The Technicalities of Reaping
That morning, after watching a man die in my backyard, I stood in the rain with father's standard issue Capitol umbrella. It is the sort of umbrella that tells the rest of District 11, in a completely pompous fashion, yes I am one of them.
Stay away.
And usually you would. On any other day, you would not fail to note the contaminated air that suffocates people like me. It engulfs us regardless of our feigned reassurances and pathetic protests. The fact that we sit in your schools, walk on your streets, stand at your funerals does not change the single fact that matters most; we sentence you to death. We are the reason for your misery. If today were not indeed today, sufficient reason for you to disappear would be the mere glimpse of the sliver Capitol insignia on the back of my umbrella- lets face it the fact that I carry one at all! You would, no doubt, scurry back into the Subsections and fade in that way you are so accustom to. You are simply scenery after all.
But not I.
Although I am not someone who matters anymore than you, to the people who actually matter, I matter enough. Peacekeepers, Enforcers and Repenters all fall into this category with me. We are a foreign piece of putrid flesh grafted onto the very heart of your being. We are, if only by association, the Capitol. Surely we must be, for then why would we carry their umbrellas? Don't take this that wrong way and assume I am a typical self-hater, because this isn't exactly what I think of myself. But it is how you see me, isn't it?
And today I see like you.
...
My hands clench tightly around the cold metallic handle, which only seems to cool further beneath my grip, as someone knocks into me. Their ridiculous lack of direction and big head cause the canopy above to shiver in the cold. I hear a mumbled sorry from one of the many girls milling about, but I do not care all that much. I simply look up into the nothingness and wonder what on earth am I doing here? Why am I in the middle of rain so fickle it hangs undecided between the sky and ground; on muddied earth, in my little black dress, best velveteen gloves and fathers falling apart commando boots? The former pieces of clothing you will come to understand soon enough and the latter is a mere practicality.
Against the backdrop of, the head maid, Miss Perry's horrified shrieks I changed into the boots only after father was well and truly out of the house.
"Shut up!" I snapped at the livid woman beside me. "I can barely walk in those things."
Technically today is a day of celebration, so the white, glittering number, father himself chose to go with my outfit, are a ceremonial must have. However, heels on a good day would see me with a twisted ankle and no less. In this weather? I snicker at the thought. Lets just say it is not happening. The pending raft of one thoroughly pissed of parental, when he collects me for the after party, is something I will deal with in good time.
Although it is my least favorite sound, second only to sobbing, I sigh a lifeless, disappointed sigh. Miss Perry says that sighing, among other vices, makes me seem ungrateful. 'Noa is an ungrateful child' is her mantra. She probably repeats it over and over in her head whenever I make so much as a peep, something I seldom do. Better seen and not heard, right?
The crowd gets bigger and still I stand in prefect attention.
I see so many girls move past they blur. It is funny how the blur keeps its distance and only occasionally strays close enough to disturb me. You would find the scene from a distance seriocomic. I mean, here I am standing under the halo of my umbrella, the only one with such a halo, in a crowd full of despair. And even though I am the only one there who truly looks depressing, completely dressed in black and all, it is obvious I do not belong. That is the joke. In fact, I am, despite my best efforts, untouched by the melancholy that hangs above all the girls here and all the boys there and the rest of the District that stands behind.
"I hate Reapings," comes a muffled voice to my left. They are swiftly met with grunts of agreement, and with that the subject is quickly swept away, replaced instead with talk about how dashing some young fellow named Millin looks. Thank goodness too, imagine if a Peacekeeper heard!
Sigh.
This is why I am standing with my peers, although I doubt that is how they see me. It is another reassurance really. Regardless who my father is, I am sixteen and therefore technically I am reapable. Technically.
Without moving the umbrella I look up at father- the reason why for as long as I live I am untouchable. It is a joke. The Capitol should just make a rule and get on with it. Any progeny of a current District Mayor has full immunity on Reaping Day. In over a century not a single mayors kid has been reaped, which only confirms the long-standing rumor that our names do not even make it into the draw. And then you wonder why I have no friends. Obviously, to the rest of the District I am the poster child for injustice, evil, what have you. Like I had a say in the matter.
Whatever.
Father is mostly obscured by the podium. From what I can tell he looks, as usual, completely morose. He is never happy. So much so that his features are permanently contorted in a scold, much like the one I wear right now. People say that is how you can tell I am his daughter, not because I have his features but because I share his constant unhappiness. They never say it exactly but that is what they mean. It is always you are so much like your father but never you look so much like your father. It is never that.
I look like her. Even if I have only ever seen maybe a photo or two of my mother, I know I am her height and lankiness, completely unlike his stout and heavy-set physique. Although said photos are quite dated, you can still tell I am her honeycomb, lightly dusted with gold specks complexion, not his commanding ebony. I am to the untrained eye her and therefore, by his assertion, I am unsightly. I even have her piercing onyx black eyes. His are hazel.
Like every other person in the District I have know idea why he went for my mother. She was originally from the Subsections, and thus well below him in status. They only met after she became one of the first Repenters. The Repenters are 'patriots' who carry the sins of the rebels- well that is what we are taught anyway. Basically after the failed Mockingjay uprising the Capitol gave Districts an ultimatum- repent or perish. Either whole subsections would be bombed, aka perish, or only a handful would volunteer and repent. In the early days most Repenters were immolated in extravagant public displays, but a few, like mother, where trained instead to be the obedient lapdogs of the Capitol. Nowadays this consists mainly of living incognito in the Districts, as lifeless shadows, reporting to the Capitol about the underground.
It was this act of loyalty, I think, that first caught father's attention. And by the time he found out she was coerced into it and, more importantly, was completely hopeless at it, it was too late. I don't care what father says though. According to Miss Perry, who is a lot of things including disturbingly truthful, she was genuinely nice. That, in itself, is reason enough why he didn't deserve her or rather why we didn't- no matter what she looked like. He once told me the biggest disappoint and the greatest joy in his life was my birth. Disappointing in that I was well... me, and joyous in that I killed her. Do not ask me why he tells me things like this, but it has always been that way. When he does talk about her all I get is the like.
Father straightens up a little now and tugs slowly at his jacket. I gather we are about to start and that pink idiot Keyz swaggering onto stage only confirms this.
Well, the sooner we start the sooner we are done here, and the sooner I can get out of this rain.
...
I woke up this morning to the sharp whoosh sound of leather smacking into bareback. I cringe automatically, gritting my teeth as I make my way to the window. People who break the law on Reaping Day, too me, are like people who break the law any other day- citizens. However, people who break the law on Reaping Day and get caught are a different story all together.
They irk me.
I find them hard to pity. Go ahead and think poorly of me and my apparent lack of empathy but you would too. Everyone, everyone knows that on Reaping Day if you do not get lucky and instead get caught, you end up dead in my backyard. It doesn't matter what you did either. Whether you stole a single apple or the whole tree, if you do anything outside of the law on Reaping Day the penalty is a cruel death, usually a severe wiping followed by an execution. That is why you would be hard pressed to find anyone who would test their fortune today, of all days. And that is why I convince myself it serves you right if you do and it all goes pear-shaped.
District 11 is ruthless any day of the week, count on that, but come Reaping we become heartless killing machines. And it happens in the same backyard I eat my lunch in, all because the town square is occupied and shooting them on the spot isn't torture enough.
"Goodness grief...why?" I moan as I lift the heavy curtains and rub the sleep from my eyes. Whatever other snide comment I was about to make is sucked right back in with my gasp of shock.
How is this guy not screaming?
Hunched over double with his hands tied to the gazebo pillar I see his back. It is so torn up it looks like he is carrying on it a bed of poppies. Blood and flesh are all I can make out. The Peacekeeper lifts the whip again. It comes down with such force my eyes flutter shut.
Shit.
The whip hits part of the guy's face and only now he lets out the smallest grunt. You get some like this, those who are so determined to act like they aren't suffering when clearly they are. Usually I would make some off-hand comment about how it is foolishly pointless of them to try to hide their pain but I couldn't then. All I could do was watch in awe. I think I got it.
Please don't scream. Please.
The rain washes over the pair and a puddle of blood slowly accumulates. After a while the Peacekeeper shuffles back inside and I am left with is the sight of a heaving man, covered in bits of himself, bleeding to death in my backyard.
...
Why does our District get a pink alien? Some places have glamorous vixens with noses pointing at odd angles or mohawked giants with no apparent eyes. We get Keyz, daft as a stump and altered head to toe to look exactly like something you would throw up and then spray paint fluorescent pink.
At present, Keyz sits poised, in what seems like a second skin, nodding occasionally as he listens to father speak. This is what I am suppose to be doing too, but of course I am bewitched instead by the side-show that is Keyz. I have a list I started years ago of stuff Keyz does during Reapings when he thinks no one is looking. There is everything from saying inappropriate words, or mouthing at least, to not blinking for minutes on end (if at all), blacking out and the all time gem picking his nose. I kid you not! Zeky Keyz actually picked his nose at the 103rd Reaping, the same year he was dressed as an exotic bird-man and surprise, surprise the District 11 tributes died in the bloodbath. The real injustice is that despite the hundred billion cameras perched on stage not a single one caught the moment. I thought at least someone else saw, but when I asked Miss Perry she told me to stop my slander. Just my luck, right?
Today it looks like Keyz is on his best behavior and therefore an absolute bore. I divert my gaze and look over at father instead.
"We rose above the Rebels, the filthy degenerates! Those who mocked our autonomy, our intelligence and we crushed them like vermin!"
Insert Keyz clapping away like a rabid little morphling addict. With nothing else to do I mouth the rest of the spiel, which goes unchanged every year, and even pause dramatically before father screams- "Long live the Capitol! Long live Panem!"
Indeed, she says sarcastically.
Keyz jumps up as father moves away and, still clapping, makes his way to the podium.
"Thank you, thank you Mayor Omri," he says in his unnaturally high shriek turning to father before looking back at the despair.
"My... don't we all look absolutely fantastic!"
Keyz then proceeds to laugh unashamed into the mic, which actually causes a small snicker from me as well. He always seems to crack himself up over nothing at all, it is kind of cute.
The usually pleasantries follow before we get to the part everyone dreads. Even me.
"Aha!" he always leads into it like that, throwing his hands back in mock glee. "On with it shall we. To the ladies! May the odd be ever in your favor!"
The rain picks up as Keyz ever so slowly goes for a name. He is such a dramatic. After an extraordinary peroid of time he retrieves and unfolds the piece of paper whose favor the odds clearly were not in. And then he does something that blows every other stupid thing on my damn list away.
Keyz bursts into tears.
Huh?
I snort and roll my eyes. Like I said what a dramatic.
"Oh my, my, my what an honour!" Keyz whispers between sobs before screaming the name like it is his birthday wish.
"Qui'noa Storm Omri!"
The crowd takes a collective gasp.
...
No.
No.
Take it back Keyz, burst into laughter now and tell me it is all a joke. Tell them you are joking. Go on Keyz tell them I am like you. I am hatable, I am the enemy. Technically I can be reaped but tell them that technically it will never happen. Not now, not ever. Go on.
I give Keyz only a second more to tell them. That is all I can afford. Damn it that is the best I can do.
One.
Please don't scream.
...
The Peacekeeper had yet to return and the man was coughing profusely ever since his departure. I watched him slowly cough up some more blood. I couldn't tell you why I stood there in my awful pink nightgown and watched him suffer but I did. Could it be, I of all people need more moments in my life that provide conclusive evidence I am a horrible person?
Maybe.
It is probably this awful sense of self-pity that causes me to open my window and scream.
"Hey!"
With much effort he lifted his head up, his eyes locking on mine. I had nothing planned to say, not that I could say anything after the look he gave me. Even with blood dripping from the open wound on his forehead, the look was unmistakable. His eyes oozed poison. They said what his lips could not.
I. Hate. You.
Why shouldn't he? I am the enemy after all.
The window shuts and the curtain falls against my limp hands, but I do not move. In the biggest house, in all of District 11, there is a girl waiting for the universe to have mercy and allow her to take it back. All of it.
My history tutor claims that after the failure of the uprising they terminated the mockingjays. The old bat must be lying though because you can here them real clear from any window on the second floor. There were always heaps in District 11 so even if they did try I can't imagine they got them all, and after a while I suppose there was no point trying. With the death of the rebels and their ideals, mockingjays were, once more, simple birds not worth the bother.
That morning their sweet song is overcome by a quick succession of blasts, momentary silence, and then the sound of someone else being dragged in.
Here you go Noa, the universe whispers, have your mercy.
.
.
.
AN: thank you so much for reading. I am sorry for the rubbish editing, truly I am. I promise I do try. This is an alternate universe piece. I wanted to tackle the toughest District and couple it with a character all the other tributes will easily hate... or something like that at least. I was going to do Madge but I don't think she has the rawness I'm going for so this is the insanity you get instead :]
Any feedback is welcome with open arms.