Looking up at the stage, you watch as the mayors take their places in their chairs and the reaping bowls are turned one way or another. You
fidget with your wristwatch.
check your make-up in your handheld mirror.
wipe your sweating palms on your pants, preparing to say those hateful words.
whisper to your best friend on your right, "Let's hope this goes fast."
dispassionately study the sweating faces closest to you.
hold on to Belle, your mother's face still coated in tears.
fiddle with a small rope in your hands, knotting and unknotting over and over.
take hold of your girlfriend's hand and give it a small squeeze.
twist your lips into a smile as a friend cracks a perverted joke.
tug your dress down just a little further.
turn the page of your novel, your head buried in the white pages.
rub grains out of your green eyes, wishing for more sleep.
run quivering fingers through your hair.
hold down breakfast.
inhale and then sigh deeply, relaxing to one side.
glance over the crowd of guys, mentally listing their dick sizes.
look over the other boys in your row, wondering if they're as scared.
take another swig of everclear from the flask in your jacket pocket.
mutter the Second Chapter under your breath.
look at the empty space around you and the glares in your direction.
scan the girl's group, looking for Juniper.
wonder if your warpaint is smudged.
Your escorts take the stage, their unnaturally colored hair looking out of place against the cement Justice Building. Their grins are like fermenting fruit: sickly sweet.
"Hardly can I believe that a whole year has passed since I have seen all of your beautiful, glimmering faces!" they exclaim. "Well, perhaps not all of them after all, we have some newcomers to the pool- some passers-on. No matter! We have a special video straight from the Capitol for you all."
Skulls, explosions, death, slaughter. Through it all, the Capitol: steadfast in its love and regret. Almost sad that they require tributes from the districts.
Almost.
It ends and your escorts clasp their hands together. "Wasn't that wonderful? Now, let's get down to business. The 34th annual Hunger Games reaping! We'll do ladies first."
They reach their gloved hands into the bowl, fishing for just the right white slip. They don't know your names in the sea of all the faces. They'll only learn of two of them, perhaps not even bother with your name. Who cares, after all, about the ones who do not win?
Painted, open lips. Moving teeth and tongues. Thrumming throats. The names.
"Ever Tyndale."
("I volunteer!" you exclaim, jumping to your feet and dashing to the stage, your practiced grin already lighting up your face.
"Your name, young lady?"
"Bubble Thespers.")
"Sheba Rens."
("I volunteer as tribute," you say, slowly rising to your feet and carefully stepping towards the front.
"And what might your name be?"
"Galena Hill.")
"Flicker Borne."
("No. No, dear God, no," your mother is screaming. "NOT MY DAUGHTER! PLEASE!"
The Peacekeepers are motioning for you to exit the ranks and you step forward, numbly, not understanding.
"No, no no no no," Belle sobs, fastening herself to your torso. "No, Flicker- Flicker don't."
"Either volunteer in my place or let go," you say softly before her eyes widen in shock and she releases you. You're walking to the stage, but feel like you're crawling through barbed wire.)
"Starboard Addams."
(You take a deep breath, gathering your strength. You smile at Lacey and squeeze her hand before leaning in for a kiss. You take the first step.
The first step towards returning home for her.)
"October Zore."
(They instantly back away from you, as though being a tribute was something contagious and you look down at your feet, letting your bangs hide your eyes, but more importantly your tears.
A rough, gloved hand grips your upper arm and drags you from the rest of them. "No, no- please-" you say to the one clamping on to you. "Please- I have five siblings. They need me-"
"The Capitol needs you more. Get your ass on stage.")
"Miriam Kinzler."
(There's a shriek, like someone has pinched the sides of a balloon opening and is letting it wither away. Your friends are staring at you, open-mouthed, but you can't see them. All you can see is a fleshy pink hand, gripping a slip of solid white paper, with your name on it.
The Peacekeepers wrest you from the mob of girls and push you to the beginning of the stage and the beginning of what you're certain is to be your death.)
"Thistle Talbert."
(Your stomach drops into your intestines. Your mouth goes dry and all you can do is cling to yourself. Hooking your hands around your upper arms and crossing them, you hold yourself like you'd put on a straight jacket.
There was no fight left in the farthest reaches of your body when you were tossed up onto the stage.)
"Needle Kelly."
(You'd always promised yourself you'd be brave. That it could happen to anyone. That you'd make the best of it, like you always did with everything else. You were Mom and Dad's happy girl. You'd come out fine.
The tears started rolling down your cheeks as you reached the front, silently contradicting that staged smile plastered between your cheeks.)
"Barbie Duke."
(This wasn't expected or accounted for. This wasn't a situation where you could just suck someone off or blow someone's mind to get out of it. It was playing nationally. You could see the cameras turning towards you.
You looked around. The other girls could care less. One less slut to tempt their boyfriends- or in some cases, husbands- and to cause drama. Better the useless whore go to die and so you smile into the camera before strutting to the platform, thinking heels were definitely the best choice for such an occasion as this.)
"Nightmare Swift."
(You pull out your flask and drain the rest of it, enjoying the burning reminiscent of hell fire before stumbling out of the crowd. The Peacekeepers are more for supporting your drunken tromp up the stairs to greet your escort than to force you against your will. You nearly fall on your face, but they right you and push you towards the man with the flickering hair.
"Never go to hell sober," you tell yourself. "Never go to hell sober.")
"Rye Grimm."
("This is a Grimmsort of situation," is what you'd like to say, just to break the tension, but the bad vibes emanating off the other girls is palpable and darkening. You grit your teeth.
"Rye!" Sebastian calls out. "Rye! I-"
You shake your head and he instantly falls silent, his look of concern severed as though he'd used a guillotine on his emotions. You had that affect on him. You mounted the stage like a queen.
"I'll return higher than a queen," you promise yourself. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you promise Sebastian too.)
"Coal Plover."
(You thank Ripred for your warpaint. Maybe you should have put more on before going in, just to make sure your knees wouldn't wobble as much.
Somewhere, you could hear Digg and Margaret and Lark all calling your name. Gem, right next to you, looks up with her oceans-wide green eyes, pleading, questioning. Do you have to go?
You're pulled out of the crowd by the Peacekeepers and punted at the stage. Can't cry now, or you'll smear your warpaint, and then where would you be?)
The escorts smiled, just as they'd been taught. Smile through everything. It's all just a huge show. Most of these kids don't hate the Games. They just play it up. They're faking it all. It's all a lie. Isn't it? Aren't these teenagers raring to bring honor to their district? To come home victorious and rich?
"Now for the boys," they say, stretching out their other hand as though they were Moses, stretching out his hand to part the Red Sea and allow others to pass through to the other side. As though it were an honor. They pulled out the paper, unfolded it and read it.
"Hugh Klyne."
(You stand like the King you are- confidently, surely. You glance to your little sisters, all crowded together in the girl's section.
"I volunteer as tribute," you call out before jogging to your rightful place next to the escort.
"Your name?"
"Archer King.")
"Rin Fletcher."
(You could just let this Rin Fletcher go for you instead. You could let this kid leave instead of you. Bring shame to your family. To yourself.
The fear of your father's beatings- even still at eighteen years old- has you shooting your hand up like it had been popped from a jack-in-the-box. "I volunteer!"
You tentatively remove yourself from the crowd, traipsing forward.
"And what would you be called?
"Jasper Ornem.")
"Arcade Fodder."
(Every curse and expletive known to man come crashing through your mind at once. Not now. Not after all these years. Not after it's all that your father had ever wanted.
You shake your head, using that time to look from side to side to see that everyone is staring at your, their jaws glued shut. No one but you can save yourself, and even that you can't be certain of.
The peacekeepers grab you and haul you onto the stage next to the pumpkin-haired women who beckons you with black cat claws and a fanged grin.
If the devil was real, he'd look like that woman.)
"Pelican Poste."
(It's a strange world- the one who traps becomes trapped. Although you have no tough blue-gray shell to hide behind. Only meat delectable to the Capitol. To those who would eat you alive if they had the chance.
You swallow, your throat quivering. It's too early for this. It's too early to die. It's too early to say good-bye.
It's too early to take these steps, one after another, to stand in front of your entire district.)
"Imu Jacobs."
("Well fuck," you say. "Fuck."
You glance around, partly hoping for a volunteer, but knowing there wouldn't be one.
"Fucking bastards," you mutter under your breath as they grip your upper arms and wrest you to the stage to stand next to a gorgeous blonde girl.)
"Sosuke Hinata."
(Oh? You look up from your book at the sound of your name. Is it really you? Interesting and highly improbable.
You smile before slowly closing the book and tucking it under one arm. The walk up to the front is simple. Calm. The crowd is hushed, as though not certain what to do with the boy who doesn't cry or plead or beg. The boy who smiles.
The boy who they know looks forward to the blood.)
"Aspen Cutler."
(Your breath comes sharply, almost hurting the back of your throat. Almost as though your body thinks it could swallow the world and your problems with it. Not just problems now, though.
Fighting isn't in your nature. All you can do is stand- petrified, your mind blank as a painter's canvas. Staring at the pink blur up on the stage, pointing down at you now that the cameras are trained on you. How did they know? How could they have picked your name out of the crowd?
You had three more to go, you think to yourself as they drag your limp body up onto the stage to puddle by the escort. Only three and you could've escaped.)
"Persian Delber."
(Nothing has struck more fear in you since the name they called was Layla Delber. And now it was the whispers that scared you more than anything else.
"That's the second Delber child," one mother murmured behind him. "It's like they're cursed."
You glance back at your parents, with eleven year old Delilah gripping onto Papa's hand. Their eyes are filled with tears, but their faces show nothing. Nothing to tempt the cameras. Nothing to tempt your tears.
And so you stand straight, tall, proud and walk forward. Never mind the tears pricking your eyes.)
"Petrol Blomquist."
(You wish it was a normal day. That you had eighteen hours a day at the factory for the next year. Maybe they'd let you trade that. Maybe they'd let you work instead of entertain. At the mortality rate would decrease.
But you scowl- your brow tightening as you glare up at the escort, all midnight blue and silver with spiked hair. You know it's not his fault, but he's the closest thing to who's to blame.
Your jaw clenched, you stalk up the aisle, to the stage, proud that they didn't lay a single guiding hand on you.)
"Lariat Finn."
(Oh god no, you scream inside, your heart throwing itself at your rib cage, looking for an opening to escape.
"It was just one piece!" you tell the white garbed guards as they escort you up. "There has to be some mistake! There was only one slip!"
There was only one!)
"Malachi Thoreau."
(You step out and forward, reciting the Eleventh verse from the First Chapter under your breath.
"My name will be great among the nations, from where the sun rises to where it sets. In every place, incense and pure offerings will be brought to me, because my name will be great among the nations."
You take the stage, standing next to the girl. Whatever her name was. You'd learn it on the journey to the Capitol anyways.)
"Mason Slagg."
("Juni!" you shout, looking around for her wildly then you stop- mentally slapping yourself for your cowardice.
She couldn't save you even if she wanted to. What kind of man are you, to keep bleeding your own sister dry? Your heart plods on and you wonder how it's possible for the whole world to stop, but it to keep beating. Maybe they can hear it. Maybe they can tell you're afraid.
A pussy.
You square your shoulders, but before you have the chance to walk yourself up, the peace keepers grab onto you and steer you with your upper arms. You make eye contact with Juni for just a brief moment and her eyes are swimming with tears, hands cupping over her lips.
Those beautiful lips that were only meant to smile.)
They look over their charges. The sobbing/smiling/waving/scowling/staring/fearful teenagers who have yet to open up. But they'll be cracked. Oh, yes. They'll be interviewed and prettied and given a story and soon, they'll be performing.
"Happy Hunger Games," they say, "and may the odds be ever in your favor."