The Reaping

Death is never something a fifteen year old should have to worry about first thing in the morning. At least, that's what I think. According to the government, anyone over ten should pay for the decisions of our ancestors. Upon the establishment of the "New World Government," we've had our contest called "The Reaping."

The rules are, as they've been explained to us by the Reapers, that anyone over the age of ten must compete in the contest. When we are ten, we're forced to get our number tattooed on our forearm. Then, every three years, five people from every state are compelled to compete. This year is no different than the others of when "The Reaping" occurs.

I awake to the screams of a neighbor down the street. The state I live in, Beaver Firm, is one of the least developed states founded alongside the government and sixteen other states. Beaver Firm is one of the two states farthest from the capital, The Council Land, second only to Prison Bank. I sluggishly run my hands across the bed sheets. No one rushes to assist screaming neighbors anymore. We've grown accustomed to the fear mongering of the Reapers.

Stretching out my worn out limbs, I mentally prepare for the tactical videos to be shown in our class today. There's only a week left before the warriors are called off to train for their deaths. Miss Avantine, the only school teacher in five miles, is forced to show us videos of atrocities caused by the ancestors of myself, and many others. Shame is forced upon us, yet none genuinely feel the shame. Wrapping my tattered school jacket around my torso, I shake, hit with the fear either of my younger brothers will be chosen this year. I have been forced to care for them, as my older brothers and sister have been compelled to care for me. My siblings and I have had to work our pants off to provide for ourselves since our mother passed from sickness and our father was reaped.

"Jacob, Andrew, get your school books and let's go!" I shout, gathering my bag of notebooks and pencils. Two pairs of feet rumble through the house, as my two younger brothers scurry to grab their items. I pace towards the door, slinging what little belongings I can call my own over my shoulder. Jacob bumps into me, falling flat on his butt. Andrew follows shortly behind, screeching to a stop just before he would've run over Jacob.

"Do you two have everything?" I ask, knowingly having forgotten items before. They nod vigorously, suspiciously smiling. I burrow my brows, hot on the trail of what they're possibly hiding.

Without further delay, I prop open the door and stomp outside. The winter cold slaps me for being out this early, but choices are limited these days. Not going to school or work could result in one's number being in the picking pot. Based on how many days you don't go, add that many of your numbers. Our father was one of the unlucky people who had their number mistakenly added more than once.

Andrew, Jacob, and I march towards the schoolhouse, albeit begrudgingly.

"Do we have to go to school?" Jacob whines.

"Yes, we do. You know what happens when we don't. I don't want your number in the pot more than once." I assert, my gut tightening and rustling with my answer.

"My number being in twice isn't that big of a deal. Someone could volunteer to take my place!" Jacob retorts, arrogance prevalent in his voice.

"Firstly, no one has volunteered to take another person's place. Secondly, our father had his number in twice, and look how he turned out," I respond, gut now screaming in fear.

"I doubt they're really going to make a twelve year old do any of the tasks in the competition," Andrew chimes. I glare at Andrew, stomach naughting at the idea of either completing tasks that could kill them. Over the years, I've seen many children younger than me fight for their lives through the multitude of tasks. Many don't survive the first ten assigned tasks.

"They will force you to do their bidding. The both of you have seen it happen. Let's just get to class before we're late," I settle upon rumbling. We clamber up the steps of the rotting school building, watching our step over the decaying wooden boards.

I bid a greeting to our governor, Governor Placy, as we passed him on the way to the sole classroom. We used to have more classrooms and teachers, but since the other rooms are now being used as offices, we're confined to one classroom. All one hundred and fifty students squeeze into the room, shoving our ways to the seats we've always sat in. Clacking of a ruler on the chalkboard alerts us to quite ourselves.

"Good morning, students. I suppose you're all aware of the upcoming event," Miss Placey states. One hundred and fifty pairs of hollowed eyes stare coldly back at her.

"I don't want you to fear being picked to represent Beaver Firm," claims Miss Placey. "You have no other choice in the matter." I lower my head, swallowing any hope for my future. Out of the corner of my eye, Andrew glances up at me, gauging my reaction.

"Today's video covers the conquest of Europeans over the people native to what is modern day Westland," states Miss Placey. "You all know that Westland is the name of all of the continent we live on. This lesson will be extremely relevant to most of you." Miss Placey begins to play the video, as the accounts of the horrendous deeds are passed on once more. My eyes screw shut, blocking out images of stomach churning paintings. Every year, they show the same videos at the same time, and we have to write essays based on the videos. I've refused to do them for the past two years, not wanting any further lessons.

As the video come to a close, eyes weakly open to adapt to the lights coming back on. Other students exchange passing contact, not daring to make a peep.

"Anyone have anything to say about the video?" Miss Placey asks, prompting some sort of response. Her only response was three hundred dead eyes becoming much colder. She bows her head, composing herself before beginning her yearly speech.

"I would normally tell you to stay calm, and that you have nothing to fear. That is not the truth, and you should know it. This year, there have been revolts in some of the other states in Westland. People are upset that the Reaping is still happening, and they want to change it. I hope that some of you will step up to the plate if you have anything to say about the Reaping," Miss Placey starts, tears rush to the corners of her eyes, warning us of the brutal truth being told. "You're all very brave and intelligent students. I know that you'll be the ones to change all this mess." The eerie silence my peers and I have cultivated is broken as simultaneously, every student breaks down bawling. No one is safe from the panic that has newly been brought forth. Tears flow in copious amounts as we failingly attempt to comfort one another.

Radio broadcasts have spoken that if there is any resistance, twice as many people will be chosen to fight for their states. Grasping hold of my emotions, I crush Jacob and Andrew against me. They continue to sob, fear truly setting in.

Once the tear flow has calmed, Miss Placey stands in the front of the class once more.

"We, the people of The New World Leaders, are expected to not cause a ruckus. Yet in the times becoming apparent, there will be plenty of chaos needing to be made." Miss Placey explains. "Your homework assignment this week is to write as many letters to leaders and as many essays on the wrongs of the Reaping as possible. May God help you along your endeavors this week." The overhead bells chimes, signalling our release. One by one, my peers adjust themselves, not leaving their seats.

"What are you still doing here?" Miss Placey questions. "Go home or to work and do what you must." With hardened eyes, no one moves from their seats.

"Miss Placey," a student chimes, "We're not moving until we're allowed to write while we're here. We have a very important job to do." Miss Placey nods, grasping the writing paper firmly as she crosses the room. Handing every student three pieces of paper, she makes here way to every student before throwing the extra papers back on her desk.

"If any of you need more paper, let me know and I'll bring you more," Miss Placey commands. "You may begin." Hands rush across papers, letters and essays being mass produced. Students chatter in groups, exchanging ideas and other examples for use.