Chapter Three
I am frozen with shock as soon as my brother speaks his name, paralyzed like I am one of the statues in the town square. It is like I am a dream, watching the crowd around me stand silently like a still photograph, the presence of Vander beside me, my heart hammering against my rib cage.
And then something floods through my body, something hot and bright, something that clouds my vision red. Anger.
And then, on live television, I lunge for my brother's throat.
I am busy clawing at his windpipe when there are hands grabbing ahold of my body, pulling me off of Vander before I can crush his throat in or claw his eyes out with my fingernails. Cillian seems to be screaming like a complete idiot, like I am ripping his head off or something, and the peacekeepers are grunting trying to hold my strong, powerful body.
"Alright, let's give it up for our District 2 tributes, Irina and Vander Radke!" a shaken CIllian tries his best to wrap up the Reapings, flashing his shining smile to the cameras one more time. It doesn't matter; the Capitol filmers are more interested in me, thrashing against two peacekeepers and attempting to throw myself at my brother again. This is not how this is supposed to happen. It will be one of us. One of us will die, and it can't be Vander.
I get more than needed close-ups on my face as I am hauled away into the Justice Building, leaving a bloody-faced, stunned-looking Vander to be lead in a different direction. I wonder if it was illegal to open those scratches on his cheeks, across his right eyelid.
The mob of angry peacekeepers dumps me in a well-polished, clean looking room, slamming the door. I grab the handle as soon as it is closed, clenching it hard in my hand and wrenching it back and forth, trying to bash the door in. Just as I am considering kicking it in with one of my power kicks, it swings open, nearly throwing me backwards.
My father stands in front of me, my mother at his elbow, looking timid. His eyes are dark, as usual, like smoldering coal embers, and his wife at his side is looking indifferent. There's a possibility she has no idea what is going on, that both of her children have just volunteered to fight against each other in the Arena.
"Well, say something." I demand, crossing my arms. Vander's blood is under my fingernails, and I can smell it, the rust and salt scent.
"Nothing to say, Irina." My father speaks first, the toe of his black boot tapping on the polished hard wood floor. "I can't control your brother."
"But you can control me, right?" I stick my tongue on the side of my cheek, annoyed. It's no secret that Vander is my father's favorite. I used to be favored by our mother, but I'm not so sure about that anymore. She doesn't know who I am half the time, why would she even realize all the things I do for her each day?
"Irina, don't be cocky." He scolds.
"I will by cocky! I just volunteered for you to fight to the death against my brother, your son, I've been training for 10 years, and you're scolding me for my attitude?" I throw my hands up, angry and upset at him, at Vander, at my mother for not caring.
"Irina?" she speaks for the first time I've heard her voice all day.
"What, Mom?" I sigh, sinking onto my left leg, shifting my weight. Letting myself relax, I tug on the stiff fabric of my too-small blouse.
"I don't want you to leave." Her soft, baby-blue eyes are watering, and I know deep down that she understands. I take a step forward and wrap her in my arms. She is a quaint woman, only a small bit above 5 feet. Vander inherited her curly blond hair, though hers is longer, past her shoulders, and pulled back into a messy braid today. She has a soft face and was once someone who was probably easy to love. She has a round chin, like she never quite lost her child-like looks, and her eyes are ones that make you melt. It's nearly impossible to be angry with her once you see how helpless she is.
"I promise, Vander will be back." I whisper, hoping she registers the part of my sentence about Vander and not the fact that I am not mentioned in the return trip. "He'll take care of you."
"I want you to take care of me." She is sniffling and whimpering now, like a small child, and I rub her back. My father is staring at me as I rest my head over his wife's shoulder, his eyes brooding and forceful. I look away from him and focus on the intertwined fabric of my mother's blouse. I remember specifically laying this shirt out for her this morning, picking it because it was her favorite.
"I know." I whisper, kissing her shoulder. She is quivering, and I know she hardly understands. All she registers is the fact that I am leaving home and I may not come back. I pull away from her, wiping her tears like I am the mother and she is the child that needs comforting. I do not shed a single tear. All I do is turn to my father.
"Mom, why don't you sit on the couch." I offer, motioning to the velvety couch a few feet away from us. She does so and wipes her eyes with the hem of her skirt.
"You know what you have to do Irina." My Father glares at me, his forehead ridden with creases he always gets when he is concentrating and trying to read me. I am better at composing my face than he gives me credit for. I get that skill from him.
"Win." I whisper, not able to propel my voice. "But I can't."
"Irina." He sighs like he is finally giving up. I know he is just pretending, like a mask you wear. He never gives up. "Vander is very – protective of you. I should've expected."
"Damn right, you should have." I comment moodily under my breath, just loud enough for the two of us to her it.
"But he isn't as skilled as you. He can murder, yes, just as skillfully as you can, but he's not strategic-" he trails off, losing his train of thought. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Irina?"
"No." I reply dryly.
"You must kill your brother."
My hands tighten into fists once again and I hear my knuckles pop when I do so.
"No." I reply like it is the easiest answer I have ever come up with. In fact, it is. I will not kill my own flesh and blood, let alone my only brother and boy who has protected me for so many years, been more than our father ever has been to both of us.
"Please, just do what I say, just once." He pleads. He suddenly looks older to me. Maybe it is the lighting or possibly just the dark shadow across his chin of unshaved, day-old scruff that gives him age. But he definitely looks older than his 42 years. He has dark shadows under his eyes, purplish looking, giving me the impression he hasn't been sleeping. His black hair is in an untidy heap, and it is turning gray at the crown. He slumps when he stands.
"I won't kill my own brother." I state without moving my eyes from his, locking our gaze.
"One of you is coming home, it is going to be you…" he pauses, "or him."
"Him, then." I decide, staring him down with all my might. Vander deserves more than I do, he is good looking, soft hearted, great with a sword. He could have kids someday; he could have a family, a nice wife and a child or two running around in the yard. He could be happy, whereas my sullen personality and general hostile presence gets me no scores among the men, and my sharp chin can't compete with the flirtatious, outgoing girls at school.
"I'd rather it be you." He tells me. My eyelids flick open wider, caught by surprise. My father has never shown much liking towards me, he always had his heart set on Vander. My mother hated having him outcast me, but I knew only one member of the family could be favored at a time. Careers are hard to train. Soon it was realized Vander was too soft for killing without feeling, maybe it was best to train the little girl he hardly knew into a malicious killing machine.
"Why?" I ask out of curiosity.
"Because you've got a lot of fight in you, Irina." He puts his hands on my shoulders, like a proud father should do. I shrug him off.
"If I go along with your – deal…" I plot out loud. Inside, the wheels in my brain are clicking and chinking, not truly taking him up on his offer. "I have my own compromises."
My father sighs. "What's that, Irina?"
"Take care of her." I flick my head over to my mother, his wife, and then back to him. "Do everything for her that I do. You have to do her laundry, make sure she eats, keep her from breaking things-" I continue to babble through the long list of tasks it takes to keep my mother from spiraling down into a pit of utter despair.
"Fine, Irina, I got it." He nods his head once, like he is annoyed I am asking him to care for his own wife.
"It doesn't seem to me you're taking any notes."
"She'll be fine." He tells me. "If you keep my promise, I'll keep yours."
I nod once; trying to duplicate the hidden features he is so great as masking. I am sure I just look like I am straining my face.
"Yes. I promise." I cross my fingers behind my back. "I guess this is goodbye, then."
"Goodbye for now." He corrects.
"Goodbye." I turn away from him to help my mother up. "You're going to see Vander now, Mom. I love you."
"Irina, I love you too." She smiles warmly. She obviously recognizes the name of her son. "Oh, I know who that is. He's my son."
I hand her off to my father, giving him the evil eye. His black eyes are still cold as he leaves the room, holding onto my mother's elbow, as the both of them are escorted away to say goodbye to their son. I am left alone until another peacekeeper arrives to take me to the train bound for the Capitol. No one else came to visit me, there are no emotional bonds with anyone else to me in this world.
Cillian is chattering as we drive to the station in a fancy Capitol car. I've been in an automobile before, just not one this fancy. I look stony-face out the window at the cheering fans, knowing that both Vander and I have a good chance of making it home to be their new, fresh hero.
The Capitol train is exquisite, I observe. Laden with table upon table of goodies in the car Cillian sits us down in. I look out the window away from Vander, who has little bits of medical tape stuck to his cheeks where I cat scratched him. I feel bad, but only a little bit. I am more satisfied with myself than anything.
"Help yourself to any snack you'd like!" Cillian exclaims in his bouncy Capitol accent, flashing that bright smile of his once again. "But don't fill up your bellies too much, lunch is served at 12 noon!"
Vander comments politely and I stare out the window. Cillian continues his chattering.
"I'm off to find your mentors, but make yourself at home!" he bounds off through a sliding door, and my mid drifts to Brutus and his spiteful smirk.
"Irina, the silent treatment isn't going to work on me." Vander clears his throat from his seat next to me. I turn toward him.
"Then what is?"
He just smiles slightly. His scratches scrunch up when he does, and his hand flashes to his wounds right away like it hurts.
"I'm sorry." I whisper softly, moving my hand up to his cheek gently. "I was acting without thinking."
"It's alright." He promises, leaning back. My hands fall into my lap once again. "Are you alright?"
"A little worried about Mom."
"Me too."
Awkward silence between the two of us. I pick at one of my ragged fingernails.
"Did Dad come to see you?" I finally ask, looking up again.
"Yes." He nods, his blond curls bouncing.
"I hate Dad." I slump back in my chair, frowning.
"So do I. I don't want to fight for him."
"I don't want to fight for anyone."
He takes my hand, holding it in his like he used to do when we were little. He always seemed so much more older to me than the year and a half that he was.
"Then we fight together, sister. As a team."