Readers,
This is a story that follows one tribute in the Sixty-Third Hunger Games, based on Suzanne Collins' marvelous books. It is part of a much bigger storyline I've been putting together for some time. Many of the characters are from Collins' books, though some are omitted—none are drastically different. The characters of hers I've used are left, as much as I possibly could, unchanged and unaltered. The history is a little different in this version of Panem, my geography may not follow the Canon exactly, but I did not want to alter the universe radically. Of course the original character designs are my own, but we all owe a great gratitude to Suzanne Collins for creating such a rich world full of interesting characters, that we all have appreciated so much.
I hope you find this story entertaining, and while I'm at it and I'm hoping, engrossing as well.
Enjoy.
I watch as the machinery before me spits out and lays down the sliver, unreeling it in fluffy, even strands which, particularly when I'm hungry, reminds me of iced cream. Not that I've had ice cream many times, but I am luckier than many of the people that work with me in this factory, as my father used to work as a Peacekeeper for the Capitol.
I say used to, because after he lost his left foot, and three of the fingers on his right hand, he wasn't any more. Soldiers without their proper digits, are of little use to the Capitol. One might think that the Capitol took good care of their injured Peacekeepers, but it's really not true. Sure, Dad got a pension…a pittance really, considering how much money he had been bringing in when I was very little. Still, at least the Capitol didn't kill him just for being an inconvenience. They paid for his surgeries, had him fitted with prosthetics, and all. Of course there was technology in the Capitol that might've been able to implant a fake foot and fingers, but as far as they were concerned, they were fulfilling their contractual obligations by paying Dad for his services, and ensuring that he wasn't a total freak.
Then again, if I remember right, everyone in the Capitol pretty much looked, dressed, acted, talked, and probably even sneezed like freaks. I guess that comes with having the ability to worry about how you look, talk, walk, or sound. Here in District Eight, most people are too concerned with their day-to-day lives to begin dreaming about such frivolities. Then again, it could be worse…a lot worse, the way Dad tells it.
It has always been shocking to me to think that there are people in Panem living in 'lesser' districts, whose lives are even worse-off than ours in Eight. It's cold here, not year-round, but when winter comes, it bites hard. Eight has been in charge of Panem's textiles for…well, as long as anyone I know can remember. It isn't very exciting to tell someone that your District makes clothing. We make all sorts of things, really, but the meat of what District Eight produces, has to do with clothing and house wares. I work with cotton, almost every day of my life.
The machine I am looking over, is called a Coiler. After a machine had scissored off a minute top layer from the bundles, it passes into a duct system which is extremely noisy…it's why I wear earplugs at the factory, even though I don't work that machine. It's a solid 100 feet away from me, but it's still loud enough that if I didn't diligently put in my ear plugs, my supervisor has told me time and again, I'd suffer serious hearing loss. The cotton passes through the ducts, that remove any twigs and other nature-found shit that we don't want in the finished product. It's blended and cleaned, and then passes into what's called a carding machine. That machine is within my line of sight, and is far more interesting to watch than the coiler.
The cotton slides under these rolls at the carding machine, where these metal teeth comb out the cotton and arrange it into parallel rows. Any fiber lengths that are too short, it discards. The carding machine is run by a woman named Sera, who probably is old enough to be my grandmother—though whose to say? Sera's husband died years ago, and she's still got kids living with her at home, though I don't believe any of them are as young as me. One or two have some mental problems…I really try not to talk to Sera about her family, because it's just depressing to hear about it.
My machine draws the product left from the carding, and forms the strands into a thick and loose yarn they call sliver. When written down it looks the same as what you'd get from handling wood, though when you say it, it rhymes with diver, not giver.
Spraying the sliver out into the yarn which looks like soft serve ice cream, it loops it in arabesque patterns which can be a little interesting to watch. I've seen it so many times it makes me go brain dead if I watch for too long. My job is to ensure the Coiler works fine. I'm almost seventeen years old…old enough to really be considered a man, and yet I am working in a factory. That's simply because of my father's station, and the fact that my mother works here too. I am dependable, and prompt. If something does go wrong with the coiler, I fix it quickly, before production can be slowed too much.
Physically I am nothing to write home about, but you shouldn't bawk either. I am lean, mainly because no one in Eight has much opportunity to become fat unless you're a kid belonging to one of the rich families. I say rich, but really they're only rich in that they have money to spend. All the working-class schmoes like me, which account for about 90% of the population, have no spending money. You buy what you need, and if you're lucky, you'll actually have enough to make sure your family is clothed, fed, and sheltered. There's no guarantee that is going to happen, in District Eight.
I have some muscle on me, and if I had a job which was probably more appropriate for a boy of my age, I'd even be what some might call muscular. As it is, though, I have a lean and stringy look to me like someone who might hunt things for a living. Not so…my sister is decent with a bow and arrow, but I've never been much good at it. Most of my life has been spent in the shadows of factories, under elevated train tracks, and in and out of the crappy tenement buildings that the Capitol has decided is the most efficient way for us to sleep. Those better off than us can afford to own homes, but there aren't many to go around. My family is better off than the average denizen of Eight, we really are. And as shitty as life is…I try not to remember that fact or I feel like I'm spoiled and can't complain.
The two things I hate most about myself, also happen to be two things that I can't change. Firstly, my name. Mom and Dad decided to call their only son Herod. What kind of name is that, anyway? Herod? It sounds more masculine than some of names of the guys I went to school with, but that was little consolation. Herod sounds to me like an idiot's name, plain and simple. At least they screwed my sister equally as bad, if not more…her name was Dyne.
That definitely sounds like a guy's name. Still Dyne was unequivocally girly, as if she wanted to ensure that every single person who came across her knew she was female. Like her long hair and high voice weren't enough.
Secondly was my height. I was going to be 17 in a few days, and I stand five foot six inches tall. What made this a complete travesty, was the fact that Dad was just over six foot, Mom was my same height, and Dyne was 5'10". My sister, who yeah a few years older than me, was four inches taller! 5'6" isn't such a wretched height for a woman, my Mom didn't seem short, by comparison. Most guys were taller than me, almost all my friends were. Dyne looked tall and graceful, more like my Dad. I ended up with the lion's share of my mom's genetics. I was not tall, and though I had to admit I had a capable look about me, I didn't look nimble like my sister. Dyne looked like she could do ballet, although the truth is that I was our family's best dancer.
Mom had brown eyes, just like me. Dyne had gotten Dad's greenish blue ones, which were infinitely more interesting than my own. Here in District Eight, we don't have a 'look' to us that holds any specifics. We can be tall and short, pale and deeper skinned. Black people are not as prevalent as us whites, but they aren't as much of a minority as the smattering vestiges of other races. Doesn't matter anyway, we're all equally expendable to the Capitol.
My shift was supposed to be over half and hour ago, but as there was some problems with the roving frame, something that took the yarn long after my coiling machine was through with it, we were behind schedule. It was close to nighttime, it must've been…not that you could tell inside the factory anyway. Everything was bathed in the buttery yellow and white lights on the ceiling or fettered to our various machines. There weren't any windows where we worked. It could've been noon, or midnight outside.
Once this batch was completed, I'd be free to go…and by the looks of it, that was happening shortly. Mostly I wanted something to eat, and hopefully there'd be something other than cabbage soup and bread. We'd already been eating it for two nights…a third would just be adding insult to injury, as far as I was concerned. Yes…things could be worse…but it gets tiring not being able to complain, simply because of the fact that some people were worse off than us.
I've received prejudice against me, simply because my last name was Telfin, and the Telfin's were better off than many of my peers. If we were doing so damned well, then why did life suck so much? I've always had a problem with that. Just because you were average, or slightly above average, didn't mean that everything was great. In some ways it was worse.
Unlike families who were scraping by, barely able to feed and cloth their children, I had to endure seeing that sort of poverty day in and out. I'd call us impoverished, but not when you compare us to the dirty kids who were starving or near-starving, who rarely got baths. One of my best friends, Etcher, his family was near destitute. They had six children and his parents had crummy jobs that even I couldn't dream about having. Etcher had told me once that I didn't know what it was like to be so poor and dumb, and know that things will never get better.
I'd yelled at him, saying that it wasn't true…but my mother and father had been able to, at a heavy cost, ensure that Dyne and I had received some education. Etcher was smart, really, smarter than me, considering all that he knew without any real formal education. I suppose there was a glimmer of hope for Dyne and I…though we were still working dead-end, mind numbing jobs. Sure we could probably become a Peacekeeper, Dad could pull some strings, but neither Dyne nor I saw how that was any better. Money-wise, sure…it was much better. But our family was getting by and would continue to get by in the foreseeable future. Peacekeepers died. Dad was lucky that all he'd lost was a foot and a few fingers in that rebellion. Being dead…now that was a truly scary proposition. Once you're dead, there's nothing else. You cease to exist. If I were braver, I might've told Dad to try and get me into Peacekeeper training, but I wasn't.
Finally my coiler is done passing along it's contents to the carding machine, and my supervisor, a stupid, ugly man by the name of Flince, lets me know that I can go home for the day. Once I am in the employees room, I shrug on my coat, and see that everyone else is bundling up, so it must still be chilly.
This time of year in the spring, you never quite know how the weather is going to behave. Most of my co-workers have left, but a decent number of them are still behind. That's when I overhear the two girls I work with talking.
"At least we don't have to come in for a few days." The older one whose name I was pretty sure was Teresa, was saying happily.
"Sure…'coz there's no way you can get reaped."
"C'mon now love, you'll be fine. You haven't taken any extra tesserae, have you?"
"No…Mom told me that I couldn't. But really what's the point? I have for years…and she thinks one less ticket is going to save me?"
Everything got quiet, as I felt like I needed to sit down or I was going to fall down. The Reaping. I had managed to remove it from my thoughts for the majority of the day, but yes…our orders were being backed up because production was going to close down for a few days, for the Reaping.
Dyne was now nineteen—she'd managed not to have to go play The Hunger Games. I use the word play, very loosely. My name was only on seven tickets…should've been six, but two years ago, I'd taken an extra share, which I gave to Etcher. I was far more worried about Etch, who had taken the maximum number of tesserae since he was 12. He was seventeen…and while there were kids who were now eighteen in the same shoes as him, Etcher seemed certain that he was going to be Reaped this year.
Even as the women tried to talk to me, their voices hollowed out as I numbly made my way through the door and out onto the covered walkway above the docks in which trucks were loaded and unloaded. A wind bit through my coverings so I decided to zip my jacket up, and was vaguely aware of myself pulling on my wool hat.
Tomorrow was The Reaping in District Eight. Etcher could be reaped…so could Tena. She was closer to my own age, having turned 17 about a month ago. Etcher was closer to 18 already. They had both been my friends for years and years. Tena was just as poor as Etch, except she only had two brothers. A family with three children could manage a little better than one with six. I could be Reaped too…it was possible. Sure I only had seven chances, whereas Etcher had close to thirty by now, but it's still luck of the draw.
Any one of us could be Reaped. Naturally the odds were with us, but I've never been a very lucky person. Same could be said for Tena, she and I always seemed to be naturally unlucky. The same couldn't be said for my best buddy Etcher…he was naturally lucky. Any game he's ever played, he usually wins. Though he had no money to ever bet, I remember there had been several occasions where I'd spot him a little of my own sparse money, and where I would lose…Etch would win. Not to mention the fact that he was taller, bigger, in better shape than Tena or myself, and would've been the most capable of us in the Arena.
I've got to stop worrying about whether any of us are going to get Reaped. Chances were, we'd be fine, and that ought to be the end of it.
I stepped out into the wind, and discovered the tight but clean scent of snow on the air, even if none was visible. Must've been snowing in the upper atmosphere, at least…I believed that's how it went. Science was always one of my worst subjects, it never interested me much.
Indeed night had fallen around District Eight, and it was at night, walking swiftly from streetlight to streetlight, that you can really see how unfriendly, unclean, and downright dangerous our District can be. Crime was up over the past few years, likely because factories kept cutting back on their workers hours, and it wasn't as though things were getting any cheaper to buy. My best way to discourage this, was by keeping very little pocket money on me, if any at all. The bad thing about the tenement building that we lived in, was that it was quite a long walk from where Mom and I worked.
Of course there I go again, complaining when there were plenty of others who had it worse off. While we lived in anything but the high rent district; the monolithic tenement buildings and squatters hovels were sprayed across the landscape not far from the wharfs and factories by the water. District Eight hovers around a few lakes, some larger than others. All the lakes did for us in the winter time was ensure lots of snow.
The train station was a dilapidated little building, part of it's facade had tumbled down and was held up by sheets of ribbed metal. The entire thing was perpetually bathed in the glow of a light emitted from a mercury-gas lamp which loomed over the run-down little shack like an impartial sentinel. It smelled worse here than it did by the factory. Our cotton factory smelled of oil, metal, and machinery, but the winds here blustered up from the south and carried across the lake.
As I hoisted myself up onto the platform but chose to remain outside, rather than breathe the recycled air of the half-dozen or so commuters crammed into the tiny place, I caught a nasty whiff. The lake was so large it may as well have been the ocean, except that it was foully polluted. Certain types of fish lived in there, but not the types even the poorest of individuals would want to eat, or risk getting some kid of disease. The Peacekeepers didn't like us in or by the lake…I was never quite sure why. The way they treat us most of the time, shouldn't they be happy that one or two might accidentally drown?
There was some type of refinery on the lake further to the south and east. Where I lived in District Eight, it was nearer the northwestern portion, where things were still grimy…but not as bad as they were down there, not by half. The smell off the lake wasn't constant, so I figured that it must've been because whatever they refined…was being refined presently.
"Hey Herod!" came a shockingly bright voice, and I spun around with a face full of trepidation.
I need not worry so much, it was Karrie, one of Etcher's sisters. She was about 13 or 14, and though not pretty like Etcher's mom, she had bright blue eyes and had a very nice smile. It was impossible for me not to notice because for years, she'd had a bit of a crush on me. As to why, I'll never know—there was not much to like about me, but Karrie Ronson had seemed to find something about me she liked.
"Hi…what're you doing out this late, Karrie? It's dangerous."
She shrugged her small shoulders, and pursed her lips a bit, "Mom sent me out here to pick up Jarem's medicine. It only comes in on certain days of the week."
Seeing this bright eyed girl, out here past sundown all by herself…it was…incredibly dangerous. Jarem was the youngest of the Ronson brood, and I knew from Etcher that his youngest brother had medical problems. With a family that was already so poor, I couldn't begin to think what his medication must cost them—no medication outside of the Capitol or maybe the Upper Districts, was affordable by any means.
"Still…" I looked around us, and indeed our surroundings were gloomy and windswept, but no perverted strangers seemed ready to lurch out of the darkness and snatch Karrie. "Do you even have a knife, or anything? There's a lot of sickos out this time of night, Karrie."
"No, but I can run really fast." She waited a beat and then added, "Hmmm," her blue eyes bright as they flashed off the glow of the lamplight, "you worried about me, Herod Telfin?"
Looking at her expression, I couldn't help but smile a little, but mostly I chuckled and waved her thoughts away. "Shut up." I knew it was not good to lead her on, and I wasn't, not even hardly, but if she hadn't been my best friend's little sister, I would have made my feelings a little clearer.
"Shouldn't the train be here by now?" she offered, blessedly. All I would've needed was for her to linger on the fact that I was in fact concerned for her well being.
I said, "Sometimes it's late. I'm usually on an earlier one, so I don't really know. Your Mom doesn't send you out after dark like this regularly, does she?"
"Not usually, no. But everyone else was busy, and we missed the shipment four days ago, so I had to go tonight."
I was wondering just how old Karrie was. She was at least four years younger than me, and somehow she managed to go through life not as effected by the unfortunate conditions placed upon her family. Etcher was usually in a better mood than me, but Karrie almost made me feel like being pessimistic was a crime.
"What's the matter Herod?"
I didn't want to burden her with my heavy thoughts which had now transgressed back to the Hunger Games. Apart from being my best friend, Etcher being second-oldest, was bringing in money to his family. If he were to get Reaped…they would be in even more dire of circumstances. I'm sure Dad and Mom would be alright with helping the Ronson's out a little bit here and there, but even though we had some money to spare, it wasn't enough to say that our family wouldn't miss it. "Nothing." The train was now slowing to the station, the people who were inside sitting up and moving about like worms in dirt.
I waited until everyone else was on the train, then saw to it that Karrie made it on unharmed. Soon enough she was striking up a conversation with some overweight older woman who had such bags under her eyes, it looked as though they were beginning to melt. I never was a life-of-the-party kind of guy. I am social when it's warranted, I'll talk when I want to, or feel I need to…but it was my friend Tena who was the jabber jaw. She could talk and talk, though I never failed to appreciate the fact that when you really wanted her to be quiet, Tena would get the hint and not push her luck. She and Etcher were my friends for a reason; I enjoyed their company and they didn't expect anything out of me that I couldn't give them.
Entering my own tenement building, I was overwhelmed by the scent of home which it held for me. It wasn't nice. The green and white checkered linoleum lobby flooring was from a very bygone era, but it was clean. The people who lived here took pride in the way their homes looked. We tried to fix the problems that incurred with living in a building like this ourselves. It was with good reason. The government didn't really care.
We had six floors to our building, with three apartments on each floor. One to the west, east, and north sides of the building. The Telfin family was on the fourth floor, and our windows faced east. Any of the apartments on the east side probably had the best view, for if you squinted a bit, you could make out the lake on the horizon. The sun shown early through our windows, but I had grown used to being able to sleep through it. Unfortunately for Dyne, she was a very temperamental sleeper. Fortunately for her, now her room was at the far north-eastern end, and until summer came, that was about as much of a reprieve from the sunlight as she was going to get.
In actuality, it used to be my room, it was the smallest, and I was the youngest—not to mention a boy. Girls always seem to need more space to move around in. They always had more stuff. Women were great keepers of stuff, something that never failed to bemuse me. Dyne had moved out nearly two years ago when she was almost eighteen, but after a failed relationship, she wound up back at home. Mom and Dad thought it unfair to kick me out of the room that had been hers, and now that Dyne had ridden herself of many of the stupid clutter from her youth, she found that my old room suited her just fine.
With the exception of perhaps one family on the first floor, our tenement building was pretty quiet. There were only two families with small children, both of them situated on the fifth floor, but it was a rarity to hear them yelling, screaming, crying, or laughing to the point of it being an annoyance. This was the only home I've ever known.
Turning my keys in the appropriate locks, I was assaulted with the smell of Mom's leftover cooking. The place was relatively dark. One of the lamps in the living room had been left on, but no one was there, in the pass-through dining room, or in the kitchen. The door at the far end of the hall was ajar. It belonged to Dyne now that we'd swapped rooms, and she had her light on.
Our parents had obviously gone to bed already, for their door was closed and I knew that Dad would be up waiting for me, if he was going to. This twisted a little in my stomach, as he realized I was old enough now that he didn't worry about me coming home late. That part was nice—when I was younger it seemed like there was so little I could do right in his eyes. He was over protective of both Dyne and me. But now, realizing that my back hurt a little and noting just how tired and hungry I was, it stung a bit that he wasn't there. Given what tomorrow marked, it was peculiar, but I wasn't about to analyze just why he might not be waiting up for me.
I found a bit of leftovers in the kitchen on a plate, covered over. Some kind of unidentifiable meat, and a good portion of what appeared to be green beans fresh from District Eleven. I threw one of the vegetables, pod and all, in my mouth and my taste buds were thankful at the crispness. I barely managed to wait as I reheated it on the stove…I knew that there were machines which could warm your food up safely in a matter of minutes, but they weren't prevalent in District Eight. From what I heard, some of the Lesser Districts like Ten, and surely Eleven and Twelve, may not even have a stove. I should count my blessings.
The green beans were absolutely delicious—stupendous even. I savored them first, they did wet my appetite for the rest of the meal. The bread was decent, though I'd had better bread in my life.
Predictably, the meat was so-so, but it wasn't inedible or anything. The best meats came from District Ten, but we often received smaller stuff from Nine. I'd been to District Nine three times in my life, never for very long. The landscape there looked similar to our own, but with much more greenery and rocks. Unfortunately the forests there were largely off-limits to hear Dad tell it, so the people of Nine didn't get to enjoy them like they ought. According to the Capitol it was their duty to take care of Panem's grains. Long ago, they had been responsible for trapping, furring, and keeping the nation in good food. It was this vestigial duty which brought some few people from Nine to hunt anyway, and sell it on the black market within their own district, and ours.
All I knew is that now, District Nine had plenty of factories and refineries pop up intermittently amongst the grain factories which accepted deliveries chiefly from District Eleven on a daily basis. Now they worked with metal, plastics, soaps, and all other kinds of chemicals that we here in Eight didn't bother with. It might not be the most exciting of trades, but the people of Eight were fastidious and proud that we were the garment district of Panem. Life here was rough, I can attest to that myself, but as long as the people in the Capitol wanted new clothing—and they always did—we were able to keep from being among the poorest people in Panem. We made plenty of textiles which were used in a variety of ways, but what really brought the most money to District Eight, was the high end clothing bought by Capitolites.
Mom told me that once the Capitol had tried to manufacture clothing themselves, but they didn't have the experts. While a few different arrangements were tried, eventually it was decided that pretty much every last textile product used in Panem, would be made here.
My father's mother, whom I never met, was quite a seamstress apparently. She and her husband's work allowed their son a leg up, and it filtered down to Dyne and I, benefiting from that. While technically anyone can apply to become a Peacekeeper, it isn't common practice in Eight. Grandma and Grandpa Telfin had made sure their eldest son was going to have a lucrative career. Two of my aunts still worked directly in tailoring, one as a seamstress, and the other as a part-time designer. Still my father made by himself about as much money as my aunts could together, as a Peacekeeper. I guess if you're going to put your ass on the line, even the Capitol sees fit to pay you for it.
Not that they pay the tributes for the Hunger Games, of course. The victor gets a handsome sum, sure, but year after year, that means there's 23 families who are now grieving over the loss of their kid, not to mention the fact that they receive no monetary help for their loss. In a family like Etcher's, if one of the kids were to die…they'd really be better off. Growing up I tried to have Etch over for dinner as often as he would come. I didn't have a brother and I was anxious for his company, but this also helped out his family which was eternally in the poor house. Not the poor house—the dirt poor house.
Normally I might want to relax a bit considering I didn't have to go to work for a few days, but then again I didn't have to, because of The Reaping. That thought wasn't a fuzzy one that I wanted to curl up on the couch with. I took a shower, happy to discover that the water was nice and hot. Catching my own reflection as I contemplated shaving, I decided against it—too much hassle and I'd need to shave tomorrow to look nice for The Reaping anyway.
My nose was a little large on my face, but even then I was fortunate enough to inherit positive traits from both of my parents. Dyne was pretty, in a usual, reassuring sort of way…though it's bizarre to admit such things to oneself about your sister, even if they were true. She looked quite a bit like our Grandmother Telfin; we were lucky enough to have two photographs of her. Cameras were extremely expensive to own, but my father's family managed to get a few taken here and there throughout his lifetime.
I on the other hand, wasn't bad looking. Decent, maybe. My ears had been described as cute by a couple of girls, though I'll never get how someone's ears can be 'cute', or for that matter, 'ugly'. My eyes were a bit deep set, but I had a stronger chin than my father, and whether or not it was a little too big, my nose was symmetrical and looked well-appointed smack in the middle of my face. Unlike Etcher, I'd never had my nose broken. My neck was solid enough, though not downright thick. If I were a couple of inches taller, and packed on a bit more muscle, I might even pass for nice looking. Not the kind to stop hearts, but I shouldn't qualify as homely even to the pickiest of people, either.
Throwing on some clothes, I crossed our apartments hallway headed back to my room, when I saw my sister there standing in her doorway. "Hey…" she said a bit lightly, "Come here for a minute, ok?"
While we had fought frequently during our youth, Dyne and I did love each other—though it was still odd for her to want me to go and see her. Soon enough I was inside my sister's room, and she shut the door behind me.
"What. I'm tired." I admitted honestly.
Dyne sighed, her eyes narrowing a little, "Shut up for a minute, will you?" She crossed her slender arms before her and then let them drop to her side as she occupied the chair next to her dresser, leaving me the bed to sit upon. "Tomorrow's the Reaping."
Oh…it was going to be one of those conversations.
"Yeah. But listen Dyne, don't worry. My name's only in there on seven tickets."
"Right, I know." She echoed a bit, though lines appeared on her forehead, giving her a pinched look. "It's just that I've got this really bad feeling about it."
"Shit Dyne!" I couldn't help but throw out at her, only vaguely aware that my Dad who was a light sleeper in the next room, might've gotten roused. "Why do you have to say something stupid like that for!? Don't jinx me!"
She frowned, looking regretful but the added, "Oh shut up. You don't even believe in things like luck, or jinxes. You don't even believe in God. So don't gimme that."
The existence of a divine creator behind life had long driven a wedge between my sister and I. While both of our parents seemed to have no feelings much one way or the other, that God could exist just as much as could not exist, I was certain that in a world as unhappy as ours, if there ever had been a god, he was long gone. Dyne vehemently opposed this idea. I was a bit of a pessimist, sure…I knew I was more doubtful than certain.
"Yeah, but you do." I managed to say, wanting to make her feel guilty. "Don't say something like that to me. What if I get Reaped now!?"
Dyne swallowed hard, and looked like she might cry. I felt instantly sorry for what I'd done, but before I could apologize she was talking.
"Lets hope that doesn't happen. It's just I was going to go over shooting with you, and all sorts of other stuff. I can't believe that we overlooked it this long. The Reaping never sneaks up on you."
"It does me, where've you been?" I was being perfectly frank. Maybe it was because as much as I thought the worst of people and situations, I tried not to dwell and over think them. I had purposely been trying my best for weeks now to ignore the fact that two days before my birthday, came The Reaping this year.
"I can't volunteer myself anymore, I'm nineteen." Dyne admitted, her cheeks getting a little flush. "Bad timing this year. Not that I could, anyway…"
It was true that The Reaping and the subsequent Hunger Games didn't always take place during the same time season, but what floored me more was the fact that my sister would've gone in my stead. Of course, it may have seemed like an empty promise, because her being a girl and me being a guy, she couldn't volunteer for me. Still I knew by the look on her face, she was entirely serious. I found all the words sucked out of my throat, so I sat there on the edge of her bed, a bit dazed.
"I talked to Mom and Dad…tried to, convince them to offer the Ronson's some money. They could have Etcher go, or even his brother whose just younger than you…"
"I can't believe you'd say that! What the hell, Dyne!" I spat at her, my insides turning to fire as I finally processed just what she was saying. I jerked up from my seat, but seeing my sister's face, I slowly reclaimed my spot.
"Do you think I want to think of something like that!? It's just Dad and Mom didn't seem to be throwing out any ideas," she glared at me, even as a couple of tears were sliding down her cheeks, "but I don't want you getting Reaped."
Still a bit furious, I couldn't help myself from talking. "Even if that were to happen, Etch would never let anyone in his family go. He'd go. And his life has already been hard enough…I can't believe you'd be such a snob and such a manipulative…ugh." I couldn't finish, because I saw her crying and I realized it was impossible to try and chastise her for such a thought—wicked though it may be.
"Mom was pissed too…so don't worry, it isn't happening." Dyne wiped away her tears, and kept her eyes upon me. "Last year you saw what happened to that kid from Eight. He got his guts ripped out by that hyena-looking thing. He didn't even die right away."
"Thanks for that mental image. Really."
I was somewhat aware that my sister didn't know who else to tell all this too, I was trapped between being upset at her, and understanding fully. Year after year when I was younger, I hoped that Dyne wouldn't get reaped. Up until the last one, there was a chance either of us could've been going.
She sighed, "I'm sorry Herod. It's just—they're really awful, you know. Parker's brother was Reaped…he's still messed up over it, I…"
"Is that why he said he hit you?" I couldn't keep myself from spitting at my sister. The guy she'd tried to have a relationship with ended up being abusive. I regretted it as soon as I'd said it. "I'm sorry…"
"I don't know what else to say or do." Dyne explained in a tone that was unusually flat. "I have this horrible feeling and if you get Reaped, there's nothing I'm going to be able to do. I mean, you're my brother. My only brother." And once more she was crying, so I allowed her to hug me, and I hugged her back, surprised at a few hot tears of my own.
I cleared my throat. "Listen, ok? I'm not getting Reaped. Everything's going to be alright. The one you really should be worried for is Etch. Or Tena…either one of them have much better chances of having their name pulled than me. But what good is it going to do us sitting around and crying? Whatever happens, happens. I don't want you fretting about something that you can't change."
Finally she came to sit down next to me, looking at the small, threadbare rug before her dresser. "You're so much stronger than I am, Herod."
Hearing those words made the back of my throat tighten and the muscles under my chin clench a bit. I was quiet, because I didn't want to cry again. Better to do it here with my sister, than out in public, like if Etcher were to get Reaped. Still, despite her saying all the wrong things as she often had a tendency to do, I was aware that Dyne was so upset because she loved me so much. That kind of feeling struck me in the stomach, and made a hole there, not letting go. Did she feel like this last year, too? She would've volunteered in my stead, if only she were able. This truth sucker punched me in the gut.
Of course I knew I loved my sister and she loved me—it's a given. But we weren't the sort to have long meaningful talks under normal circumstances. She lived her life, I lived mine. But now all her love for me was inescapable, and right now it was heavy, like a lead vest.
I knew that I needed to get out of here and back to my room, or I'd start analyzing all that she'd said and start feeling anxious, scared, or overwhelmed. "Listen, I'm tired and everyone's got an early morning, tomorrow. Just get some sleep…drink some of dad's whiskey, if you can," I managed a small chuckle and she mirrored it, "and you'll see that there's nothing to be worried about tomorrow." Boy if only I believed myself, I might be alright. If there was one thing I was always pretty good at, it was convincing others that I was alright.
After a long hug and a kiss to my cheek, Dyne finally let me go for the night. Shuffling back to my room, I shut the door and felt like collapsing. Somehow I managed to fling myself onto my bed, shifting around as I threw whatever I'd left there to the floor, I keep a downright filthy room. Why had she felt like I was in trouble tomorrow? Logically it seemed that she was just feeling helpless because I was in The Reaping, and there was nothing she could do about it. Logic helps me a lot when I'm feeling so useless and used up. Logically I was going to be just fine. Also logically, Etch had what, twenty-four tickets in the raffle? Or was it thirty? Tena had to have close to that many, as well.
Dyne believed in such hackneyed concepts as fate and destiny. Even if by some horrible run of un-luck that my name was pulled, it had nothing to do with kismet. Bad luck was so much easier to believe in than good. I have never been a lucky person. Still, there was no need to worry that this automatically qualified me as playing the Hunger Games. Was there?
Every year the Reaping took place at our massive justice building, located in the central prefecture of District Eight. There were three different prefectures, and while any citizen of Eight was technically free to wander amongst them freely, most people tended to live their lives entirely within one prefecture. Sure they might visit the others, but essentially everyone they knew or cared about, was of the same prefecture. I belonged to this category. There was the north prefecture where I lived, but there was a central, and an east as well. Anyone was allowed to come, but all eligible tributes were to remain within the building, so there was precious little room for any of their families to wait with them. As I had for years before, I stood outside the justice building with my family, trying to talk rapidly and keep my mother and sister from worrying, and chuckle at the occasional quip my father might make.
As long as all eligible tributes were inside the justice building at quarter-to-twelve, we may choose to allot the time before this any way we wished. My family had ended up riding the train in with my friend Tena and her family. She had an older brother the same age as Dyne, and one just a year younger than she and I. A couple of moments ago I had spied Etcher and the Ronson family, but when ours eyes met, there seemed to be a mutual understand that whatever we were going to say to each other, save it until we were inside the justice building. We needed our time to speak with our families, try to ally their fears, and basically say anything that'd been on our minds. Some years it seemed that the tributes were allowed to speak with their families before they were whisked away, other years not. I suspected it had something to do with scheduling…depending on how long the entire Reaping process was running.
We were all supposed to dress in our finest, but I had been diligent this morning not to wear my best clothing. Why waste it on the Capitol, anyway? Besides, Dyne had this sneaky suspicion that I was going to get Reaped—logically I knew this had to be false, so to make it seem more like a dress rehearsal than the real thing, I'd selected a nice-enough shirt and pants. I did own nicer things, albeit not many.
The sun was shining, and though there was still a stiff breeze in the air, within the glow of the sunlight a person could get away with short sleeves. I was wearing a dark blue-gray button shirt, tucked into my second-best pair of pants, some trousers that were nothing too special, but as some kids didn't own anything nicer than a pair of pressed blue jeans or slacks that had obviously been patched. If there was one District in Panem, who ought to be able to look nice, it was us. Of course just because Eight citizens made the clothes, didn't mean that we could afford them once they had been priced and distributed by the Capitol.
There was a massive digital clock outside the justice building, which normally wasn't there. The red readout explained to us all that it was 11:36am, giving us some nine or so minutes until we had to get our asses inside. The penalty for not being prompt, was that additional tickets with your name on it was added to the bin for the Reaping. As to if they actually followed through with this or not, or just how many tickets being late might earn you, wasn't much concern. Nobody in their right mind wasn't going to want to find out.
It happened two years ago, I remember. Some little blonde girl who couldn't have even been 12 by the look of her—though she must've been—was late and had been forced roughly through the doors by some peacekeepers with the rest of us. Her name hadn't gotten reaped, so really who's to say? Point was…unless you were fortunate enough to live in one of the Upper Districts in Panem, the Capitol and it's Peacekeepers can keep us all on our toes just by the threat of action.
I was vaguely aware that Tena and her brother were already gone, and in my peripheral vision I saw her older brother hugging her mother tightly. There really is no good way to go about doing it…the longer you stay with your family, the more knots you develop in your stomach and the more you don't want to leave them. I was the one who spurred my own relatives into action, explaining that I needed to go.
Dad had given me a long talk this morning, just the two of us while Dyne and Mom made breakfast. He gave me a strong smile, after hugging me and kissing my cheek. Somehow this action was very tender, for Dad wasn't the sort for much affection even in our own home, let alone publicly.
Dyne came next, crying openly and squeezing me very tight. "I'll see you later, ok? Don't forget if you are shooting an arrow, aim a little higher than you think you'll need." She half-chuckled amidst a sob, and I tried to smile for her, too. She told me that she loved me, and again hugged me so tight that by the time she let go, I felt a little wobbly.
Finally there stood my mother. Pretty in a housewife, working-class kind of way with her dark brown hair with it's wisps of gray braided along the growth of her hair, and then into a thick braid that didn't quite hit the middle of her back. As soon as I saw her, there was a hot feeling in the back of my head and I felt like crying. I couldn't help it, though even as she looked at me and smiled, I managed to keep my eyes wet…but not actually passing a tear. Although I spoke more with Dad, and on many levels was closer with my father, Mom and I always had an unspoken sort of bond. We were the quieter ones in our family, but she was speaking volumes now by the way she looked at me, hugged me, kissed me.
"I know I'll be seeing you later tonight, but if for some reason I don't…be careful, Herod. I'm so proud of you, and the man you've become."
Hearing stuff like that made it almost impossible for me not to get emotional, but she kept talking through that, realizing that it wasn't in my best interest to lose my composure.
"If you get picked, you can win. I know you can," she added with emphasis through her teeth.
I was only sparsely aware of my father hugging my sister, both of them watching my mother and I in my peripheral vision. I knew that a lot of the tributes were filing into the justice building by now.
"I love you Mom." I managed, clenching my jaw and pushing all of my emotions down to my knees. I had to say this to her, I absolutely had to, but I'd be seeing her this afternoon anyway. Just tell her that, hug her, and be done with it.
Mom said, "I love you so much." These were the last words I heard from her, before I had to turn and head inside.
Amidst the throng of youth trying to get inside and be seated in a somewhat orderly fashion, I'd managed to actually find Etcher. He politely gave me a moment to compose myself, and then nudged into me with his shoulder. He'd always been taller than me, and stronger too.
"Let's hope Sondra Fillings gets Reaped, eh?" he teased, referring to a girl in our neighborhood who was a bossy know-it-all and a general pain in everyone's ass, including her own family. "I wouldn't be surprised if her Dad was trying to unload her. When it comes to money, his ass is tighter than duck's."
I laughed honestly, because with all of my emotions so close to the surface, I couldn't help myself. I pressed away the knowledge that Mr. Fillings, cheap or not, didn't have as many children in his family as Etch had in his. "Hopefully she'd just slit her own throat, so as not to embarrass us too badly."
Dark laughter came from both of us, though it really wasn't because it was too horribly humorous. The Reaping was always a horrendous affair, no matter how you looked at it. Even in Sondra were to be picked, my heart would go out to her, I wouldn't be able to help it. The last time District Eight had won the Hunger Games, I was one year old. Obviously I can't remember ever seeing our District win the Games. A couple of times we came close…the year that I was Thirteen, there was a very crafty girl from the central prefecture who made it to the final two, but then was killed by her competitor. I was told that we almost won once more when I was three, but as far as I knew, that girl who got run through with a spear some four-odd years ago, was the best showing we'd made.
Peacekeepers stood shoulder to shoulder, armed and spoke in loud clear voices. They told us to be quiet, follow the person in front of us, and be seated as quickly as possible.
"Well, good luck man. I haven't seen Tena, but we'll see her after. Wow…lookit that kid, he's twelve!? I swear that everyone keeps getting smaller and smaller." Etcher was firing off.
"Shut your mouth." Berated the closest Peacekeeper, hiding behind a gnarled black beard and his issue helmet.
Etch looked ready to fire back with some retort, so I gave him a quick elbow to the ribs, and he dropped his smile and filed in alongside me.
District Eight was among the smaller districts in Panem, but we still had a decent populace. We weren't first or second, in terms of overall population, but we weren't at the bottom either, specially when you considered how many of us there were per square mile for the District. It really was a miracle that the Peacekeepers and the Capitol Reaping crew didn't have a full-blown riot with all of these kids, aged twelve to eighteen, in one place at one time.
Sad as it was, I supposed it was because after the sacrificial lambs' names were drawn by our escort, we could go back to living our lives. Sure it was bad, awful for the families of the chosen, but I can say with personal experience it is such a huge relief when you know that you're not going to face the Hunger Games. Two years ago, a girl from the north prefecture that I knew, was Reaped. I didn't know her all that well…only about as well as you might say you 'know' someone from your neighborhood. I knew her name, it was Raye, but I couldn't tell you to this day what her last name was, or even her brothers or sisters. Kind of sickening, when I pause and reflect. She died two years ago, but I can't remember her last name?
In Eight, as I'm sure is in every district that doesn't send Career tributes, it was best to try and move on. The dead were dead. They weren't coming back, and to linger in misery over their unfortunate fate really was futile at the end of the day. Our lives were so gloomy as it were; better to dwell on the happy times and try to forget the rest. Etcher was much better at this than Tena or myself, but thanks to him, he managed to keep our gray lives from being a total washout.
The cameras were abuzz around us, lights flickering and all in attendance was growing quiet, and eerily still. In the center of the main hall in our justice building, emerged two figures from all the other adults. One was our supposedly-elected local official, who looked pale and withdrawn, his clothing formal but due to his overall pudginess, not even tailored suits could make him look good. We in District Eight may not have been starving quite as much as the districts which were even lesser than us, but food was a tight commodity here. Even if this guy—his name escapes me now—was running for office, there's no way he'd win simply because he was obese. No one wants to get behind a politician who embodies what the people themselves could never hope to have.
The other was a lighter skinned black man, lean and lanky, whose name was Jarvis Wellund. He had been our District's escort for quite some time now, at least close six or seven years. He had sort of sad, droopy eyes but his smile was keen and he always looked as though he were enjoying a private joke. While this turned a lot of people off from him, I much preferred him to the stuffed shirt, blustering idiot who preceded him. Jarvis didn't like to hear himself talk, and this endeared me to him, more than anything else. He did his job, but didn't seem to particularly enjoy it. He was just going through the motions, year after year, but never did he seem lackadaisical or non-caring to me. I couldn't help but keep my eyes on him, all throughout the national anthem we had to endure.
Our politician was going on and on about today being a time for giving thanks and for repentance, reflecting backward, but also looking to the future. I hate politics so much, I literally was tuning him out. I glanced over to Etch, but found myself a bit disappointed when he wasn't there ready with a funny face, or even a roll of his eyes. He was apparently listening to this fat oaf, but I just couldn't bring myself to.
Jarvis Wellund had his hands clasped behind his back, eyes downcast. I wondered if he was from the Capitol? He never seemed to dye his hair or skin any odd colors—a damn near surefire sign that someone was. Was it possible that he was from Eight, and had somehow managed to get this job? I preferred to think of him as a local guy, maybe who felt that leading our tributes to the Hunger Games with as much dignity as he could afford them was his small way of trying to help?
It was a nice thought. Truth be told, he could've been a complete asshole for all I knew. My only exposure to the guy was on Reaping days. We hadn't had a victor since I could remember, so it wasn't as though there was anyone living that I could ask readily. Some of our past victors, who, incidentally, were now being listed off by the fat politician one at a time, probably knew a thing or two about Jarvis Wellund, but I'd never had any run ins with a victor.
Skimming through the crowd, I spotted Sondra Fillings of all people. She looked almost precocious in her lace and flowered dress. She makes me want to puke. Sondra was looking ahead, but I knew her well enough to know that she was thinking thoughts just as nasty as I was. People like Sondra never got Reaped…they would bumble through life, being perfectly wicked, but managing to not draw enough attention to themselves for most people to notice. If I believed in God, I would've asked him just then to ensure her name was pulled. Sondra had never done anything too awful to me personally, but she was extremely cruel to Tena, and this was a crime for which she couldn't be forgiven.
This prompted me to search out my best female friend, my only female friend really, but Jarvis's voice startled me and I looked up to find him at the podium.
"Good afternoon." Jarvis spoke cleanly, without a Capitol accent. This helped me decide that yes, he was a decent guy after all. "Again we must respect our nation's Capitol and select District Eight's tributes for the Sixty-Third Annual Hunger Games. Before I go to the lottery, are there any volunteers this year?"
A few tight whispers here and there, but soon a pall was cast over the entire expanse of the largest room in what was our district's largest building, if you discounted factories. Jarvis glanced around at the podium, seeming unhurried as he allowed his question to linger on the air. He added simply, "Remember, you may do so at any point until the official Reaping has ended."
Volunteers? Anyone? Of course there weren't any fucking volunteers!
This made me think of Dyne, who I'd found out just last night, would have actually volunteered to go instead of me. An onlooker who was skeptical as me, would've said it was an easy promise to make. Girls can only go in lieu of another girl. Still, I knew my sister, I knew she was dead serious.
"As there aren't any volunteers, let's proceed." Jarvis stated. "This year, I will select a lady's name first, followed by a gentleman's. You all know how The Reaping works, so know that it is quite literally the luck of the draw. Good luck."
Inside my head I thanked Jarvis for once again not stooping to the stand-by adage of 'May the odds be ever in your favor'. I remember he had a while back, but a few years ago, he'd changed it up simply to wish us good luck; he can't be all bad. I saw Jarvis reach into the bin containing all the eligible female's names in our District.
Not Tena. Not Tena. Not Tena. Not Tena. Not Tena. Not Tena. With my eyes closed, I repeated this mantra to myself, hoping that it would work. Of course the odds were that she wouldn't be selected…but that whole thing about the 'odds' change, once you or someone you care about, ends up on the wrong side of them.
I opened my eyes a little too soon, just in time for Jarvis to be holding the marker which contained a name. My ears were burning, but I heard him say the name crystal clearly.
"Farah Gilderling."
Jarvis's voice echoed well throughout the massive chamber, all of us dead quiet. Anxious eyes moved about, though of course all of the girls in the room could finally exhale, for what might've been a very long time. The Reaping is an awful day, but at the same time, you can finally calm down and realize that you're not fucking going to the Hunger Games. It's a feeling that you can't beat with a stick.
Finally there was movement, and even a few hushed noises and whispers as someone, way off on the other side of the room from me, was making their way to the stage. When first her head poked up, and then the rest of her, I had to do a double take.
She was an absolute mass of black hair, which from my vantage point looked as though it was wrapping from the top of her head, all around to nearly envelop her face like some sort of festooned hat from a bygone era. Her hair wasn't long, it didn't even reach her chin in most places, except that, as I watched her march across the stage toward Jarvis, she had very severe cut bangs. Now that her face was being thrown up onto the massive screen in the hall, I couldn't help but look more closely.
Farah had a short, bobbed haircut to be sure, all of it visibly black. So black it was almost blue. Her lengthy bangs slid from the crown of her head toward the front where they tapered off long and severe. Much of her face was obscured by them, except for an asymmetrical gash of flesh showing her nose, lips, and right eye.
Freaking no one I knew, looked like that. That Farah girl looked as though she might belong in the Capitol or something, with that severe, and remarkably stylish haircut. People in District Eight didn't have enough money to actually go to a salon and get their hair properly done, like rich people. Her clothing was simple and all black. No person dressed monochromatically and had their hair like that, to blend in. Farah Gilderling was obviously trying to make a statement. I couldn't help but wonder if she expected to be Reaped? No…surely not. Whatever statement she was trying to make by her appearance, it definitely was not one which yelled 'pick me, pick me please!'.
"Whoa…" I heard Etcher say to me. Without even looking at him, I knew his eyebrows were raised in that uncertain but definitely interested way they could sometimes get.
Farah was expressionless as she slammed herself down into one of the two available chairs.
Ok, I thought to myself, so Tena was safe. Now I just had to make sure that Etch and I were as well, and we'd be home free.
This time I couldn't bring myself to close my eyes, but I found myself watching Jarvis's hand extend fully down into the container with all the possible male tributes. I didn't hear my heart beating in my ears, it was more a muffled feeling that was reaching out to envelop me. Jarvis picked one and was withdrawing his hand. I watched him glance down at the marker, and then leaning in toward the microphone, said the name.
"Herod Telfin."
Before I could even realize what was happening, my body was moving of it's own accord. I wasn't aware of my arms and legs moving, instead I was subjected to seeing them foist me upward from my chair like a demented marionette.
I was halfway to the stage where Jarvis Wellund was looking down from his podium at me, when I realized I couldn't move any more. How the fuck did I get up here? Did he really call my name? Maybe I ought to just go and sit back down, so the real tribute could take his place on stage.
My chest was tingling in a way I'd never felt it before. Lightning had shot out to my fingertips, and then refracted backward into the middle of my body. My lips were tingly and numb, and my head was swimming through murky, dark places that I couldn't even identify. All the faces around me blurred into a surreal oil painting. It sounded as though someone was shouting my name, but I couldn't even be sure of that.
With my first step onto the dais where Jarvis and our fat-assed politician were looking at me, their faces and everything about them came into startling clarity. I saw the black-haired girl sit stock still on her chair, until she turned so minutely it was almost imperceptible. Just the slightest of motion, and her bangs wagged ever so slightly and I got a vague sense of where her left eye must be.
I see Jarvis's expression, ushering me upward, so I just follow the unspoken commands he's giving me and before I realize what's going on, I shuffle across the stage, past the black haired girl, and shift weightlessly into the seat next to her.
The fat politician was speaking again, and suddenly I can recall not only that his name is Oren Surdyk, first name spelled with an r, but that his title is Officiate Surdyk, and he had two sons and one daughter. He likes jelly beans, tea but not coffee, and his favorite color was orange. As to how any of this information was even available to me, I had absolutely no earthly idea, as I watched gads of young faces look up at me from all over the justice building. Funny what you can think of when you've just been called for what would surely be your death.
"Would our most honorable tributes please stand, face one another, and shake hands in a show of good faith." Oren was saying, but naturally it was an order, not a request.
Feeling like a melting candle, I flushed forward and though I felt like I would fall, found myself standing just a smidge above my fellow tribute, who now I could tell, had hazel eyes. Weren't they hazel? I really could only see the one. I had to just perceive the other, behind her thick curtain of bangs.
I believe we shook hands, though I have no recollection of it. Just some smallest of assurances that I at least offered my hand out to her.
Were people cheering and clapping? Or were they screaming and jeering at me, at us? I was happy on some level that at least my fellow tribute wasn't taller than I was. It was bad enough being a perfectly ordinary height, if not a little short, but it'd be worse to be dwarfed by a girl when you were going to be seen by everyone in the country. I think the national anthem began, a few of it's bars sounding quite familiar, but I couldn't be sure.
My next conscious recollection was that Peacekeepers, at least half of dozen of them were escorting me and the girl with the black hair away from all the people. Lots of hallways, doorways, shadows and shapes that I could not make sense of at all. There was just one flight of stairs, but it was a long one. I remember those stairs very well. I could see the wide, low, and flat heels of my fellow tribute in front of me as she ascended them. At the tip of every stair was a line of gold, I remembered that vividly.
"Follow me, please." One of them said in a gruff voice. They were all armed with assault rifles. The one I was following was wearing standard-issue boots, my father still had his back home. He had a handgun, and a knife attached to his belt, as well was what I perceived to be handcuffs, and plenty of other things I couldn't make heads or tails of.
Time passed, I don't know how much time, but I think it was a while. What I was doing in that time period, or where I was…I have no idea. Hopefully I wasn't unconscious while I got probed by some nefarious doctor, or something. It is funny how time can go at it's own pace. Things happen all at once, or long periods happen where nothing important occurs. I believe I must've still been in the justice building, though I couldn't be sure.
Eventually I was shown to a room that wasn't large, but was well-furnished with a couple of long couches, one overstuff chair, and on the center coffee table was a small but well-appointed spread of snacks and food tidbits.
Unable to look at the Peacekeeper who'd led me here, or the other one who like the first, now hung back near the door, I reached for some of the food and stuffed it into my mouth. Tasted salty…was it fish? There were definitely crackers, and olives. I love black olives, but I've only gotten to have them on a handful of occasions in my life. I have no idea how many I ate, until there was some other person there, a woman. Oh, she had a face too, and she was smiling.
Behind her glasses, her red hair in a perm, she smiled and patted my knee as she leaned half over me. "Hello Mister Telfin, congratulations on being one of District Eight's tributes. Maybe you ought to drink some water? You look a little parched, Mister Telfin." She handed me a water bottle, and what else could I do? I drank…deeply, and sucked back practically it's entire contents. The redhead smiled and removed it from my hands, setting it down on the coffee table. I was now sitting on the couch, and she was half-perched, ready to move at a moments notice.
"Thank you." I said, though I don't know why. Good manners, maybe? Mom would've been happy with that.
"Oh no, Mister Telfin, thank you. Such a nice-looking young man, I do wish you the best of luck. But now, forget all of that. In a few moments we've arranged your family and friends to come and visit with you. I'll be just outside, if you should need anything."
When I saw my parents and Dyne, everything flew back together like a puzzle being rapidly solved. My sister was a complete holy mess, to put it mildly. She was sobbing so hard, it was almost unnerving just to be in the same room with her. She was trying to stop crying, but that seemed to make it all the worse. Mom was crying too, and I think Dad did as well, though they weren't seemingly as bad-off as Dyne.
My mom's name was Serina, and my dad's was James, though he went by Jim. They both looked like what their names might imply. Dyne even might've gotten away with looking like herself, but I never thought I looked like a Herod. If anyone ever could, that is. Dad was hugging me, while Mom clung onto Dyne.
Then Mom talked to me, giving me a few kisses while Dad let my sister sob all over him. I felt sorry for Dyne. She was usually so quick-witted and smart with her words and how she used them. Mom on the other hand, usually did not know what to say, but of the three of them, she'd been giving the best advice all day. She told me that she believed in me. That I could actually win. That there's no point now on thinking about anything, but winning the Hunger Games. Use my smarts, she always knew how smart I was—and get out of it alive. Mom was brilliant today at carving up the facts, and dishing them, and only the facts, right back.
I was a tribute for District Eight in the Sixty-Third Hunger Games. Fact. I was extremely clever, when I put my mind to it, and I needed to use all of my energy toward winning. Fact. I was strong and fast, or at least that was my mother's recollection of the truth. Fact. My family loved me very much. Fact. I was never to forget where I came from, or what I'd seen. Fact. Mom was so proud of me, and she'd be prouder still when I won, because she knew that I could. Fact. I can win The Hunger Games.
…fact, or fiction?