A/N: All chapters after this one will not be of this absurd length unless I feel it is absolutely imperative to the story. So sorry if the lengths of chapters 1 and 2 were a problem for anyone, I just couldn't help it. Anyway, hope you enjoy the story and reviews are welcomed, good or bad.
As life usually does everything starts out black, completely abysmal in color and depth. But as I open my eyes to the light of a new day, the world's blurs are present, conveying unto me the current nature of the outside. The corners sharpen, the colors and figures condense, little by little my world comes into focus forming the cracked moldy ceiling of our little ranch house. The aroma of bacon cooking wafts in from the kitchen and dances the flavorful possibilities across my nostrils.
Sitting up, the rough wool sheets grinding against my caramel skin, I look out the window beside the couch at the endless emerald pastures of District 10, just as immeasurable as sleep's black depths. It's warm today as expected of summer, however, a cool breeze blows across the beryl flat land and into the house, wrapping its cool embrace around my cheeks like a mother's loving arms. I stare for a moment at the ebony and alabaster mounds representative of lying cows before I amble along into the kitchen to find my father. He's a quiet man, not very conversational. The years of hard labor and sacrifice are present in his expression and tight muscles, but contours of sadness line his face, too, coupled with the laugh lines of a paradise lost. He nods a simple greeting unsure of what to say.
I can't say I hold resentment towards him for being silent on such a momentous day. I'm partially to blame; he tends not to speak when I wear my mother's things such as her old silken nightgown which surprisingly hangs loose on my plump frame. I pull up a chair as he does, pick up my fork as he does, and eat my eggs as he does. Most everything I do emulates him in some small way but I never notice and don't care to. He's all I got, plain and simple, if I can't model myself after him then who could I look up to? The Capitol airheads? The train jockeys from District 6 who pick up the meat? Or am I forced to walk the ragged beige dirt path of District 10's people, becoming nothing more than a weary steer with tired feet?
To put it simply, I have no other options. Like I have no option in everything else. Which brings me to the event of the day: the Reaping. Every year in our little Panem we hold a big event called The Hunger Games. A disastrous result of a ludicrous rebellion some fifty-two years ago. It's not rocket science; you go to the Reaping, pray your name isn't called, and if it is then you get to spend a few days in the lap of luxury only to be thrown into a diabolical arena meant to do nothing but hide the preternatural forces lurking in its organic guise, waiting to kill you.
But I'll think about that later on, although I hope I won't have to. I finish the meal and shove off to do my chores. Reaping day is not a full day off, at least not for me. It simply means I don't have to work at the slaughter house today. Half my daily routine still remains; eating, getting dressed in a yellow t-shirt and denim overalls, herding Mrs. Habershend's damned cows, and milking my own steer, Sebastian, and all the others. I personally hate cows (even though I, ironically, come from the livestock district) but they're evil no matter what anyone says. I deal with them anyway, hey, at least I can take it out on them in the slaughter house once this's done with. I'll tell you, there's nothing more pleasurable than the agonized cries of pain that emanate from a living creature when you send a scythe through its head, then twisting the blade to emit another scream. I'm overjoyed when I hold the glossy black shaft, knowing I have the power to end a life, the power to destroy. The adrenaline, it races through my veins on the forward slash as the victim looks on in terror with glossy black eyes of fear slowly coming to the realization that death has come. Just the thought prickles sweetly on my skin.
Before I get tangled in my thoughts I get down and grab supplies; pitchfork, cattle prod, riding crop, and my trusty sickle. The sickle's allowed for slaughter house use only, however, daddy likes to contradict orders a lot and makes me bring it along, says it'll help if I'm in a bind. In other words, kill the animal if it gets out of control, which is also illegal outside the slaughter house, extremely terribly illegal. Killing any animal not meant for slaughter is punishable by a public shooting executed by Head Peacekeeper, Amadeus Wren. And they are not joking either, I've witnessed three executions for this exact reason myself and Amadeus doesn't make it a pretty show. He's like me in that he's unhealthily sadistic and cruel, except I have a personal vendetta against cows; he just likes suffering. I begin my work, the fields are especially fertile today, I can tell by the earthy and sweet smell of the soil so strong this morning, as though it's trying to compensate for something, like it knows the day's severity, even the cows are more chipper this morning, maybe Sebastian's milk will be sweeter, too. I whistle an old pasture tune to summon Mortimer and Alvira, our work dog and horse. Mortimer is my favorite 'cause he isn't as stubborn or onerous as Alvira who seems hell bent on staying wild despite being a full and through domestic.
Mortimer is a sweet dog, but he's protective and much too courageous for his own good, I remember one time dad suffered a brutal public whipping because Mortimer attacked a Peacekeeper who was giving daddy a hard time, the punishment originally was to put Mortimer to sleep but daddy wouldn't hear of it and took sixty lashes in his place. Despite the fact my father was tough as leather and in good hands with our neighbor Billy and his father (who has some experience in medicine), I was furious with Mortimer that day, almost killed him myself, then daddy hit me upside the head and told me Mortimer saved his life, that the Peacekeeper was going to kill daddy in a show of his power just to impress some lady. I forgave Mortimer and ever since I do all I can to take care of him. Alvira, however, wouldn't make me too sad if she got herself shot, she's just here to make herding easier. I get on the hard black leather saddle and feel Alvira's smooth cocoa brown skin and brush my fingers gently through her atramentous mane. I like the feel of a horse, the look of a horse, and their spirit; while Alvira drives me insane I have to admire her tenacity, her ability to refuse orders and ignore the consequences, she just doesn't care enough, but I also admire her power. When I pull on her reins and whip her into gear I feel her energy, the spikes of strength communicating itself into me. We've unwillingly become one again and along with Mortimer we're an efficacious team. The pastures blot like green paint on a wood palette as Alvira speeds across the fields adding shades of brown and caramel by kicking up dirt and sending people jumping out of the way.
No one is particularly angry; they know my father and I, they're aware of our whims. It's who we both are, nothing more. The three of us haul up into Mrs. Habershend's ranch and speed by her without even a hello. I don't wanna waste time with greetings; I need this more than ever today. If this is going to be my last day in District 10, my last day with Mortimer and daddy then I want to enjoy it, I want to forget for just one moment that today isn't normal, special, or dire. I want the moment to take tangibility in the most vibrant colors of the gales, pastures, and stars so that I may hold it placidly in between my fingers and bottle it so I can stay there eternally. I want that guarantee, the promise the world was supposed to give me in which I live long and buoyantly, I want my life. Nevertheless I know it cannot be, if I am selected, it's death. If I am not, it's oppression with mortal potential. It's like I've been released, I feel the snap of falling face first from your bounds and see I've come to the grazing cattle with Mortimer already blurring into a white, chocolate, and ebony wisp, hard at work. I also see that I actually am falling, quite fast actually, to the ground. Landing head-on into a cow pie I scream heinous obscenities at Alvira, threatening to take my sickle and lodge it straight in her head. She just whinnies and gallops off arrogantly, as if she's rubbing it in my face.
"Alvira! Alvira, don't you leave me, you bitch! I swear I'll come and stick the sickle straight through your intestines and have 'em for dinner".
I'm stomping frantically, shouting my head off until I'm just a red huffing stump. She's gone, she's really gone, she might come back later tonight if she's hungry and cold but if she has the instinct to run to freedom while I'm lost in the world that consumes me when riding a horse, she must have the instincts to survive on her own, maybe she'll find a rich merchant family who'll take better care of her than we ever could. I feel like crying and spasming uncontrollably in anger and rage but the feeling never comes. It never shows its face, I just fall to my knees feeling sad and empty. Not because I lost the horse or because my father might scold me tomorrow if I'm not selected, but because she can do what I never could. She can escape, she can find safety and happiness while I'm here working until I die. No retirement, no joy, just work and a wailing heart. Most of all, I'll miss the false sense of freedom she gave me, I'll miss losing myself in her pulsating soul, in the wind she whipped around me as we rode. I'll miss her so much. And I hate her for it.
The hours drag along by, with good chunks of dung still clinging to my face. Without Alvira I have to use the cattle prod more often today and it takes me a few extra hours to finish herding them all behind Habershend's fence. It's a long walk back to Mrs. Habershend's grubby old house which seems to fall apart more and more each day. A Peacekeeper who's sweet on her has been trying to help out but he's such a bumbling fool and Mrs. Habershend just plains hate Peacekeepers since one of them raped and killed her husband, poor fellow. He never saw it coming.
"They're all herded in, ma'am. Each and every one of 'em, as usual." I shout as I walk up to her porch.
"Where's Alvira? You were ridin' on her a while ago." She asks nonchalantly.
"She up and left me, flung me straight into a cow pie and ran off, whinnying as she went, like she was laughin' at me, you know?" I say back, not expressing much emotion on my face.
She tries to suppress her crooked smile and says "I can see that. Come on in and wash up. Today's a big deal for you I hear. Made it past the prelims and everything. Horrifying, isn't it? Made it into the main Reaping myself in my youth, was scared shitless." She ushers me in and I feel a slight comfort hearing about her experience.
I've never actually been inside her house before, now that I think about it. The interior puts the exterior to shame by comparison. Nice and clean, not a speck of dust or grime anywhere, a nice crystal chandelier, and even oaken tables with nice velvet lace coverings. Probably relics by the look of 'em, no one but a Capitol citizen can afford to buy lighting of this caliber and cloths of such sophistication. She escorts me in to the bathroom and throws a towel on the sink, saying to keep the muck in there. As I wash my face I think about my first meeting with Mrs. Habershend late last year. She isn't a friend of my father or my mother, just a person they went to school with. She looks like she used to be beautiful but years of working with the vicious genetically altered Capitol steer has given her face many gnarled gashes and scars. I met her one day when Alvira refused to listen to my directions, the damned bitch was running her own path for hours and we eventually, unintentionally, ended up scaring her cattle into their pens. She had been working from noon 'till evening trying to get them in there. She was amazed at my "natural" connection with animals.
Told me her new cows have been giving her trouble for weeks and that no one could get them in. They tried cattle prods, pitchforks, whips, horses, dogs, every herding trick in the book but no dice. I said I had nothing to do with it; it was either Alvira, Mortimer, or both. But she insisted it wasn't them, I had a quality about me that just made animals bend to my will. A quality that makes them feel safe, that makes them listen.
"Animals just don't listen to anybody, not really, maybe out of fear they know, but they humans well. Know you can't trust 'em. Yet they trust you." I remember her saying. It was weird. It will always be weird. Being complimented by strangers is a luxury that brings the most skepticism. Trusting is the first route to despair. Any person and animal that's seen me in the slaughterhouse knows that. She was a nice enough lady, I guess. A bit pretty before her various accidents but nothing amazing, I just could sense something was off with her and maybe she could use some help. The gait of loss and depression were present in her lithe swagger, I could feel an air unlike the wind, see a certain slant of light reproaching from her. I decided to help her out as often as I could for I knew how she felt, I wasn't aware of her hardship but it was obvious enough to me. So, I began herding her cattle, for free in the beginning, but she insisted on paying me about five months in and while I didn't feel quite right taking money from her I accepted anyway, with just the two of us my father and I get by well enough but some extra money coming in never hurt anyone.
Ever since we've developed quite the friendly rapport, where she treats me maturely and I act as her personal confidant, a pair of ears to listen to her problems. When I'm all cleaned up I can't help but turn my nose and eyes from the putrid sights and smells left behind in the sink, I never noticed how truly disgusting the whole mess was until now. Before I vomit I hustle out the bathroom and place myself comfortably on her shag carpet. The homemade fabric is scratchy but comforting; it reminds me of sheep's wool, so rough and soothing all at the same time. I knock off my boots and curl my socked feet around the coils and just rub my bare skin against the rug like I'm making snow angels. It is useless trying to get my mind off it, it'll just come back later while on the bus or when I'm actually standing in the Square at City Section during the Reaping. The horror of it all will be especially present when I see Caligula Allabritès' peach-colored and leathery skin pulled into a cruel smile, bearing his freakishly white teeth. He's an idiosyncratic man whom I've ever only seen on television; finally I will see he who escorts innocent children to their deaths in all his heavily altered flesh. Who knows, maybe one of those children will be me this year, maybe I'll be on that train to the Capitol watching the rolling green pastures disappear into a thick forest or an arid mountain range. I might be the girl being paraded about in an asinine cattle ranchers outfit, complete with a puerile ten gallon hat and glitter. The very thought of the ridiculous cow print dresses District 10's female tributes get stuck in every year for the interviews makes me cringe.
As I think more about my life if I am selected I can't stop. The images of the Opening Ceremonies, training, the interview, and the arena itself brings on a bout of flailing and epileptic movements, my mind is racing with thoughts of the tributes; the menacing sneer from the tributes of District 2, the glamor and beauty of 1, the brackish yet artificial appearance of District 4's children, and not to mention whom my District partner might be along with the potency of the other players. I pride myself on my killing ability, but I may well be up against other people. Real thinking and breathing people, I could care less about the emotional aspect of it-I learned to give up on empathy long ago-because when you become emotionally involved with anything then you're at risk of putting yourself through anguish, agony, and melancholy. It becomes this spiral twisting itself upon you, coiling the twangs and jitters of your head into strife, making the cords of your muscles tighten and pull on themselves until the tissue compresses into a compact scornful pressure which tears and begins seeping blood and a fluent sorrow. It's this contract of detachment that will ultimately help me in the end; it will become my ultimate weapon because once you let go, holding the blade becomes so much easier.
The vortex of my heart is collapsing in on itself eating out the void it once inured. I don't want to go. Not only out of fear, but of loss. The emotional detachment I held pride in has vanished, I realize what I'll lose if I go. I will lose my life here as a butcher, my father, the passive solace I enjoyed so long in the quiet wind of the pastures, in the leaves of grass beneath my boot-soles flickering in waves as the gale speeds across hurriedly yet gently in the way that they do. Mortimer will be gone, Mrs. Habershend, even that bitch Alvira will be among the dead I shall mourn if my desperate paradise is lost. I can't seem to pull myself from my thoughts enough to consciously notice the shaking of my body. My subconscious and my emotions know it's there and that it's happening but they all choose to ignore it. This is my moment, my time to feel myself in the colors of sentience.
"Girly! Girly! Girly, if you don't snap out of it I swear I'll slap you around right quick, don't think for a second I won't." I hear the mangled cries of Mrs. Habershend, the violent catching of her voice, the twinging of anger and fear present in her speech. She keeps true to her word and begins slapping me intensely, the pressure of her hand pressing firmly into my skin setting off the pain receptors in my nerves. I'm still flailing, still wildly thinking. By the time I finally come to Mrs. Habershend's hand is red as a ripe tomato. She's huffing hard, concern obvious on her face. Then the scars twitch up in anger and she starts shouting about how I scared her half to death, how she thought she'd have to carry me all the way to town for help.
"Don't ever do that again, you hear me, girly? Promise me you'll never do it again." She's still puffing out short breaths and refuses to stop squeezing me into her chest until I promise.
"I promise. I won't ever do it again. I promise. I'm sorry." It's plain to see I'm out of sorts by the monotonous pitch of my voice, the empty breeze spreading snowflakes across Mrs. Habershend's skin, making her hairs stand in shock. But she takes my word for it anyway and sends me on my way, telling Mortimer to come back to her if something should happen along the way.
"Take good care of her, okay, boy? It's time to pay back all the grief you caused her." She tells the dog seriously, as though he would fully understand, but the movement of his ears and the weird expression on his face that somehow conveys his determination proves me wrong. Mrs. Habershend beckons to me before I robotically go on my way, opening her arms wide, waiting for me to fall in and melt. I want to resist, I want nothing to do with her or anyone else anymore but I run to her anyway, aware just as she is that we may never see each other ever again.
"You're gonna make it, I know it. You're gonna come back and deal with my damned cow like you always do. You'll come back to deal with my damned self. You'll come back to me, I may not be there. I may not. But know I stop somewhere waiting for you. If you miss me just look in another place and you'll find me. If you fail, just keep courage; look for me under your boot-soles if you have to." Her words may not make sense, the poetry of it is confusing and hard to follow, however, I understand. I know full heartedly what she means, the fleeting nature of life, the connectedness we two share even though we've never acknowledged it until now. She means to tell me that, like me, she may not last. Maybe she's sick, maybe she's just speaking generally about how no one in District 10 may not last long with small crimes being met with harsh punishments, she might accidentally break a law that slipped her mind while I'm gone, if I go. If I stay, she'll live, she'll still be here just out working could be the cryptic message of her strange last words, words so unlike her harsh disposition. If I stay, I want to stay, not only for her but for all I love. I notice the position of the sun, gander at the grandfather clock standing laudably in her foyer and see I'll be late to milk the cows if I don't hurry. I whisper a final goodbye to her, a clean break, a nice clean break that won't make my possible death seem like a tear in her heart.
With Alvira gone I run across the fields without worrying about the stragglers in the path, just running, trying to simulate my final riding experience, but it doesn't suffice. While the wind is there, it's choppy and short-lived; everything is hazy and splotchy yet without the majesty and grace held before. As I approach my house, Mortimer by my side, my father's leaning casually over the white fence talking to the neighbor boy, Billy Tops. Billy's an odd sort, not that he's strange or has mental problems, he just has this infatuation with my father that goes back to when Billy was thirteen. He's eighteen now but not quite the full grown man you'd expect. He still has the dewy innocence of youth, his sweet gullible face tell nothing but the naivety in him, however, that's not to say he doesn't have the worn-down look of a District 10 citizen. He has the muscles to prove that he's spent a good deal of time wrestling down goats and bulls for fun among other strenuous "leisurely" activities. He has a few scars to prove he's been in some slaughter house mishaps, one in particular scares me a bit, but they give him an air of danger which he is in desperate need of. Because believe me when I say he looks and is gullible enough to sell you his house if fed the proper spiel. Overall, he's simply a stupid and tender hearted kid who's hopelessly in love with his neighbor. It's a wonder his psyche's survived eight years in the slaughterhouse, really. I told my father about Billy's courting but he dismissed it as just "hero worship". I didn't understand what he meant until I started looking at the other boys in town who always seem to flock whenever the men are explaining something stupid like tying down a calf or how to play with a chicken without killing it and then yourself. They're chocolate eyes are glazed in admiration and astonishment as though what they're being told is the secret to life and peace, the most important utterance ever to grace their ears.
I attributed their wonderment to the subject until later I figured out some of those topics were taught by my teacher, Mr. Shulet, and the boys were dull as stone in class. It was the man who hogtied their thoughts and imaginations, his confidence, wisdom, experience, and charisma had mesmerized them into a captivated and involved audience. But it's different with Billy, I know it. Those boys are usually without father figures or parents in general, so they project that want or need unto the speaker, Billy is not. He has a dad and there hasn't been a woman around here for three years, so he hasn't come looking to fill the void left by an absent mother. I also don't remember Billy ever really talking with my mother, anyway, except when he wanted to know where my father was. He loves my daddy. He doesn't like him, he doesn't lust for him, and his feelings are not platonic. The boy wants love and romance with him, any idiot can see it. His own father is awkward when Billy and daddy are together, as if he's interrupting a private conversation. My father either A) knows of it and chooses to ignore it or B) is more apathetic to other's emotions than I thought. He's an idiot anyway you look at it.
I walk up to the fence and greet Billy, he may be trying to steal my father away but he's okay. He rubs my hair, calls me squirt, and comments on how my hair is like stalks of ebony flowing down from my head. He's so fascinated with it even though his hair is just like mine; almost all of District 10 has hair like mine. It's a common characteristic that, luckily, wasn't the result of years of inbreeding. He deifies the stupid mass anyway, trying to sweeten me up to the idea of him being around.
"You are aware that my father isn't in love with you, right? Or is even fully aware of your feelings? And if he is, being nice to me would not gain you any footing." I say pointedly, trying to muss up some real entertainment.
He looks dumfounded and confused; the red rush of embarrassment and shock fluently fills his face, scarlet mortification shining through the caramel skin. He just looks down and kicks a pebble around the dust. Just rolling and rolling and rolling, reminding me of the cycle we here go through. Just wading circles through the dust of life until the shy winds stop kicking. Which it does, suddenly, causing my head to dip slowly upward until I apathetically look at daddy. There's a faint recognition, a faintness that has the depths of all the oceans. My father knows, he's always known, the subtle shifts in his facial muscles give it away, the ones I could draw perfectly, every crevice and crow's foot signals calm. Billy, as fucking retarded as he is, somehow catches it and a shy half smile creeps slowly and my father matches him with equal verve, which I can't stand. My father's mine, he always has been. And I'll be damned if some horned up eighteen year-old decides to take him away from me. I don't have a problem with gay people, it's love and romance that's the real threat here. I've seen it a million times. People fall in, their love is maddening, they can't dream of being away from each other, every waking fucking moment is that same person's stupid face looking longingly into yours until the gap must be filled so you can make the stars in heaven quake above you with your "love", and then it's as if the world is dead to the two lovers. They ignore their friends, their responsibilities, and then they have the audacity to ignore their families. I am all three to my father and I refuse to let that happen, I'm not going to be some minor inconvenience, a meddlesome gnat brushing down their fun. I refuse to be let go.
I push Billy away and tell him to go home, that we have work to get done before we gotta leave for the Reaping and grab my father by the hand to drag him inside. He's still looking back at Billy, when the hell did he turn out gay? I have to bite this love bullshit in the butt before it poisons his mind.
"Daddy, what the hell was that out there?!" The minute we're inside I scream at him, my face flushed with rage and fear.
"Um, nothin', sweetie. Just two men talkin' is all. No need to fuss." He's staring down at me testing an amused smile and letting it pass. Condescending. He's being fucking condescending towards me, not even a good ten minutes and he's already changing. He always treated me as his equal, his partner, his life.
"What do you mean 'nothin'? I saw the way you were looking at him, have you been seeing him behind my back? You have a responsibility and that's your livelihood. I can't have you day dreaming in the slaughterhouse 'bout bangin' your little boyfriend and getting your ass beat by a Peacekeeper for slacking. Besides, don't you know what they do to…to….people like him? They kill them! Take them all the way to City Section and kill them live on television for all of Panem to see! I can't have that happening, okay, not to you. You're all I got and I wanna keep you as long as possible. Especially if…if…if" My voice has died to a croak and the last lines refuse to leave my throat, trapping themselves in my larynx never to come out. Until daddy finishes my sentence for me.
"Especially if you get picked…" He kneels down and hugs me, rubbing the back of my head with his right hand like he did when I was just a squirt. All day the urge to cry has come and gone but the flood gates never opened, but finally I give into the deluge of my swelling emotions and tears start running down my face. The fountain swells cold liquid until it babbles from the rim and drips slowly but surely down mine eye's muscle, leaving a frigid burning behind. I am crying now, I haven't cried since the day I was born, not even when my mother died did I shed a single tear. Letting go of someone you love, that's best done with arid palms. I just slump into his strong and scared body that has protected me for as long as I could remember and just let it all out. My tears soak into his white cotton shirt which he paid a lot of money for but he doesn't complain, just keeps rubbing my back until my throat is fiery with exhaustion and my eyes are dry and red. He's crying, too. This man who has kept me safe since birth with power feels powerless. He can't keep me from going, they won't let him, so he quietly lets his tears drip down his face, this is the first time I've ever seen him cry. We're all cried out now; no more stupid tears or feelings, both overcome with a deadening numbness that brings us back to life.
"Don't worry, sweet pea. Daddy's made sure you're nice and safe. You only got one slip in there and you and I both know you haven't taken any tesserae. I'll make sure there's always enough money to stop that. So you'll be good and safe. How 'bout we get to milkin' those cows, hon? If we finish up early enough we might have a nice little lunch." Though I doubt his words I try my best to express reassurance, but I know better than to hope. Hope is the thing with feathers that'll ultimately snatch your immortality in its talons. He guides me out into the yard. Well, it's not really our yard seeing that no one but the Capitol can own land, but I digress. I gather up the cows and line them up side by side with Mortimer's help, grab a stool and get to milking. It's long, rigorous work that will labor your fingers to gravel and clay. We make do and complain very little, though. Complaining is a fruitless effort that just wastes time and upsets the cattle if you're too loud. We work down our line of 11 cows, me on one end and daddy on the other until we come to the final cow, Sebastian.
"Hey, Bassy. How you doing, girl?" I coo affectionately careening into her strong, thick neck. When we first got Sebastian I was charged with naming her. I didn't know the difference between a cow and a bull, hence the exclusively male name; however, my father still makes fun of me for it. I know I've made my resentment for the animal evident but for some odd reason Sebastian is just different from other cows. I don't know how or why, she just is, okay? So get off my back.
"You realize that cows are girls, right, not studs? Calling her 'Sebastian' is just plain dumb. You should change it before the town decides to think you stupider than you already are." His speech is inflected with so much mockery I know not to take him seriously.
"Daddy," I whine with an equal or greater amount of merriment. "You just don't understand, she's simply one hell of a cow." We both guffaw at our little piece of fun and decide to share the labor of milking her. I've never seen a happy cow in my life but I just look at Sebastian's stone expression that screams dullness and boredom and know she's content, which makes me warm a little inside too. Done, we're finally done with enough time to eat a quick lunch and get ready. For lunch we just have simple cheese sandwiches and some water, money's been tight lately so we can't really splurge for lunch like we did for breakfast. Daddy promises we'll get a little something better when we come home tonight; maybe even shop a little in City Section. When my meal is done and the table's cleared I hurry up to my room to bathe. The tub is filled with warm water which required daddy to run up and down the stairs with pots full of boiling water, I bet. I'm used to cold baths but today is special, so the more comfort the better, I guess. I strip my work clothes and slowly dip myself into the steaming pool, the water rippling away from me to the walls of the tub and back in tides.
I pick up the soap we bought about four months back and rub it gently across my skin. The scent is piney and musky all at the same time. There are little bits of rosemary inside to add an extra perfume, but it's rough and only proves to annoy me. I hate this dark green bar of muck but dismiss the thought, daddy worked awful hard to buy it for me. I even made a point of refraining from using it until an extra special occasion arises just to show my appreciation; the message was lost on him, though. I dip my head back and let my hair soak in the soapy herbal mixture that now surrounds me. When I pull myself back up I rub the soap on my scalp to a good lather and rinse once more. Before I know it the green bile is trickling down the drain and I'm drying myself off with an old threadbare washcloth that's been in the family for generations. I look at my cracked reflection in the mirror and wonder if the real me would come out through the breakage of the portal. I'm not pretty, too young for that. You could say I'm cute if you didn't know me. Big brown eyes, shiny black hair, and caramel skin that takes on a bronze sheen when I sweat. I bet in the Capitol they'd hate my protruding belly, my flabby arms, and chubby face. "Anorexia or naught!" I can imagine them saying in that asinine accent.
On my bed is a simple, red dress with floral print and straw sandals, prime Reaping clothes for someone from Slaughter Section. I put on my underclothes and just slip the dress and sandals on, a nice and cool outfit that'll be perfect for such a hot summer's day; I'll probably be sweating with apprehension, anyway. I grab an old hair tie and wrap my hair up into my signature tight no-nonsense bun. On top of my drawer I take notice of the long beaded necklace hanging over the edge. It's my mother's. My father gave it to me after her death but I shoved it back into his hands wanting to forget her as soon as possible, he must've thought it was time for me to accept what happened but truth is I never will. The necklace is too long, it was too long even for her, I try wearing it around my neck but it settles in a small mound at my feet. I decide to wrap it around my wrist until it's a nice bracelet and admire it. It's a culmination of lacquered pink, black, and white beads strung together by silver chain links that dig into my skin a little. They shine in different, layered, colors that are strong enough to evidence themselves but not enough to subdue the pink, white, and black. The jewelry makes a nice bracelet with little cow, pig, and sheep charms. I admire the sheep charm, mine and my mother's favorite animal. They never ever really harm anyone; they never would have been responsible for her death, their innocence too powerful to ever hurt her, that's why they're my favorite.
I walk back down the stairs and find Billy's back, a bit flustered and red in the face. He thrashes his head violently to my direction and gives me a curt greeting, wising me luck as he runs for the door. It almost makes me sad that he left without my saying goodbye for what might be the last time, almost. I gently smooth my fingers across the soft wood of the railing and blankly gaze, my eyes half shut. Daddy's ready in a simple white button down, a bowler tie, and cowboy boots that belonged to his granddaddy. He looks like something out of those really old picture books we have in the basement about men once known as cowboys, minus the silly hats. If I remember correctly, they did pretty much what everyone in Breeding Section does, herd cows. I come up to him and he moves his finger soothingly up and down my cheek, smiling, saying how beautiful his baby girl looks in this dress. I smile my thanks and he grabs his knapsack as we head out the door and to the bus station. Before we leave I nuzzle Mortimer and whisper a goodbye to him and shout across to the yard to Sebastian. She moos in response which gives me hope that she's actually been listening to me all this time. I walk away almost skipping, almost forgetting where I'm going.
It's a long walk to the deserted dirt path where we'll wait for the hulking monster of a vehicle to show up. It's more of a prison barge than a bus, really. Metallic gray, a hard armored shell with cruel curves and edges that'll cut a limb if your get too close, not to mention all kinds of weaponry stations at various spots. Daddy says the dark, ominous interior is even worse, that only a single dark blue light illuminates it. No windows at all, not even a windshield. The bus is self-navigating. Damn that District 6. The seats and walkways are so cramped it gives you a feeling of being trapped before you're even in the arena. The blue sign with the bus symbol is in view and about twenty families from my town are huddled together, waiting desperately, fear and sorrow fresh on their faces. I try my best to remain stone cold, being the only twelve year-old going. Twelve year-olds don't always make an appearance at the Reaping, last time that happened was ten years ago, but this year there'll be at least 200 others along with me, the most we've had in a long time. District 10's Reaping system is worked differently than those of smaller Districts like 12 or 5. Due to our high population, second only to District 11's, we have two preliminary Reapings. First, a Reaping is held in my home town where twenty children at the least are chosen (my town is the smallest in population compared to the other much larger towns in Slaughter Section so our turn out is but a mere speck), some have made it to the Final Reaping multiple times usually due to tesserae. Then you go to a Sectional Reaping in the biggest town in the section (District 10 is divided into four sections total; Breeding Section, Slaughter Section, Milking Section, and City Section). Once 20,000 children are selected for Slaughter Section they all get sent to the Finals at the Justice Building in City Section a few months after, waiting for their name to be called in front of all of Panem in all that time.
The odds are not in my favor. It's only my first year, I've taken no tesserae, and I live in the second biggest section in the District, so obviously my luck's ran out. The Peacekeepers on duty begin to shove us back as the bus comes barreling down the path, knocking up dust in its wake. It's as horrifying and menacing as described. I get a tingle in my arms and legs as I imagine those sharp blades cutting off my appendages one by one, bleeding my meat and bones onto the road, leaving a permanent red stain that no amount of rain water can wash out. I automatically hold myself and hang my head low, afraid to look into the darkness of the accordion doors that'll let us inside. My father and I were the last to show up so we're the last to be herded onto the bus. My father was not exaggerating about the malicious stink that fills the air, it's sterile and stale yet when breathed in there's a sickly sent of blood and rusted metal. The only light in the room is, in fact, cobalt blue. The seats face forwards and look to be made of scrap metal, the armrests look like they can cut into your skin. The seats would seem more fitting in a dungeon than a bus but the transport seems to be used for that purpose as well with all sorts of chains and blades looming over our heads. We're vehemently sat down in the chairs and strapped in with chains, our arms tightly wound to our sides and our legs pressed together. There's a partition on each side of your head that effectively blocks your view of your neighbor, but there's no point because they've strapped your head with a leather constraint that prevents it from moving left or right.
There's only about two inches of space between my neighbors and I, three inches between my knees and the knees of the woman sat in front of me. The constraints force me to look at her breasts. I hope this is a short ride. A pre-recorded voice affected by the Capitol accent comes on the intercom and tells us to "Buckle up! And enjoy the ride". Peacekeepers stand on either end, weapons at the ready, as if any of us are going to try and escape. They list the rules of the bus, mainly concerning what we can do, which includes nothing, and what we can't do, which includes anything. When they finish the bus begins to move right on cue and we're off. It's bumpy and this woman's breasts won't stop bouncing up and down making me uncomfortable. I should know her but I can't see her face. On this seat I'm only tall enough to reach her bosom. There are so many ways to get to know a person but this isn't one of them. The ride is boring. I was hoping it'd be like the bus to the Sectional Reaping with big windows viewing the rolling pastures and the images of other towns as we made our way to Greater Roots. If this bus is anything like Capitol trains then we should be there in about an hour or two, I'm tempted to ask one of the guards about it but push it out of my mind. I hear my father shuffling to my right; it'd be nice to see what he's doing. I can feel his foot bumping around and soon his knapsack is resting in our laps. I remember him cracking some nuts and seeds last night and packing them in there. I can feel his hand rummaging through it and a few other movements.
He asks if I want one and I risk a yes. He tells me to open my mouth wide, and catapults a big sunflower seed over the partition and onto to my tongue, the Peacekeepers are none the wiser to our game. He asks me if it made it and I give a resounding yes, he laughs quietly in satisfaction. We go on like this in ten minute intervals, trying not laugh at the stupidity of our captors. Even though it's not much this is a great bit of amusement for us. I hear the man in front of my father giggling quietly as, I think, a bit of our snack is thrown his way.
"Brings back memories from my youth," he whispers to me, "My daddy used to do this all the time himself whenever I made it to the Final Reaping and we had taken the Dead Child's Passageway." I recognize the ancient nickname for this ride and feel a huge lump in my throat.
He goes on. "He'd always go gather for nuts and seeds the day before and was up crackin' them all night, sometimes, if we had the money, he'd even bring a bit of candy. The Peacekeepers never figured out our secret and that made us real happy. He always landed the food perfectly in my mouth somehow. He'd share with everyone else on the bus once we got off while the names we're being called. We'd always come home that night and laugh our heads off. Tryna forget the fear and the two kids we'd see get slaughtered soon. I wish he was still live, Cecil. I really do, you would've loved him." He goes quiet and I decide to stay quiet. I vaguely remember my grandfather; he died when I was five of the flu. He sounds like a good man, like my daddy. With all these thoughts of dead people eating my head I think back to my mother, happy and beautiful. Mrs. Habershend's husband, who I imagine to be as handsome as she was pretty. The two men Amadeus Wren came all the way from City Section to kill for illegal slaughter. The nineteen other children on this bus with me, who may be on their way to die as well. I keep thinking about Mortimer, Sebastian, and even Alvira. I see an anxious Mortimer crying and walking in circles around the house looking for me. Wondering where I've gone and why I've left him. I can see him barking madly at the T.V. screen as some boy ten times my size, a Career, sticks me with a cruel jagged blade, and sliding its sharp careful tongues of rusted metal slowly from my chest to my stomach, twisting the knife as he goes along, smiling victoriously to himself at my pained cries and writhing body.
I try to get my mind off it by repeating mundane phrases to myself that usually involve things that annoy me. My name, Cecil Andemis. I am annoyed when someone pronounces it see-sil, instead of seh-sil. I am annoyed when our cows moo all night. I am annoyed when my coworkers underestimate me. I am annoyed when people in general underestimate me. My thoughts come to an end when the bus jolts forward and the peacekeepers are at our sides finally releasing us from these chains. They put this cream on our foreheads which rid our skin of the marks and contoured flesh left behind by the leather straps. We must look presentable for the Capitol, you know, especially for Caligula. He'll be so upset if his tributes are damaged before he gets to see it happen in the arena. We're "escorted" ever so nicely by the Peacekeepers into the blinding summer sun. My eyes burn at the sudden reintroduction to light and it takes a lot of effort on my part to keep the tears at bay; I don't want anyone to think me weak for crying. Kids cry before the names are called all the time but I'm the youngest and want to be taken seriously. The Peacekeepers allow us seven minutes to hug and say goodbye to our parents before they line us up in order of youngest to oldest. As expected, I'm in the dead front of the line. We're instructed to leave the line once we see the area roped off for our age and gender group.
When my eyes are well again I finally take note of City Section. It's the smallest section in District 10 but the most magnificent. It isn't as big or as glamorous as the bits of the Capitol I've seen on television. In school we learned that City Section was built on the remains of a city called Chicago and the lands that surround it. Here is where they actually skin and cut the meat to be sent to District 9 for processing and then to the Capitol. I always wondered why the various jobs of District 10 aren't concentrated into one area. It seems like it'd be faster that way. But daddy told me that they eat a lot in the Capitol and that the meat goes to other places like District 11 so we need as many people working as we can get. No production line would be fast enough to supplement the amount needed so we spread it out across the District so we can get as much as possible to the Capitol without making a mess of everything, so we make sure it gets there in record time and record amounts, so we can always be sure there's enough for their ceaseless appetites.
I'm amazed that even though they have us working almost every day of the year that the Capitol is willing to allow a halt in production for the Reaping. Then again they're taking away the one day off we get for the Reaping, though a day of rest for us means someone else is taking overtime filling mine and my father's shifts, so I guess it all balances in the end. The Square is more than I ever thought it. It's more spectacular in person. The skyscrapers, shops, streets, and sidewalks corner a grassy knoll that in its center holds the Justice Building and the cul-de-sac that encircles it, we walk into the asphalt lane where we meet with the other, larger groups from Slaughter Section. Everything looks similar to a huge public outing where you would expect people to have picnic baskets and kites. But everyone wears a solemn face, a pained expression; a dead grass likeness sits on their muscles. No one is playing, no one is running gaily over the miniscule hills, eating, being merry, or flying kites. They're standing, waiting for Slaughter Section to get in line already so we can get the ball rolling. We walk down the lane; our line's longevity augmented greatly, me still in front. This is the longest walk I've taken in my whole life. The birds' wings flap in stop-motion. The shades of rolling winds across the grass move an inch per hour. Time just slows, blurring and melting into itself as one by one the line gets shorter.
I can feel eyes on me, cameramen in their insect-like shells, giving the Capitol a good view of the potential tributes. It's the pre-Reaping show they're broadcasting live right now. They usually only do it for 1, 2, and 4. The Capitol must be bored with those three this year. The thought that the Career Districts are becoming dull to the Capitol results in a look into a camera, a subtle smile, and wave to the audience. I wonder what they'll think of that. The cameramen love it and give a thumbs up, so it must be receiving a good reaction. The other kids aren't too thrilled about it, however. After walking through the thickness that fills the air and slows the passage of time, I veer off to the right where the twelve year-old girls are roped off. The very second the last girl is in place Mayor Farland's microphone beats on.
"Good morning, District 10. Now that all four sections are here we can begin. I, as mayor of District 10, will now begin the ceremony. Before I do the obligatory reading of the Treaty of Treason I would like to say how wonderful it is to see the people of City Section, Breeding Section, Milking Section, and Slaughter Section condensed here before me in memorial to those lives lost for the Capitol so long ago. This is a time of forgiveness and a time of redemption, so we should all be so thankful that the Capitol allowed our District to strive for fifty two years, unlike District 13,so…let us hope for another," she kind of goes silent then and the moment feels a bit awkward. Completely pointless. "Um, without further ado let's begin! Oh, and Happy Hunger Games!" It's not hard to tell she hates all this, that she hates what she's saying, but the poor lady grins and bears it anyway. Not even the mayor has many options. She starts to read the Treaty of Treason which was written in an ancient vernacular that's hard to understand due to its elaborate language and unconventional writing style that no way matches the contemporary literary standards. I scope the audience, the twelve year-olds aren't very impressive as usual, just a bunch of fidgety little kids. I can tell which ones have extra slips in the bowls and which ones don't. The others can tell I don't have a lot in there. I'm one of the biggest in weight and height among them. After a while I take to twiddling my thumbs, playing with my bracelet, balling my dress in fists and then releasing it back onto my waist. I can't stop tapping my foot, making myself look as though I were a mother ready to scold my misbehaved child. The tension builds as Mayor Farland goes on and on about that fucking idiotic rebellion. I can almost gamble my life on the prospect of Panem being damned decent before the Dark Days.
It's over now. She's done. I'm not the only one who's been keeping busy. The whole audience looks up from their various quirky activities (nail biting, finger strumming, arm flinging) and up at Mayor Farland. She's flushed with embarrassment.
"Well then, now with that done we can move onto the calling of the names. As Mayor of District 10, it is my greatest and most noble honor of introducing to you, the District 10 escort, the illustrious, the wonderful, and the laudable, Caligula Allabritès!" She claps as the doors to the Justice Building open up and let him out. It's like watching a great Leviathan shuffle out of its chambers, ready to consume an unwilling victim. Looking at him I come to realize what the phrase "staring death in the face" truly means. Fear, anguish, apprehension, daunting, and seeping of blood and of rot. There's a big ocean theme going on with his outfit which I credit to the victory of District 4 last year. The Capitol sometimes likes to base the fashions of the year off of the most recent winning District's industry or something the victor wore or did during the Games like their token, but only if it was a really good Hunger Games. Last year was really exciting for them, I guess. District 10 has won a whopping four times, which is a lot compared to other Districts, so the Capitol has willing worn cow print and pig skins before. I would've killed myself, personally.
He's really ugly in my opinion. A pathetic fifty-four year-old man using plastic surgery to look twenty-one. His peach skin has been pulled so far back on his face that there are even little stretch marks on his high cheeks and forehead. If he smiles any wider it'll rip. He wears this outrageous sea green and turquoise wig on his head that has been gelled and brushed a good foot over his head and brushed downward to resemble a wave in mid-tumble cresting on the sea. His doughy body is hidden by an open dark purple frock coat which has these little sea foam printings protruding outward. Despite his physique his five feet ten inch body is strong, he was a probably a wrestler in his youth. But his sea green eyeshadow which darkens his navy blue eyes transform him into a sissy boy in my head. If he ditched the frock coat and wig; the suede, light green button down shirt, turquoise velvet tie and turquoise pants tucked tightly into matching boots of a darker shade may pass for a normal person's attire. The part of the ensemble that chokes me the most is the big starfish wriggling its tendrils slowly and horrifyingly on his lapel. It's like a worm in water, disgusting. I picture it strangling me until asphyxiation in my sleep while on the train. Everything about Caligula is superficial and scary. How can they expect us to simply put our trust into this man who is notorious in District 10 for his force and over-zealous disciplinarian methods of handling his tributes? I've heard he's known to have had hit a few in his day. The thought makes me curl into myself a little.
"Good moooooorning, District 10! It's a beautiful day for a Reaping, don't you agree? As always it's great to come here every year to select a tribute for my favorite program, the Hunger Games. As you may notice ocean-themed dress is on the rage in the Capitol, so let's make cow print next year's biggest trend, non? There's a winner in every group of tributes and one of you better be it. I'll make sure of that, mind you. Oh, listen to me go on and on and on like this when everyone back home is just dying for me to call the names, as I am sure you are. So, without more delay it is now time to select the tributes who will be representing District 10 in the 52nd Annual Hunger Games." His voice booms across the empty space rattling the atoms in a shockwave.
"Ladies first," This is it. The moment I've been waiting for since they called my name at the Sectional Reaping, the traditional "ladies first" I've been anxious to hear for months. He goes over to the bowl which contains the names of the 40,000 girls who have come from all over District 10 for this. He stalls, ambles rather than hurries, waits a few minutes before actually placing his hand inside. He waves it on the tops of the folded slips, allowing his finger tips to caress the supple paper, and then he decides to shake it up a little. To shake up the odds a little more, he says, to confuse fate. This fucking asshole is really asking for a beating.
"Huh, you know what? Making the ladies go first has been done so many times it's gotten to the point where the whole charade is uninteresting. Let's break the social stigma and pick the boy first, instead!" Bull fuck! I can't believe him right now, he actually has the nerve to put us all through all that suspense just so he could pull a bitch move like that. It's unorthodox, unprofessional, abysmal, and reprehensible in every single sense. I want so much to hurt him. To go on and bite his throat, tear out his Adam's apple, and chew it live like a rabid dog. Then I'd take that starfish and shove it deep into the hole I've made until my hand pops out on the other side of his neck. He would fall dead at my feet as his blood pools all over the metal veranda of the Justice Building; I would kick his head in that moment for staining my sandals with his fluids. And if he dare spill blood on my lovely dress then I'd have to continue to defile and mutilate his corpse until he's nothing more than a hunk of meat sweating and dripping the rubicund liquid we need and fear so much. Then, what I would then, the thing I would do next right after that is sendoff that meat to be cooked and eaten in the Capitol and when some dolled up idiot finds out they're a cannibal I'll smile contently.
I'm fuming as he plays the same dumb game again with the boys. Then he finally cops a slip like a Venus flytrap does to some poor unsuspecting insect. He unravels it with such excitement he may well rip the paper in pieces, but he's doing it to build up more suspense, really. Eventually he does go on to call the name.
"Drake Alivera." He repeats the name once more for emphasis until he angrily screams the name again when the boy doesn't come up. A fear stricken eighteen year-old walks onto the lane and makes the death walk to the Justice Building. The walk he's making now makes mine seem diminutive and trivial. He doesn't have the District 10 look about him which is strange yet it's a beautiful strange, he must have many girls vying for his attention. His hair is a mussy sandy tone rather than straight-laced and black. What stands out about him most are the green eyes. His skin matches our caramel tone, though. Everyone watches him take the walk of death and I wonder about his genetics. I've heard about children like him. My father said that sometimes traits that have been dormant in a family for generations come out and mix up the gene pool. Or the more gruesome story, which consists of some man or woman being raped by a Peacekeeper or a visiting government official. Rapes happen often in District 10, I don't know why, but they do. My own father was raped by a Peacekeeper man once, but it is rare that they result in a child. He's the result of a rape, alright. The signs my father told me about are there. The most noticeable being his physical traits. The others are present also. Usually, when a female Peacekeeper gets pregnant by a district man she either drops the child his way or takes it to the community home. If the district parent is a woman she usually keeps the babe but abuses it to no end, trying to push the awful memory related to it away. He has bruises on his body that suggest such abuse, by whom, I am not sure, but I guess it can be considered tragic or dismal.
Caligula is telling him to hurry up and he complies graciously. He's lanky and tall but his clothes don't hide his muscle definition well, he's strong, a runner most likely. The scars on his hands suggest a City Section native. He's everything a potential victor should be. When he's on "stage" Caligula is beaming, pleased with such a fine specimen of a tribute; attractive, robust, and obedient. He can work with this one, he's thinking. The crowd is murmuring as they often do, commenting on Drake. Then they fall silent when we hear someone screaming at the top of their lungs, saying something that has never been said in District 10 history.
"Stop! Stop! I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" The whole world is looking dead on at this boy roped in with the seventeen year-olds. He's a full blood District 10 citizen, all right, he's a god. The most handsome person I've ever seen in my entire life is literally running to the stage, as though if he doesn't get there in time they'll take Drake instead. His look is frantic and scared, tired and wounded. He walks the steps and even sweaty and panting he's still the most beautiful thing I've seen. He's stronger than Drake, more beautiful than Drake, more likeable than Drake already. Simply being from District 10 and volunteering as excitedly as he did make him an instant favorite. This boy is going to be a winner in the Capitol. Caligula sends Drake away in the speed he beckoned him, nearly pushing him down the steps. I'm afraid Caligula's skin really will rip with the smile he has on now.
"A volunteer? Oh, yes, a volunteer. We have a volunteer? Yes, indeed, we do, we really, really do, we have a volunteer," He yells so loudly and with so much verve that the microphone makes this sound which stabs my ears and everyone else's. "Our volunteer must have a name. What's your name, young man, everyone in the Capitol must be itching to know."
"My name is Roger. Roger Vega." He manages to conjure this sensual purr through his panting breath. His face changes from horrified to sexy in seconds. His last name suggest he isn't related to Drake so now he's even more popular, the only people who usually volunteer who are not from Districts 1, 2, and 4 are usually relatives of the original name. This boy had no reason to volunteer for Drake so that means he's determined, he's going to play to win. Caligula is just raving about this boy. Handing out compliment after compliment until Roger says something about having to kiss and grope him a little if he goes on, which shocks the socks off of Allabritès and the audience. Trying to direct the attention away from him Caligula decides it's time to call the girl tribute, for real. He's in a rush to do it, anxious to make Roger's statement a forgotten memory. He grabs a slip and nearly tears it. My heart is beating, my ears fall deaf, my palms break out into a sweat, I'm about to hyperventilate, and my legs go knobby and twitchy.
"Here it is, Carmela Rodrigo," Thank god, I'm safe. I'm pure elation right now. If you were to bottle up my emotions right now you'd get a sparkling gentle orange sunset. There's a long pause, though, what's taking Carmela so long to get up there? Caligula is standing there, not yelling for Carmela so the rest of us can go home. Then he guffaws to no end. "Kidding, just kidding, everyone, there is no Carmela Rodrigo. I know, I know, I'm just despicable. Enough jokes, let me read the real name. Here it is, our lucky lady of the hour iiiiiiis…Cecil Andemis!" That son of a bitch. He mispronounced my name.