I come from a place where the earth meets the sky. I am from a long line of men and women who cleave the trees and trim them lovingly down. I'm not a small girl. I know how to handle both myself and an axe. I can run three miles without getting out of breath. Today is the day that I give thanks for these facts.
"Jo. What time is it?" I'm sitting on the edge of the roof. The Sybbilan lake is glimmering beneath like thousands of jewels. I can't help but come here to think on the same day every year. The voice talking- saying my name in a groany, pitchy way is my brother, Tack. Nearly eighteen years old. As of next week. Unluckiest boy alive. His name must be in that bowl thousands of times, more.
"Early enough," I answer, and try not to sound snappish. "Late enough." I can feel him frowning from behind me, and I can almost picture his dark brows furrowing until they almost meet. We call that his 'Johanna face'. It's the mixture of frustration, irritation and worry that only I am able to provoke. Tonight isn't the night to upset him, and even I'm not sure why I'm doing it. I'm not scared. I refuse to let myself feel even the slightest twinge of fear about what is to come- but there is something unbearable stifling about the thickness of the air, the freezing ground beneath us and the cool sky above. The stars are vanishing now. I don't want this day to come quicker.
"Sorry." I shoot swiftly at Tack, ducking my head to sneak a look at him. "It's alright. You're allowed to be nervous," He smiles at that.
"And you aren't?" I shrug. There is nothing to be nervous about for me. Out of the hundreds of girls, some have put their names in again and again. Extra food, I suppose, it's not like we don't need it. Not me. I'm good with an axe. I eat when I can. It'll be one of the ones from school, eighteen, seventeen, pale, small waists drawn into their lavender purple gowns that are still stained with making breakfast that morning. One of those girls- they're always the poor offering that District 7 has to give. It embarrasses me some years. Other years, I watch the glinting eyes of the career girls and wonder if it's better to be them or better to be the one they're killing.
"Maybe I should volunteer. That'd be different. Bet it would entertain them all. Bet I'd win. What do you say, Tack? Want to go live in the victor's village?" I try and say it with some form of humour, but it gets choked on the way out of my throat and ends up as a dead threat. Tack tenses up. His face is so like mine that we could pass off as twins- strawberry blonde hair that's shaggy, hanging down in front of his eyes. He's small for a seventeen year old. He'd be one of the first to go.
"Why would you say that?" Tack's words are spidery, and vanish into the approaching morning light. I've grown almost adept at guessing the winner of each games. It's a sick little thing that I play every year. Ordering how each one will die. The first two years I played it; I got it utterly and completely wrong. After the third, I was bang on. If Tack's name is called, he will not make it past the Cornucopia. If mine is called… But mine will not be called. I cannot play the game with myself.
"Joking," I say as lightly as I can, but something in his eyes tells me that he isn't convinced. "Tack, I'm jo-"
"I'm not laughing." He whispers. "You're all I have left. Don't." I try to quirk up the corners of my mouth into a smile, and fake punch him on his left arm. He lets out a yelp of surprise, shooting me a reproachful, slightly amused look. "You're crazy,." It's a weak attempt to diffuse the tension and we both know it, but there's no point in holding onto what the morning will bring of it's own accord.
"As a fox." I grin. "I suppose it'll only help me, right? Better watch your back, Tack, or I'll do an Enobaria and bite you to death. Grr." He feigns offense and bats me off, half disgusted at my gallows humour and half relieved that he doesn't have to probe me about my volunteering jokes anymore.
"You're seriously touched in the head, Johanna Mason," The siren sounds for the first time, shattering the brief hopeful moment that we shared. It's too early, the sun has only just risen, and it can't be any later than seven. Tack tenses up again, his hand goes protectively, automatically onto my shoulder. "It's a warning signal," He tells me quickly. "To tell us…"
"To get ourselves goo and ready," I finish grimly. I'm not surprised they've introduced the warning siren this year; it's such a Capitol thing to do when you think about it. Make sure you're pretty, district 7, before we line you up and sentence you to death. He grips my shoulder harder and tells me something about a dress downstairs that I've been given. It's not violet like the other girls, I can already tell. They would never put me in the same sad pure group as them. I walk downstairs, barely registering it; there are some advantages to not having parents. Quietness. The house is always quiet. The dress lies on the corner of the kitchen table, and my breath hitches in my throat. Coarse cotton. It's so grey; it stumbles along the border of blackness. Mourning clothes. I'm a dead girl.