A.N Hey fanfiction readers! Sorry the A.N on chapter1 didn't work. And I had this nice one about this being my first fanfiction and a sob story too! And you didn't get to read it! (oh, the horror) But this is, and I would appreciate reviews. Updates may be a tad erratic, cuz of school and dance =) Songs I listened to while writing this: Wild Horses by the Rolling Stones and Can't Help Falling in Love with You by Ingrid Michaelson (sp?)
Gale Hawthorne
I think I love her. Jessalyn, that is. I've known her almost my whole life, or the part that matters. She brings me up when I'm down. Her brightness lights up a dark room more efficiently than any gas lamp. Her beauty could make a blind man smile. She's perfect, at least for me. Neither of us is perfect. I straighten my ragged, yet clean shirt and glance at my reflection in the shard of mirror one last time. Today I'm going to tell her. After. When all of us are relieved and giddy it wasn't us. She'll have no choice but to respond happily.
I'll tell her in the aftermath. Unless one of us two isn't here. Unless one of us is selected for slaughter like a cow out of a herd of hundreds, and shipped off to be murdered in the guillotine while the Capitol sits and laughs, congratulating the Gamemakers for wonderful entertainment and wait impatiently for the next year of misery. I know neither of us could live in the Hunger Games.
I shake my head, hoping to shake out the bad thoughts. Earlier, when I was in the woods, hunting, with Katniss, neither of us broached the subject. We chose to see it lightly. If you think about it, you're lost. I head out the door, and realize I was almost late. People have stopped wishing luck upon others, and are going to their places. I quickly walk towards the group of eligible boys, fenced in with a yellowing coarse rope. I pass Madge, looking so pretty and innocent in her clean, new, white dress. Katniss, holding Prim's hand and looking scared, for herself and her beloved sister. I choose not to disturb her.
And Jessalyn, standing alone, hugging herself. Her sapphire eyes stare longingly at the horizon, as if hoping for a better place, somewhere out in the wilderness that's not Panem. She looks so beautiful in her almost new dress, like an angel exiled from Heaven. Her grace is evident even by standing still. If I had doubted my feelings for her now, I would never doubt them again.
The picture could be an old painting, one that is heartbreakingly beautiful. One that makes you cry and smile through your tears. A melancholy butterfly, a bittersweet flower. I reach out to touch her arm, but decide not to break her stance. Her profile is perfect, and she looks so sad and wistful, that something tells me she wants to be left alone. I drift back to my few friends in my group.
As the Mayor stands up, I daydream while he tells the story of my homeland, Panem, rising from the bloodied, war-torn, ground. Haymitch Abernathy is introduced as the only living victor from District 12, and the crowd roars at his drunkenness. I don't understand why they laugh. Sure, his buffoonery may impress for a short period of time, but they can't forget what happens soon. For after he leaves, two kids will be sentenced to a fate worse then a bullet to the heart.
A slow, sure death, caused by starvation, torture, madness, or whatever else the Gamemakers invent this year. Only two people have won from our District; all our tributes are murdered while the rest of Panem is forced to watch. Then, the home District of the last remaining tribute is privileged with delicacies, such as sugar, and necessities, such as coal, grain, and oil, while everyone else starves to death.
The Games are only popular in the richer districts, but for everyone else, they are torture. For the Capitol, who doesn't have to supply tributes, they're a source of entertainment. For a young boy in District Two, it's a lottery, a chance to show off on television and win money and a life of luxury. When I look up, Haymitch has been ushered off the stage, and the tentative laughter has stopped. The true reaping of souls has begun.
As Effie Trinket steps up, the tension is nearly tangible.
"Happy Hunger Games!" The crowd is silent. She bounces over to the girl's reaping ball. The sparkling glass shimmers in the light, but the torn, curled, and grimy paper slips inside contrast greatly. Her stupid pink wig is off-kilter, and I slightly smile. Glancing at Katniss, I see her doing the same, and we share a short moment before I turn away, suddenly struck with panic. What if Katniss is called? Or Jessalyn? I couldn't watch them die. It would kill me. And them. But the name Effie reads off isn't Jessa's. Or Catnip's. It's even worse.
"Primrose Everdeen!"
Katniss's younger sister. MY younger sister. The girl Katniss hunts for, the person she cares about most in the world. The little girl that belongs to everyone in the Seam, the delicate-looking child who has nerves of steel, and has saved a life more than once has been chosen. And now her loving sister has to watch her death on national television, her dying and Katniss not being able to do a thing. Katniss is paralyzed, frozen in fear. The crowd makes general grumbling noises, as usual when a twelve-year-old is reaped.
This may be the only time when some people realize how cruel the Capitol is; when they send children who have just grown up to fight to their death. Katniss snaps out of her grim reverie. But her instantaneous volunteer clashes with another's voice. One I know well. Jessalyn Grace Netherfield's voice, saying the words that freeze my feet to the ground, make my blood stop flowing, and my heart stop beating.
"I volunteer for Primrose Everdeen!"
Y'all saw it coming, right? Yeah….probably the last predictable part. Oh, and if you think Jessalyn's a Mary-Sue, PM me or review! Even if you don't think so, please review!