopia?
Three years ago was the second Quarter Quell, with Haymitch Abernathy as victor. The arena was deadly: everything was poisonous apart from the supplies found at the Cornucopia and the rainwater. And if that wasn't enough, there were twice as many tributes as normal. The tributes from Twelve paired up, so just after Haymitch broke off the alliance, the whole of Panem had the pleasure of watching the girl from Twelve die. Haymitch won using the force-field, which was a spur of the moment idea, and I heard that they killed his girlfriend and his family. The Head Gamemaker of that Quarter Quell has planned out the ones I'm competing in. Which only makes me more afraid. Perhaps they cannot change the number of tributes, because it isn't a Quarter Quell, but there are no limits to the arena. Last year it was a desert, and half of the tributes died of thirst.
If only. If only I'd changed my mind. If only I'd decided that I could find someone else to go around with, tell my secrets to, laugh with.
But telling myself if only isn't going to help me. My actions, however stupid and rash, cannot be changed. For better or worse, whether I like it or not, I am a contender is the Fifty-Third annual Hunger Games, the female tribute from District Eight.
I volunteered.