Chapter One.

Epitaph;
The 20th Hunger Games.

Prologue Part One.

Allano Sinclair, 40, Gravedigger;
jakey121.

We're told to keep going, no matter what.

When our backs are sore, our arms are tired, our eyes popping out of our skulls from exertion, the authority demands more graves. Because, what never runs out in a country like Panem, a never-ending tidal wave of supplies for our business, the fuel for corruption: dead bodies. The corpses of innocents.

District Eleven is the place to be if you're into graveyards. I'm not. My family never has been – what started off years ago as a way to help the war effort, it's now become something the Sinclair family is known as. We aid the newly departed into the next world. We help the grieving families who have nowhere else to go, because who else will look after them?

Panem is a snake's nest. The President a viper. He casts young boys and girls to their tombs. I do the dirty work of supporting it, because I have to. There is nothing on this earth that will let me condemn an innocent to be left on the streets to rot.

I pay the price of spending my entire life helping the deceased, aiding them to the next step. My best friends are dead bodies. I'm nothing but a slave to a country that wants us all gone and buried.

Ironic, considering.

"You shouldn't be out in this heat." My wife Parenna takes my hand softly, bringing it to her lips. Her touch is tender, but I pull my hand from her grasp, shaking the sweat and grime from my forehead.

"I have to…" I dig another hole, sifting the sun-baked dirt from the ground. "They're… coming back. We have to be ready."

"They may not be able to afford a funeral."

"Then I'll pay for it," I grunt as I dig, dig, dig. This is my life. I am building the bridge between tragedy and peace for those who have nowhere to turn. "They died for nothing. I'm giving them something, they deserve it. They're kids."

I feel her fingers touch my arm, delicately. Like she's scared she'll set me off. It's another reason why I hate this, why I hate what the Capitol does to me, because my anger has never felt more real. Never felt so much like it's building into something I can't control.

"We have kids of our own. They want their father."

I shake her off again. Her touch makes me feel sick. It reminds me I have more love for strangers than I do for my wife. Because being with the dead has taken something from me, taken a spark from my life and left me rotting in a shell.

"I have to do this. They will get the peace they deserve. They'll be remembered. I can't just… let them die, forgotten."

"They were in the Hunger Games. They'll be remembered."

I snort, running a hand through my short, greying hair. The sun has left my head red-raw. I wince when I touch it and pull back, gritting my teeth as I dig into the hole even more, heaving dirt over my shoulder.

"They'll be remembered as a statistic. A number. District Eleven had a boy and girl last year. What were their names, the Capitol sure won't know next time the Games come round." I pause, looking at her in a way that tells her I'm right. I am. I know I am. We all know the truth, she's just doing this for our children, I know. I don't blame her. But pretending it doesn't exist fuels the Capitol's ego, and I'll be damned if I can just let it go.

Not after what I've seen. Coffins no taller than my waist. Where twelve year olds are stored and buried under heaps of dirt, left to rot. But remembered. That's the most important thing. Even though they're dead, I'm helping their memories.

Keeping their names intact. Giving them their identity from beyond the grave. I do this because of my kids, no one understands. I do it because I see them in every small body hoisted down in the cold dirt. It's the greatest pain a father can feel – knowing I can't save them from everything.

I'm helpless.

"Just don't hurt yourself. I worry Allano. You're my husband, I respect what you do, because I know someone has to do it. But still, this life, it isn't a life."

"They get a place to rest in peace." I stare at her, cold-faced. "You better get yourself ready. Their families will want to organise the funeral. We need you at the front desk."

My wife mumbles something, but nods, bowing her head and turning to leave me to my work. Guilt plagues me, along with everything else I feel, a constant swarm that leaves me breathless and tired. Beyond the pain I feel for my work, there's something else that contaminates me and my family. A burden. But a burden I want. I just wish I could make a difference in a way that meant I wouldn't be digging these graves.

A way to put an end to these poor innocents being left in the ground. It's not right… it's not right.

I dig again, then again, and again and again. Dirt piles into a heap with a blank tombstone lying on its back. If they can afford it, it will be inscribed. If they can't, I'll pay for it myself. No matter what, these tombs, this little boy and the older girl, will get a name to their grave.

Once it's finished, I brush the dirt off my hands and face, looking up at the sun. It beats down like it wants to scorch the land in a never-ending summer. I raise a hand to my eyes and squint, in the distance, I see a black car arrive with a cheap coffin.

If the family could afford the coffin, they can afford the funeral. I've seen the Capitol dump the bodies in plastic wrappings.

It makes me sick.

Before I leave, I take one last look at the grave, big enough, but not too big. Another part of our trade revolves around the Capitol relaying the measurements of the tributes in advance, just in case. They think it's a kindness, speeding up the process.

Like they're giving me something? I look away, feeling a tear come, but knowing it will never fall. I haven't cried in so long. I won't cry again.

I just know, that somehow, in some way, something needs to happen. This grave isn't meant for an elderly man or woman who lived a life, a full, happy life. It's meant for a thirteen year old boy who lost whatever potential they had for the entertainment of the Capitol.

We live in a cruel world.

A world that kills children.

A word that's fuelled on the blood of our innocents.

It's Panem.

And it's wrong.

So, hello there one and all.

Another SYOT? What? What about Flesh and Blood :O Yeah don't worry, I'm writing literally a chapter a day for that, so I have time on my hands, and this isn't just me. This is done with my dear pal, cherished friend, and beautiful fellow writer, Cashmere67.

Just don't call him Cash. Call him Teddy.

As with all new stories, everything you need is on my profile. The form. The deadline. Guidelines. Number of males/females. Basically everything, so definitely check that out or you can't really submit, I guess. Yeah, you need a form to make a tribute.

I hope to see some great submissions, so have fun with it and I'll see you (or Teddy will see you) with the next chapter!