I stare blankly at the deep pit which is getting filled by humus. People around me moan and wail, mourning over their dead children, parents, friends, whatever. Some, just like me, stand and watch the whole process with illegible faces – how do they call it? Ah, right. The shock. Indeed, my brains still do not fully accept the fact. My family no longer exists. The rebellion had taken lives of my both parents and yet spared mine. A matter of seconds, a pod that's been hit, an explosion – this is what it takes to ruin one's world.
Though the ceremony is held in memorial of those who became victims of the war in the Capitol, I'm well aware my parents are not among the dead bodies everyone is crying over. No, the remains of my no longer existent family are now drenched into the ground, the pieces of their flesh are still carried around the city together with ashes – the air I breathe, the earth I stand on, everything is a monument and a graveyard of the thousands. Not this pit.
I lower my head. For the one who's life has never been easy for the lack of the communication skills, becoming an orphan at the age of fourteen I'm left nothing but to curse this life and the entire world. I've always been so silent, so miserable; people would fail to even pronounce my name correctly. Lucretia. Luck-re-thee-ah. The shorter version of my name is the thing I've ever lacked in my life – Luck. Lucky, my parents would call me, though I was and still am far from that. The most of kids in my class would laugh at it being a name of a dog; the rest would call me Lucy instead. Most would do that being fully aware of how that petty lack of a letter would irritate me. I swear, those kids would never lose a chance to prove me odds were never in my favour, and I'm only glad some of them are no longer.
The reasons of my social isolation, not fully based on my personal desire, are as clear as spring water. I've never been one of those people who enjoyed to beat around the bush nor I spoke unless I needed to. Being a kid of a few words, a shy being I am, I've gained a title of a creep. My range of interests would also differ too much from the standard Capitolian children. The major thing is, of course, my lack of interest when speaking of The Hunger Games. Having a father that's been a game maker, I've been banned for a lifetime from watching them. During the better periods of my life I would still catch a glimpse of them at the house of my so-called friends (who turned to more interesting and popular pals as the years went by), getting the idea behind this restrict. Violence is not a thing I could excuse. Especially when it has no clear aim.
When I first saw it, I was eight. A chubby Capitolian kid who cared to break the rules set by her parents. I would find it extremely unfair I was not allowed to watch the show the whole country is talking about. In fact I would even think my parents just didn't want me to have friends. However what I've seen that day had shocked me, and I would thank god to be born in the Capitol...Quite ironic, because at the moment I'm sincerely hating it.
I think I am full of traits people despise. At least they are not acceptable in the Capitol. It is something like an unwritten law that each citizen of the main city of Panem must be granted all he wants. Let's just say in my family it was slightly different. No, we never lacked money nor food on our table – the fridge was always full and I've been attending a private school at the city center. Not the place where poor people would send their children to study. The thing is, I've been raised on a system of achievements. The things I wanted, I knew I had to earn them. Again, being younger I would despise my parents for torturing me this badly, but even if it became one of the reasons I've turned into an outcast, I thank them for making a human out of me.
The workers flatten the ground, making it seem as if the pit had never existed. This is where all the cries go berserk. A huge monument of bronze is landing over it. Shaped as a Mockingjay. The sign of the rebellion. Nature's come back at the man's attempts to play god. A bird that took away lives. Mine was among them.
A few hot tears roll out of eyes, too, staining my frostbitten cheeks with some warmth, however the wet patch begins to sting in a second. I don't sob unlike the most. In fact I feel as if no sound could ever escape my throat again. My nurture and surroundings had formed my habit of over thinking every word I say. In my family it was believed the wisdom lays not in the longest speeches, but in short remarks. And now the door to my thoughts and cries has closed shut from the daylight. I'm like an avox, even if my tongue is where it is supposed to be, and I'm nothing like a slave. I'm just lonely. So terribly lonely.
Quickly wiping my tears off with a sleeve of the gray shirt I'm forced to wear, I glance around. The volume of the cries keeps increasing, and those are mainly wails of the children. I bite the inside of my lip, as I am well aware of what it means. The begs asking for a few more minutes to stay, a few of adults getting into an argument with guards that are supposed to lead us back to the orphanage District 13 had found for the children of the Capitol. It doesn't take long for some man to attack one of the guards with his fists, screaming something about respect, justice and humanity.
A loud sound of a gunshot pierces the air, a few shrieks escape, but then the area is filled with silence. Those rebels… I can see their point – they treat us the way we've treated them for seventy-five years. But I cannot take more violence.
The last, belated scream fills the square and everyone turns to the source. In the cry of despair I recognize my own voice.
I take a step back, trying to keep balance as I curl into a ball, my hands covering my ears tightly as if to block the sound I'm making. It feels as if I'm watching myself from a distance, not being the one that screams. I guess my fragile Capitolian mentality can't bear it anymore, and the sober part of my divided mind is already expecting for another bullet to be shot. Into my forehead.
But it doesn't happen. Probably the assassination of Alma Coin had taught the nation it is not a good idea to kill children. For once again my life is spared. It was a miracle I wasn't caught into the barricades. If not those people who forcefully pulled me into their house, I'd be dead by now. I guess I owe them my life, but what's the point if I don't want to live? I feel how my rear hits the ground and I gasp for air as, apparently, I forgot to breathe during the process of screaming my lungs out. However this triggers a chain reaction and a few more kids get a mental break down. Those, unlike me, get knocked out.
I feel dazzled and just remain sitting until I feel a clench of steel on my shoulder. It forces me back to my feet and pushes in a direction of the orphanage. I'm close to losing balance again, but my instincts tell me if I fall now, I won't raise. Actually it only tempts me to trip. To never see any human being again.
Those thoughts keep haunting me, but I take no action, and soon enough find myself at a doorway of the building that is now my new home. The smell of medicine and decay – it was a hospital before. A few weeks ago, actually. During the rebellion. I can feel death's presence in here, and I clench on the arc, suddenly cringing again and spilling out the contents of my stomach. Am I mentally unstable? Maybe. Damaged, for sure. But no one is willing to show me any sympathy, that's why a moment later, while everyone is rushing to their chambers, I'm kneeling on the ground with a rag and a bucket of water, cleaning my breakfast up.
And then I see him enter – muscular and arrogant, even when his eyes are red and puffy. Thomas Armband, the former classmate of mine. His parents were killed in the shooting between the rebels and the Peacekeepers, but I think the pain of the loss we experience is very different. After all, he was the one who would often say he'd slaughter his family if he had a chance. Those talks would make me snort, as everyone was aware he wouldn't last a day without all the goods his folks provided. Indeed, Thomas always had all the best and would demand for more. Probably his wealth and social status were the reasons people would always stick and listen to him, since the personality of his was ever so awful. My reactions to his empty words would never go unnoticed though – in fact they would backfire at me in harsher forms. Mostly it was about stealing or breaking my stuff. Sometimes, however, his gang would wait for me after school, to make me 'pay' for my insolence.
Some of those tortures became a widely spread joke around the school. For example, when they've videotaped my so-called execution. I remember that day very well. It was another snort of mine to trigger this, and that time I really feared for my life. After classes I would casually head home, growing suspicious nothing had yet happened. Then I felt sharp pain on the back of my neck and drifted into darkness. When I woke up, I was at some abandoned house with a terrible smell of piss and decay lingering in – it was difficult to breathe, so I've attempted to loosen my scarf (it was winter time), but a familiar voice told me to stop struggling and look up if I wanted to live. I did what I was told and froze in terror – my scarf was attached to the nail high above my head, and around my neck it was fastened in a loop as if for hanging me. It's when I grew truly scared.
There were four of them – three would kick and hit me, threatening to stab me with a broken glass bottle, forcing me to sit so I'd choke myself, and, of course, demanding for apologies. The fourth was filming it. On the next day my humiliation was known to everyone, and it didn't raise my reputation a slightest bit. It worked just the opposite – people began avoiding me even more, fearing to endanger themselves.
My parents were aware of the situation, but the only action they ever took was signing me for the martial arts class. I didn't take it much as developing combat skills, even if I've learned few of the vital points of the human's body. It was more like meditation. Other than that – no support was ever given to me. It's said you can only speak kindly of the dead... However, it is one of the things I still fail to forgive my parents.
Though events like wars make people stick together, there are always exceptions. I'm not sure if my moment of insanity affects Thomas anyhow, but it surely gives him an excuse to bully me some more. When walking past, he kicks the bucket of water, spilling it all on the ground and partly on me. Of course, when the guard turns around, Thomas is long gone and this accident is blamed on me, making me now additionally clean the pool of water and not providing me dry clothes. This gray uniform is all I have and all I must take care of, according to the new government. Theoretically they are right.
When finally finished, I head to my room, on the second floor. Saying 'mine' is a wrong definition though – I share it with three other girls. I haven't seen them ever before and given different circumstances would even take it as a chance to socialize, but after all I had to go through, the last thing I care about is making friends. And so they end up thinking I'm mute. And creepy.
Upon me walking in, the conversation they had silences. With no doubts they were talking something related to me. I don't care. It only puzzles me people cannot shove things into my face. I'm not the one who can hurt them nor say anything back, yet they choose me to suspect but not to know for certain. My face reflects no emotions, and I can't say I have any. Slightly tired, yes, but nothing apart from that. I know it's not the physical work that had drained my energy, it's my mental state. The indifference and lack of motivation, constant break downs and tears out of nowhere. They said it is depression and that I have to undergo a course of medicine. Gladly, it is expensive and the orphanage isn't going to pay such money for some little Capitolian psychopath. It makes me somehow happy – I'm not interested in getting drugged.
The room isn't big – it's crowded with four hospital beds, one closet that has a broken mirror inside, and a tiny side table for each of us. For us, Capitolian children, who are used to splendor and luxury, it's unbearable. The first week was extremely difficult, even for me, and I don't find myself spoiled. But as the time goes on, you adapt to everything, all for the sake of survival. Humans are just another animal.
I open the door of the closet to look at myself – I've lost plenty of weight. Not that I was overweight, but I was a little over the average. Now, after a couple of weeks here, I have the body I would dream of before the rebellion. When I think of all the months I've spent nearly starving myself to lose those extra pounds, I want to punch myself in the face. Why haven't I eaten properly when I had a chance to?
The girl I see in front of myself is just a shadow of my past self. Skinny to the level my bones are shinning through the thin layer of skin. Previously lively brown eyes now are nearly black, and the circles under them only empathize the new colour. They look so empty and dead it scares me. Waist long hair...No, it's actually hardly reaching my shoulder. Only the blue part of my hair is real – the brown and blonde parts are extensions, the only thing I have reminding me of the past. Two black dots slightly over my lips – the piercings I've got a few weeks before the rebellion. I sigh softly – at this rate I won't last long. But it's not a problem. Death sounds like a solution in comparison to this vain existence.
I remove both layers of my hair extensions and put them on the side table. Luckily, they were new and good quality, meaning they will last for a few months. Unless someone steals them - from now on I can trust no one. Here everyone is fighting for themselves. It's like The Hunger Games, only it's life, not a show for entertainment. Without saying a word to my roommates, I collapse to my bed and dive under a thin duvet, on a pillow that smells like a dead person. It wouldn't surprise me if over ten people died in the bed I'm sleeping on. The smell has drenched so deep into the fabrics it doesn't help throwing it to the balcony for a few days. Just one of the things I have to get used to.
I hide my face under the sheets and curl into a ball. I can feel the burning glares of my room-mates, can sense them nodding to each other as if I'm just proving their point of myself being out of my mind. I would love to tell them I am completely sane, but I don't believe it myself. I'm not sure what sanity is any more. Only that it's not a state I'm currently in.
The bell announcing dinner time rings. One of the girls, named Theodora, the gift of the god, calls out for me, but I show no reaction. I will let them think I'm sleeping. The truth is I'm not hungry. At least not for the food they have to offer me in here. I rather starve myself to death. What is life? I don't know. A fever dream. Only this once I know there is no my mother to change a wet cloth over my forehead and calm me down when I wake up. The girls give up on me and storm out of the room, leaving me with my thoughts, and those bizarre notions lull me to a dreamless sleep.