We have time.
We have seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years and decades.
And just like that, I can explain the duration of a particular event in a matter of eight words.
Sometimes, I wonder what the world would be like if it were all that easy. If eight words, from seconds to decade, could describe what the Dark Days were. You may say you are allowed eight words, but the Dark Days were subjective, and hence, you may end up with millions of voices. Those kids over in Thirteen, sitting up in heaven singing their shouldacouldawoulda's, they'll tell you that the Dark Days were 'The protestation and subsequent failure and fatal persecution.'
It was.
Those kids up in Districts One and Two, they'll tell you it was 'a grievous battle of mistake, misunderstanding and redundancy'.
And even that was true, in some aspects. Because although on the posterior, those Districts are damn suck ups, they are just doing what all of us are – trying to stay alive.
And then theres the kids in the Capitol. For them, it was 'a time of war in favour of protection.'
To their puny little brains that flourish on falsehoods and lies, it was.
But me?
I don't think I can put the Dark Days into eight words.
I was four when they started. I had a mamma, a dad, a gran and a gramps, as well as a whole fleet of aunts and uncles and cousins. I had people to fawn over me and I had people to love me.
I was twelve when they ended. My mamma had died, thank you Capitol deployed bomb. My papa had died, thank you peacekeeper for that KIA notice. Gran had died, thank you terror, gramps died, thank you broken heart. My fleet of family dwindled. Bomb, gun, grenade, blood, war, stupidity, terror, fear. When they finished, I was sent to the overflowing orphanage, where no one would fawn over you and no one loved you. Where breakfast was a quarter of cold fish and dinner was half a warm fish. Raw. Where dormitories of sixty plus stunk off piss and loneliness as screams were muffled in the darkness of night, lest matron come in and give you a beating for disturbing her beauty sleep. Where some girls turned to the higher up of the social ladder for a few pennies, and the boys snuck onto the 5am to 7pm fishing trawlers in the hope of getting something better.
199 words.
It still doesn't seem enough.
...
Matron stands in front of the line, barking orders and rallying names of her roll as one would do in the army. Tough as nails, Matron is. I reckon that if she had balls, and I kicked em', she wouldn't flinch. I've been in the orphanage a total of eight years now, since I was four, and until recently, when I was unfortunate enough to walk into Matron stark naked in the showers after hours, I fully believed that as such may have been possible.
"Cindy!"
"... Yeah."
"And Marcus!"
"... Yep."
"Okay, that's the thirteen year olds done, twelves! Lucy?"
"... Present!"
Matron had this way of speaking that was a mix between barking and yelling. Not barking in the sense as to describe her tone, but literal barking, as a dog may. Couple that with her hapless mannerism of intermittently scratching her legs with her feet, Matron was affectionately known towards the elder population of the orphanage as the bitch.
And by me of course.
Though I couldn't be classified as the 'elder population' of the orphanage, I was still considered a kind of a 'wonder-kid', credit to Matron's immense dislike of me, and was thus
privy to a number of their jokes. See, I was one of the first to enter the orphanage as a product of the Dark Days. Four years old with no one. I was skin and bones, smothered in rags and with a snuffly nose that beckoned every sketchy character to come take advantage of me. So I grew up quick. Became acquainted with the loyal friend of sarcasm quite well, and somewhat flourished.
"Lily?"
"... Yeah."
"Suzanne!"
"... Yep."
"Terence?"
"... Here."
"And, finally, Mags!"
The way she says my name sounds like she stepped in dog crap. Maybe stepped into it and inadvertently sent it flying to the heavens, only for it's ascension to be disrupted by her glorious bosom and amazingly fat face. That's the kind of bond me and Matron had going.
"... Yup Matron."
She eyes me in disgust, taking into account my attire. I had chosen a classic vintage look for my unlikely death bed; a thinning top that may or may not walk off my torso, credit to the immense quantities of salt that are determined to abide within it's fabric, and shorts which seam had decided to gift me with a wedgie traversing towards my intestine via my rectum. To cap of the look, my cozzies, which were still wet, had produced a fantastic wet bum look that emulated what one would look like if they were to wet themselves.
There were the kids who were the pride and joy of Matron, and then there was me.
"Okay kids, good luck. Now move!"
We split into two groups; the suckers – twelve to eighteen year olds, and the soon-to-be-suckers – eleven and under. In an orderly fashion we began to walk towards the square in two lines, Matron watching us as we did so.
I think that Matron was, in some twisted way, glad of the reaping today. There was the possibility that her meal portions could increase by two, and that the sympathetic yet stupid souls of the town would visit bearing gifts of fish casseroles and bread. Furthermore, the reaping would provide positive publicity for the orphanage, (if we were well behaved) which would result in money. And if, pray tell, one of us was reaped and actually made it far enough in the games, many may look kindly upon the orphanage for raising such a figure, which equals food and cash.
Matron gave me the stink eye as I passed. Obviously I had already upset her plan.
The whole town square is filled with an anxious ambience, and all I want to do is scream at everyone for being such damn pansies.
But I get where their coming from.
Soldiers flank the footpaths, holding loudspeakers to direct the public. They're called peacekeepers, a strategy meant to enforce peace, yet those guns dangling from their arms don't look too peaceful. Hell, the Peacekeepers weren't skipping around giving out rainbow lollipops when peace was really needed; they were plucking off people like christmas turkeys. Hence, the hesitance and apprehension that accompanies the anxiousness.
But me? I'm not all that nervous.
The generation going through this process was approximately around the emergence of the concept of the Dark Days, when every man and his dog thought; 'Hey, I need someone to continue my legacy. Oh, you're a woman, let's go and make a baby.' Although as such may not have proceeded in such a fashion, I can confidentially say that at the time of my birth parents were going nuts. So my name is one in hundreds. And as that creepy old guys said on the television; "May the odds be ever in your favour."
The line slowly eases forward as, one by one, as each child is allowed into the roped off area. At the front of the line, two peacekeepers sit.
"Name and age." The ladies voice is brash as she yanks my hand down to the table.
"Mags Kolp, 12," I reply. With skilled precision, the pair take my blood sample.
"There's no Mags Kolp here," She says as she pores over a small electronic device. "If you don't cooperate we have been told to enter your name again in the reaping."
I sighed. Seemed that the Capitol always had to have the last say, whatever the topic.
"Margaret," I huff.
"You may go" They say, before moving onto the next child.
Well that's lovely. The representatives of the Capitol's last words of wisdom and luck are; "You may go." Overly affectionate bunch they are, over at the Capitol.
I reach the twelve year old girl section as cautious smiles telling tales of great trepidation flutter over each face. Everyone is dressed up in their best dress', as if to make an impression when they're reaped. I mentally grimace thinking of my own attire. The seam of my short had definitely progressed in it's journey in spite of my insistent tugging, and my cozzies had now not only given me a wet bum, but also let rivulets of water run down my legs.
I was planning on making a beeline to the sea when this was done; the waves were perfect, the sun was out, and earlier I found a small section of reef that I previously hadn't snorkelled.
A high pitched squeal emitted from the microphone situated on the platform, interrupting my thoughts as a boisterous woman toddled up to the stage.
"He-llooo District 4!"
Silence.
"I am Coa Linth, your district escort!" Her voice has a strange lilt, distinct to the capitol, and she uses her hands to talk as much as she does her voice. Her skin is abnormally pale, as if dyed white, further exemplified by her neon orange lipstick and eyeshadow. Her hair is cropped short, a blood red, matching her outfit of sun-like colours. The overall effect is not that of beauty, but an inexplicable urge to check the poor lady into a mental hospital. I don't like her.
For at least twenty minutes, she prattles on about the dark days, district thirteen's obliteration and how the capitol is so good. So good, in fact, that to make sure the district's know this, they're going to kill their children. Yet, because of their kindness, they'll let one live and shower them with gifts. Great.
Everyone's name is supposedly entered in once, however as the games progress, each child will have an entry according to their age, meaning that next year, everyone will have two entries with the exception of the twelves, etcetera. There's also a volunteer system, which Coa explains, however I highly doubt that anyone with a level head is going to do as such.
"So," Coa continues, "Let us now pick our humble tributes. And remember, May the odds be ever in your favour."
She wanders over to the big glass balls before plunging her hand into the many white slips, twirling her hand around as if to tantalise us. I see the faces of the girls in my section pale, and I wish mine would too, but it doesn't. I'm not scared. With a flourish, she pulls out a slip and totters back to the microphone, the irregular click clack of her heels matching the pounding heart beats of a district.
"Margaret Kolp," she drawls.
…
Damn.
...
Everyone sort of backs away from me as though I have contracted a plague, sweet relief brimming in their eyes, poorly disguised by fake pity. I begin to walk to the podium, head held high and shoulders thrown back as the crowd murmurs and mumbles, probably about the unfairness of a twelve year old being picked. I doesn't matter though. An eighteen year old girl could have been picked and it still would've been unfair. There's nothing fair about human sacrifice. I imagine Matron, secretly rejoicing of my selection whilst forcing expressions of distress. It almost makes me grin. Almost.
Coa beckons me.
"Margaret, congratulations!" she coos. I can see her scrutinising me, taking in my stick thin legs, washboard chest and attire. Impressions count, apparently. I bear my teeth in a sort-of snarl. Impression my ass.
"How old are you, Margaret?"
"Twelve," I say, monotone, "And the name's Mags, unless you want a fishing spear through your eye." Coa takes a step back as a few chuckles arise from the crowd. I don't like the name Margaret; it sounds like an old woman whose draped in moth-eaten shawls and hobbling along. And such is my vehement dislike that the entirety of the District knowns of it.
"A-alrighty then," Coa says, flustered, "Onto the male tribute."
Coa begins to teeter over to the bowls again, leaving me standing alone, lights flashing in my face, both the lens' of the district and camera's examining me. My breath suddenly gets caught in the back of my throat, as if there is something materialistic blocking it. An overwhelming need to hyperventilate claws at me as my knees begin to tremor, undetectable at the present moment yet gradually worsening so that is shall be obvious in the following minutes.
I am a tribute.
And despite my previous mantras and assurances that I am unafraid;
I am going to die.
With more speed, Coa picks a slip and speaks into the microphone;
"Otto Trawp."
A hulking figure emerges from the eighteen section. Broad shoulders, bulging biceps. And triceps, quadriceps, hamstrings, gastrocnemius', and just about every other muscle in the human body.
I am no longer just destructible. I am a twig.
Otto Trawp sidles down the aisle and onto the platform, a smug smile dominating his features, as though he was actually happy.
Otto is at least two times my height.
And four times my width.
Coa goes through her propaganda with Otto, asking the necessary questions. He is eighteen, happy to represent our district in the games and ready to succeed. I look out into the sea of people again, expecting to have all attention diverted, yet surprisingly, some cameras and eyes still linger on me.
And the gift of realisation graces me.
They want to see my reaction. They want to know if I'm a wimp of a child, likely to be killed immediately. They want to know if I am intimidated by Otto.
Which, clearly, I am.
In the reflection of a nearby camera, my face is contorted in an expression of obvious fear, and it looks as though I have wet myself. With hesitance, I glance down at my legs to see the few remaining rivulets of sea water from my still-wet cozzies run down my leg.
Fantastic.
But I couldn't let the public view me as weak, couldn't let my competitors prey on me before I even stepped foot in the arena. So I squared my shoulders like I did when I was first called. Threw back my head; giving the crowd free access to the viewing of my emotional state.
I was impassive. I was resolute.
I was unstoppable.
No.
With an air of confidence, I deliberately looked over to Otto and surveyed him, exaggerating my movements so that they would be obvious on camera. And I allowed a smile to bloom. One brimming with cockiness and arrogance, one of self-assurance and belief; all directed to Otto. I faced the crowd again, smile still plastered, yet subtly softer.
Now.
Now, I was invincible.
...
My momentary spectacle was broken when Coa motioned for us to shake hands, both her and Otto unaware of my display prior. With a massive smirk, Otto gripped my hand tightly and threatened the existence of my veins, before letting go. The new anthem of Panem played as District Four got their final look at us, and us at them.
But I was looking over.
At the ocean and sand and the islands. The green and the blue and the millions of shades that were sheltered in between, choosing only to emerge at certain times of the day. Creatures of the sea that floated and darted and splashed and frolicked. I would see it no more. And all I could feel was a sense of emptiness; that I wasn't exceedingly depressed or sad that I was going to die. I was scared, afraid of the inevitable pain and subsequent death; but I wasn't sad. I wasn't mourning the loss of family or friends, because I didn't have any. My life was lilliputian, a being easily disposed of. And the district was like me; give the sea and sand to time and nature and it survived, through struggles and triumphs. Give the sea and sand to humanity, and slowly it dwindled; died, remnants of salt or dust the only indications of what once was.
And that's all I would be.
For humanity had turned on me.
And I was powerless.
...
In the Justice building, the peacekeeper motioned for us to stay in the lobby whilst he checked on the rooms where we were to say our farewells. The room was newly built and lacking the customary smell of salt and the copious amounts of sand that were a given in the district.
I didn't like it.
Taking advantage of the momentary solitude, Otto grinned slyly, his face a pretentious ass, already certain of victory. It annoyed me. So I told him as such, watching as the grin faded. Slightly.
"A pretentious ass that's gonna win," he said.
That annoyed me even more.
"You know what?" I said as the footsteps of the returning peacekeeper became apparent. In one swift action, I brought my knee up to his groin, much like I had imagined doing to Matron countless times if she were of the opposite gender. The peacekeeper reentered, a confused expression on his face at the situation; me smiling sweetly and Otto hunched over, cursing softly with an extended finger waving in my direction. With a shake of the head, the Peacekeeper directed us to our separate rooms.
The room I am assigned in the justice building is beyond comparable. Swaths of velvet coloured deep purples and emeralds cover the floor and furnishings, with the room wall papered in rich reds, cornices tipped with gold.
I hate the damn Capitol.
With a sophisticated air of grace that has somewhat lacked throughout my short life, I jump onto couch and adjust the pillows accordingly. Each visitor supposedly gets five minutes, with the maximum amount of visitors overall being six. So, I have half an hour to rest on a couch that is, most likely, a seat which has not felt the warmth of a human buttock in too many months. I plan to comfort it in it's misery. I allow my eyelids to droop, for sleep to drag my into its reverie of darkness, when the door creaks. I turn my head sharply, eyes narrowed in a practiced glare to ward off the intruder. I wasn't expecting guests. I guess that my unique charisma isn't what my fellow twelve year olds are accustomed to. You could say I have a few admirers, kids who laugh when I show Matron up, but no one of consequence who could be bothered to give me a send off.
So, understandably, I was a little surprised when Miranda Trawp walked into the room.
Otto's sister.
"Hi." My hesitance was blatant, but Miranda's presence warranted as such, what with her enormously large shoulders and solid build. She was like a female Hercules on steroids.
"Hi." she replied, before sinking down into the couch next to me, an action that I definitely wasn't expecting. And then the flood gates open.
"You, you – you know? You have have … to help h-h-him!" she wailed.
"Uhh."
"No you have to! You have to p-pleeeaase!" Her pitched varied greatly, hence her speech sounding similar to that of a blue whale's. "He... he... he, he is the ooonly one who can ccoook mmeee my special fii..ssh fin- fingers! And you know? I .. I .. He's a great brother."
I grimaced in disgust as a rather large snot bubble bloomed from her nose. The human body was amazing.
"Alright," I said with a pat on the shoulder, more in consolidation than agreement.
And with that she left, a blubbering mess of tears and hair and tears and makeup and tears.
...
Almost as soon as Miranda had exited, the door opened once again. At first, all I could see was a pudgy hand. And all I could think was; oh no. For I was no in any way prepared for the whole of the Trawp family. Instead, the chubby hand extends to an arm that is cloaked in black, despite the climate. And surprisingly, this gets me unstuck. Cos for all the hell I've caused her, and all the crap I fire away about her, she was the closest thing to a mother that I had had in the past years, taking care of me when no one else would. Good ol' Matron. The door squeals against the pane as it bumps against the wall, Matron bustling into the room as though it were her kitchen. And if anyone in District Four knew anything about Matron, it was that the kitchen of the orphanage was hers and hers alone, everyone else be damned. I smiled as she collapsed onto the seat next to me, huffing loudly and fanning herself with her hand whilst looking to the heavens as if to plead with whoever abided up there to spare her the likely fate of spontaneous combustion. She looked at me with her red face.
"What'd you doin' getting reaped like that Miss Mags? Huh? You got any idea what I went through to get up those steps? My booty hasn't done that much since Mister Billy asked me to dance! You have any idea how long Mister Billy been swimming with those fishes?"
She released a low guttural sigh, if a sigh could be classed as such, as if her tirade was just as exhausting as the exercise she had done. But then she smiled. A watery smile that, on any other day, would send me screaming around the district because yes, yes, yes! I have seen Matron cry.
But today was not that day.
"You know Miss Mags?" Matron began, "I love you. In some kind of twisted way. And I don't know how you do it, for all the fish guts and crab claws I've cleaned up, because you've still wormed your way into my heart. Even if it is in the very deepest corner that never sees daylight."
I sniffled and smiled, again. Because this wasn't a sad moment. It was one of happiness.
"Love you to Matron."
"You gonna smash em' Miss Mags."
I looked at her in surprise, but she only nodded in affirmation and beckoned me towards her now outstretched arms. And I hugged Matron. She smelt of body odour, that cheap beer from the pub down the road and a hint of peppermint, but she was Matron, and in that moment I felt the safest I had in years, enveloped in her bosom which was capable in engulfing the circumference of my head entirely. She squeezed me hard for a second, and in that time I disappeared into one of her fat folds, before letting me go.
"I'm not kidding Miss Mags. I've been at that orphanage through thick and thin, and never have I had a kid like you who could sass me and still get away with it. If anyone could win these cruel tournament it would be you. Think girl, think. Cos that piece of meat in the other room aint' got nothin' on you when it comes to brains. And you think he could beat you in swimmin', or skill, or runnin'? When that deranged kids coming at ya with a knife, just think of me. Heavens, I've never seen no kid like you run when I come down with the bellows."
The peacekeeper knocked on the door, a loud rap that spoke of authority and finality.
"Don't worry, Matron," I said, "I'm coming back."
She grinned as the peacekeeper came into the room and began to drag her out, notably with some effort.
"I have to! Someone's gotta pass on your the hidden location of your favourite pantyhose! Can't have you finding them and running rampant, can we?"
And that's the last I ever saw of Matron. Her abnormally large bosom and her eyes that conveyed more than words ever could. They said 'You devil, you little rascal.' They said 'Oh, that's where they went.' They said 'Thank goodness she's gone.' They said 'I'm going to miss her.' And they said something very special too, and oddly enough it was only seeing it in her eyes that such statements actually felt true, in spite of her voicing them only moments ago. They said 'Best of luck.' They said 'I'll see you later'. They said 'I love you.'
...
Matron's eye's lingered in my memory as the Peacekeepers ushered us out of the justice building and to the train station. They weren't even that nice. Just brown orbs that resembled crap floating in the sewerage water that was the pupil. But what I remembered was the definiteness in them, how when she said, "You gonna smash em' Miss Mags" she was confidant and she was sure.
It was nice to have one's such faith.