AN: I should take this opportunity to introduce myself since I failed to do so in the first chapter. I'm sunflowerfields5 but for all intents and purposes call me "Jed". I just wanted to say hey, I doubt anyone will read this but I feel an introduction is necessary. Anyway, unlikely person reading this, I apologize for the length of the first chapter but you know, I felt it was imperative to the plot and whatnot. The length of chapter two is...better but still ridiculous. Expect the rest to be shorter, though. Also, I'm not quite sure about the rating but for right now it will be rated T, however, it can change, depends on what I decide to do. And I'll try, key word TRY, to update this on a bi-weekly basis. Okay, without further ado, on with the story! ~Jed
When the initial anger of his mistake subsides after a split two seconds the fire in my heart is stunned into ice. I'm breathless; the clamminess of my skin begins to overtake my senses as the sun melts every cell in my body. I'm on fire, the sensation tingles all throughout me causing quickness in breath, a ceaseless itch erecting each hair on my body; a static shock nearly freezes my pulse and kills me, and a dull ache slowly consumes me in goosflesh. A girl standing next to me gives a slight tug of my skirt, urging me onto the stage with Caligula, I'm tempted to punch her but she's only trying to help me, it seems. With Roger as my partner I'll have to do all I can to get Caligula's good side in my clutches. I take one tensioned step forward and then another. Every move I make is lighting as I take the stage. I'm on the hot asphalt which radiates its heat onto the tops of my toes, I want to run but a wall of Peacekeepers will swallow me before I even have a chance, besides, I'll only appear weak if I try. It's a quick walk to the stage and Caligula is beckoning to me with his purple and gold nailed fingers. Snakes grab my hand and pull me on to the hot metal and I begin to dizzy a little from the humidity.
When I'm turned around, my shoulders engulfed by the purple-gold serpents, I watch the sea of people before me, their eyes saucers of concern and pity. Caligula says something but I can't hear him. The fever heat of terror drums against my ears blocking out all vibrations, cutting off my hearing. The look on my face is slight; you'd have to look rather close to notice my horror. I've never had nightmares, never, however, the crowd takes on a slanted silhouette, a blurry vision, and fire is sweltering on the grass and unto the stage licking at my feet. My sandals are aflame; my dress is sparking and smoking. I am being choked by the smoke as it leeches the oxygen straight from my lungs; I feel faint and get weak in the knees until I begin to fall a little.
A soft voice whispers into my ear, snaking into my ear drums and sickling through leaving a sick slimy back wash "Oh, careful now, m'dear. Don't fall, I've got you, come up." It's Caligula whispering to me. I regain my footing and stand straight and giggle a little. I want this moment to look light and fun, as though I weren't about to faint out of fear but from the heat. I giggle out an apology, blame it on the heat, and let go of Caligula's arm. He laughs it off, too, makes a joke or two at my expense. I play along until he brings the show back to the Reaping.
"Looks like we've got a funny one this year. Caesar Flickerman is going to have a ball with you, I bet. We've only just announced the tributes and I'm already dying with the anticipation of it all. Well, there's plenty time to dwell on the future later. I've got to get you two charming youngsters to the Capitol. The sooner we get there, the sooner the Games can begin!" He says, almost catatonic with bliss. He rapturously announces our names once more to the audience and makes his signature "May the odds be ever in your favor!" which District 10 knows as code for applause. He makes the Reaping audience of 10 do it every year and if we don't, well, he gets antsy to say the least. Caligula is not afraid to have a temper tantrum on live television, he's done it before.
It's silent this year, though, they don't want to clap, cheer, or whoop for him this year. They refuse to be his trained dogs any longer. I don't quite understand why they're resisting, knowing fully well the punishment that waits if they don't. A Peacekeeper nudges someone with the butt of his rifle, as if to say clap, and so she does. It's a pathetic sound that comes from her but soon another joins her, then another, then another, until everyone is applauding weakly. Caligula usually expects a huge uproar, not this year, though. Together they couldn't even be heard from ten feet away, let alone a mile. Caligula looks as if he's about to collapses in upon himself and ignite Hell but he just pushes Roger and I forward with a curt "shakes hands" as he glares into the distance. We turn face to face and he reaches out first, a big grin on his supple pink lips. A red hotness flushes my cheeks as I look up into his alluring eyes. They're such an intense light brown they're almost beige. As not to give the impression of being inimical I smile warmly back to him. I grab his strong yet velvety and sensuous hands and shake vigorously with good cheer. Keep leading them on, Cecil. Keep leading him on.
We are then swarmed by Peacekeepers and ushered into the Justice Building so we can make our final goodbyes to our families and friends. Not many people will be coming to see me. As I am directed down a hall into a dimly-lit, brown, circular room I try to observe the building as closely as I can. I've never been to the Justice Building before, I heard it was nice, may as well get a good gander before I die. We get one hour to say goodbye to whoever came with us on the bus and nothing more. I guess the whole hour belongs to my father since he was the only one allowed to go with me today. I kind of wish Billy and Mrs. Habershend could have come along, I really do. I would tell Mrs. Habershend to keep an eye on daddy, make sure he's eating and going to work, whip him into shape if he's not. I would tell Billy to spend every moment of the Games sitting with my father, holding onto his strong muscles every single second as he watches, letting him sob or hide in his chest when something happens, if what's on the screen is too much for him. I would need him to find the strength my father had loss. If he loses it, that is. I jump up and down in my chair a little, anxious to get these goodbyes off my lips. It becomes unbearable until I come to the conclusion that both of them would do these things for me anyway. Mrs. Habershend will watch over him, Billy will comfort him, and Mortimer will find a way to help, too. My sense of family up until this point has been limited, admittedly. I always thought my family included my father and my father alone, that family only pertained to mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and the like. I was wrong. Genetics aren't what makes a family, what makes a family is love, affection, and caring. I'm not one to be sentimental and corny like that but it's true. It's not until the corny stuff becomes a lie that you truly appreciate it.
My family will come together now; it will solidify and prosper with these people. I may not see it, but I feel a certain solace in the thought. I can imagine Billy and daddy adopting a child from the Community Home, Mrs. Habershend remarrying a nice man who can herd her cattle in my place, Mortimer playing with his puppies, Sebastian suckling her calf, and even Alvira coming back to mourn me and then galloping off back to her new rich family. I rub the cold wood with my index as I mull it over. Yeah, life could go on without me. It could…
It really could go on and that infuriates me. It's not fair at all that everyone can be happy except me. That I have to go die for someone else's sins because the Capitol says I must. That everyone and their freaking grandmother can laugh, cry, run, breathe, and live while I wade on Death's shallows. Before I can get really mad the door opens and my father walks in, two Peacekeepers flanked on either side of him. I run into his open arms and bury my face into his stomach, feeling the hardness and ridges of his abs. One, two, three, four, five, and six, I count, he has those six pack abs he always said he would get. He used tell me every day about the progress he was making in his muscle building but I never really paid attention. Oh, how I wish I did, how I wish I accepted his offers of quality time every time he made them, how I wish I could spend one more hour, one more day with him. If I could have just one more day with him and everyone I would give up most everything I had. I can feel the tears burning underneath my eyelids. I push them back down, not wanting to show the cameras I've been crying. The chubby, twelve year-old girl from District 10 must not be made weaker by her tears. Sponsors don't support criers, they support fighters. I sit down, as does daddy, and we stare at each other for a long time.
"Shouldn't one of us say something?" I ask in a weak voice, sounding like the little girl I'm supposed to be. He responds with silence. Then opens his mouth, closes it again, opens it again, and then shuts it. He doesn't know what to say, he can't find the words, the promises, or the lies. Until he can only speak the present.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, baby girl. I was 'sposed to protect you, no matter what. I was 'sposed to keep you safe, now look where you're headed. Those bastards, I'll kill 'em. I swear I'll kill 'em. How could they? How could they take away the only thing a father can do for his daughter in this world? I was supposed to see you grow up, become a woman, get married, and give me grandchildren that I could love and spoil rotten just so I could drive your stupid hubby crazy when I send them home. I was supposed to make sure you live! I'm sorry, baby girl. If I could take your place, I would. If I could take some other punishment in your stead like I did Mortimer, I would. If-"
"That's enough, daddy," I cut him off, "Listen, wallowing in your pity and mine won't do anything for either of us. I need you to buck up like the man I know you are. I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense, you hear me? I'm the child and you're the parent so I shouldn't be the one saying this. This is what I want you to do, think of this as my final will and testament. You will not harm anyone, let alone kill 'em. I know the next few weeks are gonna be tough, but they'll be tough on me, too. I can't spend my time in the Capitol and in the arena thinking about how you're doing or what you're doing. I need to be at my best and I won't if I'm thinking about you all the day. Promise me you'll take care of yourself, promise you'll stay out of trouble if not for yourself but for me." I say all this in a paced and careful tone that quickens as I go. There's a silence as we stare into each other's eyes, trying to say everything we want through mere brown gazes.
"I promise," he quivers, "If that's what you want, then fine. I promise." His lips tremble a little but steel none the less. He's back; I think I can trust him to keep safe until this is over. Until I am gone and buried beneath the pastures, mutating and emanating into leaves of grass, into new life. For the remainder we sit, reminiscing here and there, commenting on the room, talking about people back home, but mostly we're silent, unsure of what to say, simply holding my hand in his. Centuries pass, stars die and live, galaxies collapse, black holes feed, and universes end over our heads as we wait for our golden days to pass with the seconds. The door opens and the Peacekeepers come to escort my father out, his grip tightens on mine and in it the shock of goodbye surges thunder. Chain-linked hands break to the hardwood floors with a clatter and he's gone, mouthing an invention of farewell on his tender lips. I feel empty inside, no longer will those solid arms or strong hands hold me in safety. I'm on my own. I sit for a spell longer, then they call me, it's time to head for the train station. Peacekeepers surround me in a semi-circle as not to hinder the cameras and reporters. Flashes of unnatural daylight shoot my face in blinding hot white as I descend the stairs of the Justice Building, a car parked sideways in the cul-de-sac's round end beckons with its gloss black doors. My District counterpart, Roger Vega, is zipping up and down like a hummingbird in flight attempting to seek out District 10 through the black tinted windows.
"It's no use," I say, "You'll never be able to see." My voice's robotic monotone hunches him in defeat, his resolve gone. I stare at the blackness before me and the car starts moving. It's like riding the bus but not as bumpy or cramped. The seats are made of fine leather and the armrests threaten naught. I play with the charms on my bracelet, the sheep in particular. I could never kill a sheep; I've made a point of refusing to murder any sheep that came my way in the slaughterhouse. At first it was met with much punishment and pay deductions. I was whipped once for it but I took those twelve lashes with dignity. Hmph, they were so soft, they went easy on me because I was only ten. I could've taken more. I hate when I'm underestimated. I wonder if there'll be any sheep in the Games, not literally, of course, but kids who'll remind me of the animal. Kids so innocent and unobtrusive that I can't bring myself to kill them because the wooly fluff would take place of the hair matted in congealed blood, I doubt it, though. Humans are among those animals of which I hold in low regard. As long as I can remember who they are, how they want to kill me, how they want to obstruct my survival, I can take them down easily. The knife will never leave my hand in such an instance. The car stops as we pull into the station, the doors beside me flings open and I'm flung into a battle field pulsing with camera beams. Caligula and District 10's two remaining victors, who were completely silent at the Reaping up to the point of invisbility, are at my side immediately and we're soon pacing quickly through the crowd, Caligula's smiling and waving to the insect shells, which inspire me to do the same.
I'm just beaming and overjoyed with attention as I walk down the velvet rope lined aisle; Caligula takes notice and gives me a wink, pleased with my performance. Roger, however, acts in the manner of our now mentors. He just sticks his hands in his pockets, keeps his head low, and comes up now and then to give a shy, boyishly cute smile which makes some reporters swoon a bit. I have an itch to roll my eyes but that would mean breaking my little charade of innocent cuteness. Something tells me I'm going to be the only heterosexual the next couple of days because my mentors, both males, are holding hands and Roger has blown a kiss or two towards some of the male reporters. No one on this team is making a point of hiding their sexual orientation, except maybe Caligula, which makes me want to cringe. Hopefully sponsors will like such boldness and sign up with District 10 this year. When we finally board the train it takes me a minute to actually take heed of where I'll be staying for a few hours. It's the most luxurious place I've ever laid eyes on. The chandeliers are made of pure rubies and diamonds which dye the room in a succulent red and white fragmented mixture of light. The floors are decked in debonair black carpeting that compliments the lighting scheme and white wallpaper nicely. The tables are polished and wooden draped in soft and elegant table cloths the color of dying trees that exude aristocracy and grace, laden with decadent dishes of all sorts and varieties. My mouth waters at the moist roasted chicken, glistening with a hearty layer of fatting sweet grease stuffed to bursting with peppered cornbread and sausage sprinkled in emerald green herbs that offset the brown of the meat with an awe-inspiring, appetizing rich golden brown color. Pork rolls stuffed with teal and turquoise spicy and sour jellies wait patiently on a large platter, begging to be taken gently between thumb and index finger to make a daring journey into your distressed and hungry mouth, your lips quivering in anticipation, anxious to be coated in the slick fat and indulgent thickness of the filling.
My hand reaches tentatively for a slice of cherry pie in a beautiful yellow glaze, the serving knife's handle just within reach when a stinging sensation takes my nerves astride. My hand lurches back and Caligula looks disapprovingly down at me, his lips pursed in cold anger.
"It is not yet dinner time, m'dear. We eat together and no one may dine before the others. First you must shower, dress in proper evening attire, speak with your mentors, and then you may eat with the rest of us. I see I will have a lot to teach you about proper manners and etiquette." He dismisses me with a fussy huff and I am sent to my room to get ready. As I am guided to my new quarters by a Capitol attendant I look back at the table, disappointed and sad that I have to wait so long to take a stab at that roasted pork shoulder, the delicious, moist fat below the crunchy and nummy pork-skin shell calling to me from afar. My bedroom is equal in extravagance as the dining and living areas outside the door and around the corner. The light fixtures dangle illuminating the room in a soft golden glow, interconnected globes like dulling suns. A queen sized bed masked by a sunflower yellow comforter and dark brown pillows is placed at the head of the room. The carpeting matches the one outside and tempts me to just roll on it for a little. The wood paneled walls are black and streaked with ivory curves and curls and are cold and smooth to the touch. It's relaxing and tranquil yet over the top and lavish. The bathroom has much the same color scheme except the wooden walls are replaced with gold tiles. The floor is granite and the bathtub is ebony. The shower doors are made from a crystalline black substance framed with platinum. The inside is silver and carbon and inviting. Where the knobs that control water temperature should be is a large panel with all sorts of bright buttons. The opulent arrangements are overwhelming so I decide to lie down for minute to let it all sink in.
It's all so hard to believe, just this morning I woke up to a cracked, moldy ceiling in a ranch house as old as Panem itself and now here I am, now tribute for the Hunger Games, in what is probably the most grand and unimaginable place I've ever been. It all makes me furious. I've spent my whole life living in a dying wood house with a shaky foundation and questionable plumbing. To take a warm bath I'd have to run up and down the stairs for hours filling the tub with water that's been heating in a hearth instead of the stove that is of no use since gas is a rare find. There are all types of soaps and shampoos here yet I've spent my life being scrubbed with washcloth containing a mixture of sand, rock, rosemary, and water. It's despicable, how can the Capitol live such easy lives when we in the Districts fight for survival every day? My struggle isn't much compared to the struggles of those in places like District 12 or District 11 but I, as a citizen of District 10, know the suffering of my people is an even match for theirs. That we three outlier Districts are abused most of all. That the Districts in general are abused should not be a commonly known fact in what is meant to be a functioning government. I want to tear this room to pieces and bust down the walls around me, unscrew the doors from their hinges, and throw down everything given to me, expose the lies to light, to what they are, to what evils they represent. But such an idea is preposterous and impractical. I should enjoy what I can while I can, eat my fill before it's emptied in the arena, praise the Capitol divine to save my hide in the Games, and stop thinking the thoughts that lead to useless rebel births and uprisings. In all the time I've spent wandering and thinking about an hour has past, only two hours until dinnertime. I strip my clothes, unwrap my bracelet, and untie the ribbon that conservatively binds my hair. I step into the shower and stare blankly at the metal panel of buttons.
How the hell do I use this? I think frantically. I decide to learn through trial and error and reach out slowly for this one button that exudes a soft orange glow. Something clicks when I press against it and suddenly I'm pelted with sharp spikes of rose water. The showerhead pulses, shooting droplets like bullets with bee venom stings. I start to smash down on the panel and get all kinds of crazy poured upon me. Pink foam shoots me in the eye, hot air is blown from all sides, a waterfall of soap water thrashes upon my head, squirts of perfume fly from hidden spouts, and the shower is alternating between what seems like a million different cycles, settings, and pressures. I scream and scramble expecting a handle to give me a vice. I get up only to have my foot slide from under me; water is sprayed into my mouth which brings a hacking cough. Finally an attendant comes to my rescue and adjusts the settings for me so that I am left with a steady, regular, and warm flow of water. She tells me there are towels on the rack in case I don't feel like using the driers, shows me which buttons dispense what soap, which one turns it all off, and then leaves me to my own devices. I spend much longer than I should in here, vigorously scrubbing the gooey gunk that's stuck to my hair and body. I must have six different scents rotting off my skin now and decide to turn it off. I step out, dry, wrap one towel around my clean frame and another around my head, shuffle slowly to the bedroom, and fall with a thud on top of the comforter.
My eyes flutter between sleep and wake, exhaustion fighting a battle with famine. My paradise lost.