A/N: Hello, all! This is my first Hunger Games fic (and the first I've written in a while), so I hope I haven't gotten too rusty. Let me know what you think so far or if you have any questions. For those who are wondering, the story is based on all original characters, and this is not an SYOT. Anyway, hope you enjoy!
...
I'm pulled from my sleep by the gentle caress of a hand on my cheek. I open my eyes slowly, blinking in the flood of sunlight. My mother hovers above me, seated comfortably at my side. She must have been there for a long time. As she sits, she tenderly strokes the side of my face, patiently waiting as I slowly come to.
My mother is beautiful. Her hair hangs in silky, light strands that remind me of autumn, and her blue eyes are deep with love and mysteries. Though the wrinkles of stress, hunger, and fear have pressed deep creases into her face, she still possesses a youthful vitality that beams through her eyes when she smiles. Her laughter is contagious, her warmth and kindness abundant. I've never looked up to another person the way I do her, and I don't think I ever will. She's more than a mother to me – she and my father are the only reason I'm still alive.
After a few minutes, I muster the strength to sit up in bed, the room tilting around me as I gain my balance. The small effort makes my heart pound. I sigh in frustration as she takes my hand.
"How do you feel?" she asks softly.
"About the same." Mother sighs, fear in her eyes. I remember that today is the reaping and wonder how I'm supposed to make it to the town square like this. The Peacekeepers aren't usually merciful. They know that I'm sick, but they know I'm capable of leaving the house and returning in one piece. I just hope that I won't have to move very much.
"What time is it?" I inquire, staring out the window. Judging by the position of the sun, it must be past noon already. My mother is already outfitted in her usual pink dress. How late did she let me sleep?
"It's a little past two. We should be leaving in about two hours." I stiffen and sit up straighter, pulling the sheets from my body.
"Mom, you should have told me so I could get ready." I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, but she firmly places a hand on my shoulder to stop me.
"Not so fast. I'll help you." She gently takes my arm and nods slowly, helping me out of bed. My knees wobble as I stand, half from the illness and half from lying in bed for over two weeks. I realize that, aside from standing up to pee and bathe, I haven't really walked in over a month. The doctor advised me against leaving the house altogether. Of course, today couldn't be avoided.
After I'm steady on my feet, my mother guides me to the other side of the room and patiently helps me slip into my light blue gown. It's made of an uncomfortable starchy material that itches and sticks to my skin, but I don't complain – it's about the only dress I own long enough to keep me warm. When I've finished buttoning the front, Mother helps me wash my hair and prepares me a hot bowl of sweet rice and milk. She combs out the tangles in my blonde locks while I gulp down the food, then wraps them into a bun. She ties a single blue ribbon in and plants a light kiss on my forehead. I smile and kiss her on the cheek.
My mother has sacrificed everything to take care of me. She used to be a schoolteacher, and despite the minimal payment, she loved her job. The children looked up to her and admired her as if she were their own mother. They flocked to her at recess and tugged her every which way, showing her off to their parents anytime they met outside of school. Even the other teachers adored her. The school was a second home to her.
Then my skin started bruising, and I became frequently ill. The teachers at my own school suspected that I was faking sick for attention, perhaps being abused, but it only became worse. Within months, I was too weak and tired to attend school. The teachers pushed me away, afraid I'd come down with a contagious disease and that I might infect some of the other students. To check for signs of plague, a doctor was called in all the way from District 1. He examined me thoroughly, performing strange tests on my body, telling us only that my illness was no contagious, but that I was going to die.
And that was the end of it. As soon as she knew, she developed a strict regimen and stuck to it, staying at my side every minute to ensure that I last as long as I can. We barely get by, now, and my father has to work two jobs just to come home with a loaf of bread for dinner. But neither of them have ever complained. They say that it's more important that I'm cared for than that we live in better conditions, so long as we have food and water. I still feel as if I owe an enormous debt. Of course, it's a little late to worry about paying them back.
Shortly after my breakfast, my father returns home. He's brought back a small back of cherries – who knows how he managed to pay for those – and a fresh chicken to eat for dinner. We always have celebration food after the reaping, like all the other families, but he's really gone all out this year.
"How'd you pay for all of this?" I ask him, gently taking his hand. He smiles and ruffles my hair, eliciting a laugh from me, and I push his hands away from my head before he can mess up the bun.
"Don't worry about it, sugardrop," he says. I smile at the old nickname. He hasn't called me that in ages. "It's been a rough year. I think we all deserve a little treat." I can't say I disagree. Anyway, I haven't eaten much solid food over the past several months. Chicken sounds like an otherworldly pleasure at this point.
My mom helps him put away the food while I sit and wait. Just as the clock chimes three, my father pulls out the wheelchair. It's a dusty old thing, and the wheels often get jammed, but it was the best he could trade for. I'm just glad that he was able to find a means of transportation for me. I sink into the seat cautiously while my mom drapes a wooly blanket over my shoulders to keep me warm. As a final touch, my dad grabs the strip of cloth hanging over the table and gently places it over my mouth, tying the strings together beneath my bun. Though I don't look like it, I feel like royalty with all the kindness and care I'm receiving. I wonder how many other parents in a poverty hole like District 8 would do the same for their own children. I've heard of a lot of kids in similar conditions being euthanized. The very thought sends a shudder down my bare neck. Though I know I'm going to die one way or another, I can't imagine letting someone finish the job for me.
The streets are filled with other parents and children when we step outside into the blinding sun. Those who see us offer a friendly wave and sympathetic smiles to me. A few adults hang back while their children run ahead to talk to my parents, exchanging nervous jokes and wishing me the best of luck. As my mother hangs behind and smoothly pushes the chair, she bends down and kisses the top of my head very lightly, adjusting my ribbon.
We turn the corner next to a row of white apartments and eventually pass the factory. Even through the cloth, I can smell the sweet, chemical fumes, and my stomach turns slightly. We get through the area as fast as we can manage and finally make the turn into the town square, which is now teeming with thousands of frightened children and their parents. I've never been afraid of the games. My parents forbid me from ever taking any tesserae no matter how much good it would do. Meanwhile, all of the other kids my age probably have their names in at least thirty times by now, if not more. It's the only way to stay fed for many. If it weren't for the cause behind my parents' concern, the other kids would probably be jealous. But no one holds envy for me. I'm already fighting for my life.
As we near the entrance, a couple of men in white suits prick my finger and instruct someone to take me. I grab my mother's hand and squeeze it tightly. She blows me a kiss, mouthing, "You'll be fine" to me. I know she's right. Still, the separation makes me anxious.
A tall girl in a yellow sundress takes my wheelchair and pushes me to the section with all the other fourteens. The other kids part to make way for me, nervously stepping aside as if afraid that I might be catching. Most people have a vague sense of who I am from seeing me before, but few are aware that I'm not contagious. I don't care. I don't really have friends anymore, so it doesn't matter what they think.
Over time, the crowd gradually begins to settle down. It seems almost all of the district has finally arrived, and now, with the reaping drawing ever closer, talk of who will be selected is flitting between clusters of the girls around me.
The Hunger Games are different this year. It's the 25th anniversary, and according to custom, this will be Panem's first Quarter Quell. It was explained that the games would go on normally, like they always do. But this year, the tributes would not be chosen via random selection. No, this year, the tributes were to be voted in. Sometime last month, Peacekeepers visited each of our homes and gathered a vote from every household member over the age of twelve. My parents begrudgingly chose a name at random from the list, as most other parents did, in hopes that they wouldn't happen to choose the same one as too many others. No one truly had any desire to vote someone into the game, but we were left with no choice. I could think of very few individuals who would deliberately choose a specific person from the list. Still, I knew of a few kids who were in immediate danger.
I search the crowd and spot Roma Pax in the boys' group. I could see a few people choosing him. He was a big burly kid with dark, mean eyes and a meaner character. He was notorious for stealing items from the school, and supposedly he'd been arrested three times. Those who knew of him had little respect for him. I could think of few others who'd given themselves such a bad name. I almost felt bad for him, thinking back to the voting week. His luck was slim. I wouldn't be surprised at all if he were selected as male tribute.
As for the females, I was entirely clueless. I didn't know of any girls who were particularly detested. True, there were a few cruel queens who took pleasure in humiliating girls who didn't have the guts to stand up for themselves. But even then, I couldn't imagine them all choosing a sole target. No one was that cruel. Still, as the minutes tick off, the girls around me become increasingly more nervous. One bursts out in tears, certain that she has been voted off, and the others wrap their arms around her in comfort, assuring her that anyone could've been voted in. Sniveling, she finally brings herself under control. In the commotion, I don't notice when Julius Cadman, the District 8 escort, makes his way to the stage.
A sudden squeak from the speakers announces that the reaping was about to begin. Julius, his lips lined in a neon green that perfectly matched his glittering emerald suit, flashes a white grin to the citizens of District 8. He spreads his arms open as if to reach out and hug the audience. The gesture makes me flinch, and I self-consciously chew on the cloth guarding my mouth.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" he booms over the loudspeakers in his nasal Capitol accent, his arms outstretched. His voice reminds me of newscasters and sports announcers. "Welcome, to the 25th annual Hunger Games!" By requirement, the audience claps. Their enthusiasm is as real as Julius's sparkly, pearlescent Capitol teeth.
When the crowd quiets, he continues. "It's a pleasure to be here in District 8 to celebrate Panem's first Quarter Quell. As you all know, this year is going to be different. Two of you brave youth have been selected by your own peers to compete, and my, is it going to be an exciting competition. But before we reveal the results, a word from Mayor Chet Enton!" The crowd claps a little more enthusiastically as our mayor, appearing tired and sullen, makes his way to the front of the stage and begins with his usual procedure. He drones through the history of our country, the creation of the Hunger Games, the purpose of the games, their rules. Finally, he concludes his monotone speech by gesturing back to Julius to take the stage again. The crowd falls entirely silent. No one dares to breathe.
"Thank you, Enton, for that wonderful introduction. And now, without further adieu, it's time to announce this year's tributes! And as a little changeup, we're starting with the boys this year."
Unlike usual, the glass balls on the stage contain only one slip of paper each. They seem eerily empty without thousands of other entries, and it's all the more frightening to look at. There is no random chance, here. The fate of the tributes has already been decided. This is only an announcement – their dooms were sealed last week.
Julius makes an agonizing show of waltzing to the glass ball with excruciating slowness. He reaches his hand in, and the audience holds its breath. I watch his hand lift out the slip of paper, folded in half, and bring it to the microphone. He opens it and stares at the name without answer for a moment. Then, finally, he opens his reptilian green mouth.
"Brezzo Gafelle!" he crows into the microphone. All turn to watch as a pool of emptiness forms around a scrawny boy who appears about my age. He stiffens and stares straight ahead as if waiting for the man to announce that he misread, that it was all a big mistake. But no such thing happens, and it becomes increasingly clearer with each millisecond that there was no mistake, and that this boy was indeed sentenced to death by the district.
Slowly, shaking, the boy makes his way up to the stage. Faces in the audience darken with regret, and I realize that some of them must have, for whatever reason, chosen him. He finishes his walk of shame and drags himself to the front of the stage, standing beside Julius, whose saccharine grin never falters.
"Congratulations, Brezzo," he greets the boy, shaking his hand firmly. Brezzo remains stationary, his face pale. I wonder if he's about to faint. "Let's get a round of applause for this brave young man!" The audience begins to clap very slowly. It's a hollow sound that barely leaves an echo.
"And now, for our female tribute," Julius announces, making his way to the girl ball. I glance at the nervous girls all around me, waiting anxiously to see who will be chosen. The world starts to tilt slightly, and I realize that my heart is racing. Though I'm familiar with very few of them, I fear for them all the same. Watching girls my age go into the arena and die is never pleasant.
Julius makes his way back to the microphone once again, his lips stretching into a broad smile. He unfolds the paper, and much more quickly than before, announces the name.
"Forsythia Alcroft!"
My heart stops beating altogether. My skin flushes. My stomach drops. Two or three girls turn to look at me, and somewhere far away millions of miles into a muffled abyss, I think I hear my mother screaming. I'm thankful for the cloth over my face, so others can't see the horrified expression that twists my features. Slowly, very slowly, the audience turns to watch. Their faces drop instantly, cold with shame. Even Julius seems to falter for a moment, his lips almost twitching into a frown. He must be wondering if this is a sick joke, but apparently it isn't. I've been voted off to compete in Panem's first Quarter Quell.