"For what is it to die, But to stand in the sun and melt into the wind? And when the Earth has claimed our limbs, Then we shall truly dance."
― Khalil Gibran
"RUN! IVY, RUN!" he screams and the sound fills me with terror. I try to run, but they've spotted me already and my legs can't move fast enough. I swerve through the pressing crowd and try to make it to a dark alleyway. A white clad peacekeeper easily sweeps me into his huge arms and I scream for help. He forces me to look at the stage. Daddy collapses on the ground, with a bullet in his brain.
I awake, shivering and covered in cold sweat, gasping from my nightmare as my eyes replay the images of my father's final moments again and again and again. I see his fearful eyes, his hard pressed lips, all in perfect recall, etched against my closed eyelids. Wiping the moisture from my brow, I feel the movement of a small body beside me. Of course. Shell. I turn towards her, watching her little face peaceful in sleep. She must have snuck through to my dorm. For a six year old, she's pretty sneaky. Normally I might complain about her stealing my space but, on a day like today, I just let her be. She turns over onto her back and I tuck the sheet around her as I slip silently out of the bed. The air is chilled and crisp, the breeze is leaking through the cracks in the window, and I shiver as I pull on my jacket. Around her neck is her namesake, a tiny coral shell tied onto a necklace made of tightly-woven brown string. She was found abandoned three years ago with nothing but that necklace. I watch at her, unable to see how anyone could bare to leave her, but I already know the reason why. She was just one too many mouths to feed. Here in District Eight, food shortages are the only thing we know, the kids in my community home have never had a full stomach. I look around the room, taking in the steadily breathing forms of the seven girls I share with. Once content of their slumber, I drop to my knees and prize up the loose floorboard under my bed. Swiftly, I reach into the gap and pull out my only precious possession – ballet slippers. I stitched them myself from scraps I silk I stole from the factory. I slip them into the pocket of my battered jacket. Walking carefully to avoid creaking floorboards, I glide across the room in a practised motion and open the door, holding my breath as it squeeks.
The hall is dark and dank, with the faint smell of rotting wood, and I walk quickly down it, towards the window at the far end, slowing to a crawl as I pass doors. With a quick check of a cracked clock on the wall, I see that it is 5am. In District Eight, the first shift in the factories starts at 6am, with school beginning at 8:30am for 4-18 year olds. Everyone here pulls a four hour shift at some point of the day, producing clothes and textiles to be sent to the Capitol. I dropped out of school last year, on my long awaited sixteenth birthday, so I could work full time in the factories. It was a shock to the system when I wasn't able to feed Shell on my one shift a day routine, so I had to give up my education. I make elaborate dresses for Capitol ladies, with beautiful lengths of silk and velvet, when I think of the easy life those in the Capitol have compared to us in the districts, it makes me sick. But today is Reaping Day, so few people need to awaken until at least 8am. The reaping isn't till 2pm, so you might as well sleep will you can. Unfortunately for me, I'm on the list to work a shift this morning. Yippee. From the pocket of my jacket, I slip out a small knife and carefully slide it under the latch and swipe it to the right. Then I carefully open the window and climb out, balancing with ease on the tiny ledge. I begin to climb up the short distance to the flat roof of the building, the large cracks of neglect making for an easy climb. I reach the top in a few seconds and haul myself over the railing. With a deep breath, I look out across the ugly grey rooftops of the district. The district is made of hundreds of tightly squashed tenements, with the occasional factory breaking their uniform ranks. The air is thick with industrial fumes, but this morning a swift breeze is bringing fresh air from the east. I breathe in the clean air with a smile on my face then I sit down on the ledge and pull on my ballet shoes. I stand up straight, lift my head up high and begin to dance. I pirouette, brisé and fouetté en tournant until my legs shake and my breathing is laboured. It's all I've ever wanted to do – dance. I love it more than life itself, to feel the beat, the essence of music and move your body to it. For me, that is more important than even oxygen. With an outstretched arm, with a spin, you can show the world an emotion they did not know existed.
When I hear the first sounds of movement in the home below me, I climb back down to the window, hitch it up and slip soundlessly back to my dorm room. I've just climbed into my bed, nestling Shell against my too-thin form, when the door bursts open, shaking the room.
"Rise an' sine, lil' ones! Time tay die!" Pallon is drunk. Again. The warden stumbles into the room, barely staying flat on his feet, with anger on his face. Oh no. I know that expression too well, from the eleven years I've been in the community home. I find my fingers fleeting over scars on my body. He flounders further, glaring at each girl in turn, until he rounds on me.
"Morning gorgeous." He breathes and I feel helpless fear rise within me. I push myself in front of Shell, who whimpers quietly. Pallon's face widens into a terrible grin.
"What do you want, Pallon?" I ask with an unsteady voice. He rips the sheets off my bed and laughs.
"OUT!" He bellows and I can smell the liquor on his breath from my bed. Girls scurry from the room, dressed in nightgowns, without even a second glance. Shell sits still, uncertainty on her face. I motion to the door with my head and watch her flee from the room.
"What do you want, Pallon?" He mimics my tone, a cruel look in his eyes. I try to swallow the large lump that has appeared in my throat. He stalks towards me and runs a finger down my cheek. I shiver. "I want you." He smirks, placing a heavy hand on my bare shoulder. My spine stiffens and I stare towards to open door, wondering if I could make it there faster than he could grab me. But the weight of his hand confirms that no, I cannot.
"No." I whisper quietly. Anger flashes in his eyes.
"You know… It would be a real shame if anything was to happen to that adorable little Negro that follows you about…" he says, stressing each word. "If you knew what was good for you… you'd do what I want." His hand snakes around the back of my neck and he laces his fingers tightly into my hair. He yanks my head back, exposing the pale skin of my neck. He runs his nose along the crease of my neck. I whimper.
"Yes… It would be a real shame." He murmurs, "So let's try it again … I want you. What do you say?" I shut my eyes. I'm scared. I know that Pallon is going to hurt me no matter what I say next. Keep it together, Ivy. The last thing you want to do is provoke him. His grip on my head tightens. I open my eyes and glare straight into his cruel, hard face. Before my brain has time to stop it, the word simply tumbles out of my open mouth.
"No."
The next thing I know, I'm being thrown from the bed. I tumble forward and land hard on my back, knocking the wind out of my lungs. I lie there for a second, stunned. Just when I realise that this is my chance to escape this awful, drunk man, he pushes me flat on the ground, sits across my hips and pins my arms to the floor. I turn my face away from his stench.
"Now, now, now… That's no way to behave for a young lady." He whispers, menacingly. I feel my back ache from the contact of the cold, hard floor. "You'd better make up for that and give me a kiss." He pulls my face up towards his. I'm filled with disgust. So I spit in his face. A blow connects with my cheekbone and instantly I feel tears spring at the back of my eyes. My head is reeling as I brace myself for the next blow. Pallon knees my stomach and I unwittingly cry out. He laughs. Next he thrusts my head back, hard, onto the wood. My brain rattles in my skull. I find his hands attempting to pull up my shirt and I'm thrashing beneath him, screaming.
"HEY! GET AWAY FROM HER!" someone shouts. Pallon is ripped away from on top of me; I scramble across the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. My saviour throws Pallon from the room with brutal force before hurrying and kneeling in front of me.
"Ivy, darling, it's okay, I'm here." Soothes my best friend Jeremy, brushing the hair away from my face. Before I can stop myself, I start to cry. Jeremy looks at me with concern, wiping away a tear with his thumb. "What happened?" He asks.
"H-h-he wanted to… H-he wanted me to…" I couldn't say it. "He threatened Shell!" I sob finally. Jeremy pulls me into his lap and rocks me softly.
"Shh it's okay. You're alright now, I'm here for you." He tells me, simply. We both know that Pallon is going to make him pay for helping me. I cling to his shirt with my fingertips, trying to keep him safe. We sit in silence for a while, as the sobs begin to subside and I regain my composure. Jeremy runs his fingers lightly over where Pallon hit me and I wince.
"Hurts?" He asks, cautiously. I nod, pulling myself out of his lap and standing up.
"I'll put some ice on it." I say, straightening my clothes. I gingerly press down on my cheekbone, aware of the bruise that is already forming. I busy myself with making my bed, attempting to pretend that Pallon had not even entered the room.
"Ivy…" says Jeremy quietly.
"Jeremy, can you just leave me alone?" I snap. I don't look at him but I know that my words' sharpness hurt him.
"Don't be like that." He says reproachfully. I can hear the hurt in his voice and I immediately regret my words.
"I'm sorry." I say, sitting down on the bed with my head in my hands. "It's stupid to get mad at you. Thank you for helping me." Jeremy puts two fingers under my chin and lifts my head so he can look into my eyes.
"I will always be there to save you." He says.
We met when I was six years old; he was seven at the time. I had just been dragged into the community home, kicking and screaming after seeing my father die. The community warden at the time, a dreadful woman named Lucia, beat me till I stopped screaming. She broke six of my fingers and four of my ribs; I was covered in bruises for weeks. I remember sitting in a dark room, crying, when I felt someone put their arm around me.
"I'm sorry they hurt you." Jeremy had said, "I promise I'll save you next time."
After that, we stuck together. Jeremy always tried his best to keep his promise. Of course, it was not always possible to save me. He's been too late before.
The factory looms over me in all its bleak abundance, the windows like cold, dead eyes. I draw my coat tighter around my shoulders and drop my head low, to blend in with the hopeless slump most community home children have, it will not do to draw any unnecessary attention to myself. With a curt nod at the peacekeepers guarding the entrance, I enter through the mesh steel doors and grab my check in card from the wall. The balding man on the reception eyes me with an angry look but something is stopping him from mentioning my lateness, perhaps the angry red marks on my face, and so he just bites his tongue. I check myself in and hurry towards my station. The factory is lit with harsh artificial light, which eventually damages the eyes of all the workers, the lanterns hang from the high ceiling and give the whole place a dank, cold atmosphere and the constant whirring of sewing machines and dusty coughs of workers fill the room with noise. I slide onto my stool, rubbing my hands to keep them warm. I hope dearly that my lateness hasn't been noted. I'm only ten minutes late but they'll dock my precious pay for it if I don't buckle down and make up for lost time. Since its Reaping day, I'm praying that Elizabeth, the floor manager, is in a good mood.
"Good morning Miss Allende." Comes Elizabeth's smooth drawl. Well that's just great. Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear, as they say. I paste a smile on my face and try to appear as cheerful as possible.
"Good morning ma'am! How're you?" I beam. Her face remains emotionless but I can feel her eyes trained on the swelling of my cheek. She doesn't look taken aback, however, because these injuries are not uncommon with me. Un-expectantly, a smile breaks out across her thin lips.
"I'm very well, thank you! And thank you for agreeing to work on this holiday, I'm aware that you are up for the Reaping today, so I wish you the best of luck!" She tells me sincerely.
With that, she's leaves me to my work. It seems that luck is on my side at this hour, she didn't even mention my lateness! I take up my needle and thread and begin to stitch delicate pearls onto a pale pink ball gown. They look like soft clouds upon an early morning sky and the soft satin wafts the faint smell of roses to me. Absentmindedly, I wish I could try it on, just to feel the luxury against my body. My eyelids feel heavy from the lack of sleep caused by my nightmares and the harsh light seers painfully. My mind is drifting to my plans for after the Reaping – Jeremy and I plan to take Shell for a trip to the bakery, as we've saved up enough money to buy a cake! We're celebrating Jeremy's last Reaping. Cakes are expensive things and I've only had a bakery cake once before, when Jeremy produced one for my sixteenth birthday. I can almost taste the sweetness on my tongue and I savour the feeling. The cakes and bread from the bakers put the measly rolls I make from my tessera grain to shame. You're given the option to sign up for a tessera every year on your birthday; they give you grain and oil in exchange for your name going into the Reaping Ball extra times. You are supposed to be able to receive a tessera for each family member, but the rules get a bit mixed for orphans. We can take them out up to four times, and I'm signed up for four. This means that my name is in there 30 times, Jeremy has 35 little slips of paper with his name written on them. The odds are still impossible, however. The chances of either of us being chosen are so slim, they are almost non-existent. I'm so wrapped up in the trappings of my mind that I don't sense someone standing close behind me.
"Gottcha!" cries Dee triumphantly as she swots me around the head. When she sees the surprised expression on my face, she erupts into peeling laughter. When Dee is concerned, it is impossible not to catch her unending optimism and I hear laughter ring from me. She smiles, flicks her short, chestnut hair away from her face and plonks herself on my workbench.
"Happy Hunger Games…" She begins, sporting the awful affected accent of the Capitol.
"And may the odds be ever in your favour!" I finish with an accent equally irritating. She bears a wide grin on her face but I know it's masking the despair. We have to joke because, like everyone else in the Districts, the awful reality of the Hunger Games is far too much for us to bear without it. Her eyes echo the same fear I feel, even though she is no longer eligible for the Games. Dee has five younger siblings and three of them will be in the Reaping Ball today, worrying about another is even worse than worrying about yourself. I do not envy her position. The smile fades from my lips and I take up my needle again, finishing the last stitches on the dress.
"So how are you holding up today?" she asks, the enthusiasm fading from her. I don't answer, choosing instead to fix her with a stare. She shudders. "That bad, huh?"
"I'm fine, just had a tough morning." I attempt to blow her off.
"Ivy, it's half seven in the morning, you haven't even had time to have a bad morning." I want to talk to her about it, to share what happened, but my skin is still crawling and I can still feel his hands on me. I want to start crying, but I'm at work. I can't cry at work. Dee peers at me closely, and then a look of disgust fills the corners of her face.
"What happened to you?" she chokes out. I can't look at her, I can't reply. I sit in miserable silence. "Pallon?" I nod. I can feel her bristling next to me.
"You have to get out of there, you cannot stay there!" she bursts, as if I don't already know that. I would leave if I could, but there is nowhere to go.
"Do you know why he gets drunk every Reaping? His brother was reaped twenty years ago." I say. I try to imagine how I would feel if someone I love went into the Games, maybe I would get drunk too. Dee pulls my face around to hers.
"You can't justify what he does to you just because he lost someone. Everyone has lost someone precious; the entire district has a sob story!"
"I just want to get through my shift and go home. Nothing else." I say, quietly. Dee throws her hands up in defeat. I lock off the stitches I was working on and dig around in my drawer for some red thread. I find what I'm looking for and thread it into my needle. On the hem of the ruffled dress, I do two cross stitches and then tie it off and cut the thread.
"Why do you always do that?" Dee asks me.
"Do what?"
"The red thread. Everything I've ever seen you make, you stitch a tiny bit of red thread on the hem." I smile weakly.
"I don't know really. I guess I just want to be recognized for my work. If I ever see one of my outfits on some fancy Capitol official, I can take pride in it being mine." Dee gives me a strange look. She doesn't understand that if all I ever do is make clothes, I need to hold pride in it. Not for anybody else but myself.
"Guess what I have?" Dee lights up. From the pocket of her slacks, she pulls out two shiny, red apples. My mouth drops open.
"You got fresh apples?!" I take one from her and sink my teeth into the waxy skin. Juice explodes in my mouth and I sigh contently. "How'd you get these?"
"The butcher, of all people. Traded some bread for it, he's practically giving them away today!" she tells me. I teach the butcher's daughter ballet on a Tuesday evening and I've come to know him as a kind, burley man. We sit and finish our apples in silence, before Dee has to leave me to do some work.
Hello lovely people! Some of you may recognize Ivy from some SYOCs and it is with great pleasure that I introduce Swan Song - her story through her eyes.
While we're at the start of this project, I just want to thank everyone who has helped me so far on this site, you are wonderful!
Please read and review!
Much love.