Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games
Author's disclaimer: This fic is not intended to represent any views the author may have on the subject of abortion.
Warning: Rated for dark sexual themes, nothing graphic.
The Way It Happened
When I was five and he was six, we ran into each other at school. We lived next to each other but had never spoken before. I was crying because a girl had pulled my hair and called me ugly. He told me to ignore her and spent the rest of playtime with me.
Later, when she walked past, I tripped her up. She told a teacher on me. When the teacher came to tell me off, he told her it was him. She told him off instead.
We came out of school together and walked home with our parents. I asked him why he lied for me. He said I'd already had a really rotten day. I couldn't get anything else out of him so I gave up. But whenever I thought back to that first incident and who was being told off, I always thought that, because I had tripped her up and ignored his advice, it should have been me.
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When I was eight and he was nine, his mother died in an accident in the factory. My mother, who usually worked next to her, was too ill to go that day.
I went round to his house late in the day and sat with him as he sobbed into my shoulder. We didn't speak but I had a horrible feeling of guilt. If my mother hadn't been ill, she would have been killed. It would have been him sitting with me sobbing because he'd never cry if I was upset.
We sat on that step until midnight. I never once released my grip on him. He never tried to move away. Because he wouldn't have released his grip on me and I wouldn't have tried to move away and after all, we both knew that the person being held should have been me.
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When I was ten and he was eleven, I stole food for his family. It was risky and stupid but they were starving and the nice Peacekeepers were on duty which meant I could have gotten away with a whipping. I'd never had a whipping before. But, luckily, I got away with it.
He told me I was crazy for doing it and that I shouldn't have put myself in danger. But he was grateful for my help. I just told him it was repayment from when we were little. He didn't reply but went back inside with his family. They thought he had done it. I was happy to let them think that.
He told me the next day that it should have been me they thanked. I said no. But he never stopped telling me that it should have been me.
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When I was twelve and he was thirteen, I went to my first Reaping. It was his second one. I watched in relief as first he wasn't called and then I wasn't. I ran to my family afterwards and hugged them.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him leave the press of people and talk to a pretty girl from his class. She kissed him. I looked away and joined in with the celebrations that neither I nor my brother were going to the Games. I refused to think about what I'd seen.
Later, he told me it was his first kiss. I didn't know what to say so I let him talk, trying to hide what I was feeling. Because for reasons I couldn't understand – I wasn't even interested in boys then – I thought that really, his first kiss should have been me.
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When I was fourteen and he was fifteen, we walked home from school when he suddenly put his hands on my face and pressed his lips to mine. He pulled away after a few seconds, blushing. I looked at him and smiled.
We walked home holding hands.
Later, I told him that it was my first kiss and that I'd always thought it would be him who would give it to me. His reply made me feel stupidly happy - he'd always thought since that hot, Reaping day, that his first kiss shouldn't have been that girl: it should have been me.
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When I was fifteen and he was sixteen, his name was called for the Hunger Games on a hot, airless day. His hand crushed mine as shock went through both of us. Then he forced himself to walk forward. When we said goodbye, he told me he loved me and I told him, "forever".
He died on the second day from a knife throw. He didn't see it coming; the cannon fired before his body hit the floor. That was the only good thing about it – he didn't even know he was dead.
As we watched his body being lifted by the hovercraft, I realised that I had more slips than he did. Not many more but more. But it was him who had been called and not me. And, irrational as it sounds, I couldn't help thinking that maybe, just maybe, the body going into the hovercraft should have been me.
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When I was sixteen and he was sixteen (he should have been seventeen), my name was called for the Hunger Games on a rainy day. There were people near me but no one held my hand. I walked forward clutching the locket around my neck with his picture inside.
I surprised everyone by fighting fiercely for survival. I hid for much of the Games but killed whenever I saw someone. I refused to die. All I could think was that he would have hated me if I let myself die. After three weeks, I won.
They placed a crown upon my head and hailed me as a victor. In my mind's eye, I could see how he would have acted, how he would have been a better winner than me. How unfair it was for him to have been killed. I thanked the President for this honour and tried not to tell him that this shouldn't have been me – it should have been him.
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When I was seventeen and he was sixteen (he should have been eighteen), I was called to the Capitol. There, I was given a simple choice. I could either provide a service to a rich, Capitolian man or my family could die. I chose the former.
The man made me do exactly what he had paid me to do. A high price, he whispered to me at the beginning, because it was my first time. I complied unthinkingly and tried to respond as well as possible to his lips and hands.
When he laid me on my back, I closed my eyes and thought of someone else who had died two years ago. I kept his image in my mind for the entire time, trying to ease the pain. Both the physical and the mental. Because even though I couldn't have said for sure what would have happened between us, I knew that the person doing what was happening then shouldn't have been a strange man from the Capitol – it should have been him.
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When I was nineteen and he was sixteen (he should have been twenty), I mentored my first tributes. I was in charge of the girl and I threw my entire being into keeping her alive, despite knowing what winning was like.
The boy died in the bloodbath. She died on the seventh day, a victim of a mutt attack. I kept my composure throughout the rest of the Games and ceremonies. When I returned home, I went to my house, locked myself in my room and began to sob.
It was my father who eventually got in and held me as I cried for the girl I could not save. He told me it would be all right, that there was nothing I could have done. And I thought of someone else who I'd watched die four years ago, someone else I couldn't save. He would have been here to hold me when I couldn't save my tribute. The person living in my house and comforting me now shouldn't have been my father – it should have been him.
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When I was twenty-one and he was sixteen (he should have been twenty-two), I gave birth to a little girl who surprised me by becoming my entire reason to live. Some people told me I should be ashamed of myself and my Capitol lovers, that I didn't even know who the father was. They were wrong. I knew exactly who it was. And even if I didn't, her eyes and nose, combined with the memories in my mind, would have made it painfully clear. Luckily the rest of her came from me.
I hadn't been sure how I would feel about a child who was born as a result of a Capitol "visit" but any doubts evaporated when I saw her. I took her home to my family – who had no idea about the truth behind her father – and they welcomed her to her new life with a traditional District ceremony.
My brother played the role of the father. He adored his niece instantly and held her close as he performed his part. Watching him, my mind drifted back to the boy I'd grown up with and I couldn't help thinking that this should have been our child. My brother shouldn't have had to fill in for the father. It should have been him.
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When I was twenty-five and he was sixteen (he should have been twenty-six), I married a man I'd met shortly after my daughter's birth. He was kind, funny, handsome and adored both me and my daughter. My daughter had called him "Dada" and then "Daddy" all of her life.
He made me happy. Not only was he a wonderful person but his presence stopped the Capitol visits. He didn't know how my daughter was conceived and he'd agreed not to ask me or to say anything to her before I had the chance to. I knew we'd be a happy family together.
At the wedding, as we said our vows, I looked at him and for a split-second, saw the boy who'd died ten years ago, whose face still inhabited a locket around my neck. I'd thought of him less and less as the years went on but he was always at the back of my mind. I hated myself as I said "I do" – because as I said it, I looked at my groom and thought that, really, it should have been him.
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When I was twenty-seven and he was sixteen (he should have been twenty-eight), a rebellion took place. Fighters came for me as we tried to leave our home. My husband and I stood protectively in front of my (our) daughter as the fighters told me I was on the wrong side and had to die.
My husband stood in front of me and said that to get to us, they had to go through him. The leader shot him without any emotion. I kept my hand in my daughter's and begged them to spare her life: I would let them do whatever they liked as long as she could live. They told me they didn't cut deals and pulled the trigger.
As I lay dying on the floor and my daughter screamed, I found myself feeling absurd relief. If he had been alive now, all of this would have tortured him beyond compare. He would never had to see how his life turned out, would never have had to die in front of his wife and daughter or watched them die in front of his eyes. That was reserved for me. And for the first time in my life, even though it shouldn't have been either of us, I was glad that it wasn't him – it was me.