AN: This is my first published FF so please tell me what I can do to improve. I would love any feedback that you could offer. Thanks for reading!
NOTE: I do not own any of these characters or claim to. All that credit goes to the brilliant Suzanne Collins.
Enjoy!
I shoot up in bed, in what my father refers to as a cold sweat. This is the third time night and I just can't seem to shake the feeling of dread that climbs up my spine and seems to be implanting itself in my brain. Of all the things I fear, being Reaped is one of the least likely to happen. Why do I dread it so much, then? Why is it this single occurrence that I will only have to go through two more times after today that wakes me up night after night for the week before it happens.
Sometimes in the dreams it isn't even me that is being Reaped. Usually it's someone who I know from school, someone I might be casual acquaintances with. I don't have many friends. When you're the mayor's daughter, no one will be mean to you but no one wants to get too close to you either. Of course the merchant kids are nicer on a consistent basis but the Seam kids are mostly distant, aloof. I can't blame them. I would hate me too if I had to suffer through my life as they did. Still, it's usually them being Reaped in my dreams. It's them that I have to watch being sliced open, bludgeoned, poisoned, or starved each night in my dreams. It also usually happens to be them that I have to watch suffer in reality, which hurts far more. I feel selfish even thinking about them and how much the Reaping hurts me. I have no right to feel pained. No right to feel sorry for myself, my father. That doesn't stop the guilt, though. While it is the dreams of the others that make me feel sick and that wake me up from a deep sleep, only two specific dreams make me sit straight up, drenched in sweat.
The first of these is when I am being Reaped in the dream. When I am paraded to The Capitol and made a spectacle before the people while they look at me and judge me and bet on how quickly I will die. Then the games start and as I look around the arena, I see my aunt running into the forest. My parents won't allow me to watch the footage of her games—though that doesn't mean I haven't seen it. In my dream, I turn and follow her into the trees, avoiding the bloodbath, only to see her being killed by the candy pink birds that were designed to feign beauty and wonder. As I run to her, I usually fall to another tribute or a muttation or some other device of The Capitol. This is the one that scares me the most but I know is impossible, even if I were to be Reaped. The other feels so much more real, so possible that I don't even want to think about it.
Instead, I shake the thought off and throw the covers off of me, crawling out of bed. I glance over at the clock and see that it's not too early to be up. I think that perhaps I can make a nice breakfast for my parents to take their minds off the event that are about to unfold. I doubt my father will eat it without coaxing but I can be relatively certain that he will give in with a bit of pushing. On the other hand, my mother will probably not eat it. Her moods fluctuate so much when it comes to the Reaping. People understand that she has emotional issues and that she's not alone, many in District 12 suffer similarly.
The judgement becomes harsh, though, when they begin to say things like, "Well she's the mayor's wife. What does she have to be depressed about?"
The problem arises because most people like to forget the former tributes, especially those who are overshadowed by a Victor from our district. Many don't know or don't remember so my mother receives very little sympathy. Most who knew her in her youth remember the beautiful, smiling merchant girl that married the tailor's charismatic son who went on to become mayor. She was able to cope and move on with her life after Aunt Maysilee died. Her depression began shortly after I was born and we never really connected properly. I've been told that it happens on occasion with women, especially those who don't particularly want children and have battled depression before. My father likes to assure me that my mother used to be a different person and that I am very much like her in many aspects. Little does he know, this scares me much more than it provides reassurance me.
When I was a child, my mother was better for a long period, which I do remember. It wasn't until shortly before my first Reaping that she had her first of a long series of major migraines that worsened as the Reaping approached. Every year for the past four years, my mother stays in bed for the month before the Reaping and then brightens remarkably the day after until she realizes that someone else she can find a tie to has been Reaped. At that point, she returns to her cave of a bedroom and requires a great deal of persuasion to eat and drink and eventually come to after a month or so. In between these periods of time, she has other shorter bout of depression and migraines that put her into bed. I decide that, despite this, I will make breakfast anyway.
As I quietly walk down the stairs, I can hear my father in the other room. He's reading the speech he has to give every year on the history of Panem. Explaining why we are so indebted to The Capitol for even being allowed to exist at all. Why we are especially fortunate to have the loving guidance of The Capitol and not some other power or complete anarchy, which we would certainly fall to if left to our own devices. He hates reading that speech but doesn't have much of a choice, or any at all actually.
I make it into the kitchen, which is modest enough. My mother never really liked to cook so I don't know where I got the love of cooking from. I open our cooler and see milk, eggs, and some kind of sausage that I'm guessing is probably deer but won't bother asking about. Knowing it's her favorite, I decide to make a Capitol scramble of eggs, sausage, onions, and peppers. I make some hash browns and call that a hearty breakfast. The only thing we're missing is fresh fruit. I'm fixing up a plate to take to my mother when I hear someone coming down the stairs. My father's voice bellows out as he nears the kitchen.
"Sounds like there have been two Undersees hard at work this morning. I think I've got my reading and speech down for this year. Breakfast smells delicious."
"I heard you but I didn't want to interrupt. Not with official district business and all," I tell him as a I heap a plate full for him.
"Oh I could have used your comments. How about I recite it for you after breakfast?" I shoot him a look which reminds him how much I love speeches. "On second thought, scrap that idea. Let's get your mom to eat some of this. Then we can eat and I can give you your present."
"I don't need anything, Dad."
"That doesn't mean you don't deserve it." He winks and stands up. I can tell that there is a sadness behind his eyes that he won't admit to anyone else exists. Sadness that his life has been reduced to watching his wife suffer and his own desires to help his fellow District 12 citizens fail miserably. We go upstairs and see my mother, sitting on the side of the bed.
"I heard you coming up. I thought I smelled peppers cooking," she says, smiling weakly. This is her attempt at being in a good mood. All I can think is that at least she tries to still be a good mother.
"Yeah, mom, I wanted to make you your favorite."
"Thank you, darling. I suppose I can try to eat some of it." Her voice is so weak, it frightens me. During this month she gets so thin and sickly looking. The sight of her eating, though, is a comfort. My father makes small talk about the new addition to the Justice Building that The Capitol wants us to build while my mother takes a few bites. I'm not really paying too much attention to him but I hear the end of the conversation.
"Can you imagine the jobs it would provide for some of the coal miners? It could get a fair number out of the mines for a few weeks while we assemble the new wing!"
"I'm sure that would be nice for them. If only you could build other buildings without The Capitol having to approve every nail being used," my mother replies. My father always means well. He truly wants to improve the district. We sit in silence for a moment as no one knows how to respond to that. "Honey, could you go for a moment? I want to talk to Madge for a bit."
"Of course. I'm glad that you ate some breakfast. I'll go and eat mine," he says as he kisses her on the forehead, the pain even more evident in his eyes than usual. It makes me nervous that my mother wants to talk to me.
"There's something I want to give to you," she says slowly, contemplating every word as it comes out. It seems like today is a day of gifts. "It belonged to your aunt."
"Are you sure, mom? I know how precious her things are to you."
"Yes. She would want you to have. Especially since you are the mirror image of her. It's in the second drawer of my jewelry box. Inside the green bag," she tells me and I walk over and pull out the felt bag. It's small and I'm eager to know what is inside. She nods for me to open it and I pull out a small pin. It's round, golden, and fits nicely into the center of my hand but is ornate and beautiful. It's a mockingjay, holding an arrow in it's beak, mid-flight. I can't even help but gasp as I take it in. This could keep a family in the Seam in bread for six months. I can tell from my mother's expression that it is precious to her.
"Oh, mom, it's gorgeous. I love it. Thank you so much." I lean over and hug her small frame as tightly as I can without feeling like I might break her.
"You're welcome dear. Will you wear it the Reaping? I might see you wearing it on screen when I watch."
"I will. Hopefully they won't even show me, though." She smiles weakly again, hoping that I'm right.
"I'm really very tired. Plus your breakfast is getting cold. You should go eat while I take a nap. Thank you so much for the scramble."
"No, thank you. I'm glad you ate some. I know it made Dad happy. I'll see you in a little while," I say as I walk out of the room. As soon as I close the door, I feel like crying. I don't even know exactly why but I just feel like falling to the ground and sobbing right there. I don't, though. I am not my mother. I am stronger than her. I take a deep breath and walk down the stairs. After eating my breakfast and cleaning up, I glance over at the clock. It's already late morning. Usually Reaping Day goes by so slowly but today is actually passing quite quickly. I don't really know if this is good or bad. I want the Reaping to be done with but I also want it to not happen at all.
My father calls my name from upstairs. As I run to my room, I see him standing with his head poking out of the door. As I walk in, I see a beautiful white dress and a pink ribbon, another gift for Reaping Day. I'm not usually one for dressing up but I put up with it for the day, knowing it makes my father look good for The Capitol. I thank him and put it on, putting my hair up. As I go back down the stairs to find a book to read to pass time, I hear a knock at the kitchen door. Knowing that my father is in the study practicing his speech one last time I go to answer it.