Everyone has a story. A loved one. A past. This is for all the characters that were fillers. The ones we forgot, too caught up in the story of Katniss and Peeta to even give some of them a name.
District One
Marvel
My father wasn't proud of me until the last two weeks of my life. To him I was a disgrace, nothing but a deadweight dragging our family down from the pedestal we had built for ourselves.
His grandfather had been a Victor, bringing pride to the last name Adams, and status to our lowly District One family. Schroder Adams was revered for his bravery, looks, and incline to kill. But me, I was never like that.
I had always been more content to sit in the old clock tower, the pride of our district, surrounded by my only friends: books. It was my uncle who was supposed to renew our rank in the world, earn us another polished house in the overpopulated Victor's Village, put another Adams' back onto the map.
But at eighteen, after thirteen years of preparation for the moment that was supposed to be his for the taking, he faltered. It was only a second of hesitation, as a fifteen year old girl stared him down from a floating piece of rock three feet away, and he lowered his sword.
Giving her just enough time to throw off his balance, dooming him to a sea of molten lava, where he would burn and drown at the same time.
By that time my father was no longer of reaping age. So it was to be his son. Me. I hardly tipped the scale when I was born, and I grew to be a lanky boy, all angles. Never the meaty slab of raw muscle I was supposed to be. My father saw the mistakes in me before I even had a chance to live.
So they kept trying. And five daughters later my mother gave out, dying of blood loss with her youngest girl cocooned in her arms. My littlest sister, Gem. I was twelve at the time, leaving her a mere six when I finished my endless hours of training. The only thing I was ever good with was a spear, the one weapon I could lift and wield, and that was the only thing I had going for me when I mounted the stage.
That and my last name, which had disintegrated into nothing but a topic of conversation for Caesar Flickerman to shed light on during my interview. Of course, I was convinced the name was cursed, courtesy of my dear Uncle Sheer.
The Adams' were never meant to be killers, with the exception of Schroder, who, upon further investigation, was mentally ill. Surprise, surprise.
The only time my father ever smiled at me was when I was leaving, the last time I would see him. Gem was clinging to my calves, and I was desperately trying to quell her rising hysteria by promising to buy her all the cookies she could ever eat when I returned. Triple Dutch fudge, if she wanted.
Her tiny little eyes had widened in surprise, as no one could afford to buy Triple Dutch Fudge except the insanely wealthy. And, instead of smiling at the fact that his little girl would be happy in a sugary heaven, he smiled at the fact that I had resolved to win.
His last words to me were, "Make us proud boy. This family could use a winner, and it looks like the honor goes to you."
Not exactly what you want to hear when going into a death match, but I suppose it beats nothing. I'd like to think my mother would've said something nicer, but in truth, she was no better than him.
With his parting words, I was whisked away. Never to see Gem or any of my other sisters again.
And when I stood there, spear in hand, covered in dried blood and staring at the tiny little girl trapped in my net all I could think was: Gem. This child was so short, and Gem was so tall. They were nearly the same size. Except for one thing. Gem was home watching her big brother on TV, whereas this puny wisp of a girl was inches from imminent death.
I almost walked away, comparing her to Gem. But I suppose, in the end, that's what kept me there. If I bowed out and walked away someone would know. And I would never return to the real Gem. The Gem who was still waiting for her Triple Dutch Fudge cookies.
Knowing I could make her death painless and nearly instant, while eliminating one more tribute and bringing myself closer to home, I threw the spear. And the throw was as accurate as ever. I never anticipated Katniss, though I suppose I should've, considering the little girl was wailing her name over and over.
But I didn't. Nor did I register the arrow making a beeline for my neck.
The wrong thing to do was pull it out. But I didn't want to prolong it any longer. So I died with the word 'sorry' bleeding from my lips.
I'm not sure who I was saying it too: Rue, Gem, or my sisters. But I do know that I was not saying it to my father.
I could never apologize for ruining the thing he forced upon me. I could never be sorry for being who I was. I could never feel shame for bringing more disgrace to the Adam's name. And I could never regret anything I did.
How can you regret, when you're dead?