I have no one left to kiss goodbye but a bird that lands on my windowsill. It regards me with black, beady eyes as I straighten the cream hem of my dress. The dress is dirty, smeared with dirt and wrinkled from being stuffed in the back of the closet. If my father was still alive he would have rolled his eyes at me standing in the mirror, tugging on it and huffing.
I've never liked dresses. In fact, I've always hated them. My work is in the lumberyard in dark wash pants and sweat-stained top.
Pretty isn't really my thing.
So I don't bother with my hair, I let it hang in messy blonde waves to the tops of my shoulders. And I don't bother to try and scrub the scent of wood shavings off my skin. I don't straighten out the dress. And I refuse to try and make it look like it suits me. The sleeves are too small and the sinewy muscles in my arms stand out too aggressively. The waist is bunched up and billows around the lean plane of my stomach and the narrow width of my hips. I look like some kind of blonde animal blowing around in a white burlap bag. Satisfied with this impression, I leave the hut I used to share with my father and two older brothers.
The empty swing of the door startles the crow off the windowsill. I turn my head over my shoulder and narrow my eyes into the shadows. The chair at the table where my father used to sit and carve wood sculptures to sell at the market is dusty. I haven't touched it. And the fireplace where my brothers use to stretch out after a long day in the yard is full of ash.
An accident on the job took all of them from me. One freak accident. One misjudged angle. My family –gone. I was working that day too and when I heard I just kept going. Chopping, hacking, sawing. That's what you do in District 7. You just keep going.
The door closes and I step into the dirt. I hear a lot of tears walking down to the square. Children throwing fits in little houses, tender embraces on doorsteps, quiet whimpers of the ones who are too old to cry but can't help themselves. I don't have any friends. I don't have a family. I don't really have anything to mourn or fear for. I walk by all of them with my head held high and find myself in the jumble of bodies at the center of the District where the stage and screen have already been set up.
"Calla."
I turn at the sound of my name. A girl who works in my section at the lumber yard grabs my hand. She was never built for work in the field. She's slight of figure, doe-eyed and has arms like flower petals. Standing next to me she looks just like a lily whereas I'm the blonde beast, the powerful, scathing presence. We're not friends. But I help her with her load time to time so she doesn't fall behind. I out-muscle her in almost every regard. Except that she's always smiling. And I think I've forgotten how.
"Hey, Theta," I murmur.
I look over her shoulder and find the green-skinned escort for District 7, Pastel Ivory, with her wild blue hair up on the stage. I try hard to find any emotion worth feeling.
"You okay?" Theta asks with mild trepidation.
"Fine," I fall silent for a moment before remembering my manners, "You?"
"Nervous," she says. Her head drops and dark curls sweep across her face.
I have no condolences to offer. She's young and her name isn't in the jar as many times as mine is, but we both know that means nothing. So I don't waste my breath. We lose each other in the crowd and I come to stand in the center of a group of nervous young women. Most of them are more well-put together than I am. Then again, most of them had mothers to nurture their femininity. I never met mine. I went right into work and knew how to wield and axe by seven.
The screen shows the Capitol seal. The blue haired escort takes the stage and the cameras fixate on her. District 7 falls silent.
"Welcome, welcome!" she says in her crisp, tight Capitol accent.
I fade out. I try to remove myself from the square as I do every year. I hate the terrified looks and the still fresh tears. The woman prattles on and I picture things I love. Pine trees, hot water, an axe through wood, wild flowers and the wind.
All of a sudden Pastel Ivory is pulling a name out of the boy's jar. She reads it and it comes to me in a haze.
"Leoporis Boxwoll!"
She grins like it's great news. And every head turns to the boy who moves forward from the crowd. I recognize Leo. He works a few sections over from me in the yard. He was close with my eldest brother, but we never really spoke.
He's tall and built lean. He was never much for cutting wood but he was damn good at fixing things. He has a hard cut jaw and two smoldering brown eyes that burn the rest of the crowd as he looks around and finally builds the courage to ascend the steps.
He joins Pastel on the stage and she turns.
"Ladies next!"
I fade out again. I close my eyes and try to pretend I'm somewhere lovely. On the top of a pine tree, inhaling all of its sweet odor. I stretch my fingers out to the clouds. I see a bird cutting the sky with its wings.
"Calla Aldjoy!"
I'm brought back to Earth with startling force. As though I've fallen from the tree and smacked against the ground. The wind rushes out of me. I look right, left –all I see is eyes. Pitying glances. Theta's tears are there somewhere. But if there's one thing I hate more than dresses, it's pity. So I steady myself. I push through the sad crowd like they're useless lily pads in a pond and make my way up to the stage.
Leoporis doesn't meet my eyes. And why should he? I come to stand by the woman's side and she holds up both of our arms. The crowd claps softly. It's a resigned, parting note from my home.
I try to be grateful. Better me go than someone who has something left for them here. Ever since I lost my father and brothers I've been meaningless. I work, I eat, I sleep. I don't have anything left to love, and nothing left to fight for. Once I'm in the arena, District 7 will just have to watch on as I run right into the arms of whoever will kill me quickest.
Our mentor is called to the stage next. The escort's hand releases ours and she announces him with a flourish of her jeweled wrist.
"Thalon Galloway!"
He's a well known face around District 7. He won the 15th Hunger Games ten years earlier.
He's startlingly handsome, built appropriately like a tree. He comes to stand at the edge of the stage and clasps his hands in front of his waist. The sun catches the fair blonde hair along his jaw and the rest of it that comes a little above his shoulders. He was a Capitol favorite. He was rugged in the arena with his heavy arms and barrel chest, positively brutal. But blessed with chiseled good looks and a humble as pie attitude in the interviews. That persona stuck when he came back to District 7. He went back to work immediately and left the victor house for his family. He's always been a little too noble for my tastes.
We meet eyes before I rip mine away. The reality settles over me in waves. I take one last look at the tall arching pines in the distance and try to memorize everything I love about home.
Because this is the last time I'll ever see District 7.
Hello there! c:
This is my rewrite of the 1st Quarter Quell and those involved. I'm using creative license, as a disclaimer.
Reviews are cherished and adored~
Enjoy!