Chapter Two
Francine Button is strangely silent as we go around the village, saying our good-bye's. I stop by everyone besides my family first, to avoid the pain of having to say good-bye forever.
Even still, tears sting my eyes, and I brush them away angrily with the back of my hand, pretending as if I was rubbing away the sleep from my eyes, rather then erasing signs of weakness that would make me a quicker target in the games.
I stop by the hob, and everyone bows their heads slightly, respectfully.
A few mumble words of comfort, good-bye and memories, but the majority of the people crowding the market are silent, watching and waiting for me to leave so that they can cry for their child or grandchild or friend in peace.
District 12 is always silent on Reaping days.
Not even the wails of hungry babies are heard, as if they, too, know the danger that we'll embark on.
I stop by the lake, the woods, my friends' hovels and my favorite places. When I stopped by the bakery, they even gave me a loaf of free, warm cinnamon-raisen bread which I tear pieces off of and savor, eating quickly to try and fill my empty heart and mind, trying to bring back the life and emotion into it.
Finally, I stop by my family's worn, weather-beaten hut, stopping occasionally to touch the rail or lightly finger the chain of the porch swing.
Even the quiet, grey, peeling shutters are sentimental to me.
I enter the doorway without another thought at my impending doom.
Instantly, my mother throws herself at me, her arms wrapped around me tightly, as if she would never let go.
My father limps over and drapes his big, strong arms around us, too, and Lydia wedges her way between mother and me and clings to my legs tightly.
I feel weighted down with sadness, and with my duty; to survive for my family.
By the time they step away, my pretty, forest-green shirt is soaked with tears and my family's faces are all red and puffy.
No one says anything, what is there to say?
But when Francine Button steps through the door telling me that it's time to go, they're all crowding around me, trying to shove in last, meaningful words.
"I love you."
"I'll miss you, but I'll never stop thinking about you."
"I'll always sleep with the teddy you gave me."
"Wear your shawl at night."
"Hide, don't fight."
"Give 'em a good show."
"We all love you..."
Those were the last words I heard before three peacekeepers shove the door shut, wrenching me away, even though I'm still trying to cling to the doorway, the windowsill, anything that will keep me there just a little longer.
Of course, eventually I let go, because the Capitol always gets what they want.
A little more Peacekeepers, a little more force, in the end, they always win. There can't be any other way.
Otherwise they would risk Rebellion.
And then things would fall to pieces.
I feel weighted with each step toward the gleaming silver bullet train that will take me to the Hunger Games. I swallow down the lump in my throat, and climb up the steps of the train, Francine pushing me to go faster. I whip around angrily, giving her a glare so cold and so harsh that she gasps in offense and steps down one step.
Good.
I want to be alone with my own thoughts now, and nothing, I repeat, nothing will hold me back from weeping in my room.
"Well, even though you won't be here for very long, I still am a firm believer in manners, Anna! Please, do contain your urge to fight. I know that you're excited and all, but we musn't be hostile. Acting like animals will not be the best way to get on each other's good side and if I were you, I would get a new dress, because that one is awful drab, and we'll have lots of time in the Capitol, so just-"
I stop listening after the second sentence. I am not excited.
You are the one acting like an animal, Francine! YOU are! I want to shout at her, to scream and to make her realize what she's taken away from me.
But I just sigh, knowing that she wouldn't understand.
She couldn't.
She's been raised on this kind of television, thinking that humans are like bubbles, and when you pop one, it doesn't matter, because you can always blow another batch.
We don't matter to them.
We never can.
As soon as we're inside of the train and moving, I push past Francine mid-sentence and stride to my room. I can hear her calling my name, but if these are going to be my last few days, I'm going to spend them exactly how I want to spend them, and even Francine Button can't tell me otherwise.
I'm not gonna go shopping, I'm not gonna go to the welcome banquet that she's going to throw, and I am not going to the District parties. I am going to live it up, having the time of my life.
After dinner, which I take in my room, Francine grabs my arm roughly and tugs me all the way down the hallway, past a sign that says 'DO NOT ENTER' and into a dark room.
"There is someone here to see you." She says, seemingly to me.
"Where am I?" But Francine shuts the door too quickly, snapping the curtains shut behind her, closing off the hallway.
"I take it that you haven't met me before." A voice emerges from the darkness, startling me.
I knock over a vase in my shock, and then attempt to clean it up.
"No. Leave it." The voice commands.
I immediately drop the pieces I had scooped up.
"My name is Turner. I will be your mentor. I understand what you're going through. I felt the same anger and pain that you are feeling now. I'm here for one purpose and one alone: To forget, and to help you forget momentarily. I am going to be giving you additional training- for now, at least, until you are ready to join back with the others. First things first, you will do exactly what I tell you when I tell you and you will not be having any time to yourself for a very long time now, so I would forget any plan that you have to ignore me. Have a seat."
I sit down hesitantly, not knowing what to say or do to his weirdness.
"You are very weird. I'm sorry, but I have no shame in saying that."
"Let's start with some fighting strategy. I'll fight you, and you fight back."
And then Turner leaps from the shadows with a knife in his hand! He knocks me down, scooting his legs up to pin down my arms. He presses the cold, hard blade of the knife against my throat and grins.
"You lose."
And then he raises the knife high above and sends it crashing down into my throat...
I awake to an urgent rapping at the door.
"Anna, for goodness sake, wake up! You must meet Turner."
I unpin my hair in a single motion, shaking out my long, red-brown locks. I untangle it with my fingers, running to the small bathroom in my room and turning on the tap. I run some water in my hair, smooth it down and pat it dry. I then slide open the compartment door.
"Well, it certainly took you long enough. In the Capitol, you must not wait for anyth-"
"One moment, Francine." I say, flashing a broad, false smile.
Before she can protest, I shut the door in her face. I run to the small drawer containing my belongings from District 12 and rummage through the small pile of clothing and sacks of food, in case I needed it. Care packages, if you will. I finally see what I'm looking for; A small, silver yet sturdy pocketknife, and it would do if I had to defend myself.
I open the compartment door again, and me and Francine start down the long, grey, colorless hallway to the dinner car.
She doesn't notice the knife I am clutching behind my back, so firm that I'm sure my knuckles are white as snow, and poised for attack.
My every nerve is ready to spring into action in case it's necessary.
I haven't seen him yet, but I am certain that Turner is yet another person that I cannot rely on or trust.
Francine takes me through a doorway and into the dinner hall. There, awaiting me, is a banquet!
Turner is an average sized man, very muscular. His cheeks are red and jolly and he is smiling broadly, a smile that was so bright, I couldn't help but give a small smile back.
"Anna, my dear! I have heard so much about you! Come, come, sit! We saved you a seat. Ooo, look, there's a bread and butter pudding! Do you like bread and butter pudding? I do. It reminds me of, oh, never mind, just sit down and eat!"
I run my hand along the smooth, polished dark wood of the table. Cherrywood, by the look of it. I gingerly sit down next to Turner, the seat he had eagerly gestured for me to sit down in.
The cushions on the chair are so soft, it's like sitting in a cloud. There are such intricate designs on everything- the doilies, the silverware, the dishes, the chair, even the ground has magical thread work, weaving in and out of the pattern!
It's like living in a dream.
The first course is soup, followed by salad, followed by appetizers (cheese on crackers and other delectable finger foods),closely followed by the main course, a delicious turkey slathered in gravy and stuffed with the most delicious stuffing I've ever tasted. Fruit is surrounding it in baskets, and cranberries are passed around in a small, silver dish. The last course is a lovely dessert; Eclairs, ice cream, cakes, pastries and other lovely things.
I sit back, full for the first time in my life.
I think about District 12, and suddenly, I feel despicable, gorging myself on delicacies, while others back home are fighting to survive on their meager ration of bread.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin and without a word, leave the table.
I run to my room as soon as I'm out of sight. The knife is still in my hand. I burst through the door and shred the curtains, the drapes and the satin sheets on my bed. I carve my name an inch thick in whatever surface I could find. I sink my nails into the wall, clawing the beautiful wallpaper to shreds. Then, I sink down to the floor and cry, eventually falling asleep on the shreds of fabric.
