Hi, everyone! Well, as I mentioned in the AN to Blackbird, I owe Wiress and Beetee a happy stroy. This collection of vignettes isn't always happy, but it isn't always sad, either-kind of like life. Either way, it's a start.

As the story summary mentions, this is a story formed around numbers-specifically, numbers that have significance to Wiress, that pop into mind when she thinks back over her life. They're arranged in generally-sequential order, and you'll notice that Wiress' POV tends to change and grow and mature (hopefully) a bit as she grows older. She may contradict herself at times, because she's come to change her mind. Don't blame her; I think we're all guilty of that from time to time.

Disclaimer time: I am not Suzanne Collins and I own precisely nothing.


5:29

Five twenty-nine. That's the time at which I am born. 5:29 PM, just in time for dinner, my mother always said. She's taking her lunch at the factory when her pains start and, expecting a twenty-four hour labor like the one she'd had with my sister, she calmly finishes her lunch, washes her hands and heads back to her work station.

"What do you think you're doing?" one of her friends asks in disbelief. My mother looks up from her work, nonplussed.

"I've got hours to go yet before the baby comes. I can still get the full day's pay…"

One of the other women working nearby on the assembly floor snorts back laughter. "That's what you think, honey," she chuckles. She is older than my mother and has four children of her own, all of whom are already of reaping age. "The first one might take forever, but the second one's out before you know it. You'd better get home fast, or else that baby'll be born right here on the factory floor."

My mother looks around at the other women in the crowd in disbelief. Every single one of them who has children of her own nods in support of the older woman's claims. Without a word, my mother unknots her worker's kerchief, marches straight up to the foreman, and informs him in a low, level voice that she is going home.

"What!? You're still on the clock for…five hours," replies the foreman, wiping his forehead with a grubby handkerchief and checking his watch so that he can accurately inform my mother of exactly how much time she'll be subject to his command.

"I'm going home," my mother repeats, without raising her voice a single decibel. "I'm in labor. Either I go home, or I give birth in the factory. Imagine the effect it would have on production rates! It's your choice."

And, without waiting for his response, she turns around and heads straight out the door, leaving the kerchief in a bunched-up wad at her workstation.

My mother walks through the streets silently, slightly hunched over, her big belly preceding her as she turns corners. It's the middle of the day; the children are all in school and the vast majority of the adults are at work, so the streets are fairly empty. Every now and then she passes someone going about their shopping, or a stern-faced Peacekeeper on patrol, but not once does she stop to speak to anyone. She turns up a narrow alley and emerges between two tall, identical buildings, their brick facades permanently stained with soot. Into the dim, shabby tile vestibule, then up one, two, three flights of narrow stairs. Apartment 3F. She fumbles in her pockets for her keys, rattles them in the locks, then swings the door shut behind her and lowers herself into an old wooden chair at the kitchen table. Nearby, my sister is scribbling on some old scraps of paper under the supervision of Silica, an elderly neighbor from 3A.

"Mommy!" my sister cries, looking up from her masterpiece in surprise. "Goodness, what are you doing home? I didn't expect you for hours," adds Silica, taken completely aback by my mother's sudden appearance. "Is it the baby?" she asks, eyeing my mother's drained expression and the hand lying protectively over her belly. My mother nods in reply, tilting her head back.


After five hours of labor, I am born. 18 inches long and about 5½ pounds. Big, wide eyes and dark hair. My mother is so pleased to see that I have blue eyes, like her mother had had—blue eyes are prized as a mark of beauty in our district—and she completely ignores everyone who told her that many babies are born with blue eyes, but that they darken over time. My mother gets her wish, and my eyes stay blue.

My grandmother had been famous for her beauty when she was young. I wouldn't know firsthand, because I've never met her, but old people in the district—especially the old men—always talk about her with a reminiscent smile, and wax poetically on her beautiful blue eyes, shiny black curls and creamy porcelain skin. Silica had known her in passing, and when she used to look after my sister and me (and later, our brother as well), she would sometimes tell us about her—a girl so beautiful that, amid the dull, uniform gray that is District 3, she seemed to glow.

My mother didn't inherit her beauty. She is nice-looking, but nothing compared to the legend her mother had been. Still, she sees my blue eyes and is filled with hope that just maybe, this new daughter of hers would perhaps be a celebrated beauty like her mother had once been. I think I'm destined to disappoint in that capacity.

I am born on a Wednesday evening, and from the start, the superstitious old ladies of the district who make their way into our apartment to assist my mother after the birth cluck their tongues and shake their heads in sympathy. One pats my mother on the arm. "'Wednesday's child is full of woe,'" she recites, apparently deciding that some old wives' tale from a million years ago should be taken as the gospel truth in predicting the direction my life will take. If so, then at the tender age of one day old, tragedy is ordained in my future. My mother, thankfully, ignores this comment.

"She's so beautiful," she breathes, looking down on me as the woman from the apothecary shop mixes up some kind of herbal tea for her. "My beautiful, blue-eyed girl."

This is a matter of opinion. My big sister wrinkles her nose and stares down at the tiny bundle in our mother's arms that is me with an uncommitted expression on her face. "She's kind of wrinkly," she says in distaste. "And kind of reddish, too."

"All babies look like that when they're first born, Electra," replies my father gently. "You did, too, when you were that little."

Electra shakes her head in disbelief. She's four years old and completely convinced that she's right about everything. But within an hour or two, she's already leaning over me, watching my fingers curl around hers, her long curly hair tickling my cheek.

"She's so little," she breathes, gazing back up at my mother, who's beaming on her two little daughters. "And she's holding my hand."

"She already loves her big sister," my mother replies. "You'll help me take care of her, right, Electra? Take care of your baby sister?"

Electra leans down and, very gently, kisses my forehead. I stir in my sleep as she whispers, "I'll always take care of her, Mommy."


Well, there you have it! Into the world and into our story, all in one day. I'll be back tomorrow (I hope) with the next chapter. In the meantime-review! Tell me what you liked. Tell me what you disliked, for that matter. Tell me what you ate for lunch, if that's your style. Or simply just pop in to say hello. Either way, I'd love to hear from you.

Until then,

Delilah