Eleven
For such a sleepless night, it wasn't half bad as an evening.
A street party could have been fitting, if only the Peacekeepers would allow the frivolity and some form of jolly chaos that the night ensued to rage through the alleys and roads. It was rather like the Harvest Festival, in the sense of celebrating togetherness and neighbours breaking bread in each other's homes, drinking the night away with amber liquids that did funny things to the people. Except, the Harvest Festival was District Eleven's acceptable and official form of the evening ahead.
The Sunday before the terrible Monday was a small rebellion of sorts. Everyone enjoying a last night. No regrets, saying the things you always wanted to say but never had the courage to. All so you could go to your grave contented without the grey cloud of "what if...?" looming over you.
Peacekeepers never even tried to control us anymore, it was a celebration known to every citizen without being said. We were careful too, about going around the rules. You can't arrest 78,000 people for going to friends' houses for a party, it's all surely a coincidence. There are no hints of rebellion found in the drink we have, ginger flavoured that we grow ourselves and stored over the year which is certainly not prohibited and definitely not stealing. Our food is also stored over time for us all to share together on this one night. We do not steal from the Capitol, this is just our rations we are given kept until Spring.
And if you're lucky, you might find the odd Victor. They open their doors to anyone they meet on the street for a dinner at their beautiful houses. It may be more frowned upon for the poor to experience this luxury, but who would you be to argue with a Victor who won for a reason?
There's all the more celebrations that go on for the families whose children face their last day of fear. Maybe even more so for the families whose children are just starting to feel the terror. It's better that way. No one wants to wait around for their death, pitying themselves, feeling raw fear, and thinking about the inevitability of their death; no matter whether it happens prematurely or not. It is not the District Eleven way.
So we celebrate our lives, toast our memories and laugh away our worries so the lines between our eyebrows turn into creases at our lips as we lighten up and feel truly happy for the first time in a while. We embrace our friends, tell them they're worth more than their weight in gold and how they have been the best companion we ever hoped for. We find someone, take them by their hand and kiss them on both cheeks in a quiet corner as a goodbye gift. Then we walk arm in arm with our families back to our tiny abodes, telling everyone on the way that we love them.
As the night draws to a close, we drag out our worn, single mattress and curl up in our parents' arms, holding tightly onto our siblings. We stare at the ceiling until light filters through the broken shutters, wondering which two people all the goodbyes will travel with, will mean something to.
Who will get chosen from our poverty-soaked blood, though they dined like the Mayor the night before, on Reaping Day?