From the veranda of the Justice Building, I take one last look over the heads of the crowd at my little village in District Four. It's something I do every year just after ascending the stairs to the platform - a last, fortifying ritual before we're whisked away to the Capitol for another year of horror. If I can remind myself of the relative calm of life here in the other 49 weeks of the year, it helps me get to my seat and await the reaping. Otherwise, I'm not sure I would be able to move anymore.
I sit down and look at the cuffs on my shirt, fiddling with the buttons just to give myself a distraction. I have only four outfits like this in my closet, enough to keep my reaping day wardrobe looking somewhat fresh. Certainly, as a victor, I could afford all the fine clothing I could ever want. But when I return to Four, I prefer to dress as everyone else in the District. These embroidered shirts and long pants feel more like restraints than clothing now. The buttons are solid silver on this particular piece. A waste. They could feed so many people. Four is a wealthier district, but we're not without our starving, even with the ocean from which to draw food. Most of it goes to the Capitol.
I watch the mayor help Mags up to the platform and curse myself for not being there to help her myself. Too distracted by my buttons to help my only 'family' … it's too early to get into the Capitol mindset, Odair, I tell myself. Mags takes the seat next to me and gives me a little smile. She's as close as I have to a mother any more. We're up here together, year after year. After my victory in the sixty-fifth games, Four hit something of a losing streak. This is the fifth year since I won at fourteen, the third I would be heading back to my 'admirers'. The 70th Hunger Games. And yet they continue …
The District Representative is next to ascend, heralding the beginning of the reaping. I pass over him and fix my gaze on the swaying crowd of children. Five years ago, I was there, too. Now I may as well be in a different world. I'm respected, yes. But not in the way I'd like to be.
The video plays, reminding us of our ancestors' transgressions. The opening speech is made. I could sleep through this, and indeed, I think my head bobs a bit at one point. A hard pinch on my thigh from Mags jolts me awake, and I smile apologetically as Culligan, the Capitol liaison, heads to the boys' reaping bowl. It's full, but less because of tesserae and more because of the sheer number of boys in the district. When you live in a Capitol-favoured district, you're more likely to survive. The boy is named, and just like someone else I knew, he is grinning when he is called. Merrick, his name is. He's older, probably around eighteen. I hate when they're older. It's harder to make them listen to you.
I nod and smile at him as he joins us onstage. It's perfunctory. I'm supposed to look proud.
Culligan crosses to the girls' glass bowl and pauses. I hate when the girls are reaped, and really, I have a feeling he does, too. It's harder to see a girl come up, especially those that don't volunteer. Maybe that's a little sexist of me. But it's always sadder.
The name is called - 'Anastasia Cresta' - and I am zoning out again when I see Mags stand quickly in my peripheral vision. Curiously, I look up, only to see a mass of girls crowded around … something, and Peacekeepers fighting to get through the crowd. There's momentary pandemonium before I see them hauling a young girl from the ground and shaking her lightly. The chosen girl, it seems, had fainted. Someone in the chaos throws water over her, and she seems to come to, immediately red-faced. I hang back, frowning, as she's hoisted onto the stage. Terrified and humiliated. This won't look good to the sponsors, of course... coming from a career district, she's expected to be pleased.
But the girl standing opposite Merrick is as shaky as a fish on a line. She looks so slight next to him - tall for her age, slim, with long, slightly tangled brown hair. She's wearing a linen dress with waves embroidered at the hem, so expected in District Four it's almost cliche. If it weren't for the look of absolute terror and the stray tears on her cheeks - we'll play that off as water from what was thrown on her if asked about it in any interviews, I decide - she'd be pretty in a melancholic sort of way. The mentor in me flickers to life for a moment, overtaking myself. Looks help.
Culligan hesitates as if he's waiting for someone to volunteer. She looks so pathetic, Anastasia Cresta, with her dripping hair and dress and wide sea-green eyes, that I almost expect someone to. But no one steps forward, and Culligan calls for applause for the chosen tributes. Unlike some of the other districts, here, applause comes readily. The representative takes them both by the arm and turns to lead them into the Justice Building, where they will say goodbye to their families. I stand with Mags and slide my hands into my pockets to watch, hanging back coolly as I always do. We're not supposed to interfere, after all. We are working, just as Culligan is.
For a moment, I meet eyes with the girl as she's looking around anxiously. Her hands are clenching and unclenching at her sides, and I can see her chest heaving. I want to smile and reassure her, maybe even take her aside and help her calm down, but I know as well as she does that she's going off to her death.