District Four - the morning of the Reaping
A glimmer of a sunray flashes across the room, shining bright in my eyes. I groan, not wanting to get up. This – this day is just so terrible, it makes me want to… Well, honestly, I don't know what it makes me want to do. I just can't even fathom how terrible it must be. How terrible it must be to wake up on this day and feel the paralyzing terror that your child might be next. That their name will be drawn from the glass ball and that they will enter the arena, just as you did before.
I feel the terror too, but I'm not as worried as my parents. My poor mother, who still wakes up screaming from her time in the Hunger Games. Annie Cresta, famed victor gone mad, married to Capitol favorite Finnick Odair. I am their only child, the only thing my mother could bear to hold. They fear for my life - I see it in their eyes when they think I'm not looking. I understand their fear, but I don't share it. Five names, five tiny slips of paper out of thousands. There is no chance.
I stretch, and roll out of bed. Wandering downstairs, I stop just before I reach the landing. My parents' voices are loud against the quiet dawn. "Nothing will happen, Annie. I promise you, nothing will happen. It's one out of a billion. Nothing will happen." The same reasons every year. The same panic that has gripped their hearts since I turned twelve. At sixteen, I now have five entries in the Reaping. Just five small chances to be picked.
Laughing at myself, I take the last few steps down the stairs and break the silence that has fallen over the kitchen. "Morning!" I say brightly. My parents just look at me. Mom covers her ears with her hands, rocking back and forth slightly. As my father comforts her, I begin to make breakfast.
"You should go get ready." My father's voice startles me.
"What?"
"Go get ready," he repeats. "For… the Reaping," he says cautiously.
"Oh. Okay, I guess." I give my dad a tight smile and then head upstairs.
Responding to the knock at the door, I bound down the stairs and land gracefully a few feet away from the last step. I dash to the front door, not at all surprised to see Jayliss standing before me. "You ready or what?" She tugs my wrist gently, not hard enough to move me, but hard enough for me to get the idea.
"Hold on, Jay. Gimme a sec." To my parents, I yell, "Mom! Dad! I'm going now with Jay. I'll meet you afterwards in the square. Love you!" I let Jayliss drag me out of my own house now, laughing with her as she leads me towards the square.
We stand together in the pen for our age group, sucking drops of blood of our fingertips.I smooth my dress, a plain white scoopneck with a sea-green sash across the waist. As the last stragglers file in, our escort strides smoothly to the middle of the stage. The two glass balls seem stately and traditional, a symbol of the Hunger Games that can never be forgotten. After a "special" video, we wait expectantly as our mayor gives his speech, gesturing to the old victors (including my parents) when they are mentioned. Finally. Finally, the Reaping begins.
"Ladies first!" Our brightly-dressed escort pipes. And the female tribute from District Four is…" she pauses, and then carefully opens the paper."Fara Odair!" A silence falls over the crowd. This is where someone would normally volunteer, but nobody seems too willing. A scream rips across the square. I look up to see my mother, her eyes wide with panic. She screams once more and then dissolves into sobs as she presses her face against my father's shoulder. It shakes me out of my trance, and I stumble up to the stage. "Well, this is a surprise, isn't it? The child of two previous victors has now been selected for the Hunger Games. How wonderful!" Selected. As if we have a choice. "And now, the male tribute." The crowd's energy doesn't seem as high as it was before, but the escort continues as if we are just as excited. "This year's male tribute of District Four is Jackson Hughes."
Just as the last syllable has flown from her painted lips, a boy's voice from the crowd calls, "I volunteer!" So predictable, but so comforting at the same time. The same routine, over and over. One person is reaped, another never lets them get the chance.
"Excellent! A volunteer." The escort smiles at the boy. "And you are?"
"Ernest Howard," he says. He looks confident, cocky. Just the kind of person I hate. I hate the people that volunteer, that think that the Hunger Games are good, that they will bring you eternal glory instead of eternal fear. I know just what the Games can do to a person, and people that revel in the murdering just make me sick.
"Shake hands now," the escort prompts. This Ernest sticks his hand out of me. Gingerly, I take his large paw in my own small hand and shake once. I drop my arm back to my side, and walk through the doors at the back of the stage before the Peacekeepers try to shove us through.
When we are assigned our little rooms for saying goodbye, I just sit and stare at the wall. The door bursts open, but I don't turn to look. My father's arms wrap around my shoulders. "It'll be fine, Fara. It'll be fine. You're strong, you can do this. It'll be fine. He walks in front of me, so that I'm forced to face him. Look at me," he commands. "You can do this, okay? Be strong. You can win this. Mom and I will be there during training. We're mentors; we can teach you how the Games work. You'll be okay. You're going to come home, Fara. I promise." He hugs me once more, and I look into his eyes just briefly enough to see how much panic he's holding back.
"Okay," I whisper. He stands, and walks away before his allotted minutes are up.
After a few brief moments of solitude, the door opens again, this time bearing Jayliss. "Oh," she whispers. "Oh. Oh. Oh." That's all she can say. "Oh, beat those other guys, you hear?" I nod silently. Jay doesn't say anything else, just sits with me for the rest of her time. When the Peacekeepers come, she stands, then turns around one last time. "And Fara? Good luck, okay?" She walks out.
The train moves faster than I would like, but there's nothing I can do about it. The mentors try to talk to me, but I ignore them. The only ones who don't push anything are my parents. They know that if I don't want to talk I won't. I cross my arms and look sullenly out the window as Districts Three, Two, and One speed past. In less than a day, we've reached the Capitol, and all their freaks come running to meet the train.
Ernest waves to them from the window, apparently trying to make new friends. I continue to sit and stare at a wall as the train pulls into the station and then drags to a halt. As we are unloaded, I walk stiffly past the many cameras and stare straight ahead. My normally outgoing personality is not shared with these people. I will not give them a smile or acknowledge them at all. They don't deserve it.
As I am made up by the prep team, I refuse to talk. I don't respond to their questions. I don't even look at them. I follow directions if they are given, tilting my head to a different angle or holding out my arm, but I do not speak. I will not. These people are pawns to the Capitol, playing along in their silly game. The game of murder, where twenty-four are drafted and only one remains standing. A Victor, they call him. A Victor to be honored. The only thing a Victor truly gets are nightmares. Nightmares and secrets. I will not allow myself to be just one more piece on their chessboard. They cannot make me do anything. I will show them just how powerful one person can truly be. I will defeat their Games. There will be no Victor.
I sit in on the cold table, waiting for my stylist. The makeup I've already been covered in makes me feel fake. I jump as a man walks in carrying a garment bag who seems vaguely familiar. Oh, that's right. He was the District Twelve stylist a few years back. After his incredibly successful flame costumes three years back, he was promoted to District Seven. There, he dressed them in leafy outfits that seemed to float and wave like the branches of a tree. The next year, he was again promoted to District Five. There he made the tributes into glowing displays. There are really no words to describe the moving, pulsing colors that engulfed the tributes of the energy district. It truly seemed like they were made of pure energy, just like it is when it flows down the power lines and into our homes.
This year, they bumped him up to District Four. I'm surprised they didn't promote him to One or Two, considering how popular his designs are. I suppose they want to reserve those very to spots for the old reliables. If he does as well this year as he did in the years prior, he'll get moved up there for sure.
"So, you're the tribute everyone's talking about. Well look, I know I can't help with the Games themselves, but I'll do everything I can to help you out before they start." I find myself immediately smiling. Cinna isn't like the other stylists. Practically untouched by the Capitol's odd fashions, not to mention kind and charismatic, he's one of the nicest people I've ever met and he's only gotten two sentences out. "Tonight we present you to the world, right?"
"Right," I respond, the first word I've said since I got on the train.
"Exactly, so I have an idea that's going to blow them out of the water."
"Ha ha, very funny."
Ignoring my sarcasm, Cinna continues. "I was thinking that instead of focusing on the fish or putting you in some tiny little getup that covers virtually nothing, we would focus on the water."
"What do you mean?" I'm not quite sure I like where this is going.
"You'll see. Just watch." With a flourish, he pulls a dress out of the garment bag he's been carrying. Dress doesn't even describe it. It flows and shimmers just like water, reflecting just enough to be interesting, but not so much that it looks invisible compared to what it's reflecting. Blue fades into silver, which fades into grays and greens and so many other colors I can't even describe it. It looks like water, glimmering and glistening in the harsh overhead fluorescents. "Now this is how you win sponsors. You'll look gorgeous. Come here." I slip down from the table, unwinding the thin robe from around my slight frame. With practiced movements, Cinna slips the dress over my head, adjusting it as it falls around my hips and calves. I stare at myself in the mirror, not believing what I see.
A strapless gown moves in rippling waves as I turn to look from every angle. It comes in and then gently flares back out at the hips, falling gracefully down to my mid-calves. My strawberry blonde hair is loose around my shoulders, but the front is expertly pulled back to allow my face to be seen. I look back at Cinna, who is smiling softly at his work. "Not bad. Not bad at all." He steps forward and takes my hands in his. "You look radiant. Just a few more touches." Shoes are produced, sandals woven from some kind of metallic cloth. Then a small tiara is placed on my head, the silver swirls complimenting the sandals without offsetting the balance of silver to the other shimmering colors in the dress.
I gaze at myself one last time in the mirror, and then turn and follow Cinna out of the room. Once in the pre-parade area, I stroke the horses' noses absently, lost in thought. I don't even see my father come up behind me until a loud crunch startles me out of my dreamland. "Sugar cube?" he asks with one of those trademark smiles that everyone in the Capitol goes nuts for. "You look fantastic, by the way."
"Thanks. For both." I take a sugar cube from his outstretched palm.
"No problem." An attendant notifies us that the Tribute Parade will begin in sixty seconds. "Good luck out there, Fara."
I smile grimly, and then step into the chariot. Next to me, Ernest tugs at his shirt. His getup is similar to mine. However, instead of all shimmering water cloth, he's dressed in more of a net than an outfit. The water is present, shining underneath the net that's wrapped around his waist. It twists upwards to tie over his shoulder, giving him the appearance of a fishing net sliding through the ocean. At thirty seconds, Cinna rushes up, somehow still managing to maintain a calm demeanor. "Almost forgot to give you this." He drapes a silver net like the one Ernest has around my shoulders. "There. Now go get 'em." He smiles softly, and steps back as the first chariot begins to move forward.
I watch the screens as District One's chariot glides smoothly across the pavilion. The two tributes are dressed in matching jeweled outfits. A golden dress on the girl and a matching kilt-type thing on the boy, studded with multicolored faux gems. Elaborate headdresses twist up from their skulls, also covered in rubies and emeralds and amethysts. They look good, but it's a little over-the-top for my tastes.
District Two rolls out, bearing two tributes in gray outfits, representing the stone they work with in the masonry district. The costumes are stupid, depicting gray rock embroidered with hammers and chisels.
Next comes District Three, adorned in blinking lights and wires to show the electronics they work with. They look interesting, if nothing else, but they seem to be trying too hard. However, the flashing lights sure get people's attention.
And then us. District Four. Our horses trot out, and we capture the attention of all as soon as one person lays eyes on us. Our ocean outfits shimmer with the movement of the chariot, and I can feel the eyes on us. I smile wider, glancing at the people in the stands. We are the stars of the show. The ingenious works of Cinna have struck again, giving us a moment to outshine all the other tributes. I don't care about it, even if Ernest does, but it is fun to have everyone watching you and know that you can do so much to win their affection and then just rip it away again. Capitol viewers are so easily persuaded, so easily tricked into thinking that all Career tributes are vicious, that we all volunteered for this.
No districts after us are noticed, but in my peripheral vision I make out gears from Six; the travel district, golden stalks of wheat from Nine; the grain district, some sort of coal-miner's outfit where the headlamp glistens with fake fire as the new stylists try to rip off Cinna's popular designs in Twelve.
As our chariot glides to a stop in front of the raised podium, I glance at Ernest. He grins with a foolish sort of look on his face, like a child who has been given candy for no good reason. I want to hit him, but I decide not to spoil his fun. After the last tributes roll up, President Snow, the old snake, steps up to the podium. "Tributes," he begins, "welcome to the Seventy-Seventh Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor."