"Get off of me!" she yelled, trying to twist her wrist away. She could feel the iron grip becoming the all too familiar blacks and blues. Tears stung her eyes as his hand tightened, before moving up to her upper arms. He gripped terribly hard as he shook her, his drunken breath suffocating.
Eyes glazed with alcohol found eyes glazed with tears. Her skin was porcelain, though marred just below her left eye. The contusion stood out like a shadow on her young face.
"Please, dad. We have to go to the reaping. I'm twelve now, we can't hide from it anymore." His grip slackened almost angrily on her malnourished arms. Her eyes gave him a pleading glance.
"Go then," his rough voice said. "Go, you wouldn't want to miss your moment of fame!"
The young girl struggled to hold back her tears as her father turned away from her. His shoulders, strong from the years of toil in the fields, walked away from her, moving towards the ratty old couch. He sat down and stared at the wall, his hand automatically finding the bottle of wine and bringing it to his mouth. He didn't look at her.
Heart struggling in her chest, the girl swallowed hard. She lifted up a thin hand and waved in the direction of her only parental figure. "Bye, dad. Love you," she whispered, before turning and walking quietly out of the house.
The streets themselves were quiet, but the noise from the square filtered into the silence, breaking it in its own second hand way. The dust from the road kicked up, but it was barely visible on her dark blue jumper and old brown boots. Reaching to her dirty blonde hair, she put in two quick braids. If she was chosen, she wanted to at least look like a girl worth rooting for.
Her tired feet lead her to the square without thought. She was quickly spotted by the guards at the entrance and led over to where the other twelve-and-up children were waiting, roped in like pigs for slaughter.
As soon as the rope was set back in place behind her, Harlow, her best friend, ran to her. She hugged her lightly, all too familiar with the damage frequently inflicted by her intoxicated father.
"Oh Rowan, what was his excuse this time?" she inquired, lightly fingering her face and tiny wrist.
She shrugged, her injured arms aching in response. "I don't know. Alcohol. What else is there?"
A sad smile found home on Harlow's face, horrified with but resigned to the life of her best friend. She hugged her again, and said in her ear, "We'll be okay, you know. Look at all of these kids, what are the chances it will be one of us?"
Rowan shrugged again, while thinking, What were the chances that my mother would get so sick and die? What were the chances my dad would find alcohol a better friend than his daughter? What were the chances my older brother would be chosen for the Hunger Games six years ago? What are the chances?
Suddenly, loud taps on the microphone filled the crowd. The effect was instantaneous and silence descended, though Rowan was sure she could hear the hearts of the herded children, children who were waiting for the news that they would never grow old or get married or have children of their own; children who were waiting for their death sentence.
"Today, we will choose the tributes for the fifty-seventh hunger games. District 11, the eyes of Panem are on you." The presenter was a fairly attractive male, well dressed, with brunette hair so perfectly styled; it was obvious he hailed from the capital. Rowan had seen him before, while watching the replays of the reapings at school. Her father had done everything possible to avoid watching them (an action that could have cost him his life, not that she suspected he cared), since her brother, Logan, had been chosen.
"We will, like always, pick the girl tribute first!" The man put his hand in the bucket and swirled the white slips around. Do you think he knows that those aren't just pieces of paper swishing around? Rowan asked herself. They're real, breathing, feeling, humans.
It felt like the world was in slow motion as he brought the chosen slip up so that he could read it. The breath he took before announcing it could have lasted an eternity. Harlow grabbed her hand and squeezed.
"Rowen Riley, come on up!" He cheered, so devilishly excited for the end of her life. What color she had in her pale face drained, highlighting her mottled cheek.
Harlow spun her around and into a hug, tears streaming down her cheek. "I love you, Rowan!" she said forcefully into her ear. Rowan hugged her back for the first time, not caring how much it agitated her injuries. Pain felt good now. It meant she was still here.
"Up, up!" He said, smiling, beckoning her. The crowd parted easily. No one wanted to touch the dead girl.
She slowly walked up the steps, counting them, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. It kept her mind busy.
Her feet, always all knowing, found their way to the presenter. He grinned goofily and gave her a painful side hug in welcome. She couldn't help but wince. He noticed and let go, announcing awkwardly, "And now, we will pick our male tribute!"
Macaulay Jameson was chosen. He was big, easily twice her size. She knew he was seventeen, just barely still of reaping age. Rowan knew that her chances of winning might as well just have gotten up and walked away.
Macaulay joined her on stage, though few words were said before they were ushered away, into the Town Hall. Rowan actually had yet to say a word since being chosen as a tribute.
They were led to separate rooms and told those who wished to visit them may. Rowan sat silently, too shocked to cry or scream or destroy. A few minutes after her arrival to the mysterious room, Harlow burst through the door. She had stopped crying, though her cheeks were wet with tears. She rushed to Rowen, sat down next to her, and held her hand.
No one else came.
Before long, days had swept past. The night on the train seemed like years ago, her feeble Capitol ordered training useless and so long ago she could barely remember.
Her skin, which had shocked her poor, unsuspecting design team, was now clear of contusions. Her face was beautiful and her eyes an azure blue. Her hair glistened in the artificial light, in the two braided pigtails which had become the symbol of the poor, poor girl from District 11.
Wringing her hand, she thought of her father, sitting on the couch in the same position she had left him. The angry words and heavy hands she was now used to reverberated in her mind, but so did the nights from long, long ago, when he tucked her in to bed and read her mystical stories.
Tears glistened in her eyes as the tube carried her up to the arena.
"Open up, open up!" A voice yelled between sobs. "August Riley, open up right now!"
The voice that disturbed his hazy sleep was the distraught voice of a young girl. Her pounding on the door grew weaker as her sobs grew louder.
Her shouts became pleas, "Please, please, open the door…"
Unable to listen to her pounding and crying any longer, he stumbled off of the couch for the first time since Rowan left. He hadn't spoken to anyone for they hadn't spoken to him.
But he knew. He knew when she didn't return that day.
"I'm coming," he grumbled, lurching to the door and undoing its locks. "What do you want?"
What he saw made his heart stop for a moment, as it caught in his throat. He hadn't seen her in years, but he would recognize Harlow anywhere, even when her eyes were red and swollen and her face dirty, as if she hadn't had the time nor care to wash.
She looked up to him, face full of sorrow, as she said, "She…she…the Cornucopia…she didn't…survive the…Cornucopia."
Unable to look at him any longer, the young girl turned and fled, her hair and dress whipping behind her as she disappeared behind the corner.
Anger suddenly overcame the man, and he slammed the door with such vengeance that the wall rattled. Fury engulfed him, and he ransacked the house. Plates crashed to the floor, shattering to pieces. Pans clattered loudly, but he didn't hear them. The myriad of alcohol bottles were broken, broken, broken. The table was flipped, the curtains ripped down. He had just walked into the sitting room, ready to destroy, when he saw them. They were wilting now, but there, clear as day, sat a small bundle of flowers. Picked by Rowan.
Grief overcame him.
He slid to the floor, and for the first time since Logan's death, he cried. He cried and cried and the tears stained his cheeks. He shouldn't have treated her the way he had, ever since he lost his son. It hadn't been her fault – she had been only six, barely old enough to remember the alphabet. Yet he had taken his agony out on her.
She had never complained. She cooked him meals and kept up with the housework, even though he could see, plain as day, the bruises that found home on her skin because of his fists. He was ashamed.
He hadn't gone to see her reaping. He hadn't visited her for a last goodbye. She had probably sat alone, alone in this fight, alone in this world. He hadn't even watched any of the pre-games television like he was supposed to. He hadn't seen her since the say she left this house for the last time.
He looked through his hands at the wilting flowers that lay on the table. What had she said to him? What had been the last words he had ever heard from her?
Bye, dad. Love you.
He buried his face into his knees, and he cried for the daughter he would never see grow up, never see become a mother. For the daughter who would never know just how much he loved her.
Walking over to the table, he bent and scooped up the flowers she had picked. Putting them under his nose, he sniffed, and could have sworn he could smell her.
"Bye, Rowan," he whispered, "Love you."
Fin.
Author's Note:
1. Child abuse is a serious issue and should never be taken lightly. If you or someone you know if being abused, please, seek help. You can call 1-800-4-A-CHILD in the US or ChildLine in the UK at 0800 1111.
2. Please R&R. It means a lot to me, and gives me the motivation to write more! Thank you.