Disclaimer: I do not own any content related to or directly used in The Hunger Games trilogy.
Chapter 1
The morning is surprisingly cool for this time of year, and I hesitate for only a fraction of a second before dropping my bundle and taking off at a run down the dock. When I hit the water, the icy cold freezes the breath in my lungs but I let myself sink like a stone until even I can't stay under any longer. I push myself to the surface and am immediately taken under again by a wave. This is the most calming place in the district. I dig my toes deep into the soft cool mud on the basin floor, and pass my hands over the drifting sea weed. I once broke the district record for holding my breath under water. I gently sway along with the sea weed, and stay under as long as I can. The cold water blocks out the sounds of life above, and lulls me into a sense of security, no matter how false.
We aren't exactly encouraged to swim recreationally as children, but there wouldn't be any logic in sticking kids on work boats that have never learned. So our school time is divided into learning net making and repair, fishing, swimming, and the weekly lesson of Panam's history. The swimming lessons are the closest thing to fun that we have here, and are always the most popular class. It tends to make you forget that you're being groomed for a life of intense physical labour. The adults here are weathered, either from hours spent on the open water, hauling in nets or spearing the larger more deadly sea creatures, or their hands are gnarled and arthritic from decades of net making and tying knots. Even the work in the processing plant is taxing, standing for twelve hours a day to shell and gut seafood that will be sent to the Capitol. There are other jobs in the district, but none of them are pleasant. The lucky ones own the town shops which are inherited through members of the family. But even they are not idle. Laziness is not a trait that is encouraged here.
Under the water I tuck myself into a ball and do a somersault before making my way back to the dock and hauling myself up. I can hear the work horn blasting, but I lay on the worn wooden planks for a moment anyway. Men and women will only just be emerging from their homes as they make their way to the harbour, and I'm not due on the boat for another fifteen minutes at least. The workload has been doubled in the past week and will not die down for weeks to come. With the Reaping tomorrow the Capitol has been, and will be, in demand of more seafood. I guess the Games offer more reason for parties and therefore more food, because this time of year is always very busy for us. Sometimes during the lead-up to the Games, you catch glimpses of the luxuries the Capitol is afforded. Just this year, during the Victory Tour, the last year's victor was showing off his talent for cooking. When he made it to the Capitol, he cooked a fine televised dinner for a panel of (who I'm assuming were) very influential people. The lush spread had included lobsters and shellfish from Four. As I watched, I couldn't help but wonder if I had handled any of them – if my hands had sent any of that food which we are so often denied here. We can't just take home what we catch; we have to pay for it. And shellfish is the most expensive. During a particularly tough year as a child, I can recall living off of primarily fish head stews because they are one of the cheapest things to buy.
When I hear the approaching feet of fellow District Four citizens, I rise and put on the clothing I had dropped on the dock. My under things soak through the cotton pants and shirt, but I don't care. When the crowd of about twenty people rounds the bend, I pad down the dock to join them. My father sees me and frowns disapprovingly at my sopping wet hair. We are technically not allowed to go swimming whenever the mood strikes us, but this close to the Reaping there is usually a bit of leniency from the Peacekeepers. The two that patrol that section of the waterfront had pointedly ignored me this morning, and I had not been about to question them on it. Pulling my long blonde hair off my neck and into a ponytail, I fall into step with my father and bump his shoulder with mine. We are the same height, which is at least a head taller than most of the people around us.
"Think we'll bag old White Fin today?" I ask, more cheery than is absolutely necessary.
My father gives me his usual sceptical look. It's like he's asking himself if I really am his. I come from a family of stoic silent types; the kind of people that do their jobs and keep to themselves during the off hours of the day. As of seven years ago there was even less of a reason to be happy when my older brother Marcus was called at the Reaping. He was twelve. I won't lie and say it didn't destroy me; it destroyed all of us. When he died during the first minutes of the initial Bloodbath, we shut ourselves inside our house and didn't come out for the entire time we were given to grieve. Two days where my parents weren't expected at the harbour. Two days that I didn't have to drag myself to school. I couldn't stand seeing them like that, and I couldn't handle the sympathetic looks from our neighbours who were really just thankful it wasn't their kid chosen. So eventually I returned back to my cheery old self. I work hard to put smiles on my parents' faces, and even harder to make them laugh. I have never been as sombre as the rest of them; have always tried to make the best of every situation. I'm not a nut case, I'm not truly ecstatically happy about hauling net all day or facing the Reaping every year, but I just don't see the point in being miserable. The Capitol shouldn't be able to take everything away from us.
"That shark will be the death of me," my father answers, referring to the great white that has been dogging our fishing boats for the past week or so. But he's got the smallest of smiles on his face and with a squeeze of his large calloused hand I silently reassure him that I am his. We make our way to the harbour and my father and one of our crew members, Gunter, discuss the plans for the workday.
Three days ago our fishing boat was given instructions to kill the shark. We came close yesterday, me and my father, but our line snapped and he got away. Today we are out for hours as our crew circles the area we last saw him in, and it isn't until we are about to turn in that Gunter sights him within minutes and shouts out for us to get ready. My father, Gunter and another man are prepared today. As White Fin snaps up the line hooked with fish chum, I stand ready with my trident perched precariously on the side of the boat. I am the youngest and only female on our boat, though women are not uncommon out on the boats. But it's my skills with the trident that have awarded me a spot on my father's crew at an age when most girls are hauling or weaving nets. Without being arrogant, I have become invaluable to the large fish harpooning. As I set my sights on White Fin I javelin the hefty weapon and aim true, spearing the great white below the skull. My father and the other two crew members begin to haul him in, but my trident becomes tangled in the line and falls into the water where it begins to sink.
I'm not thinking, and later I attribute this to the fact that the Games and the Reaping have been fogging up my mind lately no matter how earnestly I try to ignore them. All I can think about is how the weighty cost of that weapon is going to be garnished from my wages if I don't bring it back. I would never be able to afford it. So, without much consideration for the dangers I'm putting myself in, I dive off the boat after my trident before it sinks into oblivion. There are a few problems with this. Namely, that in spilling copious amounts of White Fin's blood we have now attracted others of his kind to come darting around our boat looking for an easy meal. For another, the shark blood has made visibility next to non-existent. I reach out blindly and feel a sharp pain in my hand, seeing the tell-tale fin of a shark pass beneath me at the very last moment. And as this deadly adversary swims on, either not feeling my touch or not caring, I see my trident and grab for it. The swim back up to the surface is becoming perilous. I count three sharks swarming around me but there could easily be more. Suddenly, as I kick upward, I am looking into the gaping toothy mouth of a beast that is blinded by its hunger. I spear at it, and use the momentum to push myself up faster, the trident coming loose from the shark's mouth as I go. When I break through the surface, netting is instantly dropped on top of me and I have enough sense to grab hold of it.
I am pulled up to safety. I imagine sharks snapping at my heels but the truth is that they have turned on the one I injured and are now busy feasting on their brother. I'm dragged up over the side of the boat and I land in a coughing, tangled mess. The bloodied water has left me dripping pink and my clothes are stained. But as I lay there trying to regain my breath, looking into the eyes of my father who can't seem to decide whether he should hug me or throttle me, I let go of the trident and laugh. The laugh isn't one of joy; it's one of near-hysteric realization.
That was very stupid.
We bring the boat in to add White Fin to the shipment of trucks that brings our catch to the processing plant. The catch sparks praise and some jealousy from other workers, but word of my adventure spreads like wildfire. At first I laugh off most of the comments, still shaken from the experience, but after a while I begin to dread just how far the story has travelled. My mother is going to kill me when I get home. I linger at the harbour as long as I dare, allowing Gunter to bandage the gash on my hand. As it is, when my father and I walk through the door she is grim faced and furious with both of us. I immediately get torn into.
"What on earth were you thinking?" she doesn't wait for an answer and ploughs on ahead. "Were you trying to get yourself killed? For what? A piece of metal?"
She knows as well as I do how much that 'piece of metal' would have cost our family had I let it sink to the bottom of the sea. But I say nothing and try to look contrite. Now is not the time to turn on my charm. My mother has always been the harder of the two of them to crack, and she is in no mood to joke around now. My father takes the same tongue lashing in silence, and simply sits at the rickety old table filling his pipe. Tobacco is such a rarity that he only smokes it on special occasions, so I'm shocked when he pulls it out. Apparently me not dying means he gets to reward himself. My mother ignores this and lets us both have it for a good twenty minutes before she orders me to take care of dinner while she lies down. I prepare the food without complaint because I know how hard it must have been for her to hear the story second hand. I really could have died, and if I had my parents would be childless. Bad enough that the Reaping is tomorrow and fresh on everyone's minds. And while I've managed to stay out of the Games this long, none of us can wait until tomorrow is over because this is the last year I have to enter. Marcus was a year older than me, so the year after he died my name went directly into the lottery. Every year since then has been absolute hell for us; for a lot of other families too. Gunter from our fishing crew has lost two of his own children to the Games, and even the ones that win are never the same.
My thoughts turn to one of the victors, Annie, who went mad before she ever even won. She's my age. She keeps to the Victors' Village and I've heard that she roams the beaches there and tries to drown herself when Finnick Odair, another champion, isn't around to stop her. How can you blame her? Of the other winners we've had, most have battled depression, substance abuse, and one committed suicide before I was born. None come back the way they left. Megs, for example, is in her eighties and has a few screws loose herself. I often see her shuffling around town picking up bits and pieces of trash. Even though she has more money than the rest of us, on her spare time she makes hooks and flies out of the garbage she scavenges and sells it on market day. My father once told me that the money she makes is given to the poorer families whose children have perished in the Games. That means at some point we have been on the receiving end of her kindness, but I have no memory of it.
That night after a silent and tense dinner, I crawl into the bed I once shared with Marcus. This could be the last time I have to sit through a Reaping. This time tomorrow I will either be celebrating with my family or on my way to the Capitol. I find that my head is too full of 'what-ifs' to sleep and I silently slip out of my bedroom to sit outside. There are more Peacekeepers around than usual and I don't dare try and make my way to the dock I dove from this morning. I would be publicly flogged before the Reaping and then expected to stand through it. Any movement at this time of night would be a considered suspicious. To one side of us the sea, around the rest of us forests or open expanses of grass fields; surrounding everything – an electric fence. The barrier in the water isn't electrified, but it's deadly. The whole inner side is barbed. There are boat crews whose job it is to scrape the dead sea life off those barbs. It is especially bad after storms when the water is rough and all manner of creature ends up pushed against the deadly hooks. We've even lost workers who were killed while clearing it off. There must be sections where the fence doesn't reach all the way to the sea bed, because how else would we still have fish to catch, or sharks for that matter? But no one has gone looking for them, not to my knowledge anyway. The Peacekeeper boats that patrol the area are enough to dissuade anybody.
I sit outside our door and must have fallen asleep at some point because when the sun is just cresting over the horizon, something nudges my bare foot and wakes me up. I open my eyes groggily and look up at Aster, one of the Peacekeepers that let me swim yesterday. He's eyeing me strangely and I smile foolishly back at him to dispel some of the awkwardness between us. He glances around but no one is about this early, so he sits down beside me. Aster is in his early twenties and has olive coloured skin that is not from this district. His eyes are a startling green and his black hair curls around his ears. I catch myself admiring the flat ridge of his nose and his high cheek bones that make his full lipped smile so fetching. We sit in silence until I can't bare it.
"Busy day today," I say and feel stupid for saying it, but Aster just shrugs.
"I guess," he replies, and turns to look me in the eye soberly.
I feel my cheeks warm and I try to smile even wider but the seriousness of today finally breaks my chipper veneer. I pull my knees to my chin and rest my forehead on them. My hands wrap themselves around my legs, but Aster takes one and holds it in both of his.
A month ago something unimaginable happened. A month ago, the sweet raven haired Peacekeeper – the one that sometimes turned a blind eye to let me go swimming, the one that smiled kindly at me and often caught my eye – jumped in after me. I had dived into the cool water, and was resting at the bottom when I saw the white plume of bubbles as someone sank down after me. I watched in horror as the plum dissipated to reveal the half naked body of the familiar Peacekeeper. He had stripped down to his underwear, and was staring right at me. He didn't swim closer but held up both hands in a sort of peaceful gesture. He meant no harm. We both pushed up to take another breath, and without a word we dove back down. When he finally came close to me it was to gently press his lips against mine. The next half hour followed in much the same silent pattern of going up for air and sinking back down to share our underwater kisses. When we had pushed our luck for time, he got out first and redressed. He was gone when I pulled myself up onto the dock. In the weeks that followed, we barely saw each other, let alone spoke. But occasionally, he would stop me and the rest of my crew to do a routine inspection of our boat and would linger when he talked to me. Once he even offered me his hand to exit the boat when I was getting off at the end of the day.
And now he is sitting next to me, holding me while I shake with fear.
"You'll be fine," he says, and his voice is strained because he is also trying to convince himself. "After today you'll never have to worry about it again."
I don't reply because what am I supposed to say? On top of the terror and confusion of the impending Reaping, I have now also been reminded of this thing that connects us in a way that is probably illegal. Peacekeepers do not mix with civilians. We don't marry each other, we don't live together. We barely acknowledge them except to be wary and they are here to keep us in line or arrest us. So even if I pass through this Reaping without being chosen, what difference can it make for the two of us? No difference at all.
I say none of this, but squeeze his hand to show that I've heard him – that I appreciate his concern. We sit in silence until I hear my parents coming alive inside the house. Aster lets go of my hand and stands with me, taking my face in his hands and looking me straight in the eye. His eyes are like grass after a rain. For the first time I notice the flecks of gold in their depths. It looks like he wants to say something, but he hesitates and just says, "Good luck."
I am left alone outside the house.
District Four's Reaping happens early in the day. Each broadcast takes about half an hour per district, and you can potentially watch them all live if you have the time. We don't watch the districts ahead of us. So until the festivities begin at ten o'clock, I spend what could potentially be my last hours in District Four with my family. I bathe, I dress in my only good dress, and I sit with my parents and eat breakfast, though none of us are very hungry. We are all thinking about the year that Marcus was chosen as Tribute, of the last morning we spent with him, and how it wasn't enough. But what can we really say to each other now that each of us doesn't already know? Despite her anger the night before, my mother has made a point of holding my hand to show me she isn't really upset with me. Every once and a while my father pats my knee or passes a hand through my long straight hair, the way he did when I was little. There are no words for this, no way to make this light and happy; not until I am safe at home and we can celebrate my freedom from the Games.
At 9:30 they walk me to the Justice building, and I join the milling crowd of kids as we are corralled into lines to sign in. After that my parents are lost in the crown of people that have to watch from the side streets. There are enough of us kids that we alone fill the square. My name is in the lottery thirty times. Twice, I made my way to the Justice building to put in for a tessera for extra rations. Twice my father, who would have died before knowingly having me do this, gave me a tearful thrashing and wouldn't look at me for weeks. My parents are prideful people and the thought of adding your child's name to the lottery for rations disgusts them. But there have been two winters when even fish head stew was hard to come by, and I knew it was enter my name again or starve. I do not regret these actions.
After I check in, I shuffle along until I have found some familiar faces. Two of my old school friends are standing together and I join them. We don't speak, just nod in greeting and wait.
At ten o'clock on the nose, the mayor takes the stage with the surviving Victors (all but Annie) and the man who is to be the selected Tributes' escort, Rufus Bloom. He was new last year, but has changed so drastically since then that I barely recognize him. His plum if violet hair reminds me of the white wispy dandelion heads at the beginning of summer. I begin to wonder if someone blew hard enough, if the hair would float away in the wind. This year Rufus has adorned facial tattoos that actually look terrifying as they curl beneath his eyebrows, and I think the skin on his hands may be glittering. Strange piercings cover his ears and his nails are unnaturally long. After the usual speech from the Mayor, Rufus takes the stage to draw our names. If I were able to breathe, I might find it funny that his prosthetic nails are making it impossible to fish out one of the little white cards. But he gets it eventually and I stand there still not breathing. Cynthia from school grabs my elbow because either she's about to pass out or I am. With a flourish Rufus hops over to the microphone and calls out my name.
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