Blackness. The scent of smoke and the shrill of metal. A hand grips my shoulder before the too-sharp nails dig through the scratchy, thin fabric of my shirt. I grit my teeth against the pain, before the tug of the silken blindfold across my eyes lends to a whole new level of discomfort.
Blinding white invades the darkness previously blocking my sight. So long has the deprivation of it been that now light burns at my lids. I am forced to blink rapidly, the hand still tugging my shoulder ahead as I stumble blindly. The grip loosens, only to deposit me with a gruff thrust into something soft, velvety and plump.
A chair. I manage to peer through reddened lids long enough to acclimate myself with this closest location. I've been seated in a chair. I shut my eyes, only to start at an abrupt grunt to my left. Grey beads peer through slits, to locate the source of the sound, I can see enough to make out the seemingly unconscious figure, slumped off to the left. The blonde hair obscures the face, which is mostly turned away from me.
Blinking about my surroundings further, I realize the furnishings of these chairs, and the walls, are neat, clean, and entirely opulent. Above us, hands a bright, crystal chandelier, while a heavily curtained window off to my right has what appears to be satin sheers and sashes. There must be another material, beneath these, though, for the sun is blotted out entirely; securely.
I inhale deeply, make out an older dirty-blonde, man, slumped haphazardly opposite me. His hair is stringy, and greasy, and his face is worn with lines. He belches loudly, before slamming a bottle, which he had been holding, down on the ground.
Between us lies an ornately carved wooden coffee table. It is littered with strange items resting in crystal trays. What with the multitude of shapes and sizes, all of them varying shades of either red, or pink, I can only guess that are edible. My conclusion is confirmed when the dirty old man retrieves one of the items. It is a small, deep red object, and drips with an even darker red; a sauce, of some kind. Juicy, the crimson liquid slathering it now runs down his fingers. He lifts it, stuffing his mouth and closing his eyes, as if savoring the best snack in the known world. My stomach mumbles, aching at the reminder of its emptiness. I wrap my arms around my center, thankful when the mumbling quiets.
The man across from me does not seem to notice. He retrieves his displaced bottle, the largest I have ever seen, cussing each time his loaded gullet spits up refuse. His shirt is soiled and even at this distance, he reeks. The liquid is a dark red, and the stains of it upon his clothing certainly do his appearance few favors.
The groggy feeling in my body, which I fully attribute to the still-ringing soreness at the base of my skull, has yet to wear off. Probably has something to do with being knocked to the ground, but I don't have time to focus on that. I need to find out where I am.
More importantly, I need to know where my little sister, Prim is.
As long as she's safe, I remind myself. As long as Prim is safe, that is all that matters to me.
They can do whatever they want, so long as they leave her alone.
Whatever they want, knots my stomach.
I don't know what that might be.
The drunkard across from me hardly seems intelligible enough to bear responsibility in full for this mess. He still is the one who receives my glare.
He does not seem to see it. If he does, he is indifferent. Eventually, my pins-and-needle-filled limbs recover enough for me to reach out, and snap the bottle away from him. To my surprise, the glass casing feels warm. When the liquid sloshes about against sides, I feel that it is nearly as warm as bathwater. I don't have much time to contemplate that, though.
"Hey!" the man roars. He slams a fist on the small table between him and me. "Give me the drink."
"What'm I doing here?"
"Give me the drink! 'less y'want me rip your damn throat!"
He reaches for me, but I am quicker. I dodge his sloppy attempt, well enough that he slips out of his chair, stumbling forward, before pitching back. He collapses back into his seat, glaring before coughing heavily.
"Man can't have a drink without you brats shitting all over it-"
"Where am I?"
"Lemme wake up first, won't you?"
"I asked what'm I doing here, and where-"
"And I asked for my goddamn drink," he sneers. "Guess life's full of lemons, ain't it, sweetheart?"
My scowl deepens. I twist the cap securely, before raising the bottle by the neck, making to smash it against the arm of the chair.
"Sweetheart," his grey eyes narrow, and he watches intently. "I really wouldn't do that if i were you."
"Well, you're not."
"What a damn pity."
"Do I have your attention?" I snap, raising the bottle a inch higher. The man twitches, his glare meeting my own scowl. "Good."
The man makes a lazy gesture, to prompt me along. I quirk a brow, but he merely glares.
Guess we're doing this the hard way, then.
"Where am I?"
"The Pleasure Palace," he sneers, referring to the local bar.
The Pleasure Palace is a seedy, run-down place above the Hob, our city's black market. It is also where all the local women of ill-repute tend to meet up with their dates.
I scowl.
"Where d'you think, sweetheart?" he is giving me a curious grin, now, one that gets under my skin. "You're in the Prep Building."
"Prep?" I repeat, eyes narrowing at him. I carefully wiggle the bottle in my hand and he grunts. "Elaborate on that, won't you?"
"We're in the Capitol." a new voice enters the fray, and I falter, because I know that voice.
Oh, no.
My head jerks in the direction where the blonde male had lain unconscious, only moments ago. My breath feels heavy in my chest, and I freeze.
Not him.
His blue eyes meet my own, and a sad smile flits across his lips.
"The Games, Katniss," he says quietly. The boy glances to the older man, before looking back at me. "Remember? The invitation?"
"Invitation?" I repeat. It is fuzzy, the memories, but I remember the invitation. It was gilded text on pure, snow-white paper.
And it had my sister's name on it.
The older man takes advantage of my distraction, wrenching the bottle from my hands. He shakes it a bit, before uncorking it.
"Well," the boy starts, frowning at me. "You must have gotten an invite-"
"Oh, no," the man snorts, throwing back another gulp before giving me that odd smile again. "Sweetheart here volunteered."
"I didn't volunteer for anything!"
My voice cracks without intention, and I feel the heat in my cheeks. I don't like this. I don't like that i don't know what is happening. I don't like that my sister was invited to be in this room, with these people. And I certainly don't like that I haven't seen her since I ran screaming after he. I don't like that I got knocked to the black tar ground before I could see if Gale got her out from the arms of strange men who had come to 'collect' her last night.
If it was last night, that is.
I quickly rise from my seat, glaring between the two of them. I head for the door, only to find the knob locked when I go to open it. I try, and try it, before finally banging on the door. It isn't any use. the door is locked from the outside.
"Katniss," the boy rises, coming up behind me.
"Oh-ho, where you think you're going, sweetheart?" the old man chuckles.
"I'm going home," I snap.
The man begins laughing, snorting and wheezing all in the same breath.
I head for the window, but a hand on my arm stops me.
"What?" I spit at the blue-eyed boy.
"Don't," he says, with a surprising gentleness.
"I need to see my sister!"
"You can't, sweetheart."
When I turn to the drunk, there is the slightest flicker of emotion in his eyes.
"Why?" I demand.
The boy shifts behind me, and the old man fiddles with the cap on his bottle.
"The Game," the man raises his bottle in our direction. "Time to play, kiddies."
I look to the boy. It is easier if I don't think of him as a person, really. Because for all I know, he was part of the kidnapping, part of those men who tried to drag my sister out of our house, while my mother stood there and cried, while everyone just stood by, dumbfounded and let it happen-
"The Hunger Games, Katniss," the boy clarifies. "It's a game for people like us."
"Like us," I echo, turning my gaze to him. "What does that mean?"
"You know what that means."
I've heard whispers, sure, of what happens in the Capitol. Of the 'games' children qualify for, qualify to play in. But the actual facts are fuzzy. The qualifying tests- aptitude, physical, blood; the bizarre new rules which were placed in order decades ago. The laws have even been enacted back at home, in our city in District Twelve. It doesn't mean anything to me- we've been fighting just to stay alive, thanks to my mother's instability, and my father's mysterious disappearance four years ago.
I kept hoping he would return.
I was wrong.
I didn't have time to learn about any of that. It is strange, of course, no one can argue otherwise, but putting bread on the table distracts from conversations about the far-off, and yet omnipresent Capitol.
Perhaps that is the point: distract the Districts so that the Capitol can live it up, their rampant debauchery and amusement at all of the rest of us.
A whistle draws my attention, and I look to the older man.
"Tell me what I have to do."
"To do?" the man releases a humorless chuckle. He downs another drink, eyeing me. He swallows, before raising a brow. "Do for what?"
"Tell me what I have to do, to get home."
He snorts, but sombers when he realizes the severity of my expression.
"Here's what you do, sweetheart: don't die."
Cool, winter air still clings wistfully into the damp spring morning. The cold and damp linger above bedsheets, wicked little friends that gnaw and nip at my nose.
When I given in and wake, I find myself alone on the couch. The realization gives me a start. I sit up, coarse wool shifting away from my shoulders. The sun is just pressing the faintest of shadows against the curtains. The only windows in our flat stare me down, now. I turn from the light, stirring from my nest. It does not take much to see across the dimly lit space; one room, with one couch, one bed, one table, all in one. We are lucky to have a stove, though it takes fiddling even on a good day to light a flame in it. A dry-sink is placed, haphazardly next to my mother's small, twin bed.
My sister has left my side sometime in the night. She has curled up against my mother, their alike blonde hair intermingling on the pillow.
The mashed-up, beat-up street cat Prim calls Buttercup is nowhere to be found, and part of me hopes, with a smirk, that the damn cat doesn't make a return. Prim would be heartbroken, of course, but as for me, the girl who tried to drown it once upon a time, it would be a relief to have one less mouth to feed.
Dewy and soft as the little Primroses for which she is named, my little sister looks tiny. I'm no giant, myself, but it always strikes me, her gentleness, her softness. I suppose my mother must have looked that way, back before my father's 'disappearance.' Despite only having been four years now, I can only remember times when she has been wailing with grief, or so forlorn and distant she did nothing but stare at the wall.
My resentment has lessened over the years, but I don't know that I can ever fully forgive her, even if I try. She had refused a job, refused offers, by a Merchant family, nonetheless, to take us girls in; refused an offer of marriage to the butcher, which would have set us up nicely. Instead, I had to be the one applying for funding. Funding meant improvements on aptitude scores; improvements meant your name got higher on the list for the Reapings.
Allegedly, they are meant to be rewards, the Reapings, and we are meant to celebrate that our children have been brought to the beautiful Capitol. That is why days like today and tomorrow are holidays. In reality, it is asking for your children to be taken, to have who knows what done with them. Rumors, again, bits and pieces, say that those who return have shadows in their eyes. Victors, they call them, and they only serve to spout the Capitol's glory. But they live in luxury, so they say. We in District Twelve wouldn't know. We haven't had a child return as a so-called 'Victor' in well past twenty years. The one which we do have doesn't live here, not anymore. He hasn't in years. He is on television enough, though he makes an ass of himself with each parade narration and reality television commentary.
Being a Victor is meant to be the benefit, to having your children excel in aptitudes. Combined physical and intellectual examinations, the aptitudes tests are done over the course of several months, in the fall and winter. The problem is, most parents figured out early enough on, that children who excel are the very same who would leave, and never return. That you are never even guaranteed to get back your child's corpse, well, who can celebrate that? And with that, everyone had convinced their children to fail the exams: to act idiotic, or incapable, physically.
That had been when the funding came in: the better your children do on exams, the higher they are in their year's class, the better funding you get. The more grain.
The farther you are from starving.
And, with my mother barely conscious, I have taken a risk each year. I cannot be too high, of course, but I need to be high enough on the list to get adequate funding. It scares my little Prim, I know. So much so, that she used to cry each time I even left the house for school. My mother still retains that haunted look, in her waking hours. In part, I know it is because my olive skin, and grey eyes resemble my father.
Another part, however small, might actually be worry for me.
They both look peaceful, now. I know Prim would only have gone to our mother if she had a nightmare.
Which, of course she did, I chide myself. Today is Reaping Day. The day when aptitude and blood test results will combine, in tandem, to determine which sorry souls will be Collected in the night.
Which boy and girl from our District will be ripped from their beds, and thrust on a train to the Capitol. Bits and pieces float back, mostly rumor, little confirmed about what happens there.
All we know, is that no one from Twelve who is Collected ever returns. It is enough to make me work hard, to ensure that Prim won't go. Like children decades ago, I have had her faking her answers to the tests; and what with her asthma, the physical exam was pretty easy for her to fail.
But what if I get Collected? the blackest corner of my mind breeds the thought. I don't know what my family will do, if I am chosen. I get all the funding for the three of us. What is not subsidized, I collect or kill, out in the woods. Speaking of which, we've no meat in stock.
I take a deep breath, before emerging from my cocoon and changing my clothing. I pull on a pair of old trousers, and a loose-fitting shirt. I am certain to make as little noise as possible, slipping my feet into well-molded leather boots. My hair plaits into an easy side-braid. I spot a small slice of cheese in plastic wrap, which Prim has left aside for me. I smile to myself, carefully lifting the clear-plastic-wrapped object and sliding it into my pocket. I suppose that goat we invested in about two years ago has done us some good, after all.
Grabbing my game bag, I slide on my father's worn-out leather jacket as I close the flat's door behind me. The wood of the outside, second-floor porch to the building is damp, I suppose from a mid-eve rainfall.
Morning drops lingers on the rooftops, and I am grateful for the turn of season. Rather than frost biting at the panes, the dew lends some hope, if little relief, to the air.
With the thaw in weather, there should be more game out and about.
I hop down the stairs, two at a time with little noise. At the first-floor's landing, I meet one of the few people who could bring a smile to my face, apart from Prim.
"Catnip," Gale Hawthorne grins, shifting his own game bag before preceding me towards the street.
"Hey," I follow him down the porch.
We pass through our dust-covered neighborhood of the Seam to the Meadow, nodding in greeting at the odd passerby in the street. It is early, and especially on a day like today, when you have to contemplate the death your child, no one likes to be out before they need be.
We don't say much, Gale and I, as we cross to the forest boundary. We never do, until we are outside of the boundaries. Technically, hunting is illegal. We could both face a whipping, or worse, a hanging. We both have been hunting partners for three-and-a-half years. Not a one of the Peacekeepers has so much as blinked when we've brought them game from outside, though. Technically, too, the metal door which breaks up the high boundary, is meant to be locked, and electrically sealed. It rarely, if ever is, and we slip through it, closing it behind us, without any problem. If we are noticed, with our daily, early-morning passes through the stone wall barricade, no one ever says anything. Funding may do some good, where starvation is concerned, but it certainly doesn't bring a lot of game to the tables in Twelve.
"District Twelve, where you can starve to death in safety," I mutter. I earn a grunting approval from the boy next to me, but still glance back, over my shoulder.
You never know who might be watching.
When we've returned, it is late in the afternoon, and Prim is nervously bouncing around our flat. Her shirt refuses to stick in her skirt, and I chuckle to myself, watching her. I tuck the shirt it, before placing a kiss to her forehead.
"There we are, little duck," I say, with a smile.
She quacks in response, before my mother offers for me to use the bath. For once, the tap in the shared facility down the hall is releasing warm water. I am grateful to sink bones and muscles sore from the hunt into the tide. When I return, I sit down to a warm stew. Prim sets herself on my knee, though, really, she is big enough where she shouldn't need to do so. My bother braids my hair, absentmindedly, and rather than stopping her, I sit still, watching Prim slurp down her portion of the stew.
She is safe, I try to convince myself. I've done everything to be sure of that. Prim is safe.
And if I have to go, to ensure that, for her, then so be it.
I sit and stare at the portions before me.
Meat, every single bite. Raw, cooked- juicy, dry. A sick feeling knots my stomach, as I play over the words which Haymitch Abernathy has said, not moments ago.
"Here's what you do, sweetheart: don't die."
He offers out his bottle, now, disrupting my thoughts. I clear my throat, tentatively examining the food placed before us.
"What's all this?" I manage.
Haymitch cackles, and I scowl at him.
"What do you think?" the boy next to me mumbles. The blonde boy's ice blue eyes, kind blue eyes, with hands thick as the loaves he handles daily, flick towards me, before he gingerly lifts a plate of something pinkish, steaming-hot. "It's meat."
I roll my eyes. "What kind?"
"Sweetheart," the drunk's smile looks shark-like; one of those images, of a nasty, underwater creature looking for a place to lodge its assault. "Some things you're better off not asking."
I take a portion of the same meat as my companion.
(Don't give him a name it'll give him power over you.)
I take a bite and freeze. Because this is no type of meat that I have ever tasted. I swallow it, barely-chewed, and stare at what remains on my plate.
"What kind?" I repeat.
"Homo sapien," Haymitch mumbles against his bottle, before cackling again.
The words don't mean anything, and I look to- not Peeta- the boy, who looks pale, but unsurprised.
"What kind?" I spit, suddenly furious.
"Homo sapiens are us, Katniss," Peeta says softly, not meeting my gaze.
The words take time to sink in.
And while Peeta stares at the floor, Haymitch chuckles himself into a choking fit, I find myself beginning to vomit.
Thankyou for reading! Please review / crit / etc!