The lovely Hunger Games and all its characters belong to Miss S. Collins.
Nameless
She feels it as soon as the last chariot pulls out into the avenue far behind her own. There's a subtle change in the crowd, interest, she can see people craning their necks at uncomfortable angles to get a glimpse of the District 12 tributes. She breaks her impassive, stony character long enough to look at the projection screens lining the avenue high above their heads.
Fire. She locks her jaw. They set the tributes on fire. Clever, she bites back a snarl. Already they have the crowd's surprised awe on their side and only because they have a more talented stylist on their crew. Her own costume is 'safe', a repeat design of years of her district's fashion for these games. There is nothing that keeps the crowd's attention on her and her ginger-haired counterpart for long.
The audience only has eyes for them.
Any time she spends in the apartments is wasted. It doesn't help that all the Capitol is buzzing—the television, the tabloids, the radio broadcasts—all about them and their families and the struggles of their poor, stupid district. She fumes silently; does everyone think it's a freaking walk in the meadow where she came from?
Her companion is no help. He is several years her junior, and clearly too frightened to sneak more than a few looks at her a day. He has probably connected the dots into a puzzle that spells out the likelihood of his survival, which is minimal.
She digs for a part of herself that can comfort him, a sliver of the mother she left at the train station, the one she more than likely would never see again, but any rational, ethical part of her was the first to fall in a chasm that opened in her chest when her name was called in the reaping. She catches herself feeling sorrier for herself than for him.
The training center is her haven. She is awkward with the weapons, hopeless with camouflage, inept at snares, and don't even get her started on archery, but there are no outside eyes prying for a close-up of them, shouldering the other twenty-two out of the way for a few words or a picture. She is blessed with only the smug and sometimes sympathetic glances from her fellow tributes.
She spends almost as much time there as the tributes from District's One and Two, trying desperately to find something she's good at. She doesn't bother with the advice of her mentor to rotate stations to keep her 'skills' a surprise.
She spends all of her days training with the weights, practicing hand to hand combat with a series of wooden and foam dummies. They seem formidable opponents, just standing there, gawking at her before she swivels and implants her heel into the foam jaw, imagining the oh-so-perfect face of Miss District Twelve conforming under her foot. She is stronger than her, she says forcefully to herself. She thinks it with so much conviction, she almost believes it. She hurls another weight.
She was not bred for killing, she was not trained for it either. But still, the scoring still slams into her like a blow, forcing bile into her mouth and leaving a sore spot in her chest.
4. She feels the breath slowly escape between her mentor's teeth, disappointment layering the silence of the apartment. She closes her eyes, swallowing against the dry, hot onslaught of tears.
4 , 4, 4, 4, 4,4….The past days of training seem to deflate her muscles all at once, leaving her with the impression that she is being slowly crushed under every weight she picked up and threw for the express purpose of pleasing the people who trapped her here.
The interviews are the last tremor before the explosion that will overtake them in the games. Her companion goes before her, his answers are quick and he fidgets in his seat, not looking at the audience. He will be lucky to get a sponsor for the sole purpose of his age (which is thirteen, she learns for the first time). She realizes with a start that his feet don't even reach the floor of the cool, dark stage.
Her turn. The lights are blinding, and she can feel the weight of hundreds of thousands of people watching her, from the placement of her hair to how many pleats are in her floor length dress. Words mean everything tonight, and her mentor coached her through what to say.
She doesn't remember exactly what she says under the stress of the lights, only the main points she has to get across: Five siblings all watching Big Sister from the crowded living room ("All who would benefit from your winnings"). A fine, loving mother and a father that walked out years ago ("How tragic"). The musings of friends and perhaps a lover left behind ("A wink towards the camera wouldn't be a bad idea").
The two minutes seem easy enough on playback (straight back, easy smile, a little laughter), but they stretch for years on that stage. Millions of fragmented thoughts race through her brain as she recites the phrases. Most are for sponsors, which she knows she will not survive without.
Finally, she gives a last wave to the audience and she receives polite applause. Her breath chokes out of her as she sits down heavily next to the boy. He looks up at her, and for once she doesn't have the strength to simply not feel. She let him lean against her as she drapes an arm around his scrawny shoulders.
Before long, it's Arrow Girl'sturn. She grinds her teeth as she sets the stage alight with her jeweled dress, laughing like this is all one big party thrown just for her. A tiny part of the girl rationalizes that it's probably a ploy for the cameras; that under that bubbly, sickening façade there's a real, deadly threat just waiting for the opportunity to rip her throat out.
That reasonable thought is lashed down, tucked away when the host takes genuine interest in Arrow Girl, she can see the sparks in his purple eyes from here.
The audience is rapt, loving every minute they get to gaze upon the Girl on Fire. She gnashes her teeth; they've given her a nickname, doubling her chances of sponsors, of survival. I have a name, she thinks, her grip tightening on the boy beside her. But they will not remember me in the shadow of the Girl on Fire, they will not remember any of us.
It only gets worse as the boy from twelve takes the stage. He is gifted in speaking, his words easy, and he is beautiful to boot. It is not until his two minutes are almost up that Bread Boy (a baker's son, how original) reveals the secret, the hidden love that accompanied him. He leaves the audience awestruck and heartbroken, aching for the tributes of District Twelve.
Star-crossed lovers.
She cannot compete with that. She has a boy that she talked to on school days, one who might've spoken to her parents about marriage after her last reaping, which was to be next year. But even love that exists outside the games is no match for love trapped inside it, and she knows the sheer brilliance of their plan will win over countless hearts across Panem.
She looks down at her lap, trying not to cry or stomp or wail like the child she is. She feels cheated, like the odds have forever been tipped out of her favor. Rage engulfs her, willing her to break something or go over and scream into the camera "Can't you see it's a plot? I have a name too! I'm HERE!" but this is part of the game, she realizes. It is not fair, but 23 children have to die, and it looks like she'll have to be one of them.
Her tongue is bleeding from where her teeth have dug in, burying her words in her throat.
The day of the games is a somber one. The boy has stuck close to her side, and she does not have the strength to turn him away. The armor that encases her willowy frame is uncomfortable, and in a moment of morbid humor, she finds herself looking forward to the games if it means getting out of this outfit sooner.
She crouches down to the boy's level when their stylists come to collect them. She tries not to think that they will not see each other again, even if one miraculously becomes the victor, the other will be dead. Instead she focuses on his light, honey colored eyes, and tries her best to quell the fear in them. She knows it is futile, the fear of the hunted rarely fades away.
He embraces her, letting out a strangled noise that sounds like a suppressed sob. She is shocked for all of two seconds before returning his desperate clinging; for those fractured moments they are just scared children, being sent to their deaths for the entertainment of others. In a fit of mothering instinct, she presses him closer and whispers assurances into his ears; the list of what she can say without feeling guilt is short, so she continues to move her lips against his temple, mouthing kisses into his soft hair. He's so young, is all she thinks, blinking back tears.
One of the stylists clears his throat uncomfortably. She pulls back gingerly, looking at the small child and saying one last word. "Strong." She says, holding his face between her hands.
She lets the stylist take her away, and the chasm in her chest opens again, tearing everything she knows about herself with it. She can feel herself being drained, erased of the human emotion and compassion that does not find purchase in the games.
This death feels more real than dying like a scared animal on film, but she finds herself skeptical, making note that she will sooner than later find out exaclty what the dying aspect is like.
Her stylist stands awkwardly in the room, trying not to offend her with either smiles or tears. She wonders briefly how many times he's had to watch nameless children be sent to their deaths. She decides it doesn't matter.
She waits for the bell or gong or whistle to sound off, starting the games. In the end, she doesn't even remember precisely what happens. But there is a rush and whir of air, and she is thrust into the games.
Barely seven minutes into the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, she finds herself on the arena floor, a dozen feet from the cornucopia, a real, three foot steel sword through her chest.
She saw her companion fall just seconds after the first of the Careers reached the mound of supplies. A boy from District Six lodged an axe into his head.
She curses who ever threw the spear for their imperfect aim. Just a little to the left and she wouldn't have to deal with actually feeling her blood pool around her.
The sounds of battle are fading and she can't tell if it's because the tributes have moved off or it's one more side effect of dying. Thoughts are getting harder to put together, strings of words are left incomplete in her mind.
She hopes that a camera has caught the shuddering, shallow rising of her chest. She wants them to see that she is lying like a stuck pig, simply waiting for the pain to stop. Her vision is hazy, blurring the trees around her into a strange mix of greens that swirl around her eyes.
She tries to whisper her name so that a stray microphone can hear her dying breaths; she wants her name to haunt them when they close their eyes, to remember what they have done to her, what they have taken from her. She hopes they aren't focused on Arrow Girl or Bread Boy at the moment.
She wants them to remember her name.