-Vesper-
Chapter 2
-Anticipation-
The cool air trickles past me, rustling my hair and caressing my skin as I stand on the front porch of our home. The chirps of the crickets and the quiet night songs of the mockingjays are engaged in a pleasant courtship in my ears, their melodies in complete harmony. The usually smoke plagued air of the Seam is warm, its scent sweet and agreeable for once.
I close my eyes, savoring this brief moment of peace.
I've seldom had mornings like this, ever since Haymitch was reaped. Every day during the Quell, as I rose in the morning and as I returned to my bed in the evening, my mind would relent in repeating a simple, yet deadly thought:
'He might die today,'
My sunlit days had been torturous, having been forced to watch his Games on the prodigious flat screens. My nights had been unbearable, my dreams constantly relaying the horrors that I had witnessed.
For the duration of the Quell, I had lain awake in the dead of night and for hours my mind would not rest. I'd break into prolonged sweats, my heart struggling to pump the blood within. It has come to the point where my body has adjusted so well to my sleepless nights that I have been rendered an insomniac.
I turn my head and peer back into my desolate home. The entire household has become a mausoleum; nothing stirs.
My mother and father have joined the rest of the elders of 12 with the celebrations, as have my brother and sister. They have gone to the Justice Building and the Square, to decorate our barren District with baubles, banners and other celebratory items.
When I have the time, my home too will be a completely different place. Instead of blowing dust and dirt into tiny crevices and crannies, it will be lit with candles and oil lamps, decked head to toe in festive decorations.
In a few hours, perhaps even less, the District will truly come alive and this peace will be disturbed. The crickets will recede into their holes and the mockingjays will quiescently subdue. Instead, the boom of drums and rapture of trumpets will fill the air. My people will scream and shout for joy, clapping their hands together furiously. They'll dance in the streets, shaking each other's hands and greet their fellow with warmth.
For once, District 12 has something to celebrate.
For the first time in twenty-four years, they will be re-welcoming not the lifeless corpses of their tributes but a Victor.
Haymitch
I smile at the name, my heart flipping in an excited manner. For weeks I have had to endure that wretched feeling, that horrid realization that he might be returning in a body bag.
It devastated me, to be forced to imagine a life without him. But I will not deny that I didn't try to steel myself for such a life, that I did not think he would come back.
No one did.
District 12 hasn't had a Victor in a long while, our only one dying just before the Quell. So the hope for this year's tributes to succeed at any stage of the Games, even with the increased intake, had been considerably low.
But he did it.
He made it.
Against all the odds, he did it.
And now, very soon, he'll be back. I will not have to wait long now.
I cannot wait for that moment, for that place in time when I can wrap my arms around him. When I can feel his heart beating against mine, his breath against my ear and his lips upon mine.
I beam at the thought, chuckling as I shake my head.
I suddenly feel something stirring beside me and look down to find a pair of brilliant blue eyes staring up at me.
Conan sniffs noisily, clutching his ruined teddy in one arm. His dark hair is mused, matted and drying from its lack of hydration; his pale lips are parted, the edges tinged with a ghastly magenta and his nose is still very much a brilliant shade of pink.
His illness has not let up, not once has it allowed him a day of rest. It weakens him every day; I can see it in his eyes.
Everything that I feel, the elation that had swelled in heart when I watched Haymitch win the Games, is negated when I see my brother's broken figure.
The Abraxas' have tried their hardest to offer him a cure, even something just to relieve the pain. But there is nothing. There is nothing that can be done.
In a perfect world, we would have supplies and remedies that lived up to Capitol standard. Strange liquids and pills that can eradicate an illness or heal a wound within hours. But it is not such a world.
If there are two things that are certain in this life, one is that the Hunger Games will never cease to exist. The other is that my baby brother, my little Conan, will die at nine years of age.
I should be out with the others, Conan included. Usually, everyone is required to offer their hands for the preparations and to attend the greeting of our Victor. No one is exempt to this rule and disobedience is severely frowned upon.
But Conan's condition had worsened over the past few days, his teachers at school duly noting this. They in turn had informed the Peacekeepers of Conan's absence and subsequently, the white trouser lemmings had visited our shamble of a home.
Seeing Conan so sick and helpless had surprisingly softened their hardened hearts, and in a rather unprecedented action, allowed him clemency. And considering his age and need of a constant carer, had granted me a similar pardon.
So here I stand, watching over my dying brother as my people welcome another. I will probably miss Haymitch's arrival; the injustice of my paradoxical situation has not been lost on me.
But as for Conan, nothing has been able to quash my brother's enthusiasm. Not the fits, not the fatigue and not the pain.
Ever since Haymitch's victory had been televised, Conan has not been able to stay still. He is determined to see Haymitch, to wrap his thin hands around his waist and congratulate his 'second favourite person in the whole wide world.'
"What are you doing up, Conan?" I ask gently, patting his flustered cheek.
"I want to go into town," he murmurs, rubbing his eye, "I want to see Haymitch,"
Sighing, I crouch onto my hunches, leveling myself with my brother.
"You can't Conan," I tell him, "You're too sick,"
"But Vesper…" he whines, pouting his bottom lip pathetically.
"Conan…" I mimic, smiling at the boy. He huffs aggressively, squinting his doe-like eyes at me. I cock my head to the side, silently ordering him to return to his bed. But he stands indignantly, clutching his teddy even harder as he stomps a foot.
I rearrange my expression, trying my best to seem authoritarian.
"Go back to bed," I say sternly, "If you stay out here any longer, you'll get worse. Then you won't get to see Haymitch at all,"
"But I'm much better," he tells me, nodding his head furiously, "Here, touch my head,"
Reluctant to play along, I run my hand over his clammy forehead several times. It is better, I'll admit. A lot better than what it was before. But it is no way a safe temperature. His skin is still too warm, and the sweat that is pouring down his face tells me he is no state to go walking about.
I shake my head, squeezing his shoulder.
Conan sighs heavily, his shoulders dropping a little. His grip slackens, and poor teddy droops. One of its battered button eyes hangs dangerously out of its socket.
Looking utterly defeated, and inciting great regret within myself, he turns on his heel and heads back inside. I can hear him muttering to himself, no doubt obscenities and curses, as he eases himself onto his bed.
I turn back, feeling terrible for Conan.
He wants nothing else but to join the rest of 12 in the celebrations. In all his nine years, he has seen nothing but death and despair.
He loves Haymitch dearly and having had to watch his idol dodge death several times has wounded Conan significantly. I feel that seeing Haymitch will do Conan some good, perhaps breath fresh air into him.
But it is a risk that I, nor my family, can take. I want him to be happy, but I rather he see another spring than bring him brief joy.
Shivering, I wrap my coat tightly around myself. It is cold now, but as the day wears on the temperature will warm and hopefully, I'll no longer need the extra clothing.
I run my fingers through my hair, cursing the tangles I find as I lean against our porch barrier.
It is not much, our little porch fence, merely a motley makeshift barricade of dying wood and rusting nails. My leaning on it will not do any damage; it has built to withstand even my father's weight.
My father is quite the craftsman, naturally considering his origins are rooted in the merchant class of District 12. He had been a breath of fresh air apparently, when he had arrived in the Seam to live with my mother. His personality was infectiously optimistic and his carpentry skills had been well received.
I look reproachfully at my shanty street. The recent rain has damped the dark ground into a muddy pool of mush, the dead leaves and ash from the mines littering the place. There is no colour in the Seam, only shades of grey, black and that hue between. The town is no better, but there is a sense of cleanliness that the Seam will never achieve.
I hear an ominous creak! nearby and sigh; it is the Everdeen's home.
They are a handy bunch, those Everdeens. They are excellent hunters and their game is treasured in the Hob. Their knowledge of the flora and fauna of District 12 is valuable and their will to survive is second to another. But I would never, ever, swap my place in life with theirs.
Not for all the skill and capability in the world, for the poverty they suffer is deplorable.
I ponder the day when all of this will be finished, when this disparity will end. When there no longer is a District of starving children neighboring one filled with plump and round cherubs. When there will no longer be citizens living in extravagance and luxury at the expense of others.
But perhaps it never will. Perhaps my people will always be the underbelly of Panem, forever ravenous and stricken with famine as the other Districts progress on the evolutionary scale.
I know there are many Districts who have not acquired the Capitol's favor, themselves in dire straits. I've heard dreadful tales about the conditions of 11, 10 and 9, but it does negate the fact that our death rate is the highest both in and out of the Games.
I shuffle a bit, letting the blood circulate in my legs again.
I am glad that Haymitch won, more than glad in fact. I am ecstatic.
But the way he won, the way that District 2 girl died, I can't imagine that it had gone down well with the Capitol. It was strange in fact, watching the aftermath of Haymitch's victory. The Capitol, or rather President Snow, had been so calm and passive, accepting his triumph just like every other year.
I had expected immediate retaliation.
But nothing has happened, nothing at all. Haymitch is coming home and the Capitol has done nothing to mar that.
I giggle to myself. I feel pathetic for it, but from the moment he left I had not been able to breathe.
Now I can.
Out of habit, I tighten my coat but frown almost instantly; I can feel something against my chest. I fidget a bit more, feeling the unidentified object crinkling and folding.
I open my coat and dig my fingers inside the pockets, fishing for the object. It takes a while; the pockets are very deep and are designed to harbour many items. It takes a while until I finally find it and pull it out.
It seems to be a card of some sort, folded into two. It is a worn and an incredibly old thing, tearing at the corners and fraying at the edges.
I take it into my hands and turn it out, smoothing away the edges as best I can.
What I see fills me with a joy I cannot fully comprehend. It is like the feeling one feels when meeting a dear old friend. That euphonious mix of nostalgia and happiness, longing and delight.
It is a photograph, albeit an old and one of sepia tones but a photograph nonetheless.
Haymitch and I.
He is perhaps ten years old in this shot, I maybe bordering at the pointy end of nine. His arm is around my shoulders, my own around his waist. His grey eyes are twinkling in the sunlight, the camera having captured its unique glow. My own eyes are a lot bluer than what I can remember. Haymitch had always told me that, I never really believed that until now.
His hair is close cropped in the shot, still very dark and curled but to such a reduced state of its usual decadence. My hair too has been cropped, dancing and twirling on the blades of my shoulders.
I remember that year, not very clearly, but still; lice had infected just about every child in the Seam.
A complete pandemic.
Ironic though, considering that the hair in the Seam was probably the most grottiest and germ-infested in Panem. But perhaps the lice of District 12 had lowered their standards.
We're smiling and that's what strikes me the most. Not smiling for the camera, but at it. It is a shot captured mid way through a giggle, a perfect moment.
I cannot recall a time when we had ever looked this sincere and without trouble.
Certainly not recently.
I hold the photograph tightly in my hands, the fragile thing crinkling in my tight fingers and place it against my lips.
There had been a time when I had thought that memories were all that would be left of him. I had steeled myself for the worst, collecting all of his things that I possessed and storing them for safekeeping. I remember I had sorted a place to keep his district token, keeping it clean and free of dust.
I had thought I had lost him.
But I was wrong.
Thank goodness I was wrong.
AN: Well, i wanted to wait until at least one of you reviewed or alerted, but...hmm. Maybe this helped?