WE BURN
PART I
A/N: You would not believe how many times it took me to get this one right – I couldn't seem to find a rhythm for the story. It was always to slow, and I needed to set up the stress & tension they were under before I could really write any fluff (which will be coming soon, don't worry). So this first chapter of my second book, mind you, is the product of much hard work. Also, it's a little more grim than my first book, especially in this chapter. Stick with the evilness, though, because it'll pay off in the end. And my last request? Reviews. They are awesome. Oh, and I'll be posting this onto the end of my first story, too, but only for the first chapter.
Disclaimer: I'm Suzanne Collins, so you should all bow down to me and kiss my toes and stuff, because I am an amazing author. Haha, just kidding, I'm a lowly highschool kid.
Enjoy.
I slowly grind my carefully manicured toe into the ground behind the wooden podium, my shaky fingers twitching nervously. As I draw the courage to look up, I see the immense population of District 11 gathered before me. I pick up on a monotonous buzz, the sound of a crowd impatiently awaiting my words.
A man dressed in an ultramodern, cream suit hands Gale a large plaque that's inlaid with metal and covered in a thin sheet of glass, and presents me with a bouquet of flowers. I detect orange blossom, and maybe freesia, and something else with small white blossoms that I don't recognize.
With relief, I note that there isn't a single rose to be seen. Good – I need no reminder of President Snow and his headily sweet, but poisonous and thorny mannerisms.
The short, balding man in the suit nods at us, and returns to his seat beside the stage. This is our cue to present our speech.
Clearing my throat, it takes me a few tries to form coherent discourse, even though I'm only repeating the heavily censored prompts that have already been written down for me by someone in the capitol who's paid far, far too much.
"We would like to thank you, the citizens of District 11, for your support of the 74th Hunger Games and of the Capitol," I say after a few false starts, my cheeks twitching with the falsely pleasant expression that Cinna has affixed to my face.
Now it's Gale's turn. Cautiously, so the restraining motion is concealed behind our podium, I place a hand on the arm that's not draped around my shoulders, trying to remind him of the myriad cameras that will be recording and broadcasting our every words. Silently begging him to be careful.
"We'd like to congratulate your tributes on their exemplary performance this year," he says, with voice guarded and teeth clenched. "And to wish the next year's tributes luck, may the odds be ever in their favor." The last part is rushed, I can see the internal conflict clouding his usually clear grey eyes. He wants to speak the truth even more so than I do.
Really, though, it's a marvel that either of us has managed to keep up this tongue-in-cheek way of speaking for so long.
But as I finish the short speech, even I am aware that my words are so obviously transparent. "We're honored that we have the privilege to participate in the Hunger Games." I speak the line with my head tilted downward, eyes on my orange clad toes. I'm terrified that if I look up, make eye contact with the audience, they'll immediately see the lies, portrayed crystal clear in my face.
A woman in the front row stands, looks pointedly into my eyes, and spits at the foot of the stage. The message behind her actions couldn't be more clear – she knew, and the rest of the audience as well, probably, that there wasn't the slightest trace of a truth in my words.
There's a fiery pain in her large, gold-brown eyes, the kind of eyes that seem all knowing and wise. Then, I recognize her. The woman who so boldly defied our words is Thresh's grandmother.
The realization must be evident on my face, because this time it's Gale who's remembered that we've got to remain stoic, we've got to endorse these capitol words or face the consequences. His grip on my shoulder tightens a little, and I try to relax against him.
But that's not going to happen – because there, just to the right of Thresh's family, is Rue's. They stand there feebly, all six of her younger siblings staring up at us with hungry eyes and slack jaws.
And they aren't the only ones who show signs of perilous, abused lives. The entire crowd is plagued by hunger, fatigue, desperation, and everything else imaginable. I can't help it, no matter what the repercussions, no matter what Snow's sadistic punishment is, I've got to say something.
My voice is hurried at first, but Gale's reassuring hug encourages me to continue, to be sure in my words. "Wait!" I cry. "And I want to say I'm sorry, I'm sorry I killed Thresh and…and I guess I shot Rue, too, but I'm sorry, not that an apology makes any difference. I just…needed to say that."
Gale sighs. I can tell he's come to the same conclusion I have. "But most of all, we're sorry you have to suffer through the games, every year. Even though just a few tributes enter that damn arena, every last one of us feels as though we're dying right there with them."
It's unavoidable – if we weren't in trouble before, we most definitely are now. But since we've started, why not finish it
"Even if we're competing against one another, the districts are united. United we stand, united we fall." Even as I say the words, I know I'm digging my own grave. I just hope it's not my family's grave, too.
Our words were nothing but pure, treasonous expletives, but I don't regret saying them. It was what these people deserved to hear.
Rue's little brother steps forward, pulling away from his mother's clutching grasp, and presses the three middle fingers of his right hand to his lips – and then the whole population of 11 is mirroring his actions, a surreal display that mirrors the one Gale and I witnessed as we left for the games all those months ago.
This is the last straw. Finally, the filming is cut and the peacekeepers intervene, guns cradled in their arms as they press against the crowd, and the little boy, who couldn't have been more than two, is forced forward.
Thousands of eyes watch, mortified, as a thin, white haired peacekeeper prods him in the back with the barrel of his gun, forcing him to his knees. The small child cries out in pain as his is torn on the cold asphalt beneath him, and tears stream freely down his cheeks, cutting through what looks like weeks' worth of grime. Another gun is placed deliberately and slowly at his temple. Even more slowly, a hand in a white glove stretches its fingers, and pulls the trigger.
We all hear the last, piercing scream of the dying child as it rings shrilly through the square, and then we see the mess of blood that's splattered everywhere before us, and the ruined, mutilated corpse that was a beautiful toddler just moments ago, and the destroyed, fractured remains of what I think are his skull.
Gale covers my eyes with one hand, briskly leading me away with the other. I drop the bouquet in a puddle of blood, and he tosses the ornate plaque to the ground, where the class frame shatters, just the way that poor child's life just did.
My mind is completely blank as I'm pulled through a door and through several corridors, and another door is locked behind me. We're in some kind of private, cluttered basement room, where there's little light and the air is cool and damp.
Haymitch is here with us, I realize, as he sloshes his whiskey into my face. Alcohol burns my eyes and nose, I gasp, spluttering.
Gale's arm leaves my side, I hear him scream something at Haymitch and there's a crash as something falls to the floor, who responds with choice profanity. The two shout unbelievable profanities at each other, voices escalating until I fear they'll physically harm one another.
Haymitch seems to have given up on Gale, as he thrusts his face close to mine. "What the hell were you thinking out there, sweetheart?" he hollers seethingly. "Not only did you completely screw your entire life, and your family's life, and my life, over, you got some damn kid killed in the process."
His words sting – because they're true. I gasp, trying to clear my shocked, dizzy mind and comprehend what's going on around me. I want to be strong, to be calm, to find some way to repair the damage I've done, but I can't do it. As I take a breath to speak my mind, to ask for forgiveness, the only thing that escapes my throat is an enormous, pitiful sob.
Suddenly Gale's tackled Haymitch, driving him into a bookshelf and smashing a mirror that got in their way. His fists are wrapped in our drunk mentor's shirt, and I know that he's contemplating strangling him. "Shut up, will you?" he growls, voice breaking.
I watch, unable to do anything, as they both slide to the ground, defeated in their own rights amid the shards of mirror.
'"Shit," says Haymitch.
Gale crawls tentatively to my side, wiping tears from my face. "I'm so sorry."
I look up, meet his smoky eyes, and lean my sweaty forehead against his. "It's not your fault. And it's not like there's anything we can do about it now."
Haymitch chuckles grimly behind us. "Exactly – it's about time you've figured it out." He pauses midway through to swig from his now nearly empty bottle, "Once you start a fire, it's hard to put it out."
Gale sighs before him, his warm breath blowing in my face. "Yeah, and Panem's gonna make a big fire."
Excellent. We've caused a wide-scale mutiny, and there's nothing left for us to do but embrace it, it and all of the deaths and tragedies it's going to cause.
The sound of an unrelenting, vicious knocking at the door to the basement interrupts our brief dispute, and our incensed emotions are replaced by a silent, foreboding dread of the man on the other side of that door. I freeze, breath catching in my throat.
Ever so slowly, I turn my head, my eyes meeting with Gale's matching ones. He looks deeply into my face for a moment, searching my eyes, before he gingerly cups a calloused hand over my mouth, ensuring my silence.
I watch, petrified with fear, as his free hand slips into the waistband of his rumpled suit, and withdraws his favorite hunting knife.
I know this knife well – it's the one I learned to skin a rabbit for the pelt with, the one he used whittle Prim and Rory and Posy's dolls and toys with, and the knife my mother has borrowed countless times to treat her patients.
It's not a knife that's been used against another human being before – whether wielded in self-defense or not.
But now it's griped firmly in his practiced fist, and aimed toward the place where that old, thick door will open.
Haymitch, who has been sprawled behind us, nursing the fresh cuts on his palms, scrambles to his feet, observing Gale and I shrewdly. Then Gale nods beside me, shifts his weight, and Haymitch has thrown open the door.
The same peacekeeper who shot Rue's little brother just minutes ago bursts into the cellar, gun cradled against his chest and white uniform splattered with red.
He only has a moment to search the room with those astute, pale eyes of his, before Gale has leapt forward, wrapping him in a headlock, and pressing the silver bladed hunting knife to the man's throat, where his adam's apple bobs nervously.
I stand, walking around to face the man, wrath and fury bubbling within me. Had I not proved to the world that I am a monster, just months before? And if I am a monster, what wicked name could be bestowed on this executionist?
As he struggles futilely against Gale's strong choke hold, I allow the rage to form itself into words. I'm shrieking, disjointed in my ranting, but I let the words tumble out of me all the same. "Barbarian! Who shoots an innocent child? You cruel beast, you son of a -b" I'm cut off as Haymitch grabs me from behind, breathing alcoholic breath down my back.
"You're not helping, sweetheart," he warns me gently, pulling me away from the peacekeeper and thrusting me behind his aged body, in a way that's oddly protective for him.