Blight:
To someone who has slept all his life on a damp floor in a kitchen, or outside beneath an elm tree, the Justice Building is a place of incomparable beauty. As I said, it's virtually the only stone structure in District 7, and the Capitol spared no expense in its construction. Most likely this was done to browbeat us all into submission as a reminder of the ever present and ever imposing nature of the Capitol's relationship with the districts. Still, I can't help but be awed by the enormous marble pillars, the dignity of the statues standing in their niches, the intricate woven tapestries depicting the history of Panem hanging from the walls. It's probably a symptom of knowing I'll be dead in just over a week, but I find myself desperate to enjoy every last detail of every experience left to me.
I'm escorted by two Peacekeepers into a small, intimate sitting room. It's paneled in some sort of dark wood and there's a fireplace with a chiming clock over the mantle. I sit down in a couch embroidered with some sort of material that I've never even heard of, but till now I couldn't imagine that anything could be so soft. All I want to do is lie down and close my eyes for a moment but of course I can't. The tributes have one hour in which to say good-bye to their friends and family. Already, I can here muted cries and screams from the next room. I imagine that the Lourdes family is releasing all of their repressed grief and guilt and anguish here and now while they can, where there are no cameras poised to capture their tears in close-ups and present them to the eager Capitol audience. The sounds make my stomach twist uncomfortably. I can't sit on the couch without fidgeting, so I get up and begin pacing the room, waiting for my visitors. The line outside my door won't be very long, obviously, but right now I'm starved for any kind of human contact that isn't wearing a white Peacekeeper's uniform. And so I wait.
And wait.
And keep waiting.
By the time the clock reads half past the hour, I have long given up the hope that anyone will be coming to say their good byes. For a while I hoped that perhaps the mayor would have stopped by, for he at least can sympathize with what I am enduring, but I can't blame him for wanting to spend all sixty minutes he has left with his daughter in her presence.
I have taken to staring out the large, arched window next to the fire place, drinking in every last bit I can of my home. I'm glad I can't see anyone outside. I have nothing but a cold, dead loathing for everyone in this miserable place, but I can't stop looking at the trees and thinking that I've slept beneath their comforting limbs for the last time. The cold knot in my stomach reaches a dreadful tightness. I can't help but believe that I'm the only tribute in the history of the Games who had no one to come home to. No one to fight for. And without that, there's no point, is there?
I wish I could spend just a few minutes with the horses.
At fifteen minutes to the hour, I hear the door open softly. My stomach twists again, and a strange welling feeling rises in my throat. I can feel a warmness spreading through my limbs, but as the footsteps tread onto the lush carpets the heat disappears as fast as autumn's last breath before the winter storm. I know those footsteps, as familiar as the faces that I have seen tread through the forests as recently as early this afternoon. It only takes a few moments to compose my face and suppress the cold into a tiny bead of ice, small enough to ignore. I turn from my window to face them.
Abel is there, legs apart, arms folded. Connell is next to him, with the grin he wears when he's caught a rat in the woods and he prepares to slice its tail with his ax. Tobin, Ram, Ercole, all behind, all with the same look of the pack viewing the injured doe. I've spent nine years facing their taunts and their blows and now in the last few minutes I'll ever spend in their presence, I have nothing to say. I won't give them the satisfaction.
Connell leads the attack. "At the bloodbath last year, the boy from 8 was caught by the hair by one of the Careers. The Career slit his throat so deep that his head nearly came off. When that happens to you in a week, I'm betting that it does."
I'm going to throw up. Right now. I look down and think of how dreadfully expensive the carpet must be and how I'm going to buy it when I win.
"Shut up Connell," says Ram. "He's not going to die in the bloodbath. Are you moss-wipe? You're going to run to the woods and hide up in the trees like a good elf. Then they can smoke you out. Set fire to the trees. Catch you and play around a bit. The Capitol loves a good show."
The rug isn't enough. I'm buying the couch and sleeping on it all day.
"And they'll make you squeal." Ercole. "They want sponsors. They'll make the Capitol people happy. You're going to squeal so loudly, as they cut off parts bit by bit. I know what I would start with."
And the clock. I'm buying the clock. I don't know who in the district even owns a clock. I'll be the first.
"Maybe he'll cozy up to some of the cute widdle animals they put in the arena. Like he does with his ponies. And then, in the night, the mutts will rip him apart. Like the girl from 12 at the Quell a couple of years ago. When the hummingbird mutts stabbed her in the throat. Remember how the blood squirted five feet into the air? I'd off yourself first if I were you, elf."
After a couple of minutes I've practically bought the whole goddamn Justice Building.
"You seem awfully quiet, elf. Not scared, are you?"
It's when Abel finally speaks that I break my vow of silence. I meet his eyes, and it's all I can do to not try to rip them out. "You knew. You knew, didn't you?"
A hint of a smile crosses his face. "It was my idea. You don't think that Dad's smart enough to come up with something like that? Well, it was mine and Eamon's actually, but believe me, Dad was all for it when we told him. Hell, he was practically giggling when we told him that we finally had a cure to the Blight of his life. The Hunger Games."
I choke on the words. "And Jonel?"
"He wasn't too keen on it, but then he's only been out of the reaping for a year. He went along with it in the end. He's betting on the mutts, incidentally."
"Why? Please, just tell me why."
Abel's smile grows. "That's not you're problem right now, is it? You've only got one job right now, elf. Die. And try to make it good. We've got a lot of money running on it."
The Peacekeeper comes in to usher them out and a good thing too. The cold knot had sizzled into a white hot ember that was about to burst forth in a spitting torrent of screams and foul names, despite my determination to maintain my dignity this one last time. Abel's crew files out with many final parting shots that I can't even digest anymore. As he leaves, Abel turns one last time.
"Don't take it too hard, elf. Dad always said you had to do your bit to provide for the family. And now you'll be doing it for a long time. Cheers." The door shuts. I collapse into the couch and grab one of the small pillows from the end. Stuffing it into my mouth, I scream all the hateful, vile things I wanted to until I feel my throat begin to tear.
The clock on the wall shows five minutes to the hour. I can't wait five minutes. I want out of this beautiful, wretched room. I am just moving to the door to ask the Peacekeeper if he can just take me to the station now when the door inexplicably opens again. I stop as suddenly as if I had walked into a wall. Jason is walking in, and looking at me in that way he did in the stable, as if he knew. Or wished he could. As if he cared.
He's panting slightly, as if he had just run a distance. He looks at me with that boyish face, so strange set against his well-built body.
"Hey," he says.
I say nothing. I just fold my arms and look down, noticing the deep blue of my shirt and remembering how I had hoped that Jason might see it during the Reaping. Well, he's seeing it now.
"I was going to come with the others," he says. "Got...got held up. I thought I was too late. I didn't want to miss saying-"
"Then say it." My voice is strangely calm. "What's your guess? Bloodbath? Mutts? Careers?"
His brow wrinkles in confusion. "Wha...What?"
"Arrows? Sword? Spear?"
"Blight, I don't know what-"
"Gamemakers? Disaster? Starvation? Exposure?" I'm shouting now, but I don't care. I hate everything about this man, from his untied laces, to the way his hands are tucked awkwardly into his pockets, to the insincere, false look of hurt that's etched across his face.
I hate him. I hate him most of all. And I hate myself because of anyone in the district, I want so badly to believe that he's on my side. But he's not. He said it himself. He was coming with the others. It's only bad luck that I'm addressing him alone. His bad luck.
"Blight, I came to wish you-"
"Good luck? Happy Hunger Games? Oh yeah, I'm having a great Reaping Day, thanks, you piece of-"
"I wanted to say good-"
"Riddance? Yeah, you and Abel and Jonel and all the others. They couldn't wait to see me off."
Understanding creeps across his face. "They...they came to say-"
"Go to hell. Go to hell, Jason."
"Blight, I would never-"
"Remember the wood shed? And the ball in the school field? You never meant them either?"
"I'm sorry! Alright? I'm sorry!" He's shouting by now. I've run out of words for the moment and he takes the opportunity to get in a complete sentence. And it's the last one I expect.
"Do you have a district token?"
"What?" A token? Is he serious? Does he think that I actually want something to remind me of this place? But sure enough he's holding his hand out. And he's looking at me in such a way, with such an expression on his face that I can't help myself from choking back a sob. I won't look at what he's holding, and so he takes my hand and presses something into it.
"I don't know what happened out there, and I don't know why. I never, ever wanted to hurt you, Blight. And I want you to take this. So you know that you have a reason to fight. My dad made it for me, a long time ago."
I look down at the smooth object in my palm. It's a wooden coin, an amulet of sorts. Etched onto it is an extraordinarily beautiful image of a rearing horse. Nearly perfect. My fist closes on it and I can finally meet his eyes.
"Get out."
If Jason had looked hurt before, it's nothing compared to the wave of pain that washes over his face. "Blight..."
"Get out! Get out of here! Go back to your mates and may you rot! You mean nothing to me! When I die, it'll be just to spite you, you, you...bastard!"
Jason stumbles back and finds the door handle. He flings the door open, but before he can turn to leave, I have hurled his precious district token back at him. It bounces off his chest and lands on the carpet. It couldn't have hurt him, but he looks like I tried to spear him through.
He stoops and retrieves it. He stands and leaves without a backwards glance. I collapse upon the couch and for the last minute of my time, I force myself not to cry.
If the hour I spent in the Justice Building was hell, the ride to the train station is its own trial in awkwardness. My face is devoid of any redness from crying, but Charlie is doing that thing that only a few girls can manage, where she cries teardrop by teardrop without messing up her lovely features. The Capitol will eat it up. I don't give a damn what the Capitol thinks of me. In all likeliness, I'll be dead and forgotten by the end of the bloodbath.
Riding in a car is a new experience, and one I would've enjoyed under different circumstances. Now, I hardly take notice until we reach the station. As soon as Charlie and I step out of the car, flashbulbs light the area and reporters with a rainbow's worth of colored hair and makeup press in, asking us both incredibly personal and intrusive questions. Fortunately, Vera and Eamon are there to deflect the reporters and insist that they will all get lovely long interviews about District 7's exciting pair of tributes once they're in the Capitol.
The train is waiting and Charlie and I are about to board when there's a commotion in the back of the crowd. Someone is shouting and yelling, but I can't hear the voice above the excessive noise of the crowd. Probably some friend of Charlie's from school wants to say a last goodbye. Sure enough a Peacekeeper is yelling for someone to grab that kid and more are pushing their way through the host of newspeople.
The nearest reporter, however, grabs the arm of the yelling Peacekeeper. "Don't stop him! This is great footage! Keep rolling!" he shouts to his cameraman. In no time at all, a path has formed and a small figure has dashed up to the train.
To my shock, I realize that it's Merrill Mason. The boy I volunteered for. Unwillingly, bitterly coerced, surely. But I hadn't realized till now that my actions meant that someone else had been granted another chance at life. Or maybe I had realized it but I was too caught up in my own self-pity to admit it. I'm suddenly inexplicably ashamed of myself and I don't know why.
Merrill runs up to me. One hand is clutching his stomach, gasping for breath. The other holds the hand of a little girl who can't be more than three. She must be one of his sisters.
"I...I wanted...to...say...thank you." He stammers. "You...saved me."
I can't look at him. "Don't thank me kid. It wasn't my choice in the end."
He grabs my hand, ignoring the twenty cameras pointing at him. "Thank you, Blight. For my family, thank you."
"Okay, that's enough kid. Out!"
Merrill turns to leave before the Peacekeeper can grab him and toss him out, but his sister breaks out of his hold. She toddles to me as quick as her short legs will carry her. Grabbing my pants legs, she motions me down with a crook of her finger. I crouch down to face this tiny girl at eye-level.
"You." She points to my chest. The cameras are eating this up.
I can't help but smile. "Me." I point to myself.
"Win," she says.
My smile slides off. "Listen sweetie, I'm not going to-"
"No!" she screeches and smacks me on the nose. A chorus of "Aws!" rises from the assembled reporters. The girl ignores it and fixes me with serious eyes. "Win," she says.
"Win," I say.
Merrill snatches her hand again. "C'mon Johanna," he mutters and leads her away. I turn away, the smile still across my face. I climb the steps into the train, but before I enter, I look back one more time. Not at the trees, not at the smoke rising from where the village is, not even towards where I know the stables lie. If this is to be my last glimpse of District 7, then I want it to be of the distantly departing figures of Merrill and Johanna Mason.