I trudge back home at 11:30am, dripping wet from the thunderstorm raging outside. The second I get to my room, Jeremy pounces on me with a towel and sets me down on my bed. When Shell enters the room, he has me laughing like nothing happened between Pallon and myself. He is recalling a moment in the factory when the machines overloaded and dumped hundreds of peacekeeper uniforms all across the floor and I am laughing so hard that it gives a reasonable explanation for the tear marks on my cheeks. Shell's face lights up when she sees me relatively unharmed. She joins us on the bed, sitting cross-legged between us and listens intently to Jeremy's story. I feel calm, earlier emotions unimportant. All that matters is that at the time being, I am safe and sound with the two people I love in the world. We stay there for an hour, chatting and enjoying ourselves, as we forget the outside world and the events we must partake in. All too soon, I must return us to the real world.
"Jeremy, we have to get ready." I say flatly, pulling a box out from under my bed. I open and take out the black, cotton dress I made for this year's reaping. Jeremy's face falls and he sighs. He kisses the top of Shell's head then sweeps from the room. Shell looks at me from under her thick eyelashes.
"Ivy, I'm scared." She says quietly. I drop to my knees in front of her, a forced smile upon my face. I cup her face in my hands and stroke her cappuccino-coloured skin softly.
"Darling girl, don't be scared. This is Jeremy's last reaping and I only have one more year to go!" I tell her, hiding my anxiety. It will not do for Shell to know just how scared I am. She visibly relaxes. "Now be a good girl and hurry along to your room, I need to get ready." I tell her and watch her toddle from the room.
It is with a heavy heart that I methodically strip from my clothes, a simple vest and trouser combo, and wash the oil and dirt from my body, the water in the sink is a disgusting dark grey when I'm finished. I step into the light cotton of my dress, pull a red ribbon from a drawer and tie it in a neat bow around my waist. Unwillingly, I step in front of a full length mirror and look at myself. My body is thin but athletic, willowy but toned. My skin is very pale but I have no freckles, like most pale skinned girls. I am short, reaching only 5"3. Out of habit from my ballet, I stand with perfectly straight posture, with my bottom tucked in and my head high. My face is round and slight, with a small straight nose and high cheekbones. My eyes are large and round, framed with dark lashes, but it is their dark grey colour that highlights their difference. They are what are known as Seam eyes. The Seam is a place in District Twelve, where the poorest coal-miners live. It is also where my mother was from. My mother, Hacienda Guild, fell in love with a peacekeeper named Flux Allende, and I was the product. A tiny mess of disaster. I killed my mother during childbirth; I killed my father by fuelling his hatred for the Capitol. Isn't it funny that a Peacekeeper hated the Capitol so? Every day he had to look at me, the tiny vision of his true love, the reason he had to rebel. You see, I'm unusual. But I'm not unusual in a good way, no. I'm a mutant. The Capitol did something to Flux Allende when he became a peacekeeper, something that would turn his offspring into monsters. I have a genetic mutation, but as far as peacekeeper children go – I'm so very, very lucky. My hair is a peculiar colour, the colour of burgundy wine. My eyes are just ever so slightly too large, my ears are just a bit too pointed. My father used to tell me I was beautiful, but I could always see the strange look in his eyes when he looked at me.
"You hideous mutt." I whisper to myself as I pull my hair out of its tie. I comb through it with my fingers and leave it flowing in gentle waves down my back. My cheekbone is a bit swollen, offsetting the symmetry of my face, but I wear it proudly. I would much rather bare the injury on my skin than inside my heart, had Pallon achieved his goal. I play with the steel ring in the cartilage of my right ear and look myself up and down, unimpressed. A deep pit is beginning to form in my stomach, fuelled by nerves and anger. I slip on a pair of simple black plimsolls, one of only three pairs of shoes I own, and nod at myself in the mirror.
"That'll do." I mutter, swivelling on my heel and heading out the door.
As is tradition on Reaping Day, I head back up to the roof. Jeremy is already waiting for me when I climb up. He is dressed in black straight leg trousers and a beige shirt that is at least two sizes too big for him. Yet somehow, he looks smart and clean, no small feat in the dust covered world of District Eight. Even his hand-me-down outfit looks presentable on his tall, gangly form. His jet black hair is slightly ruffled by the wind and his hazel eyes are drawn out by the colour of his shirt. His straight jaw is set tight and he is looking out towards the square with fear. I join him, leaning on the rail and nudge his shoulder.
"Ready?" I ask, a hypothetical question more than anything. He merely shrugs his shoulders in reply. "I don't want to do this." I whisper. Jeremy's arm slides around my shoulders, like when we first met.
"I know. You're nearly in the clear, though. Just one more year." He tells me, softly. All of a sudden, I'm jealous of him. Today is Jeremy's last Reaping and, shamefully, I want to swap places with him. I relish in his warmth. "Once this is over, I'm going to save up for us. I'll buy us a house, just you wait and see! We'll take Shell and we'll live together away from this awful home and no one will ever raise their hand to you again." He tells me, with passion in his voice. I can't help but envy his hopefulness. Just for a second, I imagine the way our lives could be. Maybe we could be happy. I think about a future with this boy – the boy who has seen me through countless tears, hundreds of injuries, fears and shame. I'm overwhelmed with warmth for Jeremy, the boy who saved me so many times. What a mess I would be without him.
"Do you think we could really do it?" I ask. Jeremy tightens his arm around me, holding me snuggly to him.
"Yes. If anybody can, we can. Maybe we can even get you running proper ballet lessons, get you your own studio. With mirrors on the wall, like that picture you showed me once." He says. "Our house will be right over…there." He says, pointing out towards the edge of the District, next to the Mayor's manor house, where there is a single oak tree. We used to climb the tree in the summer as kids, it seems fitting to want to live where we have so many wonderful memories. I can feel the anticipation that these memories hold, the adventures we had with the kids of the district.
"We should go." He says suddenly, wiping the passion from his face. With empty, robotic movements, we make our way back and head towards the Reaping in silence.
Jeremy and I must part ways once we reach the square. I give his hand a quick squeeze as a peacekeeper pushes me into the female line. All around me are the sounds of families saying goodbye to their children. Some of the twelve year olds are sobbing, but they are as safe as they can get. I allow the woman at the front of the line to prick my finger and smudge my blood on the assigned box. I suck the blood from my finger as I weave my way through the crowd of terrified looking children. An air of despair lingers in the smog above our heads and the presence of Capitol camera crews on the roofs of our ugly, grey buildings rip through any remaining hope the District 8 people have. Today is the day that two of our children shall be taken from their family's arms and thrown into a deadly arena. No, today the odds are not in our favour. Welcome to Reaping day.
When I come to a halt, I'm in a roped off area full of other seventeen year olds. I smooth my hair down nervously as my eyes flit around, looking for Jeremy in the pressing crowd. When I find him, he is eyeing the make-shift stage in front of the Justice Building with a dark expression. When he finally turns towards me, I force the ghost of a smile upon my lips as I try to lift his spirit but then I'm faced with the knowledge that his name is in the big glass reaping ball thirty-five times and I'm forced to turn my face away as darkness washes over it. There is motion on the stage so I face the front, taking a deep breath to calm my shaking hands. The four folding chairs on the stage have been filled with the strangest assortment of people I have ever seen. The mayor of District Eight sits with his hands folded neatly in his lap, dressed in a faded pinstriped suit, which had obviously been re-patched many times. There is a thin layer of perspiration breaking through the hastily applied powder on his forehead. I know that he is worrying as he stares out towards the crowd. Next to the mayor is the Capitol representative, Virgious Hathsman, a man with pasty white skin and huge vomit green curls, piled up on the top of his head. His lips are painted with a matching green lipstick and his long finger nails scrap the side of face as he excitedly twirls a green lock of his ugly hair. He is dressed in a lavish silver suit, sparkling with diamante. In the dreary backdrop of the Justice Building, he is a well-groomed mess of colour. Beside him sit the only two victors District Eight has had in seventy-one years of Hunger Games. It strikes me how unprepared the children are from our district, the only district without a trade that could do some damage. Even the ones from District Twelve, who don't go into the mines until they are eighteen, go into the games with a deadly knowledge of a pickaxe or strength. How much damage can a needle do compared the sharp edge of a blade? The first victor is an ancient man by the name of Woof. He has wiry white hair and looks around him with a dreamy look; I doubt he even knows what is happening. Beside him is Cecila, a motherly thirty year old who stares with despair out towards the crowd. The mayor wipes his brow as he stands up and strides with quick steps towards the microphone at the front of the stage.
"People of District Eight, Happy Hunger Games! Welcome to the Seventy-Second Annual Reaping." He says in a gruff voice. He pulls out a sheet of paper from his suit pocket and begins to read the required speech. But I'm not even listening. I'm too busy wallowing in my anxiety to hear it. Finally, Virgious stands up and bounces towards the microphone.
"Happy, Happy Hunger Games!" He announces in a ridiculous Capitol accent. His curls bounce up and down with him as he beams out towards the crowd with pearly white teeth.
"Shall we begin?" he asks, like we have a choice. "Okay then, Ladies first…" He strolls towards the glass bowl on the right hand side of the stage with painstakingly slow steps. I bite my lip as I watch his hand reach in and fish around the hundreds of slips. Finally, he plucks one out and returns to the microphone. He opens the slip, and then begins to grin as he announces the name of the girl destined to die.
"Ladies and Gentleman, the female tribute for the Seventy-Second Annual Hunger Games is…" He stops for a dramatic pause.
"Ivy Allende."
So we all knew that was coming...
But who will Ivy's district partner be?
Please read and review!
Much love.
