This is my first story, so I would love to hear from readers if I am doing anything wrong or if I can make it better in any way.
Thank you!
(I do not own anything you recognize - all credit for that goes to Suzanne Collins)
I stand in the square, all anxieties hidden so deep within me that I would not be able to search them out even if I wished to be weak. All I feel is anticipation, excitement, and pride. It is all I have conditioned myself to feel on this culmination of all for which I have ever hoped. The others stand around me, fidgeting slightly in discomfort now that they have found no reason for the absolute stillness that dominates me. They have lost their chance; I have beaten them for the honor that is given to only two each year.
Vita Ailet, the district escort, trills up on the stage about what an honor it is to be here in District 2 for another Reaping, obviously excited as any Capitolite to see which of our beautiful savage children will be volunteering this year. My attention is caught by the way she speaks, as if all of this is just entertainment, and I feel disgust overcome me. How can these people not see the true glory of the Games? The annual video warns me to push my feelings out of mind, to prepare myself for this moment of realization.
The entire square is silent, everyone holding his or her breath as Ailet's golden-fingered hand reaches delicately into the reaping bowl. Although every person in Panem knows that whoever is drawn will never have to go into the Arena, for a split second every year, the fear overcomes us as well that someone unprepared will march to his death in the Hunger Games. The Capitolite seems to enjoy drawing this out, forcing us to hold our breaths to see whose odds are not in favor this year. The mathematician in me is running through the statistics of past Reapings, attempting to apply a pattern to the lottery like in the many Academy studies that always turned up inconclusive. So many variables race before my eyes: weight of paper, length of name, number of slips to each citizen, age of entries, how recently each was added to the glass bowl. Even though I know that the honor will be mine, I cannot stop myself from attempting to figure out which of my fellow children will have been destined for it by the lottery before I volunteer.
"Vivica Vigil," Ailet pronounces, hoping to at the very least see the poor girl who was called before a well-trained, brutal, elder 'Career,' as the outer districts call us, takes the place on stage. My own breath pauses and I forget for a moment to shout the fateful words. Three syllables resound in my thoughts, connecting slowly with nearly-forgotten, buried memories, bringing a picture of a tiny green-eyed infant in my aunt's arms as I was sent off to the group home and my family washed their hands of me forever.
In a sense, this will be bringing me full-circle, cutting all ties from shared blood, showing everyone that I have fulfilled my duty to my family and now they only exist as part of my District, to which my only loyalty lies.
"I volunteer." My voice rings out, strong and clear and carefully eager, over the packed square, as my younger cousin begins her journey to the stage. The other eighteen-year-olds make an effortless path for me, and as I pass the relieved girl who never made it to the Academy, I make no indication that I even recognize her.
"And what is your name, dear?" Ailet cannot keep the excitement from her voice; I look exactly as a tribute from Two should: lithe and strong, with cold statuesque beauty and confidence to spare.
"Aemilia Vigil," I say, raising my chin a slight bit to dare the small fourteen-year-old to make any presumption that my volunteering has anything to do with her. My eyes are steel, a pale grey-blue that I know glint with something unreadable on the screens.
"That must be your sister!" The woman is delighted, but when I turn my unreadable eyes to her gilded face, a bit of her enthusiasm trickles away.
"She is a cousin."
To cover up her embarrassment, she blusters over to the other reaping bowl, swishing her fingers around the myriad of slips, drawing out the suspense for all the viewers and everyone in the crowd below.
I feel strangely apathetic, now that I am on this stage, bound to the Games for better or for worse. I recognize that I just signed my soul over to the Capitol with those two words.
I remind myself with a not-unpleasant chill that I signed my soul to the Capitol the moment I entered the Academy eight years ago.
"Tyrus Decuren," she reads, and I feel sympathy for the poor boy. He is the year below me in Academy Silver, one of the best of his class. Unfortunately, this reaping means that he will never have the chance to become a tribute. If you are called and someone volunteers, you can never volunteer yourself, especially not the succeeding year. Otherwise, someone might think the odds are too strangely in your favor.
My district partner volunteers, a rather attractive boy by the name of Aquilon Lersea. We shake hands, our eyes locked as we vow silently to do everything in our power to ensure one of us wins for our district, each ignoring the glint in the other's eyes.
The other Districts just do not seem to get it. They do not understand why we are so willing to work together when we clearly dislike each other every year, when both of us clearly wish desperately to win each time a voice rings out to volunteer. The other Districts, save One and sometimes Four, do not understand how we can give our whole lives down to our very souls to these Games.
What I want to know is if they have ever had the chance to redeem themselves and be given a purpose higher than their own insignificant lives. I wonder if they have never felt the driving pride in community that fills each of the tributes from the 'Career' districts, calling us to bring to our homes the glory that it deserves.
I wonder if they have never given all of themselves, put all of their trust into something, only to have it returned tenfold.
I have said all of my goodbyes to my training companions last night. I have saluted my trainers for the last time, and I have let go of everything tying me home, saving not even a district token. I have given up all that would tie me here, only leaving for myself the drive to bring honor with my life.
This is why I am surprised to have visitors in the Justice Building. We 'Careers' rarely have anyone who wishes to see what returns from the Academy, and each of us who volunteers is drilled on how to be alone in that room to our best advantage. When the door opens, I allow myself just a hint of surprise, not letting it onto my face, of course, but giving it just a bit of room in my thoughts before I catch it and bury it under layers of ice and readiness. In the Arena, I must be ready for anything.
In the Arena, however, I will not have to face what I now do.
A little girl enters the room and runs right over to me, throwing her arms around me and burying her face in my ribs. I do not respond other than to curl my lip in disdain, vaguely recognizing this clinging child as one to whom I am related. I carefully pry her off of me, softly but forcefully pushing her a safe distance away as I survey who has come to see me off.
My teary-eyed aunt smiles at me, pride in every lineament of her face, trying desperately to hide the guilty relief that I can nearly smell, like blood leaking from a hastily-bandaged wound. She is glad that her precious girl has been given back to her and that the other one, the monster, is taking her place. My uncle, a quarry worker, looks at me with barely-hidden wariness. He, for certain, has not forgotten what happened all those years ago. That is good; I have not either. It has driven me for the past thirteen years.
"Thank you, Aemilia. Oh, thank you! I knew you weren't –" My aunt puts a hand on her shoulder, and the little girl for whom I volunteered cuts herself off, looking suddenly sheepish and slightly ashamed at the carpeted ground.
"Do not thank me, Vivica Vigil. I have done my duty to our district, not to you. I volunteered for the honor of serving District Two and all of Panem, and in doing so I have cut myself off from any ties of personal loyalty I may have harbored," I pause, ensuring with my piercing grey eyes that they understand exactly what I am saying, "Even those that I have long severed."
The recognition dawns on my aunt's face, and she has the decency to look ashamed of her actions, but my uncle just looks at me coldly.
"I knew we made the right decision. Looking at you now, I am glad of what we did. I would not want a monster under my roof."
I grin ferally, the grin I perfected in eight years training for moments like this, the grin that sends shivers down the spines of the staunchest trainers who have seen it all before, the grin that promises something deeper than violence, the grin that gives just a glimpse into my darkened soul. I am rewarded by a flinch of my stout uncle's shoulders, and an outright shudder from my weak-hearted aunt.
"I thank you for your visit," I say formally, my expression back to normal but with a glint in my blue-grey eyes. They know that I have officially distanced them to the rank of every other inhabitant of Two, leaving no consideration of blood except that which I shall willingly spill to return.
They leave compliantly, almost eagerly, when the Peacekeeper tells them that their time has run out.
The door shuts behind them with a sound that, although quiet, seems to resound in my psyche. It symbolizes the absolute end of everything of my life before, leaving only now, only the Games as real. The end began the moment I stepped within the doors of Academy Silver, beginning my journey to this room and this door that has finally shut on normalcy.
From here until death, I am no longer a single member of District Two. I am their symbol; I am their pride made manifest. I cannot burden myself with stagnant memories of family and life before purpose.
Thank you for reading, and please give me some feedback so I can make the story better!