War is like fire; People who do not lay down their arms will die by their arms –Sun Tzu, The Art of War
"I remember my first reaping." I hear it everywhere I go. They swap their stories here with the same bravado of a soldier reminiscing about a battle he never fought. They even had a tradition of having their photo taken to honor the day. Some still proudly hang them on their walls though it's been two years since the Games and the Rebellion that officially ended them.
"I was set to go! If they hadn't pulled that Quarter Quell nonsense, I would have volunteered!" insisted the young man. He probably would have. He was tall, muscular, and had that generally malicious air that was typical of District Two victors. I slowly stepped out of the line, put the box of cookies back on the shelf, and left the shop empty handed. I crossed the town square and headed north. My eyes fixed on the mountain that loomed straight ahead. Everything about this place made my skin crawl.
I too remember my first reaping. Funny enough I don't remember being afraid. Nor does the fact that my name was already entered six times at the ripe old age of twelve menace my memory. What I remember most was the shirt I wore and the shame I felt. About three weeks before, my mother had bought material to make me a new shirt. She bought it with money she made doing laundry for the people in town, something she did when things were particularly tight. For months she had taken a coin here and there and hidden them from my father. It pains me now to think how excited I was about it. I had never had a new anything, let alone new clothing. Everything was got on trade at the Hob and had probably been worn by a dozen boys before me. I would run my fingertips over the cheap cotton material and swell with impending pride. I imagined myself standing with my head held high, no turned over cuffs to hide the fray, no mismatched buttons, and no patches two shades off. Every day after school I would come home and note the progress my mother made. I watched as she cut the fabric, following the lines of an old, brittle pattern that her mother had used before her. I would count the tiny uniform stiches. Suddenly I felt loved. Worse, for the first time I felt special. That is until four days before I was to actually wear it.
A sudden summer storm had come in from the south. Instead of going into the woods to check his traps as was his custom, my father came straight home from the mines. He stood in the door way, shaking off the rain. I remember the droplets had left uneven streaks of clean skin down his soot covered face.
"What is that?" my father asked, pointing at the shirt. My mother remained seated at the table, her hand steadily leaping then dipping as she sewed a button on the collar. "Hazelle! I asked you a question!"
I froze. My father was a man of few words. When he spoke, you listened. When he got angry, you desperately hoped it wasn't with you. I shot my brothers a look that said don't move. It was the best way to stay out of the line of fire. "It's a shirt," my mother replied, never looking up.
"I can see that, woman!" my father shouted.
"He needs a nice shirt for the reaping," my mother said. She still didn't look up but I could see her hands were starting to shake.
"A new shirt for the reaping?" my father asked. He asked in a manner that dares you to answer even though there is no answer that will suffice. Silence gathered from the four corners of the room, ready to explode. "So let me get this right. You took food out of our mouths for what? So that he'll look presentable before they slaughter him?"
His words rang in my ears. Slaughter. I imagined myself like one of the rabbits caught in my father's snares. The more they struggle, the tighter the wire around their neck tightens. Some of them nearly decapitate themselves trying to get free. But there is no getting free.
"I didn't see the harm in it, just this once," my mother said.
"Just this once." My father snickered. "And how fine he'll look. You can almost believe in a boy with a new shirt. A boy like that has a future, doesn't he Hazelle?" He wheeled around, turning his attention on me. "Don't you believe it, son. Not for a second. You will die at the hands of the Capital. Hunger Games, coal mines, same difference."
"Aedan, little pitchers, big ears!" my mother cried, nodding at Rory and Vick. "They're too young for such talk. You're scaring them."
My father reached across the table and yanked the shirt from my mother's hands. Three strides and he was at the hearth. He tossed it on the smoldering embers. My mother jumped to her feet with equal speed, retrieving a month's labor out of the ashes. She patted the burning hem between her fingers. I was staring at it so I didn't see his fist land. I had never seen my father hit my mother before. He never had as far as I knew. My mother was on the floor, my father towered over her. There was such a look of disgust in his eyes that I turned away. I heard his feet plod across the floor, then felt the damp breeze as he opened the door. Then he was gone.
The next morning I got up and ready for school just as I always did. I sat down at the table and my mother placed a bowl of oatmeal in front of me. I took one spoonful before my father grabbed it. We all watched as he scooped one half into Vick's bowl and the other into Rory's. "And what's Gale supposed to eat?" my mother asked.
"I don't know," my father replied, "let him eat the shirt. It's worth two weeks' of breakfast at least." I got up to leave. I hated it when my father got like that. My stomach was in tight little knots. All I wanted was to get out of there, but my father grabbed my arm and pulled me back into my chair. We all sat in silence. It takes forever, watching somebody else eat, forever and a day if you are hungry. To be honest, it wasn't so bad, that first day. I'd gone hungry before. The second day was harder. The smell of rabbit stew cooking made me salivate. At school, I stared at the kids from town with their lunches of fresh bread, cheese, and apples. I even thought of going through the trash as I had seen other Seam kids do. But even town kids rarely threw food away nor could I bear the thought of someone seeing me do it. By the third day, I wouldn't have cared, only there was no school. It was Reaping Day.
There were small mercies. My father let me stay in bed rather than make me get up only to watch them eat another meal I wasn't allowed. My mother gave me a bowl of warm water and a cloth to wash the grime from my face and hands instead of insisting on the customary bath. But there was that shirt, that hateful shirt. What made me happy just days before was now a constant reminder that I was nothing, expendable, already good as dead. If they didn't get me this time, they would get me the next, or the time after that. I could already see the years stretch out before me with nothing to do but wait for it to happen. I walked to town in a daze. I didn't cry. I didn't tremble. I didn't even hear the tributes being called to the stage. I just stood there, staring at the scorch mark on my right sleeve. At the time, I hated my father for making me go days without food. Later I came to understand why he did it. He wanted me to know in no uncertain terms just what the Hunger Games were really about.
I felt bad about the cookies though. It was Posy's birthday and I wanted to get her something to cheer her up. She had had a time of it. There was a lice outbreak at the school. It used to happen back in District Twelve every fall. For the boys and me, it was easy. I got a set of clippers and we shaved what little hair we had off. For my mom and Posy, it was a fine tooth comb and the foulest smelling concoction known to man. Lice are persistent little buggers and Posy was still crawling with them after three treatments. So we cut her hair short. Posy is a girl through and through. There's not a bit of tomboy about her. She loved her long hair. Big fat tears had rolled down her face as it hit the floor. It will grow back but it still hurt to see her cry. To top it off, she's had a slight fever for the last two days.
As I approached the bakery, I started to quicken my pace. Bakeries trigger dark memories. I can't even look at a loaf of bread without thinking about them. Them, because she is so intertwined with him that she no longer exists in the way I knew her. I was not a part of a pair nor am I likely to be any time soon. The girls here are so different. I suppose I could get passed that if I really liked one in particular but that didn't matter any way since I was so universally disliked in District Two. It didn't take long for word to spread that I was the one who devised the plan to bring down the Nut. It's no secret that I suggested we block the exits either. A lot of people lost loved ones that day. They blame me. The fact that they could have surrendered and joined the Rebellion long before I ever got there never crosses their minds. There were a couple of girls that flirted with me a bit. It was mainly because they thought I was rich since I had a government job. As soon as they realized I was supporting a family of five and wasn't paid all that much, they quickly lost interest. I really hadn't thought things through when I accepted the job. All I wanted at the time was to get as far from District Twelve as possible and still be able to support my family. I hadn't realized it would be more a punishment than an honor. Unfortunately my family took the brunt of it, Rory in particular. Kids are vicious at that age.
I was almost past the bakery when something in the window caught my eye. There sat a cake, iced white, with three very large, very pink roses of pure frosting. I grinned. Why hadn't I thought of it in the first place? A birthday cake, the first any Hawthorne would have, but one of many I hoped. I went inside, pointed at the cake, and asked how much. I hesitated since it seemed a lot for something that would be gone in minutes. But just the idea of seeing Posy's face, that dimpled smile so rare since we settled here, was enough to sway me. Besides, I was tired of thinking that way. District Twelve was behind us. Nothing said that more than wasting half a day's pay. I watched as the girl behind the counter placed it in a pink box and tied it with red string. For the first time in years, I was actually in a good mood.