Macula Tamen Venia
flawed and forgiven
I don't believe in anything but myself
I don't believe in anything but myself
How do I know if I'll make it through?
How do I know? Where's the proof in you?
Glimmer is seven when her sister is reaped.
She remembers when her sister's name is called, how her mother's grip tightens on her left hand while her father draws in a breath on the right. At seven, Glimmer is too young to fathom the expression on her father's face. Perhaps it is a mixture of pride and anguish- an expression that says, that's my girl, you get them all and then whimpers don't take her from me just yet, please please.
But her parents say nothing of the sort, so when Glimmer says goodbye to her sister, her sister beams at her and says proudly, "Look out, 64th Hunger Games!"
Her sister never comes home. Glimmer asks where she is one day and her mother tells her that her sister is living happily in the Capitol with a boy she met. Glimmer isn't as stupid as everyone thinks, so when she stumbles across some old tapes of the 64th Hunger Games and sees her sister die from being poisoned by snake muttations, she's not surprised. In fact, she doesn't even confront her parents.
Instead, she trains. She's not quite as fast as the girls in her class, nor is she particularly skilled with any one weapon- but she's a jack of all trades, as a matter of fact. So she lets the other girls take their pick of weapons first when it comes to training, because she is secure in the knowledge that she is fairly proficient in all weapons. Except the bow and arrow, but she dismisses that as ancient, useless. What good would a bow and arrow do against a spear, a sword, a knife?
Glimmer trains hard, but never is she good enough to surpass her sister's legacy. Never is she good enough that it seems like her parents love her as Glimmer, not as Glimmer the younger sister who just happens to be the only daughter they have left. She is left with hand me down love, hand me down titles, a shadow of her sister's untimely departure. That is one thing she cannot adapt to. Or rather, it is one thing she will not adapt to.
At eighteen, she has had enough of being second best, of being runner-up. So when a thirteen year old is called to the stage, she shoots to her feet, yelling louder than any volunteer in the crowd. And it works. She strides confidently to the stage, blonde hair rippling in the coiffed ponytail. This is on her terms now; her sister was reaped, she had no choice but to go. This is Glimmer's choice. She is calling the shots. For once, Glimmer feels like a victor…
That is, until she looks to the side and sees her father's face, twisted in the expression that she remembers from all those years ago. Except now Glimmer knows that that is not pride, but anguish. It is the last look she ever sees on his face.
But Glimmer forgets the anguish and focuses on not being the runner-up again. This time, the stakes are higher. Being runner-up means death, and Glimmer is not quite willing to die. So she partners up with the Careers, as expected of course. She eyes Clove with some distaste; she doesn't quite trust the girl with knives. Cato she keeps her distance from; she senses that he will erupt and kill the person standing closest. Marvel is the Career she feels closest to, quiet, shrewd Marvel who excels in throwing spears.
She discovers quickly that she is not as fast as Clove, not as strong as Cato, not as smart as Marvel, and while usually that meant that she had room to adapt in District 1, out in the Arena it is a different game altogether. To her dismay, Glimmer notes that her weapons have all been taken and the bow and arrow is the only one left. At the risk of going weaponless, she reluctantly takes it from Marvel's hands and trudges after the triumphant Cato and Clove, feeling like she's been upstaged again in some way.
And then comes the tracker jackers. Glimmer wills herself to fight off the hallucinations, wills herself to adapt, to fight, to somehow free herself from the pounding in her head and the blood that is bubbling up in her throat. And yet, her body refuses to cooperate. Her legs feel like they are on a marionette string, jerking and flailing and now her arms are doing the same thing and it hurts and Glimmer cannot scream and oh, make it stop-
She finally crumples to the ground, barely alive but still barely conscious of what is going on around her. She hears that Everdeen girl scrabble around, feels the bow being taken from her. Good, take it, I preferred blades anyway, her mind mutters. Then she feels herself being moved over, then feels excruciating pain as her fingers are broken, one at a time. She tries to scream, tries to call out for help, but there is no one around. Glimmer gives up, because she knows nobody will be coming to help her. Cato and Clove are gone. Marvel must have followed. So did that Mellark boy. And- her mind wanders-
And then she remembers- or maybe hallucinates- a conversation she vaguely heard when she was younger, in the room where her father is having his last conversation with her sister-
"Take care of Glimmer. Don't let her know what's happened."
"I will. Stay safe in the Arena. Come home."
"I'll do my best."
She can't even cry. As her breaths grow shallower, as the poison seeps through her veins, Glimmer finds it ironic how she is dying the same way her sister did- by some unnatural creature that shouldn't have existed. She tries to open her bloody lips, tries to say something that the camera will catch and let her parents know that she- that she what? Glimmer is thrown into confusion as the seconds count down to the end of her life.
As the world begins to fade away, as she hears screaming from beyond, as she feels a hand touch her cheek and Marvel's barely audible voice bellowing in anger, Glimmer has one last final thought:
I came in second again today. Her lips twitch into a bitter smile. Second to Katniss Everdeen.
But at least, she figures, she will be escaping all this carnage. All this killing. Maybe that's a victory in itself.
And so Glimmer, the tribute from District 1, breathes her last as the cannon sounds.
"soldier", ingrid michaelson