A short tale of the life of Hunger Games tribute Henny Gossamer. Companion to Coraline's Story Part 1 but can also be read on its own, although you would understand everything much better if you read both. I do not own the Hunger Games, but the character Henny Gossamer is an original.
When you're unfortunate the moment you are born, it's most likely that you're screwed for life.
My name is Henny Gossamer, and yes, I was unlucky enough to get stuck with a name like that. In District 10 we raise goats, cows, pigs, and of course chickens and hens. Guess who always had the chore of slaying the fat mother hens? Little Henny.
And even though they mostly live outside or in the damp barns, we also hate spiders, of whom spin fine gossamer webs. My mother would always shriek whenever she saw a spider. She would not touch manure, even with her rubber gloves. And milking cows or slaying chickens was out of the question.
Oh, Mother, Mother, Mother. One can only shake his or her head at that airhead woman. Sure, she was considered one of the prettiest girls ever born to District 10 (you can't say the same about me) but looks only get you so far. The rest depends on your skills and guts.
I'm a small girl but I've always handled tough situations. I butchered pigs. I slaughtered chickens. I've stolen their eggs. The looks they gave me. I've hunted birds and rabbits in the woodland beyond all the farms. When this crazy wild boar came roaming around at night I secretly slayed it and sliced it up then made a morning stew for me and my family. Nobody ever knew who saved them from the angry boar but I was okay with that. Nobody would believe me anyways.
I was bullied harshly in school. The girls who thought they were so popular and perfect would always come by and mock me, make fun of me. Hurt me. There's this centuries old proverb that goes like "sticks and stones may break your bones but won't hurt you". That's stupid manure Words can hurt a lot more than physical pain. And why do people always choose me as their victim? Because I grew up in a poor family where we can barely scrape enough leftovers to get by? Because we've had to resort to killing and breeding our livestock with other peoples to survive? Sure, we butchered but never beyond our own. And I may be skinny, and I may be the daughter of a tramp woman, and I may be homely. But still they don't know me. They dunno who I really am.
And they never will. When they called my name at the Reaping, I knew something no one else but another girl knew. She was another twelve-year-old, and in fact standing right next to me. I looked into her eyes for a sec, but she didn't meet my gaze. And that's how I knew she knew. But I saw the Escort. Pick up two slips of names. Dropped one. Read the other. Read mine. I tried to concentrate on my own image as I forced myself to go up on that dreaded stage, but I couldn't help wondering about the girl next to me. I don't know her name, but I've seen her around school. Everyday in fact. She's friends with some of the popular girls who bullied me.
I wondered if she knew that everyday after school I would run two miles home and burst out into tears before I made it to my front door. I wonder if she knew all the emotional damage her friends had done to my feelings, calling me ugly, tramp, useless, a living skeleton, ginger, and a bunch of other things. I wondered if she knew...that I had tried to hurt myself based on those things. My mother had never really cared about me much, instead she attends parties and dates many men for their money and food. My father died when I was five from a spreading influenza around the district. I had been infected too, but he'd forced the only medicine we had down my throbbing throat. I remember the hideous bitter taste of the cow hide medicine and the look on his face as he forced me to swallow. Once I did, I had burst into tears for I knew that there was only enough for one person. During all this my mother had been at a party. She didn't even know that my father had passed away.
I made a grave for my father and I would visit pretty much whenever I can. Soon I stopped showing up at home but my mother never cared. She started beating me whenever she saw me, so I tried to stay as far away as possible. I would run to the grave of my father and just hug it or be with it. It comforts me to know that he is still nearby. Whenever I'm bullied I talk out my feelings to him and he listens, and he listens well. Every time I have thought of suicide I remember that my father had given his life for mine, so I keep his gift. Sometimes I would bring flowers I picked from the meadow and arrange them in a pretty wreath around his grave. I never lit candles in case I accidentally lit his grave on fire, but in the summer I would take an old jar, catch a few fireflies, and then set them by his grave so they can spend the night with him and me. I would always let them go in the morning. My dad would never hurt any life and wouldn't want me to.
But now I have to go against all his wishes. My father saved my life and now the Hunger Games are putting them in danger again. I have to kill if I want to live. But my father would never want me to hurt another living thing. But if I die, my father would have given his life up in vain. Things are just so complicated right now. I wish my father was here to help me get through it. I need him. I'm only twelve. And I am already on my way to the arena.
Of course nobody volunteered when the Escort asks for them. It's like signing your own death day. I have slaughtered in my life, but those were just animals, and even then I felt a hidden pain I couldn't shake off. How was I to become a murderer of twenty three other kids who are trapped in the same situation as me, who have families, loved ones, and their own lives, who are forced to fight for everything they are and will be?
When I was taken prisoner, oh excuse me, escorted into the Justice Building to wait for the train, I didn't take any glances back. I didn't want myself to really realize that I was leaving the only home I've ever known, the horrible yet only life I'd had had behind. It was all too much to take in and not to mention the cameras were there, ready to pounce on you if you were in tears.
All I can do is to take one last glance at the blue sky, at the world around me, the safe, familiar sanctuary I've had for twelve hard years. I think about my father's grave in the little meadow. It looks so pretty when it's springtime and all the flowers are blooming around it. Without anybody to water them, will the flowers die off? I wondered. Will everything be the same after 100 years? Who will talk to my father at night, keep him company? Who will sing to the meadow? Who can dance in the rain with him?
I love him with all my heart. I love him so much. Everything is a blur, a pain.
Maybe, just maybe, this is a sign. Maybe me going into the Hunger Games will finally allow me to be with my father! Or maybe...I can somehow, very delicately, find a way to survive under the harsh circumstances, like I have at home, and then come back and live the life, the gift my father had given me without an ounce of hesitation.
I have always been tough. I have always been a survivor. Maybe this is just my chance to prove to other people that I am not just a little useless girl.
I plan to continue this story, but feedback really motivates me to write twists and more unexpected surprises! I really appreciate reviews, follows, favorites, even views. :)
