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The square in District 4 was, in my opinion, far too small, and too close to the sea. It meant that every reaping day I not only had to worry about the chance of being forced to my death on national television, but I also had to worry about not slipping on the slimy moss that coated the ground. It was like the sea had just deposited all of it's seaweed onto the cobbled streets, and it made looking calm and collected just that bit more difficult. I walk next to my only friend in the world Clara and we quickly join hands in a desperate attempt to keep upright as we venture through the masses of people heading towards the square. "That's three now." she comments to me quietly as another kid falls. He looks about seventeen, older than most of us, so he really should take the fall with some sort of grace, but he doesn't; the second he hits the floor he's sick. We barely have time to gasp in shock before the peacekeepers have swarmed on him and pulled him off out of the view of the cameras. The commotion is met with the sounds of two adults gasping and trying to reach past the long velvet rope that separates them from us. See, that was probably the worst part of the reaping:trying to look strong for your parents. I never had to bother though, and neither did Clara, we were both from Medler house. It was District Four's community home, so we didn't have any parents to be brave for, that was probably the only advantage of the rotten place.
"Sign in here." my thoughts are broken as a peace keeper holds my wrist out for me and pricks my finger. The amount of blood it draws is minuscule but a sickly looking girl to my right turns very pale once she sees it. I really hope she doesn't get picked. After that we move on quickly and are settled into our pen. This is my second time around and Clara's third so we should be in different pens but the peacekeepers don't notice so we stay put in the thirteen year old pen because it's closer to the back so we can leave faster. "Hey," Clara nudges me to get my attention and points up at the people taking to the stage. My eyes become fixed on our escort, Marina Waters, who grins down at the square. "It's a miracle she can see out of those things." I whisper back referring to her eyelashes which extend at least thirty centimetres from her face. I wonder just how she is managing to keep her eyes open when she taps on the microphone; a terribly loud static cuts through the square which prompts a quick silence. I instinctively grab Clara's hand, she gives a small squeeze back and we wait. We wait all the way through the usual clip from president Snow, reciting a story that we already know and hold our breath as Marina steps over to the bowl. My name is in twenty five times and Clara's is in 30. It seems like a-lot because it is. If you were in a community home your name had to go in twenty times at the age of twelve and it went up by five every year. The reason was pretty simple; District 4 had plenty of volunteers, they went into the games practically every year and so most times of the year the amount of times your name went in meant nothing. And it's an easy way to get food so we did it. Still, it doesn't stop the butterflies in my stomach. Marina dips her long clawed nails into the bowl and swipes around three or four times before she grabs a slip. She walks back over to the microphone, unfolds it slowly and clears her throat before announcing,
"Freya Medler." Shit. Shit, Shit. I begin to repeat over and over again in my head. I look to Clara who has tears welling in her eyes but lets my hand go after one final squeeze, "Don't cry." She mutters quietly and I realise how close I've come. My lower lip is trembling and my hands are shaking. I force myself to stop and with a quick nod from Clara I ever so slowly move forward. Nobody will look at me as I exit my pen, nobody except for Marina who smiles widely, "Come on now!" she almost cheers from the stage. I would move faster but all of a sudden the only thing I can think about is the moss. Parents or no parents, tripping over now would be a terrible mistake so I keep my eyes trained on my feet and step carefully. It must be because I'm looking down that I bump into the girl in front of me. She's just emerged from the seventeen year old pen and by the looks of her she's shaking more than me. I look up at her and regain my balance. "I-I-" she starts looking out to her right where the adults stand. I see a few of them nod at her, their eyes urge her on harshly. "I-I..." she tries again but the words just wont form. She looks to the adults again and they look as though they want to kill her. The girl shakes her head, "I'm sorry, I can't." she says and it's barely a whisper that escapes from her throat. She steps back into the pen and I see the adults look down in shame. Some of them even step back into the crowd to hide their faces from the camera. "Right then." Marina starts, clearly flustered at that anti-climax, "Up you come." I realise she's speaking to me and I move faster now, despite the moss, and make it to the stage. As soon as I'm up she pulls me to the microphone,
"Well that was rather an exiting start wasn't it." She beams, I nod. Her eyelashes just look so heavy up close. "Come, come, tell us your name." she prompts, I lean into the microphone and speak,
"Freya Medler." I say, although I'm not sure why, everyone already knows.
"Medler that sounds familiar." She wonders out loud. I nod,
"It's the name we all get at the community home." I explain, staring at Clara for approval. She nods, barely holding back tears. I guess we both know that I'm practically already dead.
Marina smiles and asks the audience to a give a round of applause. They do, and the male tribute is selected,
"Brian Northfield." She calls and I see the sickly boy emerge from his pen. He's older than me but he looks wafer thin and pale. His parents who I briefly saw earlier let out a small sob and clutch to one another. That's why it's better for me, I think, there's nobody to leave behind. Well there is someone, I think of Clara and how we'll probably never get to talk properly to one another ever again. I think about how she's going to have to watch my death. I can't really tell who's come out of our situation worse, me or her? I don't get to think about it for long before I hear Brian hit the floor. He's fallen twice and even Marina won't help him with the pale white sick that's travelled down his shirt. I hear a disappointed sigh from behind me and turn to see Finnick Odair pinching the bridge of his nose in apparent embarrassment at his tributes for this year. I feel another emotion overwhelm my terror, it's anger. Yes, Brian was a mess if we had ever had one but he was justified in it. So I cross the stage without thinking and offer him my hand. He looks like he's about to burst into tears so I repeat Clara's words to him, "Don't cry." I'm quiet but he hears me and swallows back a wail. He takes my hand and we manage to make it back to the centre of the stage. Once I'm sure he's capable to stand I let him go and walk back over to my spot.
"How sweet." Marina cries and claps her gloved hands spurring a weak round of applause from the audience. It's drowned out mostly by the careers laughter. I would be embarrassed but my concentration is too focused , on Finnick Odair who I can see out of the corner of my eye watching me carefully, almost as if he's sizing me up. I do my best to ignore it and am grateful when the peacekeepers emerge out of nowhere to escort Brian and I into the justice building. From there we're crowded into two different rooms. I'm taken aback by how grand it is at first; the azure walls, and golden rimmed seats, but then after I've been alone long enough for my reality to sink in it just seems suffocating. There is a fish tank though which I watch to take my mind of things for a moment. I just wish I could be one of them, you know just stay in the tank, float about and not have worry about about anything. But, I am not a fish, I'm just a very, very dead girl. The tears are starting to return to my eyes when Clara bursts through the doors. The peace keeper tells us we have ten minutes so I cling to her tightly.
"You can do this." She tells me and I'm shocked at the honesty in her voice. I pull out of her embrace to tell her that there's logically no way I can but she has followed my line of thought and stops me with a shake of her head, "You're fast Freya, You- you're smart." She tells me taking one of my hands in her own and squeezes it as if that will get the message through to me. I nod along with her to make things easier on both of us. It's probably better that at least one of us gets to have hope. "You're going to beat this, I know you will." starts up again. I senselessly nod back and look back towards the fish. "I, I wish I had something to give you." She says, I look back at her and can tell she's getting a bit more panicked as our time is running out, "It's fine." I tell her and she looks up at me. "Tell me you're going to make it." she says, I start to shake my head but she digs her nails into my hands in desperation, "Tell me."
I steady my voice carefully and say it, "I'll make it." and I know it's a lie.
With that the peacekeeper renters the room and pulls Clara away from me, "I'll see you soon!" she calls over her shoulder, I watch until the last flash of her blonde hair disappears down the corridor. The door clicks closed and I'm about to cry again when it flies back open. Two complete strangers walk in and I almost tell them they've got the wrong room when I remember: the wail when Brian was called, they're his parents. They stand in silence and the mother clings to her husbands hand before he clears his throat. "I,- We" he corrects himself, "We want to thank you for what you did back there." they refer to me helping Brian up. I shake my head slightly, It was the right thing to do. "No problem." I reply, my voice sounds stronger than it should, but I guess that's a good thing in this situation. They turn around to leave when the wife suddenly speaks up, she looks twice as tearful but speaks, "I know I shouldn't ask you this but- he's my son. He's- He's all I've got-" she starts to weep again and her husband pulls her close apologising to me, "Keep him safe, please... I just don't want him to be scared when..." She begs from where she stands. I know in reality there is nothing I can do to help. There is no way to save him, even if I was a career but when someone is weeping so much you can't help but re-assure them. "He won't be." I say. It's not much, I practically just confirmed their son was going to die but I assume they already know that. They already know that we're both going to die and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it. Still I must've done something to re-assure them as they leave they thank me and leave the room.
From there I sit in silence. The visitor time is one hour in total before we board the train. I watch the fishes again.