Little Duck
Chapter One: Snatched from the Nest
"Just count to three, Prim. Count to three and kill it." We are in the woods. It rained last night so the trees are green and smoky. Mist the color of milk floats around us, circling our waists like ghostly skirts. "No! I'm not killing it. I don't want to. Please Katniss, it's only a baby." I listen to the soft whimpers of the rabbit, which is light grey, like a puff of cloud, and has long soft ears that are pink on the insides. Its tail is as delicate as a cotton ball and its nose reminds me of a wet blackberry.
It is trapped in one of Gale's snares. Frozen mid-hop.
"Do you want to go to bed on an empty stomach? Huh, do you? Because that's where you're headed." I raise my head from my scuffed white shoes to see my sister's face. She has bluish smudges under her eyes. A vein pulses angrily on her forehead, purple beneath her beautiful olive skin. She slowly lowers her boot on the tiny foot of the animal. It squeals in protest.
"Don't hurt it! Please, please don't hurt it. It's so small, look, it'll barely feed us anyway." I feel my eyes well up with tears. My face is flushed pink and my fingers tremble where they are wrapped around the knife's hilt. Katniss growls in exasperation.
"Just shut up and kill it, Prim. You need to learn how to hunt. Stop being such a baby."
Her words sting. I am twelve years old, but I feel like running home and burying my head in Buttercup's yellow fur and bawling. There was a time when my sister would never have spoken to me that way. A time when she called me 'little duck' and braided my long blond hair before bed, combing it until it was as smooth and silky as cream. Sometimes she would tell me about our father, what he was like. How he cleaned the coal from his shaving mirror every night. How his voice was so sweet, all the Mockingjays would mimic him.
Lately, though, she's changed. Distant. Cold. Sharp around the edges. Trying to teach me things; how to trade at the Hob, how to scavenge, how to fish. How to hunt. Each lesson is hasty, done as quickly as possible at dark times of the day. I picked strawberries at dawn before getting ready for school. Sold them to Madge after midnight. It turns out I have a knack for gathering; I can distinguish the edible from the poisonous. I can make goat cheese and help my mother make her medicinal poultices. I can slip under the rusty fence in the Meadow and flee to the dark embrace of the woods. But hunting gives me a stomachache.
"Prim, kill it! Look, it's suffering." She stomps on its back foot again. It gasps in pain, its round furry body wriggling in the snare, trying to escape. It probably got separated from its mother. I imagine her hopping anxiously around her den, fretting over her lost young. Fluffing up his tiny bunny bed with soft grass. Making him a little carrot cake as a coming-home dessert. "Please, can't we just take him home?" I'm begging now. "Maybe if we hurry, mother can fix his leg and we can feed him some-"
"Give me the knife." Before I can draw breath, she has snatched it from me. I watch, frozen, as my big sister drives the blade into its heart, feeling like she has pierced mine instead. Warm, dark blood stains its lovely grey coat. It wheezes feebly and a soft puff leaves its mouth. Then it goes completely still. My sibling turns and begins to retrace our steps, guiding us back home. Sniffling, I crouch down and lift the corpse into my arms. I cradle the cold body close to my chest as I trail behind Katniss. It will be pitch black by the time we reach the fence. I think of the bunny's mother and the little carrot cake and begin to cry harder. To make up for it, I imagine a little rabbit funeral, with flowers and all of his tiny grey siblings snuffling his miniature coffin. It is a lovely service. It's interrupted, however, by my older sister."Quit blubbering, Prim. You're a big girl now. If you want to survive in this world, you're going to have to do stuff you don't want to. It's the only way." I know she's right, but it's easier to hug the bunny closer than to admit it."I'm not eating dinner tonight," I declare, my voice watery. It feels like a little rebellion. Like I've had a little victory. "It didn't deserve to die. It was only a baby." I hear my sister's frustrated sigh. She plays with her braid, which is the color of dark chocolate and straightens my father's hunting jacket, smoothing her hands over the supple leather. We used to fight over who got to wear it. As the head of the family, she argued, she was entitled. Besides, what would I want with it anyway? It is much too big for me. "Meat is meat, Prim." She quickens her pace and I struggle to keep up, knowing the conversation is over."Still," I whisper under my breath, glancing up at the huge yellow moon, which is swollen with summer heat. "It was only a baby."
Today is Reaping Day. I wake up to the sound of water. Opening my eyes, I see my mother pouring it into the basin we bathe in. Steam, milky as the mist, rises into the warm air. She has tidied the kitchen; the countertops are pristine and you could lick the floor. There are little pink flowers in a vase on the table, picked this morning from the meadow. Our lunch, which consists of tough brown bread, is in a small basket and covered with a cloth to keep fresh. Mother sees that I am awake. "Come on, hop in," she beckons me. "It's almost twelve." I sink under the hot, silky surface and let her help me clean the grime off my skin. Bits of coal shed into the bathwater, which turns grey from the dirt. The yellow cake of soap burns as it harshly scrubs the layers of grease away. She washes my hair and I feel her long fingers tremble as they lather it with suds. When I get out, she hands me a towel and leads me to her bedroom. On the comforter is Katniss's first Reaping Day outfit. A blouse, which has been pinned to fit me, and a loose skirt that sways when I walk. I wriggle into them. The shirt is still too big and it sticks out in the back. "Go on and get your chores done. It's late." Mother's voice is strained and I know she's on the verge of tears. If Katniss is picked… Well, I can't even think about it. Instead, I go outside and feed Lady, my sweet tempered goat. I stroke her snowy head, whispering, "I won't let her hurt you, Lady. Don't worry."
When I go back inside, Katniss is there. She smiles gently at me. "Tuck your tail in, little duck." She smooths her rough hands over the soft material of the blouse. It feels like an apology. "Quack," I joke, waving my arms like wings. I pretend to peck her shoulder, feeling a surge of pride at the grin that splits her features. She bathes herself quickly and shimmies into the lovely blue dress my mother is letting her borrow, along with the matching shoes. It hugs her body in all the right places and the color makes her grey eyes look soft and warm. Mother arranges her dark hair into an intricate braided crown. Now we stand, side by side, in the mirror. Katniss leans our heads together, our hair like chocolate and gold. I check to see if our noses are still the same shape. They are. Looking at her image, I feel a pang of envy. "I wish I looked like you," I confide. She smiles again, and it is genuine and compassionate. Her white, slightly crooked teeth gleam in the light. "I wish I looked like you, little duck."
We walk hand and hand to the town square. It is nearly two. The sun makes my neck drip with sweat. Katniss leads me to the registration table. They prick my finger and I try hard not to be a baby about it, squeezing my eyes shut as a drop of ruby blood oozes onto the white paper forms. "See you after," she whispers in what is meant to be a reassuring tone. She goes to stand in the front, with the other sixteen year olds. I am pushed to the back, walled in by the other girls and boys in my age category. Some I recognize from school, and we smile and wave timidly at each other, but soon we face forward, absently wiping sweat and secret tears away.
Everyone is in their finery for the occasion. Drab-colored dresses, pressed black jackets and watery lipstick smear the crowd. I tuck my 'tail' in self consciously. On the stage ahead of me is the mayor and Effie Trinket, who looks like a cheerful clown with her bright pink wig and glossy makeup. They seem to be waiting for someone. Haymitch obviously. After a short wait, the mayor stands up and walks to the podium. He begins his long ramble about the history of Panem, the Dark Days when the districts rebelled against the capitol and the reason behind the annual Hunger Games. Haymitch stumbles onto the stage halfway through, obviously intoxicated out of his mind. He tries to give Effie a hug then nearly falls on his face as she manhandles him into the chair. After the brief propaganda clip, Effie glides to the front, her wig slightly askew. It is held in place by cans and cans of hairspray. If I lit a match and held it up to her or Haymitch, they would probably burst into pink fire.
I feel nervous, but guiltily so. My name is only in the big bowl one time. Compared to many, the odds are vastly in my favor. To calm myself down, I think of the supper we will have tonight, after the Reaping is over. White, flower-shaped rolls from the bakery. Fish, whose slick skins will have simmered on the stovetop. Strawberries bursting with juice.
"As tradition states, Ladies first," Effie announces gleefully, wobbling in her immense heels. She approaches the two glass bowls, which have been polished so they refract the light. I stare at my sister's blue-clothed back as Effie's velvety gloves enter the container. There are thousands of tiny slips inside. One unlucky girl will be chosen to die in the arena in less than a minute. Her fingers dance around, building the tension as the audience leans in. She finally snatches up a slip and lifts it to her pale face. Shielding her eyes, she reads in a clear, loud voice. "Primrose Everdeen."
I never realized how many people lived in District 12. Gazing out at the massive sea of dark heads and grey eyes, I feel numb surprise. Effie's delicate hands circle my thin shoulders and her breath is hot on my neck as she leads me to the center of the stage. The two women who have cared for me, bathed me when I was sick, fed me dark bread and sung me to sleep have turned to stone. They are statues, frozen for eternity in the dripping August heat. "Primrose, that's a lovely name. How old are you, dear?" Effie's posh accent thaws my silence. The stares of thousands bore into me like hot stars. "Twelve," I whisper. Just twelve. I look over at Haymitch, but he is staring at his shoes. Shaking his head. He reminds me of a golden retriever with his greasy yellow mane. Effie's smile widens exponentially. "Only twelve years old? Why, if you won this year's Games, young lady, you'd make Panem history!" She is obviously searching for some enthusiasm, some buried zeal, in the depths of the crowd. Finding none, she shrugs a little. "Well, let's not delay this any further. Onto the boys." I knew a girl named Effie, once. She was a quiet girl, with long mousy hair and a lisp. She was in my class. She brought me a little yellow cake when my father died and let me borrow her pencil during a test. Nice. Effie's glove descends slowly into the other container and plunges deep into the white foam of paper. She gingerly extracts a name and lifts it close to her eyes. I wonder if she is nearsighted. I've heard that most people are. "Gale Hawthorne?" This time it sounds like a question, as if she is unsure if such a person exists. He does though. Gale exists more than most people. More quietly, though. Effie's smile is diluted now, but I think it is because she has realized the state of her wig. It is a small wonder that it hasn't fallen off the stage, into the crowd. A pink puff. Gale, broad-shouldered and tan, opts to leap onto the stage rather than use the wooden staircase. All of Panem will see how toned his calves are, how easily he makes the bound. He is pulsing with a dormant power. "Shake hands, you two," Effie orders, giving the cameras a dazzling beam. Katniss and my mother are iced over once again. Rory, Posy, Vick and Hazelle, however, are bent over their knees, weeping and hanging onto their neighbors in an effort to stay afloat. His mother throws up. I can smell the pungent odor from my place on the stage. Gale leans over and grips my hand in his huge one. His skin is calloused and rough and warm. He gives my hand a friendly squeeze. I should feel relieved. This is Gale. He is practically my own blood. My big, strong brother. "Oh, Little Duck," he whispers, so only I can hear him. His eyes are tender and warm, like baked goods. They remind me of dark mountains that are swathed in morning fog. "We make one pitiful pair, don't we?" He gives me another squeeze and lets go. I see that the crowd has forgone the usual applause. Instead, they have raised three fingers to their mouths and stretched them towards us, into the blue, blue sky. It is a bittersweet gesture. A goodbye kiss. Gale and I, we are going to the Capitol. We are never coming home.