Hello! Oh my God, I cannot believe I haven't updated this story since April 29! However, I watched the Hunger Games a few nights ago, and I got my inspiration back! However, I've decided to rewrite this story, and the chapter I give you after months of waiting is the first rewritten chapter. I hope you all like it just as much as the first version! In this version of the story, Sorrel and Bracken are both sixteen, Bracken's physical traits are different, Primrose is fourteen, Sorrel lives in the Capitol but must return to District Twelve every year for the Reaping in order to live in the Capitol with Effie, and also, Sorrel's personality is different. And the age to compete in the Games is once again 12-18. Though there were only three chapters in the old version, I think the changes to Sorrel's personality are a bit obvious (but if they aren't, that's all right! I'm not good with evaluating people's personalities either!). So... yeah. Like I said before, I really hope you like this version of the story, maybe even more so than the first! I think I can safely say that I've grown a lot more as a writer since April, so I hope this story will now be even more enjoyable than the first version! And to ForeverLivebymusic, don't worry, I'm still going to be using your idea for the outfits! And once again, thanks so much for that! I would've never been able to come up with an idea, so thank you!
It's a sunny day. Sunny and solemn. Of course it is. No one can control the weather, but for a Reaping, it's much too bright out. It's like someone in the heavens is purposely trying to say that today is a day of hope. Sunny days are supposed to be beautiful and bring hope and happiness. Today, on this sunny day, death will be announced, and in about two weeks, death will deliver its final blow, and a winner will be announced, with the sun shining cruelly as a reminder that there is hope, but only for those who are lucky enough to survive till the end. Let us hope for a fighter this year. Saying is much easier than doing, so no matter how much I hope, the sun will be there to remind me that hope is only for those who aren't us. Those who weren't cursed to live in these godforsaken districts of the Capitol.
But I have no right. No right to say that I have it bad. I don't. I'm much luckier than most, really. I'm a Capitol girl, but every year, ever since I turned twelve, I have to return to District Twelve for the annual Reaping. And then I go back to hell in disguise. I seem so ungrateful for my fortune, the luxurious life I live, but there is nothing great about it. It's a far cry from the poverty that the outlying districts live in, but I'd rather live impoverished than to be surrounded by people, by monsters, who cheer for the deaths of innocents every year in the Hunger Games. Part of me wants to scream when I see how happy they look when a Tribute they don't like is killed. When I see a Tribute fall, when I see their face, usually scared, just seconds before their death, I can't breathe. It's the worst thing. It's not bad when they've already fallen, because they are finally free. The fall is the worst, because they know that they're not free just yet. Death means freedom in the Hunger Games. True freedom. Unbridled, true, pure freedom. Victory in the Hunger Games is meaningless if it takes so many lives; it even takes the life of the person who survived by taking away their humanity. The Capitol says that they salute true sacrifice. Well, they've never seen true sacrifice. They've never experienced it; they've never lived it. The words coming out of their mouths are lies. And I am perhaps the only Capitol girl who realizes this.
I look around me, looking at all the faces. Sad, solemn, angry, scared, blank. The people with the blank, emotionless faces are fighting an internal battle. Nobody leaves the Reaping truly happy and relieved. And if they do, well, they don't realize that they still have a chance of being Reaped next year. There's always a chance. The only time anyone is actually safe is when they turn nineteen. But when a Quarter Quell comes, nobody is safe. The fourth Quarter Quell won't be for another ten years, though, so for now, the adults are safe. The children, however, are now waiting to see whose names will be picked for death.
My mother walks onto the stage, smiling happily and looking so painfully bright from the dirt on which I stand below her. She is Effie Trinket, District Twelve's escort. She has been for a while. She was even escort during the 74th Hunger Games, where for the first time in Panem's history, there were two victors. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. I used to know them. I haven't seen them since I moved to the Capitol with my mother when I was six years old. I haven't seen my father since then either.
I am so focused on my mother that I don't even notice that the girl in front of me is crying. The girls beside her notice, but they are too scared to move. Through the corners of my eyes, I watch and make sure that the Peacekeepers aren't looking, and I put my hand on the girl's shoulder. She turns her head around to look at me with the biggest blue eyes I have ever seen in my life. She's just a twelve year old girl, and she's so overcome with fear that suddenly, my mother's voice echoing around me sounds too high, too bright, too happy, just too much for me to handle. I know my mother has some understanding of the situation, but not enough for me to be sure how much humanity she has in her. Don't get me wrong, though. She's a good mother, but I don't know if she gets just how wrong it is for the Capitol to be sending twelve year olds in to die. Though I wonder if she just hides the fact that she understands what really happens in the Hunger Games, because after all, to have had a kid with Haymitch Abernathy, it's kind of questionable just how loyal she is to the Capitol. And yes, I am that kid. I am Sorrel Abernathy.
"Don't cry, sweetheart," I whisper to the little girl, and I grimace at the endearment that came out of my mouth. I am not good with children at all. "It's all right. You hear? You'll be all right."
"It's not all right. What if I'm Reaped?" Her voice trembles as she speaks as softly as she can.
"Don't think about that. Think about how happy you'll be afterwards," I say, and I grimace again. Another lie. This is why I generally avoid children. With adults, I can speak the cold, hard truth, but with children, they need to be protected, even just for a little longer.
"I won't be happy afterwards," the girl says, her eyes glistening with tears. I smile slightly at her.
"I know. Just don't think about it. Think about your family. Think about the leaves and how they'll turn to gold in the autumn. Think about anything other than this. Think about how brave you are right now. Remember that each year you're not Reaped, it's a blessing. Think about those who died bravely before you so you could be safe here." I gently turn her head back around, but I know that even she could tell I was lying about the people who "bravely died" in the Hunger Games. But she needed to hear something that sounded nice. It wasn't a complete lie, if I had to be honest. Sure, most people died and killed and were completely wrong in the head, but others, others like Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, were brave. They dared to defy the Capitol, which was what won them their Games. Perhaps there were brave deaths. But they were not a regular occurrence.
"What's your name?" the girl asks suddenly, turning her head around only slightly so I could see the corner of her eye.
"Sorrel. Yours?" I ask, and I lean forward so she doesn't have to speak as loud.
"Primrose," she answers, and she turns around. I stand upright again, but I'm dizzy with shock. I had just been speaking to Katniss and Peeta's daughter. She is the little girl that I used to play outside with until I moved to the Capitol. Primrose Rue. I almost smile at the name. It sounds innocent and beautiful, unlike the world, which is cruel and ugly. But maybe there's still some hope. After all, the sun doesn't shine just for the sake of it. Perhaps there is hope. We just have to reach out and try not to die while looking.
I watch as the world flies by us from inside the train. With each passing moment, I can feel the tense atmosphere. My mother sits beside me on the couch, filing her nails. I stare straight ahead, blocking her joyful humming out. For a moment, I'm ashamed of myself. I don't hate my mother. I really don't. She's kind and generous, but sometimes, I just wonder if she realizes how she seems to the people of District Twelve. She must seem so out of touch with reality, and even cruel, though she has no cruel bone in her body. She is simply ignorant. Innocent. How similar those words are. I sigh, and the humming stops.
"Are you all right, Sorrel?" she asks concernedly, putting her nail file down on the table to look at me. That's another thing that bothers me. She always seems to give me the attention that she should really give to the Tributes she Reaps every year. It's almost like I'm worth more of her attention. I mean, I realize that it's also because I'm her daughter, but she should pay more attention to the Tributes. They're the ones who're about to die. But she looks down on them. It's not very noticeable, but you can tell. What makes me so different from the Tributes? I am District Twelve, no matter where I live. I was born there, and my father was too. My mother knows this, and knows that I am District Twelve if I am at the Reaping every year. But maybe she doesn't pay attention to the Tributes because she doesn't want to get attached. She doesn't want to feel the loss of them dying.
It's always like this. It's always me doubting my mother, but then coming up with a logical reason for why she does certain things. It shouldn't be like this. I wish I could completely trust my mother. I wish I could completely trust her and not have to doubt how human she is. But I do. And every time it happens, I can't help but feel like she doesn't deserve a daughter like me. She deserves a daughter who trusts her with her life. I can't even trust myself. What a life I have. I clench my fists slightly. I'm selfish.
"Yes." I look straight into her eyes, holding her gaze, because I know she's obsessed with me having perfect manners.
"Are you sure? You know you can tell me anything," she says, smiling gently.
I let out a small laugh. "I'm sure."
"Don't worry about the Reaping. I'm sure you'll be just fine," she says, and a frown forms on my face.
"How do you know?" I ask, and I turn away from her. I don't want to see her hurt expression.
"The odds are in your favor," my mother says, trying to sound consoling. Usually it's me consoling her when Haymitch is being a bastard to her. I don't even call him my father. I know he is, but to me, he is "Haymitch." I see him every year, but I haven't spoken to him since I moved to the Capitol. I don't even know if he knows that I go back to District Twelve every year for the Reaping. He probably thinks I'm some "prissy Capitol girl" now, just like my mother. I love my mother, no matter how much I doubt her, but I wonder why she even loves Haymitch. From what I hear every year when she rants about him, it's hard to see why my mother even loves him. And yes, she still does. Sometimes, I wish I did still speak to him, just to see if there's anything loveable about him. It would be easy to talk to him. After all, we're on the same train every year. However, my mother tells me to stay in my room on the train, and I think she makes sure that Haymitch stays nowhere near me. And she's probably told him that I stay in the Capitol just so he won't go looking for me on the train.
"Of course they are," I mutter, and she takes me into her arms and hugs me tightly. We're in that position for a moment when she lets me go and tilts my chin up so I can look into her eyes.
"What else can I say except to tell you that you'll be fine? That's what everyone says, but everyone ends up dying anyway," she says, and she starts crying. I immediately feel guilty, and I stroke her blonde hair, which isn't hidden underneath a wig just yet.
"You don't have to say anything," I say, and I square my shoulders. "All we have to do is wait, and after this, I want to talk to Haymitch."
She is startled, and looks at me with wide, doe-like eyes. "Why?"
"I'm old enough to handle him. Trust me," I say, and she lets out a quiet sob.
"I'm just trying to protect you."
"From him, or yourself?"
That clearly catches her off guard, and I sigh before taking her hands.
"You don't need to sugarcoat the situation. I know what's going on. And I have a feeling that you know too. And I get that you want to pretend like everything's normal. Like everything's the way it was before me. Before Haymitch changed your view of the Hunger Games. But it's not. You realize that if I get Reaped, I won't know a thing about how to fight. I'd be a dead girl walking. You're not helping by pretending like everything's fine and dandy." I stop when I see the shocked look in my mother's eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
"It's all right," she says, standing up with a look of shock still on her face before she pulls herself together. "If you want to see him, that's fine. But if he says something bad to you, you must inform me right away. I've dealt with him for far too long, and if he-"
"I'll be fine," I say, and I look outside and see the station. We've arrived. "We're here. Welcome to District Twelve."
"Happy Hunger Games," she says, smiling bitterly, which is a look that is foreign on her face.
"May the odds be ever in your favor," I say, trying to imitate her accent. "But they very rarely are."
"I know you don't want me to sugarcoat, but wouldn't you find this so much easier to deal with if you were positive during the Reaping?" she asks, and I consider this. I'm not a positive person. Never have been, and never will be. Say I did try to be positive. I would tell myself that I wouldn't be Reaped and that I would go home and everything would be fine till next year. But what if it wasn't fine? For me, it's better to just deal with how the situation really is. If someone is so positive, and then they're Reaped, that would break them, and that's when there is absolutely no chance for survival. No chance of victory. At least if someone's like me, "negative," I guess the term would be, then they'll be fine. Well, fine as in not broken, but still fine. Dead men walking.
I sound like I'm one to easily accept the situation. I'm not, really. I know that I have to accept whatever comes anyway, but sometimes, I still fight with fate. If I get Reaped today, I have no choice but to go along with it. Yes, I would die. No matter how much I'd try to fight, I wouldn't win. I'm not a Career. But every year, I feel the same dread and nervousness. Solemnity. Sympathy for the Reaped. Sympathy for the families of the Reaped. Anger that my mother doesn't quit her job as an escort and get a new one so I don't have to hear the things that people say about her when the Reaping's over. Anger that there isn't a fighter out there who volunteers when a twelve year old is Reaped. Anger that no one is brave enough to volunteer. Anger that I am not brave enough to volunteer myself. But I'm no heroine. Now that is something I've easily come to accept.
"Well, let's get going, or else we'll be late, and that'll be awfully rude of us," she says, back to her normal, happy-go-lucky self. I smile, now truly knowing that she does indeed understand just how grave the situation is. At least I have an assurance that she isn't as ignorantly cruel as the rest of the Capitol citizens.
"Let's go," I say, standing up and holding out a hand to her. "We've got a Reaping to attend."
So, what'd you think? Confusing? Good? Bad? Awesome (like Prussia, hahahaha, go Hetalia!)? Please review!