This is a small One-shot I created over the past few nights when I have been ill. I MIGHT make it into a full-length story if everyone likes it enough. But for now, enjoy this small one-shot of a boy during the 5th Hunger Games.
More chapters for my SYOT's will be coming soon, this was just something I found comfort in writing while I was sick. Enjoy.
Those moments were the world slows down around you give an odd sense of release. Time goes too slow for your body to feel any of the surging emotions that rush through your veins and you find yourself hoping to be stuck in the moment of bliss forever. Seconds before everything around you comes crashing down. For a moment, as you stand there with the slow wind blowing through your hair, you feel in control of your own destiny, that you can reach out and stop the problem before it unravels. However, before your mind can make any conscious decision, the breeze turns into a storm, whipping around your form, people moving away from you faster than your legs can move. Then you realize you are frozen.
Frozen, that seemed an odd word for such a feeling because you don't feel cold at all. Even the blasting winds that had been funneled down the walkway could not calm the fire that burned inside. A fire made up of a thousand, individual emotions that tore through your body, trying to make sense of the words that had just be spoken to the whole nation.
The words held familiarity, of course, they did, they were spoken to me every day from the day I entered this godforsaken world. I guess it was spoken no different from the shopkeepers, teachers or everyday passers-by. Little attachment, just a name that rolled off the tongue. However, when it played again in my head, it echoed with added malice and meant so much more to me than a name. It was a death sentence.
"Nanook Vella?" There it was, filling mine and the ears of everyone around me. Any hope I had for a mispronunciation or slip of the tongue has vanished as quickly as the humanity in people around me. I couldn't blame them, I too had nudged chosen boys towards the stage in the hopes they would not draw another name, at least not mine. The benefit of perspective I guess, maybe even karma for the number of names that had brought relief to my soul and allowed me to carry on with my day. Now it was my name that brought thankful smiles and tears to the boys and their families.
Family. For the first time since my name had been called, I moved against the crowd of pushing boys to turn around and catch a glimpse of my family. I only got a few seconds but I used them wisely, scanning the crowd of people with my chocolate brown eyes for any familiar face. I found happy and empathetic faces and just as I thought I found the red, tear-stained one of my mother, a strong hand grab my shoulder and spun me around.
I stumbled as the hand let go, trapped in a mindless daze, my body only functioning enough to keep me upright. I stood still again, the boys that once pushed me forward had scattered back to their places in the crowd. You have to go up, they will kill you if you don't. I knew the words my mind screamed were true, I could already hear the Peacekeepers moving their hands to their pistols, ready for the signal to put a bullet through my brain. Maybe it would be better than having my stomach sliced open on live television.
Although my brain seemed unmotivated to move, when I felt the coldness of a gun's barrel against my back, no passing thought could stop my legs from moving towards the stage. Step by step, second by second, my feet not leaving the ground as they shuffled along the cobbled walkway. Like my legs were controlled by a different entity to myself. My mind occupied at the different age groups of boys that passed me by, the tears rolling down my cheeks begging for one of them to volunteer in my place. No one did.
The Games had only been going for five years, even though it seemed like a century. I had been part of the reaping for all my teenage life, some had been there from the start. You could tell who they were. Their worn out but thankful faces that they had made it through another year. The eighteen-year-old showed happiness, wrapping their arms around each other in the joy that the lottery that had haunted them for five years was finally over. The rest didn't want me to go into the Games but I knew they were thankful I was, my reaping had extended their lives by another year, leading them closer to freedom from The Reaping.
The Peacekeepers came to a stop when I mounted the first step, my weak legs carrying my aching body until I reached the top. From there, I could see the whole district, the hundreds, maybe even thousands of children looking at me with pity, although I was too far away to make out the faces of anyone past the eighteen-year-old section. The adults behind the barriers just distant blurs.
"No need to be frightened," Our blue-haired escort, whose name I had not bothered to learn, said softly, waving me over to her side. Given any other time, I would've spat back a sarcastic reply, middle finger included. However, I found myself unable to do anything more than look up at her with teary eyes before forcing my body along the glossy, wooden surface to her side.
Once there, I hung my head low, my mouth open as the blue-haired, yellow-dressed woman pranced around the stage, proclaiming how lucky we were. How lucky could we possibly be in death? Spending our final days plagued by the fear that someone, no older than ourselves might decide when we deserved to die. Death, to me, was a sense of release from old age or illness, not something to be decided by a child who may or may not even know my name.
My hands shook at the thought, an emotion that was either anger or fear telling my body to crumple and cry out for mercy. But just when my legs were about to give in to the grief, a small hand grabbed my balled up fist, tightly.
My head shot up, only to see two big brown eyes smiling back at me. The girl could not have been older than thirteen with her short cropped hair and overgrown bangs. Despite the hot tears that brewed in her eyes, her chubby, childlike face managed to muster a smile. I wanted to return it but could not find the energy in myself so I ran from it. Snatching my hand away from the shorter girl and holding it close to my chest. My face was red with embarrassment that a girl, much younger and immature than myself was braver than me in the face of death.
I wasn't the strongest when it came to holding in my emotions but part of me would have hoped I could have held it together until I wasn't on live Television.
I had never been underwater but part of me felt like the muffled sound of the world around me was what it would have been like. A weightless, meaningless existence surrounded by the vast blackness that was only broken by the inaudible sound of chattering.
I could only make out one thing that part of me hoped I would not have heard, a sentence that I felt drained my body of its life force. "Our tributes from District Three, Nanook Vella and Emmalyn Baches!"
The world was a blur after that. Time felt like nothing, pointless even. I guess it was, I was going to die, what weight did time hold anymore. The only thing that did seem real was the worn out, a sickness that washed over my body and sat in the pit of my stomach. The only sort of relief that could awaken me from my self-pity was the words "You family will be with you shortly."
Goodbyes were set aside for family and friends but none of my friends arrived. I prefer to think it was out of kindness, the lack of their presence allowed more time with my family. It was more relaxing than the thought that it would have been too much effort for them. We had never really been an active bunch.
Sadly, any hope I had of keeping it together vanished when my mother raced in, tears spilling from her eyes. Her crying only got worse when her blue eyes met mine, any sort of peace she had come to shattered into a wail.
It's okay mum, I'll make it back! Those are the words I should have said with a brave face and voice but I wouldn't have fooled anyone anyway. I was fifteen-years-old and a weak one at that. Sure, the first victor was fifteen but anyone could see that the victors since then increased in age every year. The past two years had produced victors who were both aged eighteen. Not to mention no one from Three had even made it to the top ten.
Instead of wise words of positivity, I broke down instead, allowing my mum to fling her arms around me and pull me in close. Neither said a word, no goodbye or loving phrases, just our faces buried in each others matching brown hair, allowing ourselves to take in the scent we may never smell again.
After what felt like an eternity in my mother's embrace, I looked up at my father who himself was trying not to cry. He made sure to take a deep breath before he spoke, trying to reel in any emotion that might show in his voice. "The boys send their best...we thought it was better than they didn't see...this." I gave an understanding nod to his words, my arms growing tighter around my mother neck. "But you watch out for those cheats and remember to keep to yourself...okay son?" his words were stern but when he notices a small whimper escape my mouth, his face softened. The year before, the boy from Two seemed far too skilled and ready to kill for a seventeen-year-old. That and the fact he was a volunteer had led many to speculate he was trained. He had promised more people like him would volunteer and one day they would win. It was something I was trying not to think about but the danger of a trained Tribute on top of everything else was something I could not ignore.
"I'm going to die," I sobbed, the anxiety of knowing there was no escaping my fate feeling like a boulder being dropped on my chest. My father went to speak but even he had no wise words for my statement. There was no way for an honest man to argue with the truth. Even my own father knew my chances of coming back were slim. But my mother was not an honest woman and like me chose to hide from the truth for as long as possible.
She gripped me tighter as he sobs got more violent. "You will come home, don't even say you will die again," she hissed but I knew her words were meant to convince herself more than me as straight after, she resorted for wailing my name as she hugged me tightly, knocking the wind out of me.
She stayed like that until the Peacekeepers pried her from my sobbing form. I watched in horror as they dragged her away by her arms, her voice shaking as she screamed for them to let her boy go. When she started to pull away, one Peacekeeper struck her around the head with his baton, turning her cries into dull pained sobs. I should have helped but I just watched in a startled silence as the door slammed cutting off my father's goodbye and leaving me alone in the room with a Peacekeeper.
I wanted to know what expression he held under his helmet. Was he smiling and evil grin, was he feeling sorry for me, was he crying at the way my mother had been removed from my arms. I knew I'd never know, the helmet's were there so we would detach them from everyday humans. However, when he noticed me looking, his back straightened, his gun no longer held sluggishly by his side.
"Happy Hunger Games Mr. Vella," he said with a stern but slightly shaky voice. "And may the odds be ever in your favour."