The boys blood drips from my fingers. The knife is heavy in my hand, and I see my face in its reflection. I look tired. Stepping back, I watch as the boy falls to the ground. My strength fades from me and I too crumple to the long grass. Lying down next to him, I lace my fingers through his. " You're free now." I tell him. I smile weakly. The cameras will be zoomed in on us, like vultures honed in on the kill. "You think I'm crazy." I say to the air around me, knowing they can hear me. "But I'm not. It's you, with your painted smiles and your sickening wealth. You killed him as much as me." I don't believe all that I say, because I know there's a part of me that's corrupted now. My mind is not my own , but at least I don't fear death anymore. The more lives you take, I reckon, the less you value your own. A hovercraft appears in the sky , a blinding whirl of metal. I roll away from the boy before a steel claw descends and scoops him up, up to where the birds fly and freedom is not just a notion but a reality.
I am awakened, as I am every morning, by the sound of singing. It's an old song, in a different language, but it has an utter familiarity to it that is intensely comforting. I stretch and stand up from my mattress. I've been sleeping on the floor for the past six months, ever since my bed-frame gave in to wood-rot.
My brother is seated at the table and he rolls his eyes at me.
"I swear she loves those birds more than us" Baste says, as I slide into a chair.
"Let her have her fun. Although I do think she's increasing how much bread they're eating. She keeps on telling me that they look dreadfully skinny."
"And we don't?" He chuckles a little to himself, before looking away and then furtively back at me.
"What?" I ask, feigning ignorance, even though I am perfectly aware what is on his mind.
"You...okay?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" I say, briskly grabbing a small piece of bread from the table.
"Oh come on, Twill. I remember every single one of my reapings. They all made me want to jump from the Hall."
I smile at Base's attempts to lighten the heavy mood. "Let's just not talk about it."
He nods mutely and I bite into the bread. The silence settles like a fog and the thought of what today could entail fills my head. It sounds almost impossible, but I can manage to forget that I too could be picked for the Games. If I couldn't, how else could I go on? Of course there are reminders of it all over District 8, in the families of the tributes who wear their grief like a cloak. Their faces are marked with sorrow, and everyone tries to avoid them, as if sadness is contagious.
I finish chewing the tough bread and wipe my tongue along my teeth to remove the remaining mush. Standing up, I walk to the rickety stairs that wind up to the pokey attic. There Grandma sits, her laps filled with bread crumbs and her arms flocked by grey-blue pigeons. She carries on singing the slow, rhythmic song that woke me. A circular window high on the wall allows a bright flow of light to stream through, and it bounces from Grandmas sharp cheekbones and chestnut hair. We look similar, but her features are much more defined while mine are rounded and her skin is a dark mahogany while mine is lighter. We have the same eyes though, so dark they're almost black. Mama used to say if eyes were the windows to the soul, ours were shut. Her eyes were a pristine blue, the color of the most expensive cerulean dye we use.
Grandma turns and grins at me.
"Come to see the family?" she says.
"Of course. Now, I know for a fact that you're feeding them more, look at the size of them! They're getting fat." I tease.
"Nonsense. Mary is all skin and bones, see."
She holds out her favorite bird, who flaps dutifully over to my shoulder. There is a certain charm to the pigeon who ruffles her brown tipped feathers with her pointed beak.
Grandma is possibly the most superstitious person in all of District 8. She clings on to the tales her parents told her, tales passed down by our family from before the Dark Days. That how I know archaic names like Mary, and Edith and Sebastian. The reason she treats our pigeons with such respect is because Grandma believes that when people die, they become birds. She says in death they lose the shackles placed on them and become entirely free. It's an old belief in our family, one that I am not entirely convinced about and one that Baste mocks. Only out of earshot of Grandma, of course. She's a force to be reckoned with, even at her age, and can haggle with the best of them.
"Twill, you need to get ready. As much as I would love for you to stay and chat with your old, decrepit Grandmother, today is...important."
"Understood. I just came up to tell you that there's porridge on the stove if you want it."
I turn and shuffle down the stairs. Just as I reach the bottom I hear Grandma call out "Don't forget the sage cleansing!"
I sigh and pick up a small bundle of sage. Holding it to the flickering fire in the grate, I watch as the plants tips turn orange. After blowing out the fire that has caught on the sage, I swish it around the room, watching the plumes of smoke touch the ceiling. That strangely bitter smell of herbs fills my nose and mouth, and I cough roughly. Looking out of the window I see Baste walking along the path that leads to town. He looks back and waves, and I return the gesture before going back to my task. Once the whole place is doused in sage smoke, I place the bundle down and walk to the rickety wardrobe.
There are only two dresses, both plain and brown. I pick the one with the longer skirt and lay it out on the mattress. Pulling my nightshirt over my head, I shiver in the cold air that brushes over my exposed skin like finger-tips. The wash bucket is filled with soapy water and I fill my hands with it, pouring the cold liquid over my face and hair. I wash the rest of my body, frowning when I reach my hands. They are dyed with splotches of bright colors, reds and blues and greens that creep up past my wrists towards my forearms. These mark me out as a worker in the dye plants, where we dip cloths in great vats that reek of chemicals and make my eyes sting and my lungs burn. I try to scrub the marks off every night , but there is little point. More will just be added the next day, and the next, and I suspect they will be added till the day I die.
I dry myself with a scratchy flannel and pull the brown dress on. Turning to the scratched and dull mirror that hangs above our stove, I smooth my hair down and flatten the wrinkles on the dress. Examining myself I take in my light brown skin ,shadowed by freckles, and my narrow eyes. I smile at my reflection, imaging how I would look on the cameras if I were to be reaped. I attempt a regal wave and laugh at how ridiculous I look. Of course, I don't really want to be chosen but it's fun to imagine what it would be like. In my head I arrive at the Capitol and wear glorious clothes and eat until I finally feel full. When I enter the Games I find a neat hiding place and stay there until everyone is gone. I arrive home safe to my family, a triumphant victor.
I hear a clattering on the steps and turn to see Grandma slowly descending.
"Ready to go, dear?" She inquires.
"Yes, of course."
She extends her hand and I take it and we walk out of the door and into the bright morning light of the Reaping day.