When I wake up on the day of the reaping, the first thing I notice is the music. It drifts through the house, an aching melody that pulls at my heart like a guitarist plucking his strings. I raise my head from my arm and listen to the notes hang in the air, echoing even after their key is hit.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and move into the hallway, where the music is louder. I follow the tune, treading over the worn wood floors until I reach the living area and see him.
My brother sits on the piano bench, fingers dancing over the keys. His head is bent in concentration, back stiff but graceful. I am mesmerized, and I lean against the doorframe until he finishes the piece with a final flourish.
The silence that follows echoes with the last note, and he turns around, almost as if he had sensed me here. His young face is flushed with pride and his blue eyes are dancing.
"That was amazing," I say, shaking myself out of my reverie. I sit on the piano bench and ruffle the sandy blonde hair on his head. "Is that something you wrote?"
He nods. "I just finished it last night. It's called "Reaping Angels".
My stomach clenches, and my heart contracts painfully in my chest. "Well, it's lovely." I get up and start for the hallway again. "Are you hungry? I think there's some leftover soup in the fridge, if you want it."
He ponders for a moment. "Maybe later. I'm going to try this again." He rests his hands on the keys again.
I press my lips together. "Be quick. We don't want to be late."
He nods once, and starts to play again. I think about staying with him and watching him play for another moment, but I know that if I do, I'll never want to get up again.
So instead I move through the house like a ghost, looking for my father.
I find him in the attic, a small room on the top level of the house. He sits in his rocking chair, staring at the waving trees peeking just outside of a small window. Like I expected, his expression is slightly lucid. Like always.
"Good morning dad," I say, my voice hollow.
He gives a slight nod. I hear the piano start up again below us.
"Did you sleep well?" I ask.
Another nod. Then, "Your mother was with me last night, Mysa. In my dreams."
I press my lips together. "Today's the reaping," I say blatantly. "At eleven. You should probably get ready."
He doesn't say anything, which angers me further. Shouldn't he at least show a little effort on the day that has the possibility to change everything?
But I should know he can't. Nothing processes anymore. I should expect that.
I sigh in frustration. "I'll get Rody ready, so won't have to worry. Just…" I trail off when I realize that he's not listening to me anymore. I leave.
Ever since our mother died, it hasn't been the same. My father hasn't been the same – after her death, he drove himself literally mad. Now it's like he's stuck in an alternate universe, unreachable. It's nearly impossible to tell whether he still feels the agony, locked inside him like a caged bird, or if he has simply blocked that portion out of his mind – along with any other sense he once carried.
I, on the other hand, couldn't afford to fall apart, especially since Rody was so young when it happened. I've had to put on a face for years. In other words, lie. And I've gotten especially good at it. I've vowed that Rody will never know the circumstances of our mother's death. Only I will know what really happened.
The steps creak under my feet as I descend again, and I listen to the haunting music. It's Rody's first year at the Reaping, and already it's weaved its way into his mind. I am not really sure if he understands the gravity of it. That it's possible that if he is chosen, he will never come home again.
That's what we all want to do. Push it from our minds. Mask it. But like most people, who simply deny the fact, Rody channels that helpless feeling into song. It's enchanting.
I get ready an hour before we're supposed to leave. I pull on a handmade skirt I bought from town a year ago, and a faded yellow blouse that makes the gold in my eyes stand out. I tame my wild red hair into a makeshift bun and secure it with a pair of chopsticks that we once handed out during New Years at our house.
I let my fingers brush over the sticks in my hair fondly. It was the last New Year's I had with my mother. She used to love that time of year, when the nights were silent and the air was frigid. It is nice to think of her now, before I possibly face my death call.
I lay out some black pants and a white button-up shirt for Rody on his tattered bedspread, and then call him up to get ready. I try to flatten his dark hair with my fingers, but no matter what, it always seems to want to be messy. In the end, I sigh in defeat and let it be. Sometimes I find it unfair that he inherited the chocolate brown hair from my mother, where I somehow got a flaming red colour from one of my father's ancestors. I read somewhere once that a long time ago, people thought that redheads were witches, bringers of bad luck.
I just hope I don't have any bad luck today.
About a minute before we're supposed to leave, my father comes down the stairs, looking presentable. I guess that's the best I'm going to get at least.
The Reaping is held in District 6's main square. It is shaped almost like a spiral, with the Justice Building right in the middle. There are some shabby shops and marketplaces around it, but they are usually shut. As soon as I step outside of our small house, I smell the brisk scent of the waterfall on the west side of the District, which converts energy to be sent to the Capitol.
That's what District 6 specializes in – energy. It is mandatory for every household and residence to have solar panels on their roofs. There are also giant turbines that churn the wind and convert it into electricity. Of course, almost none of that supplies our energy needs in our own homes. We all simply use the standard power grids, which are prone to crashing every couple of hours. It's a good thing that the candle maker in the square sells his merchandise cheap.
Like every year, a small stage has been set up in front of the Justice Building. I see the two glass balls, balancing on the front of the decorated platform. In one of them is seven slips of paper with my name on them. In another, only one.
We were very lucky when we were younger. Our mother used to sew clothing, and sell it to the higher class residents of 6. We made a good living with what we had, even if the food portions were small and luxuries scarce. Thankfully, after the business could no longer go on, I was lucky enough to stumble upon my mother's jewelry box. Before she was married to my father, she was the daughter of one of the richer families in the district. I wasn't surprised to find necklaces and bracelets and rings, almost all of them adorned with diamonds imported from other District 1.
So when we sold the last of the clothes, I took it on myself to prowl the streets, bargaining with the rich. I almost always got the better side of the deal. I think it was because I was so persuasive. When I wanted to, I had a way with words, and people couldn't ignore that.
But recently, we were running low. I knew there was only an emerald ring and a crystal bracelet left. It would only last us a quarter of a year, a half maybe.
But after that…
I give Rody a quick squeeze. "Just stand near some of your friends. When all of this is over, I'll come get you. We can even stop by Mr. Murphy's on the way back, and you can show him your new song."
Mr. Murphy is a wizened old man who had taught Rody to play the piano when he was only seven. He long since stopped giving lessons, but he always enjoyed Rody's company and music whenever we found the time to come down.
Rody nods and detaches himself from me, moving over to where some of his friends from school wait. The area is sectioned off, and he has to push his way through the crowd to the front where all the twelve year olds are. I keep him in my sight as I move towards the back of the crowd in the girl's section.
I greet some of my friends from school, but mostly we are quiet, facing the stage. I try to imagine one of them walking up there, and immediately dismiss the thought. Besides, there's nothing I can do if one of them are called. I'm powerless.
Our Capitol representative, Hanri Denver, steps up to the podium. He is a tall, stocky man with eccentric facial hair. There's a rumor going around that he draws on his moustache with a marker. That's us – always poking fun at the Capitol when they're not around.
While he goes on about the revolt between the districts and the Capitol, my gaze rolls over to the previous victors of 6. There are only two of them. One is a woman, who won her games a decade ago, when she was eighteen. She has a small build, with tanned skin and rich, brown exotic eyes. She sits primly in her chair, hand folded in her lap. I try to recall how she won, but fail when I realize that I would have only been seven at that time. Not nearly old enough to start worrying about the games. All I know is that her name is Latia and she lives by herself in Victors Village.
The other victor is Zarr Caynan, a twenty year old who won his games two years ago. He is tall and wiry, although even from back in the crowd I can see the muscles on his arms when he crosses them over his chest.
He must have been more in awe of the Capitol than Latia, since his hair is dyed an apple-red, and his face decorated with more piercings than I can count. His games was more brutal than most. The arena was located inside a massive temple, filled with deadly traps – viper pits, poison darts, and beetles – but armed with a spear, he managed to take out the competition and snag the title of victor.
Suddenly my view of them is blocked when Hanri decided to stop talking and take his place in front of the giant glass balls. He moves over towards the boy's ball, a standard tradition in 6; the first name drawn is always alternating from boy-girl to girl-boy every year. Last year the girl's name was called first. Now the boy's name is.
I cross my fingers behind my back as he plunges his hand into the ball and comes out with a slip of paper. His long fingers pry it apart, and then he calls:
"Rody Coventry!"