Once District 12 has completely left my field of vision, I push myself away from the window. This is it. This is really happening.
As I turn back around, I take in what has to be the living room of the train. There's a plush sofa and a few couches centred around a flat screen television. At the end closest to us is a bar, stock full of alcohol. On the far end's the dining room, the table full of finger foods. Not only that, but the floor is perfectly lacquered wood. I'm finally introduced to the Capitol life.
Ophelia's still standing there, waiting with her obnoxious smile. "If you two are done, let me show you to your rooms."
She leads us down this long lavish hallway and as we walk, I can only think about how steady the train is. The people in District 6 must have worked really hard on it.
"Harper this will be your room, and Aiden, that will be yours." She gestures to a door a little further down. "I'll inform you when it's time for dinner." After thanking her, I enter the room and it's just as stunning as the living room.
The entire floor is carpeted, soft under my feet. The bed's almost three times bigger than mine back home, with sheets that look incredibly smooth. I can't help but jump spread-eagle onto the bed and enjoy the cool sheets. Thank you District 8.
I decide to take a shower and head into the bathroom. Despite having taken a quick bath back in 12, the marble wall and tiled floor are so pristine that I just feel dirty compared to all of it.
The shower isn't that much better, with rows of buttons that did god knows what. After some trial and error (which involved me getting cold water splashed directly onto my head), I find the right buttons and lukewarm water pours onto me, with shampoo and soup added directly to my body. It even comes with a built in blow dryer, so I come out of the shower dry without even touching a towel.
I open the drawers and get an even bigger surprise. Every colour of the spectrum is inside in the form of shirts and pants. Not only that, but they are made from the best fabric I've ever seen, and that's coming from me, whose parents own a fabric store. They would definitely be excited if they were here.
I change into a white top and navy pants, not that much different from what I wore earlier. I pick up my token from where I dumped my old clothes and tie it back around my wrist. It's the colour of coal, but it's almost as smooth as silk.
I still remember my dad telling me the story of how he sold it. He had just taken over the business from his father and it was on his third day of the job that someone finally came in to actually buy something. It was the Mayor's wife, who bought some cloth to make clothes for her son. It was the most expensive one in the store, and my dad swore that it was his lucky charm, because once that fabric was sold, there hadn't been a day without a sale since.
It's been 5 years since he died. The last memory I have of him is one where he's lying on his bed, in his last few hours of life, looking pale with sunken cheeks, but still with a smile on his face. That was how he and my mom were perfect for each other. Somehow they could both smile in our dull district.
I try to be like that, to stay so optimistic, but I just can't. Not when there's so much pain and suffering and the goddamn hunger games in my life. There are better days when I do smile, but I can't keep it for long. I smile, but most of the time, I don't mean it. Some days it doesn't even seem like I'm related to my parents.
If there was anyone else I couldn't understand, it was Cole. He too was a smiler, albeit not as much as my parents. He has it much worse than me, with both parents dead and a younger sister to take care of, but there he is, smiling and joking. I don't know how he does it, but when I'm with him, I can't help but smile too. It's contagious, I know it. Even Leigh's smiling a bit too much for my comfort.
Thinking of them now brings a stab of pain to my heart. I miss them so much, and it's only been an hour. Who knows what I'm going to feel when I'm in the arena.
I sit down by the window, watching the world rush past in a blur. Right now, all I see is the wilderness, but I know that in a few more minutes, I'll be able to see the vast fields of District 11. Nowadays, this is the closest people get to the other districts. Ever since the Dark Days, travelling between districts is restricted to important officials only. Before, anyone could visit the other district (with the right documents of course), but now, I guess the Capitol wants as little contact between them as possible, what with all the killing of each other's children and all.
I remember my dad telling me stories of what it was before the Dark Days, of how his own father would bring him to the districts and all the friends he made. According to him, my great-grandfather was from 8. He moved to 12 to expand trade, so that's how they started the business and also how my family's the only one in 12 that has green irises with gold flecks in the centre.
I take a look at myself in the mirror next to me. My eyes are a deeper green than my father's, with a slight grey tinge to them from my mother. I've always been told that I'm a perfect combination of them both, but my mom insists that I'm the splitting image of my dad. I have his height as well as his build, not to mention his thick head of hair, but my face is nearly the same as my mom's, with a defined jawline and sharp nose. Both of them were kind and friendly people, willing to help people in need. They understood more things than others did, and that was passed on to me. I was less sociable and more introverted than them, but the deep understanding of the people and things around us was the same.
When my dad caught that virus, he couldn't lose it. And despite having his health deteriorate every day for a whole year, he still remained his old caring self. And when he died, it was like a light had gone out. My mom was devasted, but she remained strong, taking over the business while raising me. That's why I can't lose. I can't leave her. Not after all that she's done.
I must have spent more time in deep thought than I realised because it isn't very long later that I hear Ophelia knocking on my door. I make my way to the dining room to find out that I'm the first one there. I take a seat, unsure of what to do while I wait. My stomach grumbles at the smell wafting from the kitchen. I didn't even realise that I was hungry.
Minutes later, Harper comes along, wearing a pastel blue blouse with tailored pants. She takes a seat across from me and there's a silence. It's awkward because we don't know each other but my mom did say that she would make a good ally, so I take the initiative.
"You look nice." I have no idea what she'll make of that, but judging by her expression, she's taken aback. By the fact that I spoke first or that I'm complimenting her, I'll never know.
"Thanks. You don't look too shabby yourself." She smirks and I think that's the closest I'll get to a smile from her. For now at least, it's a good start.
There's the sound of clacking heels and Ophelia's here, wearing a frilly gold dress with equally poofy hair. "Nice to see that you two are punctual," she says when she sees the two of us. "Now, I'll like you to meet your mentor."
District 12 is the only one that hasn't had a victor, so our mentor has to be from another district. He doesn't even have to enter the room for me to know who he is. Mason Spiers. The victor of the 13th Hunger Games from District 2. He was originally the mentor of his own district but since they got another winner a couple years later; he was asked - or more like forced - to help us.
He's a big guy, with muscles that put anyone else's to shame. He has the classic District 2 look of stone grey eyes with strong sharp features. He won when he was 16, by killing most of the other tributes with a sword that he got from the Cornucopia. The fight that made him victor got him a huge scar on his right calf, which he famously tattooed over with a picture of a sword.
I look at him now, taking a seat next to Harper. He's as huge as on television, but not as menacing, now that he's wearing a plain white shirt and pants. Compared to last year, his collection of tattoos has gotten bigger, with an almost complete sleeve on his right arm. He gives me a look over and I immediately feel self-conscious. I'm not scrawny, neither am I weak, but compared to him, I might as well be. I'm just glad that I have a substantial amount of meat on my bones. The previous years' male tributes from 12 have mostly been from the Seam, and they were all bags of bones.
I don't show him my nervousness. "Hey," I try to say in my most disinterested voice.
He raises an eyebrow at me, and then looks at Harper, who only acknowledges him with a nod. "Nice to meet you too," he says sarcastically. If he kept that sarcasm up, I might just end up liking him.
The food arrives shortly after and I can barely keep myself from drooling. Green soup dotted with white foam, a plate of what seems like edible flowers drizzled with honey, grilled meat stacked on a bed of potatoes. I can't help but say, "Oh my God." Harper has the same expression as me, eyes wide in disbelief. Back in 12, it was impossible to get the ingredients they have here, much less afford it.
"Well, don't be shy. Dig in," Ophelia smiles to us. I fight the urge to just stuff my face because I don't want them to think that I'm uncivilised. So I eat, taking as much as I can. Harper does too, but from the speed at which she's eating, I can tell that she's starving. She's not as thin as most people are from the Seam, but thin enough to know that she has had days with too little food in her system. I'm fortunate enough to come from a merchant family, and even though it was tough, we still managed to put some food on the table.
I eat till I'm bursting, and even then I still stuff myself with the rainbow cake they prepared. My lips are stained with cake and I can see Mason judging me from the corner of my eye, but I don't care; it's good food.
As the dishes are cleared, we head into the living room to watch the recap of the Reapings. I don't say anything, but I'm terrified. The last thing I need is to see my competition, because if I want win, they all have to die, including Harper, who's next to me on the sofa right now. I don't want to have anyone's blood on my hands. I don't think I could live with the guilt.
A lady with big turquoise hair and a man who has obviously had one too many facelifts appear on screen. Like any other year, they welcome us to the first day of the Games. "This year, we have an exciting line up of tributes. Let's take a look, shall we?"
The feed then cuts to clips of the reapings in the districts. Like always, the tributes from 1, 2 and 4 look the strongest and cockiest, being Careers and all. It's not really fair, considering that they are trained to fight even though it's illegal. Competing in the games has become an honour for them, so much so that people willingly volunteer to be tributes. Because of this, most of the victors are careers, especially 2, who has 3 of the 19 victors, one of which is sitting right next to me.
As the clips continue playing, I see tributes crying, terrified, and shaking in their pants. There are also those who look confident, calm and composed. It's an interesting thing to see those from the weaker districts look act like that, to remain so strong even when they barely have a chance.
Then there is District 12, the Justice Building looking so dull and gloomy compared to the others. When Ophelia calls out Harper's name, the camera pans to her face and for a brief moment, fear flashes on her face before it's replaced by a scowl, the same one that she has on right now. I don't know why she keeps doing that. She's pretty, and if she just smiles, even a little, I think she would be stunning.
I hear my name called. I turn back just in time to see Cole push me out of the crowd. The camera's on me now, showing my every expression. It's weird to see myself on the television, to know that my face is now known to the entire country. I'm scared, but I hide it well. My face is void of emotion but the way my chest is heaving shows just how hard I'm trying to not hyperventilate.
They cut directly to when the two of us are finally on stage, and right before they end the clip, my expression has changed into a death glare, and at the very last second, I stare straight into the camera. I had no idea that I did that, and now that I see myself, looking so deadly, I feel a sudden sense of terror. The Games are already changing me.
When the reporters return on screen, Mason turns to us and says, "At least you two didn't cry. The pair last year was so annoying with all their tears and sobbing." The previous tributes were both from the Seam, a twelve year old girl and a thirteen year old boy who had been friends since young.
I take it back. Maybe Mason wasn't such a great guy after all.
"Well this definitely looks like it's gonna be an exciting Games," smiles the female reporter, "Tune in tomorrow for the opening ceremony!"
The recaps end, returning to some weird Capitol programme. Mason looks to us and says, "Now, I want you two to get a good night sleep. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow."
"Yes sir," Harper says as she rolls her eyes and I can't help but smile. He glares at us, but doesn't say anything. We quickly leave and once we're out of earshot, she says, "What a dick!"
She's right. I know my mom said to trust him, but how can I when he acts like that? He's not even that much older than me; there's just a three year difference and already he acts like he's some big shot. Given that he is a District 2 victor, but he could at least pretend like he cares.
After we say our goodnights to each other, Harper and I retire to our separate rooms. I strip down to my boxers and crawl under the covers, hoping that I'm so unconsciously tired that the minute my head hits the pillow, I'll be sound asleep, but no such luck.
Instead, I stare straight up at the ceiling and all of I can think of is what's happening back home in 12. My mom must have prepared the food saved, sparing no effort in making a great meal, despite having her only son taken away to fight for his survival. Cole and Leigh were surely there, having a full meal. It would be just like normal. Except that I wouldn't be there. The atmosphere would be all wrong, too deadly quiet. No laughing, no chatter, nothing.
I can just imagine it. They would have probably watched the recaps over dinner, no one talking the entire time. Once dinner was over, Cole would leave right afterwards, not staying behind like he normally would. He would be pulling a red eyed Leigh behind him, thanking my mom, who would have just nodded in response.
Right now, they would all be in their cold beds, while I'm lying comfortably in this soft bed. But at least they're safe. Me on the other hand, I'm on my way to death. Oh the irony.
An hour of tossing and turning later, I finally start to drift off. As I do, I imagine that the train's not taking me to the Capitol, but back to 12. Back to my home, back to family, back to my friends. That's all I want, but am I prepared to do whatever it takes?
I don't want to kill anyone. I don't want to be a murderer. I don't want anyone's blood on my hands. I've never been a fighter, Cole was, and I was the one who liked to talk things through. So how the hell was I supposed to use a weapon, much less kill someone?
But if I wanted to go home, I guess I would just have to learn.