61 years since the Dark Days.
A knock on the door.
The thud of a package outside my door.
Ripping open the package, I skim the contents. A few things catch my eye.
-Extreme Volume Boosting Mascara
-Lipstick
-Lip Liner
-Eye Shadow
-Spray Glitter
-Cheek Glow
-Puffy Blonde Wig
-Industrial Hold Hairspray
-Bobby Pins
-Spray-On Washable Hair Color
And these are only some of the contents in the package.
The phone rings.
I quickly grab it, hoping it doesn't wake up my sleeping 8-month-old twins, Ethan and Ivy.
Holding the phone to my left ear, I whisper, "Hello?"
"Fiona…."
My stomach lurches. I would recognize this voice anywhere. On the other end of this conversation I hear the raspy, unforgiving voice of Ashton Tewlette, President Snow's secretary.
"Yes?..." I reply barely audible.
"I would like you to know that I have made sure that your package has been sent. You know, for this year's appearance?" she says.
"Of course! Your make-up choices have been absolutely exquisite this year!" I say, trying to gain confidence in my voice. Still, I can't help but roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of it all.
"Oh yes, I have spent lots of time on deciding these, so I figured the least you'd be is quite pleased. Don't worry; your outfits will be arriving shortly!"
"I can't wait!" I say sarcastically.
"That's the spirit! You see, every item you've received today is numbered, and so is your wardrobe. Each number represents the day people will see you. For example, every item labeled with a number one will be utilized for the day of the reaping," she says.
"Okay, well thank you for reminding me! I have to go now, so maybe some other time we could talk?" I hear the whines of my children in the background.
"Don't worry Ms. Ernst, I'll always be able to talk," she snarls before the line goes dead.
Sighing I toss the phone on the couch and hurry into my babies' room. When I see them, my beautiful children, all of my worries are erased from my mind immediately. They are my only pride and joy. Gently, I scoop Ethan up and hold him on my left hip and then I hold Ivy on the other. Slowly walking back down the hall, and carefully sit down on my push sofa. As we settle down into the couch, a triple sigh escapes Ivy's lips. Gazing around the room, my eyes fall on the package, with its scattered contents across my kitchen counter tops. My poor children, for when they are older, I will have to explain everything to them. My memories are overwhelming and I need to get a grip on the world. How am I supposed to tell them why they can never meet their father, how I have spent my childhood, and even how we have come to live here? I don't even know how to tell them that I could never quit my job. No matter how much pain it causes me, I will always maintain my same position. My misfortune started when I was just 18 years old.