The bitterly cold wind takes my breath away and threatens to knock me over this fifty-foot bluff. I rub my hands together, blowing hot air into them. I relax, crouch down and wait for my partner to join me.
District 7 is starting its transition into summer. Bear season will be in full swing in a few weeks. My woods will be full of inexperienced hunters searching for a sack of coin with four legs. There isn't much game here in 7; the neverending hum of saws and belts and machines keep the smart animals away. Though Malus can usually snare a few raccoons or beavers a month. Flowers should bloom any day now adding some much needed color. The winters here are saturated with a droning, dull grayness.
I crouch down and carefully admire a white and yellow bud poking out of the damp soil. It's so still, almost nervous . Like a child waiting for his name to be called for a presentation. So youthful and beautiful. But it's a ruse. Today they will call the names and tarnish any beauty I can find. Not me, I pray to myself.
My partner materializes, placing a warm hand on my back. "Your last reaping, Flick. Then we can go." Malus's voice is soothing, and the gentle cadence rouses me. I plant a kiss on his freshly shaven cheek. He's right, now that my name won't be in the pool of tributes I could leave District 7 with Malus and never look back. We have discussed the idea of running away a handful of times. When I was sixteen it was a dream, like moving to the Capitol or having a full stomach. Now it's a possibility. Malus and I could pack our things, say goodbye to a select few, and be rid of the barbarism of our society. I'd never be forced to watch the Hunger Games again.
"You know Maven would hunt us down with a meat tenderizer," I say, resting my head against him. Our friend Maven, who runs a food stand in the square, would have no product. She's done so much for me I don't think I could just leave her stranded. I'd ask her to come with us but her old bones wouldn't make it a mile past the fences.
Malus wraps his arms around me, squeezing me tight. "I'd like to see her try." We drift away, allowing our minds to crumble in the wind like leaves. I've noticed Malus change over the past few years now that he not eligible for the Games. He so jovial and carefree and much more affectionate. He seems to glow. I feel the subtle pang of jealousy.
In the hours before the reaping Malus and I check snares and dig up potatoes for dinner. I have gardens spread all over these woods. I'm surprised someone hasn't looted our potatoes or onions. Thankfully there's nothing in the snares, I hate watching Malus kill and gut his catches. He used to make fun of me for being squeamish, but it's not the gore that's off putting. I just can't watch something die like that; squirming and soon to be a meal.
The reaping horn blares. One hour before the festivities begin. Malus and I share a look. He knows my odds of being chosen. I'll have twenty-one of my names in the bowl. Not me. Twenty-one individual death sentences. Please, anyone besides. It's definitely on the higher side, but I've known plenty of other guys with forty or fifty entries. Only a few of them have been reaped.
On our way into town we stop by Maven's place to drop off the potatoes. "It's about time," she says, handing Malus a small bag of coins. He counts them, giving me a strange look. "Well you two better get a move on. Gonna get these simmering before the reaping."
As we cross town there's a looming melancholy that I'm all too familiar with. Children stay closer to their parents, as if a Capitol hovercraft will scoop them up right then and there. I overhear a few older men making bets in an alley. The withered and dejected, who have no one that can be taken from them, wager on which ones will die this year. I look away, shoving the thought from my mind.
We arrive at my house and Malus whispers to me, "She gave us too much." He pours out the coins in his hand. "This is almost two times too much."
"Maybe Maven has finally gone senile," I say. Malus and I share a kiss and I head inside. The stank of man and alcohol assault my nose as soon as I open the door. I find my father sprawled out on the couch. "Come on, dad," I groan. "It's today, get up." I shake him awake as I've done many times before.
"What the hell?" he slurs.
"Reaping is today. Let's get ready." I continue to the bedroom as he grumbles something unintellegent.
We've had to sell most of our finer clothes in the past year so all that remains is a white button-up. It was one of my father's from when he was young. It's hard to picture him as a young man. Working in the mill, deciding how many tesserae he should incur, winning my mother's affection. But all that remains is a distant drunk.
I join my father in the kitchen to see his progress. He's made himself presentable with a clean, pressed shirt and tie, though he could use a shave. His light brown hair is neatly combed. We share the same honey colored hair and the same dark eyes; people say I'm his spitting image. I don't see it. "Where did you get that?" he asks me, referring to the itchy shirt.
"In the closet. I thought you wouldn't mind." He makes a throaty noise, pouring himself a glass. "Is it special?"
He pauses, takes a drink of liquor and looks down at the glass. "I got married in that."
"Oh," I stammer. If there's one thing I know about my father, it's that he loved my mother with his whole being. I heard from one of his drinking buddies that he tried to kill himself after she died. He just couldn't bare the world without her. That's why he drinks, to escape reality. I wonder if it works. Does he long for her even in his drunken state? Or is he too incoherent to even remember his own name?
I feel bad that I brought up such bad memories. "I can take it off, if you want." He looks at me puzzled.
"No," he says finishing his liquor. "Your mother would have liked seeing you in that." My mother died in childbirth, so I've never felt her absence. Just a distance father.
We walk to the square in painful silence where I neatly print my name on the sign-in sheet, Flick Mistral. Among other things, this helps keep track of District 7's population of nearly five-thousand. I turn to my father. His eyebrows are scrunched together. "Good luck," he says flatly.
"Yeah."
My father makes his way to the sidelines. I join the section of eighteen-year-old males, closest to the stage. As I do, I notice the camera crews perched on the buildings. Ravens waiting to pick clean the bones of a fallen animal. They'll capture every facial expression of this year's tributes. More people join the crowd and I begin to feel besieged by the amount of possible tributes around me. Anyone of them could be thrown into the arena and die. Not me, I pray.
Onstage is our infamous district escort: Camilla Dellsie. She wears a bright pink dress suit that hurts to look at. Her hair is an unnatural shade of yellow, it reminds my of an overly ripe lemon. These features give her an unreal quality, like she'll transform into a giant insect and walk right off stage as if it's the norm around here. I find her appearance comical; I could almost laugh.
The two mentors that are coaching the tributes are Blight and Alma. They sit onstage talking quietly. Blight has short cropped blond hair and is freshly shaven. Very different from how I usually see him, which is unkempt and belligerent with his friends. Alma is thin and much older than Blight. She won her Games ten years before I was born. Alma is a recluse, only seen annually for this event, or when the Capitol comes by for a brief interview.
The mayor stands up and approaches the microphone. He reads the same thing every year. How Panem rose from the ashes of a destroyed North America. The District rebelled and the Hunger Games began. My eyes are fixated on the boy's reaping ball, twenty-one of them have my name on them. Not me, please not me. Now he reads the list of our victors of District 7. In sixty-six years, we've had five, the two onstage being the only ones. The Mayor finishes his speech and introduces Camilla Dellsie.
Camilla blabs about what an honor it is to be here, but I can tell she's itching to be bumped to a better district. "Well, let's get to it! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" She walks over to the girl's reaping ball and says, with a flourish, "Ladies first." As she waves her hand over the names it reminds me of a stork searching for fish in a river. She quickly grabs a slip of paper, prances back to her podium and unfolds it. "Marla Curt!"
The dark haired girl walks slowly to the stage. "Come on now, deary!" Camilla barks. I remember Marla's name from school, she's a few years younger than me, and I don't think we've ever spoke. She appears to be hiding tears under her thick hair. Camilla gingerly asks if anyone would like to volunteer. A painful, dull silence follows.
Camilla walks to the boy's reaping ball. I feel my heart begin to quicken. Not me, I think. Please, not me. The escort does the same stork hand gesture while pulling out the paper. Once she's chosen a victim she struts back to her podium, wetting her artificial lips. Please, I plead. Not me. Camilla opens her mouth and speaks the very words I dread.
"Flick Mistral!"