The Hunger Games Fanfiction - Chapter 1 Part 1

As promised, I present you with the first chapter of my Hunger Games Fanfiction. I haven't come up with a good name yet, but I'll tell you when inspiration strikes. And as I said before, this will also be posted on Fanfiction, but not until tomorrow. Don't worry! You don't need to have read or seen the Hunger Games to enjoy this! Promise!However, there has been a small problem with posting this in one part, so I'll post the first chapter in two parts! Anyway, I hope you like it!

I wield the heavy metal axe in my battered hands as I swing it back and forth to gain momentum. As I raise it up level with my head, I let it swing, and it hits the brittle wood of the tree with a satisfying thud. Despite the heavy hit, the tree bears little damage. The cut made by the axe is small and nearly non-existent. Small pieces of bark litter the grass that is in the shade of the mahogany tree.
I sigh and rest against the trunk of a larger adjacent tree. The thick leaves formed on the branches create a small canopy that gives me some shade from the searing heat that has made itself at home in District 7 over the last week. Only one hit, and already I am exhausted from the heat and from the dread I feel about the next day. The terror is already creeping its way into my stomach, devouring the butterflies fluttering around hopelessly in there.
I wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead, and stand up straight again. I readjust my grip on the axe and turn to face the targeted mahogany tree. I concentrate, and swing the axe again, this time making a larger impression on the wood. Furiously, I start hacking at the tree, destroying it hit by hit.
For a mahogany tree, it is unusually thin, and within the hour, it lands loudly on the forest floor. The surrounding trees stare straight ahead, unaware that one of their friends has just dropped down dead.
I collapse on the ground as I try to regain my breath. The sharp sun pierces my skin with its rays, and I feebly raise my left arm in front of my face in an attempt to shield myself from the worst of the heat. I regain enough energy to sit back up, shuffling over into the shade of a neighbouring tree. I settle myself against the sturdy trunk as I brush off the remaining bark from my sweaty shirt.
As always at the start of my daily routine, I question my motives. Why? Why do I spend my weekends chopping trees down endlessly just so I can scrape a living? Because I live in District 7, that's why. Under the cruel reign of the Capitol, most of the residents of this miserable town is in poverty. Since I'm under eighteen, I still have to go school. But every weekend I venture far into the sprawling forest that surrounds District 7. I chop down as many trees as I can before sunset, then go back to town where I can hopefully sell some of them to buy something more worthwhile.
I scramble back onto my feet, my tired leg muscles strained. My feet ache from standing up for too long in these worn leather boots. I reluctantly pick up the axe again, the weight of it taking its toll on my exhausted shoulder,
I wander over to a tree, if you can even call it that, it's so ridiculously thin. With one clean cut from the axe, its top half is chopped off completely. I heave it over my shoulder and throw it down beside the tree I cut down earlier.
For the next three hours, I relentlessly slash at a large tree. With every hit of the sharp blade, I feel as though I lose part of my soul. As the bark splinters off, I feel like I'm going insane. The tree hits the soil loudly, and as I drag it over to the other trees, I notice the sun is in the centre of the sky. Registering the low grumble in my stomach, I pull out my lunch from my sack. It's just a slice of whole meal bread and a small chunk of ham, but it'll have to do. After a quick swig of some water, I feel refreshed and ready to work.
Two trees later, and I realise I have enough wood for the day. I tie the trees together in a bundle securely with a rope. I tie the other end of the rope around my waist. I place the axe into my sack, which I sling over my shoulder. The trek back to town takes half an hour, which is made no easier when dragging half a dozen trees. On the move, I spot some kale and berries, which I harvest with my knife and throw into the sack.
The closer I get to town, the more people I see cutting down trees. I usually stray far into the forest, where there is a better choice of trees. Here, in the area close to town, there is a few thin trees. All that is left of the rest are stubby tree trunks. The trees that the other citizens are cutting down look worthless. But the trees I am tugging behind me equal up to a weeks worth of supplies.
I think what most people lack in District 7 is a bit of common sense.
I glimpse the first sight of town. It's a large town, mostly made out of small wooden huts. Except from a few factories, which is where I'm headed.
As I plug on through the rough streets, the residents of District 7 look at me. Jago Ozias, the Unloved Boy. The older people growl at me under their breaths, and the mothers turn away their children when they point at me in awe.
I'm something of a legend here in the lumber district. My mother died at birth. My father was killed in a small uprising he created when I was ten. After that, I was spurned out onto the street, left to fend for myself. At first, I begged on the streets, stayed in small rundown shacks, which I suppose is where I got my nickname. But over the years, I learned how to survive. I started cutting trees at the weekend, sometimes even after school, which I would trade at the factories. Whenever I could, I would look for food in the forest. I found a permanent place to stay.
Another reason I was well-known was because of the strength I had developed over time. It was common knowledge of my strength that rivalled any other man in the district. Of course, this made most people paranoid that I could rip their heads off. Which believe me, was very tempting, from some of the looks thrown my way.
"Ozias! Over here!" a voice from behind me shouts. The only people around here who hide their fear from me are the Peacekeepers.
"Unloved Boy! Didn't you hear me! Get over here now!" the same voice jeered. I grit my teeth, remembering about the axe that I still have tucked away in my sack. It would be a total coincidence if they found an axe hurtling their way.
Before I can move, however, a sharp pain hits my back. A whip. The pain is hot at first, the flesh still shocked from the suddenness of the attack. It burns, spreading over my skin. I groan as the painful sensation sinks in. From somewhere behind me, I hear two sets of voices guffawing merrily.
"What?!" I snap, spinning around whilst my fists ball up in fury. Head Peacekeeper Gretch perches on the stairs of the Justice Building with his creepy sidekick whose name I could never remember, both flanked in their ridiculous white Peacekeeper uniforms.
"Just wanted to say hello." Gretch says, seriously, before him and his sidekick burst into laughter again. I resist the urge to go back and kick them.
I leave them laughing at their own jokes, and walk through the factories until I reach the one I usually go to. It's unusually quiet, with only a few exhausted workers left. Here, the workers change the trees into something worthy of the Capitol. What they do, I don't know, but all I care about is how much money I get in return.
Webb, the worker who deals with the trading at this particular factory, is a nervous, bumbling young man. Who knows, maybe he could be Mr Charisma? But around me, he's as outgoing as a mouse. He pays fairly though, which is all that really matters to me.
"Jago! What have you got today?" he asks, fumbling about, dropping some of the sticks he's carrying in his arms. I unravel the rope, hoisting the trees upright.
"Looking forward to tomorrow?" Webb attempts at small talk with a horrible joke, as he dumps the sticks on to a workbench. I respond with a dark glare. It's alright for him, he doesn't have to face it.
As I hand each tree over to him, he gives me a small handful of coins in payment. I get an extremely high amount for the mahogany.
I heard it's very extravagant in the Capitol.
I say goodbye to Webb, and leave the factory. I choose to skip going to the market today, but decide to splurge out tomorrow night in celebration, if I make it. I stroll through the streets of District 7, winding my way back home. The sun is setting on this May evening, sending a golden glow over the dusty roads.
As I turn in to my street, the young children playing there stop silently. Some of them even begin to retract back into their houses. They are about nine or ten, old enough to know to stay clear of me, but young enough so they don't have to face the terrors of tomorrow. I give a reproachful look to a particularly bold red-haired boy who tries to stand in my way. I brush him to the side, and approach my front door. The red paint is peeling off, and some sort of vermin has chewed through the decaying wood.
Pushing the door open, I hear the strains of a television coming from the kitchen. I creep down the hallway, past the first bedroom and into the small kitchen. Frank, the old man who lets me stay here for a small amount of money each week, sits at the kitchen table, counting a stack of coins and watching some important Capitol announcement on the old battered television.
"Here," I say, throwing a handful of coins on the wooden table.
"Take it kid," he replies without looking up, sliding the pile of coins back over towards me, "if you're still here by Monday, you pay up. Okay?"
I nod in agreement, shoving the money back in my trouser pockets. I wander over to my cupboard.
"Want anything to eat?" I ask the old man.
"No thanks," he says, just as the credits on the television roll up, "I'm off to bed."
whipped is red and rough, but thankfully, not bleeding. My hands are gravelly and covered in cuts. I gently mop up a particularly deep cut.
I collapse on my mattress, exhausted, and wait for the nightmares to come.