I was born in District Four exactly eighteen years ago. My name is Haly Waide, and today there are three celebrations.
The first is my birthday, because I was born first.
The second is my twin's birthday, because Samphire was born second- a full seven minutes after me.
The third is the Reaping. It is the last one we are eligible for. I can see the nervous tingling in our faces, because if we aren't chosen this year, that'll be it. Six years of questioning and worries over.
We're killers. Fishermen. But catching fish isn't like killing people. I can't imagine Samphire, who de-bones fish so neatly, being so blazé handling the guts of a human being. The image of her cutting through the middle of some dead sod's stomach, and reaching a hand inside to grasp the fetid meat haunts my dreams. Sometimes, when the nightmares are feeling daring, I am that body.
We are the same height, with the same eyes, mouth, jaw— the difference is our behaviour, what we do with what we've got. Sammy is pretty and quick, a mermaid in the water, a madman who'll take on a shark and win. Her limbs are scissors in the lakes and swamps and sea, and all her cleverness is in her body, not her brain. She moves with the grace of an animal, with sharp instincts, and she's at ease with others like her. She is always the kind to hang out with boys that I find intimidating.
I am grateful for those friendships. Without parents, our lives are dominated by making sure that we have enough to eat and a safe place to sleep. Being friends with the rougher underbelly of 4 has helped us so often that I don't flinch at the sight of big men with my sister. She may be slim, but she is strong, and there is nothing that they could slip by her. They respect her.
My business is a little different. I'm a...Sammy calls me crafty, when she comes home and finds all the tools, snares, and trinkets I can fashion out of fishbone and leftover odds and ends. I like to build, because I can sell these things in the Monger's Market. I'm pretty handy at fixing things, and also a little better at bargaining and talking to customers. Sammy always wants to make friends with them; I know that they're not our friends.
Because though we're independent, and we've managed to fashion quite a life in our little hut, it's important to remember that we rely a lot on presenting ourselves as friendly, competent, and harmless. Twins are a rarity. Most mothers simply can't afford to feed two babies when they expected one. People get funny ideas about twins here.
Killing a person is not like killing a fish.
Sammy wakes me up at dawn, and she sits cross legged next to my threadbare futon as I sit up, groggy in the first rays of dawn. It lights her back, so I see her hair lit like a halo, and she leans in, pushing my hair out of my face.
The sea breeze touches our wind chimes, and she draws her hands back in the noise, eyes trained on the floor.
"Happy birthday."
I see the tension in the air. I feel that if I move too quickly, the world will shatter.
Sammy and I never exchange birthday presents. Part of it is that we don't have much to spare, part of it is that we never had the habit introduced to us, and the main reason is that our unspoken gift each year to one another is to Not Get Reaped. It feels taboo to exchange presents, as if the Capitol would know, and immidiately yank one of us into an Arena for forfeit.
She doesn't take it like I do. Every year, she becomes quiet and small and frightened, less effective at work, and prone to squat beside me when I construct objects to sell. I become more voracious, vicious with my fingers, eager to create as much merchandise as I can, so that if I go, she'll have something to sup port herself other than fish.
She's watching me with quiet, flickering eyes, and I grin, because it's such an unnatural way for such a strong person to sit. "Happy birthday."
"Last day," she mutters, huffing out a breath. There are dark circles under her eyes. I wonder if she slept. I did. Dream-Samphire killed dream-me, showed me how my insides looked in her lithe palm. I never mention those dreams to her. "If we don't get Reaped this year, that's it." Her eyes are tired, and she finally returns my smile. "Isn't that something?"
"Not if I'm stuck with you for the rest of my life," I snort, getting up, and she laughs- shocked, because we don't usually joke like that, almost happy, but too near to hysteria for my liking, because she has no idea how to fight today.
She pads into our kitchen after me. The kitchen has a woven floor, a sandpit outside to build fires and cook, and also functions as a dining room, hallway, and guest room.
We have a breakfast of sliced oranges and salted cod, and neither of us speak, both glancing at the rising sun as it sends sparkles across the ocean. We both think about escaping by it. But there is no escape that way, only the bombs lain down by the Capitol, a clean line of death that sometimes kills whichever idiot decides to test them.
Then we out on our Reaping clothes.
For Sammy, there are sensible workman's trousers, a deep saffron shirt I bought at Monger's Market, and her boots, of which she only has one pair, like me, because they're expensive, and not that essential to either of us in our daily lives. I clean her hair in the chipped sink in the bathroom with three separate globs of shampoo. This is ridiculously wasteful, according to her, but it removes all the grease and bits of who-knows-what in her hair, and stops her stinking of fish, so I force her to stay still, long enough for me to rinse all the suds out with water. Her hair dries quickly in the warm air, and the short, chunky strands, once brushed, hang around her face and make her look younger.
She goes through this process because I ask her to. I'm wary of the Capitol, and I'm not stupid enough to let either of us go to a Reaping without bothering about how we look. Friendly, competent, harmless. Sammy helps put food on the table, and I make sure we keep the table. No matter how much she pouts or swears, she'll do as I say. The same way that I'll do whatever she asks me to, no questions asked.
I wear a grey button-up, and tan skirt that fits a little snug around my hips now that they've filled out— not in fat, but bone and muscle, and then lace up my boots. Sammy pins my hair up, humming in concentration, and we look at each other and laugh, because it's our birthday and maybe our deathday but we do look better than the other days of the year.
Sammy stares at me, her mirror image, and she smiles, and then, suddenly, her eyes fill with tears, and she covers her mouth with both hands, leaning back and hunched, until she can clear her throat and speak, and I'm glad she didn't cry and set me off with her.
I'm trying to be calm, but inside I'm locked between wariness and hope. Today is our last day as possible Reaping candidates. We only have to be lucky today. We might just make it. We could actually make it.
My stomach flutters, light.
The Reaping is held in the main Town Square.
Sammy and I keep ourselves shoulder to shoulder as we follow everyone else into the pen for eighteen year olds. It's comforting to have her so close, but I'm terrified inside, my insides stone cold, as though I've swallowed ice cubes.
The faces here are familiar. We trade with some of these people, work with others. Some of them are my classmates. None of us look too hard at each other, because everyone else is as worried as me about their siblings. If they're only children, they're panicking about themselves, and their families.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and turn to see Fletcher Kale, who smiles like a sun and mouths my name. I blush, and I'm glad for the distraction. Sammy and I used to be indignant when we started school, so angry that no one could tell us apart, until eventually they learnt too recognise the differences. Fletcher had never dropped the habit of naming me whenever he saw me less-than-happy. It never fails.
"Last day," he says, and he's so unlike Sammy, because when he says it it seems as though we're about to go on holiday, as though this has all been an awful test, and tomorrow we'll be set free.
But my stomach chills over.
"Good luck," I say, quiet, trying not to disturb anyone else as I reach out and squeeze his hand. His hand reaches up and dwarfs mine, his skin rough and weathered and warm. It occurs to me that his shirt is a little tight around the torso and shoulders, because he has filled out, too. Maybe tomorrow we'll burst out of our clothes and turn into mermaids, ourselves.
Fletcher catches my gaze and raises and eyebrow, reaching across. He taps his fingertips on the fabric that just about encases my hip, the corner of his mouth twitching up to challenge me. He's noticed me, too. I realise for the first time that he's the only man who I let touch me so casually.
Everything becomes very clear when you think you might die.
I hastily turn back to glue myself beside Sammy, who observes me in silence for a moment, and then returns her gaze to the stage in front, expressionless. She is like a wild animal, wasting no energy.
Sammy stands out in her orange shirt, but she doesn't seem to mind. I know that if she isn't Reaped, she'll get a lot of men asking for her to marry them, enticed by the idea of a girl who doesn't have many mouths to feed other than her own, and her talent for hunting.
A woman climbs onto the stage. She is a statuesque, tall, fragile kind of thing. I can't imagine her gutting salmon. She must be from the Capitol, because her hair is a rainbow of colour, and her eyes are metallic- I can see the reflections of light from where I stand. Her dress is a light green shade, styled to remind me of fish scales and how they shine, and it is cut low, to reveal the tops of her breasts. Her waist is so thin that it makes me feel a little nauseous. Her hands are tattooed with bones.
She Reaps the male boy tribute first. Her spidery hands reach into a goblet, carved with the images of water gods and nixies and naiads and nymphs. She withdraws a little, tiny confetti-sized piece of paper. We all turn to stone in front of her.
She checks the name, then looks up at us, at our faces, she looks at Sammy for a second, and then she smiles, beautific. "The male tribute for the sixty-ninth HUNGER GAMES...is..." she draws another breath, and I find her way of speaking pathetic. "LOCHLAN REEVES!"
Sammy holds my hand tight. We grip each other like we're going for the bone. My nails dig into her skin. Her fingers are crushing my knuckles.
Lochlan Reeves is a fifteen year old who I have seen helping his father out at Monger's Market. The stall sells shoes. They're a cobbler family. He has two older brothers.
No one volunteers, as expected, and I watch him, his quiet demeanour, and I decide that he's in shock.
One more family torn.
"The female tribute for the sixty-ninth Hunger Games is..."
Last day. The odds are in our favour.
She unfurls the little confetti-sized strip of paper, and I realise that part of her care and slowness is due to how long her nails are. They look as though they could slice into me, cut me right to the heart.
She casts another sunny smile to the camera, as though it has just proposed to her. Her mouth opens. Her Capitol lilt comes out, full steam ahead.
"...HALYMIAH WAIDE!"
Ah. I rock where I stand, as though I'll crumple, but my knees are ice now, too, and my throat is so closed up that I can't suck in enough air to scream or speak.
Sammy lets go of my hand as though I'm on fire. I can see her trying to think. Our eyes meet. This time, mine fill with tears. My heart is pounding. How can I leave her? I don't have the strength. The cold is throbbing out in waves over my chest as I try to imagine Sammy without me. As I imagine me without Sammy. What will she do? How will she compensate for my absence? How could I cope? We've been partners since birth.
I think of her eating alone. Trying to haggle. Washing her own hair.
Washing her own hair and not washing it three times, like I do.
Sleeping alone in our hut.
It feels as though my sternum is cracking, as though the universe in breaking into me, tearing me into little pieces.
Peacekeepers are coming my way, because I'm not moving. Sammy's cheeks are wet already, flooded with tears, but her eyes have become almost mechanical as she watches me. She turns towards the stage, assured as a lion. No one else in the world has her grace.
"I VOLUNTE-"
I punch her across the face. I deck her so hard I feel something crack in my hand, and her body is slammed against the concrete ground. Sammy goes down like a leaf. I'm the last person she expects an attack from. She whimpers as her shoulder slams down, and it echoes in my brain. She meets my eyes and coughs out a sob, curled up, blood pouring down her cheek. She lets it run down over her bright shirt. She tries to stand. The Peacekeepers are almost on us.
She opens her mouth, pleading with me with her eyes. They shine with horrified tears. I wonder what she sees in my face, because it makes her own harden. "I vol-"
I grab her by the shirt front, and knee her in the stomach. Anything to stop those words from escaping her lips. The strength leaves her, air knocked out, her blood pressing against my shoulder as she tries to cling to me. My whole body is tensed, and then they press her tight to me, and her smell fills my nose. Home, home, home. Sammy.
The Peacekeepers tear her away from me. A breath tears itself out of me, shock, shock that I'd ever raise my hands against her. For her.
I see Fletcher wrap his arms around her tight to keep her back. I feel them looking at me as I'm walked up onto the stage.
Everyone is looking at me.
I notice the camera on me. It has shown everything. To the world. People know who Sammy is, now. And they don't think I'm friendly, or harmless.
The woman from the Capitol smiles at me, her face bright with delight. "Aren't you a lively one, my clam! Can't have someone else taking your glory?"
I fracture. My heart crumbles like snow in an avalanche. The cold and ice and bone in me shatters, to reveal that there is nothing left.
I shake hands with Lochlan, who stares at the blood on my shirt. His hands trembles inside the cage of my fingers. His collarbones curve in like mackerel bones.
And then the Peacekeepers pull us both into the Town Hall, away from our families, and I see Sammy's orange shirt gleaming through the sea of grey and white and brown.
They put me in a little room to wait to say goodbye to everyone. The walls are panelled in wood, the likes of which I've never seen before. There are no windows, and the only door is guarded from the outside by four Peacekeepers.
My first visitor is my teacher, Leony Padmion. She kneels in front of me and tells me that no matter what happens, she'll be proud of me. That she'll look our for my sister in times of need. That I don't have to worry. That I need to worry about myself.
She kisses my forehead before she goes and I realise that she doesn't expect to see me again.
I'm so glad when she leaves, because I don't have time for anyone but Sammy. I can't let out last encounter be- be that.
My second visitor is Fletcher Kale.
His face brings on a whole new tide of bumbling, bleak emotion.
He presses a hand against either side of my face of my face and kisses me until I kiss him back, and he repeats my name, and it makes me laugh because for once, each time he says it, I feel sadder.
Fletcher is yanked out by a Peacekeeper. He starts screaming for me as the door shuts, and then the room is very quiet. My cheeks are hot, lips swollen. I'm still spattered with my twin's blood. My heart is racing.
I feel so vicious and wild and mad and desperate.
Then Sammy slips inside.
I'm on her in a second. She flinches, but I make her look at me. A purple bruise has blossomed on her cheek, and I can see it turning yellow and green. "Don't let anyone swindle you, okay?" I say. My voice doesn't crack, so much as stumble onwards. "Don't trust anyone too easily. Put yourself first."
Her leonine gaze is blank. Her stance doesn't soften. I let her go, stand back, breathing hard. "I'm sorry," I say. "I'm sorry I hit you. I couldn't let you do it."
"I'll be waiting for you," she says. Her chin tilts up, eyes beady. "I'll look after things for you. Until you get back."
A ripple of shock passes through me. "I love you."
She starts to cry again, her expression stoic as tears pool down her cheeks. "I'll wait for you."
"Say goodbye."
"No."
"SAMMY." My eyes burn.
She wrenches forward and then her arms around me. She clings tight, like a limpet, skinny arms strong.
I shut my eyes and I want time to freeze.
Let there only be the precious moments before lightning strikes.
And then she whispers into my ear. "Swap with me."