"The mice which helplessly find themselves between the cat's teeth acquire no merit from their enforced sacrifice." –Mahatma Gandhi
This is Where We Start | This is Where We End
Chapter 1: Gravity
When her name was pulled from the Reaping bowl, there was a collective sigh of relief from the crowd. Even though this overwhelming dismissal hurt her, she understood the mindset of the masses and could not blame them. After all: their children hadn't been reaped and were safe for at least another year.
"Clover Redfield!" the escort called again, theatrically raising a hand over her eyes to shield them from the blazing sun, as she gazed across the girls' side of the reaping section, "Come on up, young lady."
Clover felt like she was in a trance. Her legs moved without thought as she swept through the crowd, which parted in front of her. Her mind had suddenly shut down; it was pure instinct and submission which forced her body forward and up the stairs of the stage. When Clover's eyes locked with those of the District Ten escort, she could feel her stomach rise into her throat. She recognized the woman, who had been their District escort for a handful of years: she was the one who had pulled the names of so many children who were sent to their deaths in the Games. But, it wasn't until that moment that she realized how alien the woman looked: her red eyes contrasted with her light green hair, which she wore up in a bun with barbed wire fencing woven throughout. The amount of yellow-tinted skin that her sequined clothing did not cover was startling. She looked nothing like any of the District Ten residents, who were dressed in dull, stained, and tattered work clothes. Clover hadn't bothered to change before coming to the Reaping, so she was still wearing her steel-toed barn boots and a pair of ripped work pants. She could see the escort sneer slightly as she looked down at Clover's hands, which were smeared with dry mud or manure.
As Clover took her place beside the escort, she glanced across the crowd, eyes lingering on a few familiar faces. She felt so alone. Here she was, just coming off the field in hopes of a quick Reaping, instead to be selected as tribute and recorded for nationwide broadcast. She could only imagine what she looked like, having worked out in the sun all morning, mending fences and cleaning out the barn. In a small form of self-preservation, she reached up and patted down her sun-bleached hair, which caused some of the dried mud flake off into her hair.
She was pulled back to the present moment when the escort, who Clover remembered was named Tilmint, reached into the bowl and pulled out a second name. The announcement of that name evoked twin screams of distress from the family section. That was how a Reaping was supposed to go: not the blanketing silence that fell when her name had been called.
Clover watched as a boy, who looked close to her age, walked through the crowd to the stage. He was tall and lithe, a farmers tan clearly visible as he tugged briefly at the neck of his shirt. He kept his gaze to the ground, straw hat hiding his eyes, as he stepped on stage, a small frown settling on his features. He didn't even glance at Tilmint as he took his spot beside her. The green-haired escort quickly grabbed the two tributes' hands and hoisted their fists into the air, "Clover Redfield and Oxbow Rye: the District Ten tributes for the 59th Hunger Games!"
Clover glanced briefly at her tribute partner, who was staring at the family section, lips in a straight line. Before she knew what was happening, without any further time to take a last look at all the people in the crowd, she was ushered off the stage and into a small room, which was empty except for a few chairs and a table. She knew this was when tributes were expected to say their goodbyes to their family and loved ones. This fact saddened her, because she knew she'd be alone until the Peacekeepers came to collect her. As she sat there, she thought about her family, her friends, and how her life had changed so much in the past two years.
During the reaping for the 57th Hunger Games, which was just two years prior, Clover had expected her morning to be as carefree as any other. She'd gotten up, ate breakfast, tended the chickens, and went with her family to the Reaping. She and her siblings all had tesserae on them, as did almost all the children in the District. She always thought how ironic it was that District 10 produced all the livestock for the Capitol, but struggled to keep their own citizens from starving. During that Reaping, she never expected what happened: her younger brother, Saddler, was reaped at just twelve years old. Before she even had time to process that his name had been called, her older brother, Colton, raised his hand and volunteered as tribute. His death during the bloodbath at the Cornucopia left a deep scar on their family.
Just before the next year's Reaping, Saddler contracted pox, which overcame him within a few days. A few days after the burial, her mother fell ill, and then her father, and they both quickly passed. She went to that year's Reaping alone and afterwards went home to the farm to do chores. She struggled to get everything done: the work of five people was suddenly on her shoulders. She dedicated all her time to working on her family's farm, but realizing it was impossible to do everything on her own, she decided to sell off her laying hens and meat birds to concentrate more time and supplies on the herd, which was a more lucrative business venture. Each day was a struggle and each night she went to bed exhausted. Things went on like at until this year, when once again life changed drastically when she was selected as tribute.
Sitting in that chair in the waiting room, focusing on her present situation, Clover's stomach dropped as she realized going to the Hunger Games would mean leaving her farm and herd with no one to care for them. This thought brought tears to her eyes: someone would obviously take what was nearest and dearest to her, while she was sent to her death in a televised, trap-laden arena.
Just as that thought crossed her mind, she heard a light knock on the door and managed to wipe away the tears from her eyes, before a balding man walked in, his head bowed and cowboy hat held over his heart. It was her neighbor, Mr. Barnjum. "Little miss, I'm so sorry for your loss," he was apologizing for her death. She set her face like stone, unimpressed, as he continued, "I want to offer my services to care for your herd and home while you're away."
The gravity of the situation was she knew she wouldn't return: her family's hard work and possessions would be absorbed into Barnjum's. It broke her heart to know this, but it was reality. She pursed her lips and nodded, "Thank you, Mr. Barnjum. Please keep everything safe until I return." He had always been friendly to her family and willing to lend a helping hand when needed. This could be her last meaningful interaction with anyone; she didn't want to ruin it by acting spiteful or ungrateful.
Barnjum nodded, returning his cowboy hat to his head and tilting the brim forward slightly. "Will do, miss. I wish you the very best of luck," he said honestly, tipping his hat to her and leaving the room.
Clover pursed her lips, willing herself not to cry. She wished her parents were here, her brothers, she'd even take Barnjum back for just a few more minutes. She didn't know what to think, didn't know what to feel other than a deep sadness and fear of the unknown that lie ahead of her. She reached up and ran her fingers through her hair, tugging just slightly to make sure she wasn't dreaming, before a Peacekeeper walked in. He was stern as he told her it was time to go.
She stood up, squaring her shoulders and straightening her back, just like her father had always taught her to, and followed the Peacekeeper out the door.