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TALLY: 7,645 words
4
REAPINGS
(DISTRICTS 7-13)
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DISTRICT SEVEN
Sometimes there are flashes — bright ones, and Phoebe screams out loud; within minutes, she's hooked up to wires and electronic devices, her erratic heartbeat flailing above on the screen as her arms and legs flop, body curling up in the fetal position. There have been several incidents she had been admitted into the Preserve, flipping tables over in an attempt to injure those individuals who seemed as though they were threatening her. This room was different, though.
It was one of the bunk rooms, reserved only for the worst of cases, like her; oh, wasn't that so magnificent?
Phoebe blinks her eyes again and the beaming smile turns into a grim purse of blackened lips; the walls are whitewashed and the floor is painted over several times, clocks going tick tock until the alarms would buzz off, alerting the morning staff, which were half empty due to the events that would be happening this day in the Reapings, of the movements of their favorite patient. Looking around the room, Phoebe stretches her arm above her head and decides to have a little adventure.
"What do you think, Ana? Isabelle?" She looks around at her friends, who only nod in reverence; she loops arms with them and calmly picks the lock with a tweezer that one of the nurses had supplied her during the last visit, when she wasn't doing so badly as she was now. The three of them, curly-haired Ana who always has the bad habit of lying to the nurses about not oiling her hair; Isabelle has problems with her eating disorder; nevertheless, Phoebe is the leader of the group.
They walk quickly, avoiding the strange gazes of the other patients upon them; none of the nurses notice them as they duck underneath passing trays, almost as if a cloak of invisibility is draped across their small shoulders. For a moment, with the ducking and the running, it's almost if they're playing a game, and they're five year olds again, all innocent and playful with nothing but a clear sky in their free hearts. Then again, there was not much time for fun and play even when they were children; District Seven wasn't one of the richer districts in Panem.
There are no windows in the Preserve but for a millisecond, Phoebe imagines what the outside would look like; the perfectly groomed lawn of the Town Hall, the city lush with trees and children learning to climb before taking their first footsteps. Lumber and paper buildings and facilities are near the middle of town, individuals commuting from their rural estates far off to some urban apartments to work, for the meager minimum wage supplied by the ever so generous Capitol; Isabelle pinches Phoebe, and she snaps out of the daydream, and focuses on the mission.
She laughs a little to herself, traveling through the rooms; they hold smug looking police officers, grimy grey berets that fit snugly onto small hands, tendrils of hair falling freely; one woman sits, looking outward with her orange jumper suit looking as though she wishes this was all a dream. Suddenly, her friends —they're only illusions, darling— disappear, and she's left in an empty room.
The paint is still drying, and it's the color of blood; Phoebe touches the freshly drying paint and lets out an ear splitting sound. There's blood on her hands, there's blood all over her body; she runs towards the nearest fountain (water, of course) and starts to fall into the water, crying and screaming because it's permanent.
I didn't do it, I didn't do it, I didn't do anything! She chants, curled up into a tight ball while the taste of blood and salt stains cover her crimson tainted lips, this time the damage not from smeared lipstick; the nurses find her soon enough. The one with the bad hair tells her that it's going to be all right, that everything's going to be all right and then Phoebe recognizes the nurse's face.
Phoebe's dark blue eyes grew even darker with hate —this is the face of her mother; this is the nurse, her mother.
She immediately stands up and brushes herself off but only more blood grows around her mouth; she keeps spilling blood from an open mouth, drooling down onto her silvery blonde hair which is now forever tainted. "You, you, y-you," Phoebe stutters, backing up until she reaches the wall. "You killed my father. You killed my aunt, my uncle, my brother, you killed everybody. You sent me here."
The nurse throws a spear towards her head, and Phoebe ducks, her quick reflexes coming in handy for once. She tries running through the hallways and is immediately surrounded by the other nurses who attempt at injecting something in her fiery veins, who resist the sleeping drug, forcing her to stay conscious. Adrenaline rushes through Phoebe as she reaches for the spear, and throws it firmly towards the neck of her mother, the nurse, and the woman falls down.
Suddenly, the flashes start and the images begin and Phoebe opens her eyes in horror, and starts running.
She had killed someone. She had killed an innocent nurse, a nurse who didn't even resemble her mother in the slightest —those were just the visions, what she was thinking; she couldn't even control her own thoughts and her actions; she deserved to die. In the back of her mind, Phoebe knows what she must do; she runs back into the hospital room and grabs the paintings and runs back into the wild free air; quickly showing the bloodied spear to the guard, who immediately lets her out.
Though the Peacekeepers are strong, they probably do not want anything to die with an insane twelve year old girl from an outlying district; save those exceptions to be killed in accidents. Phoebe runs through the town streets; though she had previously memorized the paths and streets, and even lived here for the first five years, District Seven is still a mystery to her; eventually, she comes across the Town Square, where all of the children from ages twelve to eighteen are assembled, nervously fidgeting with their Sunday clothing as if they are not meant to be wearing anything but ragtag clothing and secondhand, hand me down pieces.
Phoebe takes a breath as she enters the twelve year old section; immediately, all of the other girls try inching away slowly from the girl; Phoebe remembers the weapon in her head and drops the bloodied spear. The weapon clangs loudly, and the man from the Capitol on the stage frowns, then covers his emotions up. "I volunteer," she says, calmly, walking up onto the stage, and pushing the eighteen year old girl who was already standing there, away. Nobody was going to control her death except for her.
She only realizes that she's been a colossal mistake when Phoebe glances at the male tribute for District Seven, and wishes that she had stayed in the Preserve in the first place. Those emerald green eyes and auburn messy hair; muscled arms and bigger stature than most —they belong to Alder Springer, the boy whose younger sister she killed. If he wasn't going to kill her, Phoebe wasn't sure who would have so much hate and motive to do so.
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DISTRICT EIGHT
Velveeta fidgeted with the fraying edges of her black dress for the hundredth time that day, nervously biting one of her brittle fingernails with sharp teeth while the other hand of onyx fingernails was plastered to the glossy bracelet which shined brightly underneath the midday sun. Though it was already half past one o' clock in the afternoon, the woman that the Capitol usually sent out for the Reapings hadn't arrived yet; that was reason enough to worry.
Things in the Capitol were always precise and efficient, one of the many reasons why Panem was still able to run ever so smoothly. There wasn't much chatter around, mostly nervous fidgeting with the other girls in her age group, rounded up and kept within a fence as though they were pigs to be herded, carried off to the slaughterhouse, which in fact, wasn't too far from what was going to literally happen to the ohsolucky two tributes.
She's thought about the idea of running away from District 8 but it just seems preposterous, thinking about now and examining the Peacekeepers and the way that they show off the steel and metal weapons, their weapons blaring a signal for alarm and those who seem to be the most afraid are hiding it the best; the crowd is restless, and a tall man, the Mayor of the town announces, "There's been a delay, but we should be resuming the normal activities soon enough."
The microphone squeaks loudly, and most of the younger children cover their ears while their parents uncover them, telling them that it's a sign of being rude; Velveeta knows that because when she was younger, her mother did the same for her. Five years ago, a girl was taken by the Peacekeepers for improper act of conduct, and nobody had seen her since; there was a victor from District 8 about a year ago, and he says that he remembered seeing her as an Avox. It was as simple as that — you disobeyed the Capitol, and the President's rules in the slightest — and you would pay for the punishment, with your tongue.
There are a group of girls next to Velveeta, and she just happens to overhear their conversation — apparently, a group of teenage boys from District 7, one of the neighboring districts had decided to play a prank on the Capitol, and remove some of the necessary and essentially engine parts from the train, but he had been caught and was currently being punished; there was a loud bang in the distance, and it was in plain sight for everybody to see a body bag being carried into the center of the stage. There, it was left, and an announcement was made by the professional looking woman who was hiding perhaps her disgust for the body; though the rest of District 8 had to wonder who it was;
"Just a reminder," she says, in a high pitched voice which really annoys Velveeta because couldn't anybody understand that there was a person in a body bag, or at least something person shaped in a body bag, "—if any pranks are being pulled against the Capitol, those caught will be punished without a trial. The Reapings will begin shortly." And, the woman says the words casually, without a care in the world because the people of the Capitol do not have to worry.
Their children are not sent off to war; Velveeta remembers her grandmother telling her tales. She remembers a time where everything was well, according to one of her grandmother's tales, but her grandmother has died and has taken the joy of a five year old listening to fairy tales with their ever so lovely, but never realistic, happy endings. Velveeta still remembers her grandmother, a woman who would wear the most ridiculous clothing choices and had the boniest collarbones in the town, though she ate more than Velveeta's whole family combined.
Her grandmother had died of excessive bleeding, some sort of accident and of course the family didn't have enough money to pay for a treatment in the Capitol, nor did the Capitol wish to take in a citizen who wasn't working or properly paying their taxes so she died. Velveeta still remembers when she had driven off a bridge, and into a lake, startling the wildlife of the woods of her district when she had figured out the news — the feeling of drowning had been numb, and almost as if Velveeta didn't feel any emotions; being indifferent was much easier than becoming attached.
It was at that point when she had started to train herself in the arts of shooting with a bow and arrow, learning how to hunt, but nothing had been successful; however, she was more prepared than most of the children here if she was chosen. Velveeta just hoped that she wouldn't be reaped this year. She was only sixteen, and had two more years to go before finally being able to be down with the Reapings, but then if she had children (when she had children), the worries would began once more. It was an endless cycle of cruel and unusual punishments, and it would last for all of eternity before beginning once more.
The sound of the bell came ringing, and the woman spoke in a loud and confident voice — the kind of confidence that would only coming from an upbringing in the Capitol, or somewhere more affluent, "Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen, to the District 8 Reapings for the 100th Annual Hunger Games! Today, like always, we'll start with the ladies," spoke coral red lips, puffed out as if they were swelling though in the Capitol, this is what they called something known as chic. Velveeta couldn't care less about it, and her breath held for a few moments, as those same annoying coral fingernails dove into the bowl of paper slips, fuller than usual. There had been a drought this year, and most of the children, even those who were only twelve, were taking loads of tessarae for their families, in order to survive for the next winter which promised to be much harsher than this year's, "Velveeta Lisle!"
The words were spoken loudly and clearly, and the rest of the girls let out a sigh of relief, some of the eighteen year olds smiling broadly as though they didn't have a care in the world, much like the woman standing at the front of the stage.
Velveeta wished that she could just hide herself, but everything went by in a blur; the Peacekeepers roughly pushed her up onto the stage and for a moment, Velveeta felt as though she couldn't say a single world. The only benefit of this was that she didn't have to say anything to anyone, at least not until the train ride was over; she just closed her eyes, and put on the most indifferent expression that she could muster at the time. Like always, the woman kept calm, sending a winning smile over to the males and swirled her fingers around in their bowl, before picking one slip that stuck slightly to the side; Velveeta held her breath as well, hoping that her fellow tribute wasn't one of the larger males in their district, or the oldest.
Though she knew that she had barely any chance of winning, it would be nice to be killed by somebody that she didn't know. "And your male tribute is Dimity Lisle!" This time, it's not as though nobody knows who Dimity is and a few wails are heard from the females in the crowd as the eighteen year old pen is immediately cleared, some of the teenagers returning to their parents as though this is not an action that they could be punished for; he's easy on the eyes, Velveeta knows that much, but she is also aware of the fact that his reputation around town isn't exactly the cleanest.
He makes his way to the stage, tears spilling from his eyes but pulling through to smile and the crowd of District 8 is already won over by his charisma and Velveeta tries to sneak another glance at the crowd in front of her as the woman pulls both of them away, into the Town Hall, because she wants to remember the people of her district when she dies — that's all that Velveeta wants.
In a flash, it's almost as if her life comes rushing to the surface and she can't contain a sob as she recognizes that this is the last time where she'l be alive; though Velveeta knew at one point or another, she had taken it for granted that she would live a longer life than sixteen years, perhaps have a family and raise a few children; it wouldn't be long or joyous, but it was something worth looking forward too — this was what the Capitol did, she realized. They rounded up children, and they crushed their dreams. So, Velveeta dried her eyes. She wasn't going to give the Capitol any more satisfaction than what they had already gotten.
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DISTRICT NINE
Isis is standing in an abandoned parking lot when the bell rings — she recognizes that it's the bell for the Reapings; after all, she is sixteen and has heard it for the past years, the earsplitting sound really never getting old — and makes her way to the back of the shop, where the door was left unlocked. Peacekeepers patrol the area, but the majority of them were staying near the Town's Forum, in case of an outbreak or a riot, something that rarely happened in an outlying district with no weapons, such as hers.
This was a good time as ever to raid another shop. Isis's family could somehow afford to make their way through life in an honest manner, but she didn't really see what was wrong with taking some extra items from a store that wouldn't even notice the losses the next day; she should have been at the Reapings, with all of the other children between ages twelve and eighteen but there was no point in even going. Though Isis came from a lower class family, she wasn't forced to take any tessarae as her parents refused to let her put herself in danger yet.
Her pale light blond hair snapped forward, swishing from side to side as she made her way through the store, immediately dismantling the security cameras on the upper left side, which kept watch of the store all day, all night. The knapsack that was resting lightly on one of her shoulders was already filled with small trinkets from another shop, while an empty backpack was ready to accept the cash and other valuable items from the antique store; she had met the woman who owned the shop, and judging by the expensive looking jewelry that the women had donned daily, she could afford to lose a few of the diamond earrings and gold crowns.
Isis was aware that what she was doing was technically wrong but it wasn't as though she did this daily; most of the times, her younger sister Ami, who was only eight years old and wouldn't have to worry about the Reapings, at least for a while, shoplifted food items or some scraps from the garbage cans whenever some of the guards started patrolling the central Farmers' Markets, which happened once a weeks, sometimes twice if there was a good harvest. District 8 specialized in grain; though most of the city was in the rural regions, her parents managed to find a way for their children to live in the urban, factory area of the town.
Nevertheless, though her parents were doing everything for her, they weren't exactly proud of their daughter's shoplifting — though it did bring happy smiles and full stomachs, a gift that they could not deny. Sometimes, Isis wondered what would have happened if she had lived in another district, perhaps in the Capitol, though she could not imagine herself with a full stomach and pigtails in hair, a spoiled brat life as opposed to being on the run for the majority of her days.
District 9 is Panem's bread bowl, giving us the fertile harvest we need to keep rising as a nation. Its amber waves of grain are an inspiration to us all, Isis recites underneath her breath, reading the plaque on the wall, and grabbing the five gold stars which hung proudly, below rows of gleaming medals, ribbon and lace.
She snatched them fiercely; it wasn't as though anybody needed to know that this antique place, Saphira's Trinkets an' Toys was the most affluent shop in town — which created all the better challenge for stealing from it. The bell clangs again, but it's softer this time as if they're only directing their attention towards those few individuals, including Isis, who haven't shown up at the Forum for some odd reason or another; most of those individuals have come down with fatal illness, contagious and all, but are dragged to the Forum by their reluctant parents, and an epidemic wipes out one third of District Nine's population by the end's month.
Isis shivers, something running down her slender spine; she wishes that Zero, one of her closer friends, could have shown up at this shoplifting scene with her — it would have made everything a lot simpler. In the 75th Hunger Games, District 9 was one of the two districts to have both tributes killed on the first day; The District 9 male is said to be the first tribute that died in the 74th Hunger Games. Random facts run through her mind, as the odds were never really in their favors.
There's a sudden ring of the bell near the front of the shop, and Isis can see the Peacekeepers coming in, looking polished in their brand new uniforms, their smug grins the ultimate mark of a Capitol citizen. "You have been reaped with Leo Cypress. You have been reaped. You have been reaped. Come forward, Isis. We're not going to hurt you."
There's a slim boy there too, with short messy hair, around seven feet tall, which was still a rarity; though, next to the Peacekeepers, he looked as though he was harmless, an easy target. All she can think about is running backwards, until she realizes that the shop has been surrounded on all sides, Peacekeepers coming in through the windows, through the side doors, from the vents and the secret passageways which contain the concealed chambers of smuggled items such as the wine that Isis had stolen a few weeks back to throw a celebration for a few friends in the more rural areas, where they wouldn't be caught.
She thinks for a moment if she could simply reach into her backpack, and find all of the secret locations, perhaps anywhere to hide but it's already too late because the Peacekeepers have a tight grip on her, and are holding out her arm, extending it far enough to yank it right out of its socket.
The last thing that Isis remembers is the world going black.
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DISTRICT TEN
Holly was watching the television, playing old reruns off the games when her mother came crashing through the doors, her breath heavy, yelling loudly to Holly that her father had left yet again, without a single trace to explain where he had gone — the fifteen year old girl only sighs, and lets herself out the back door. Things like this had been happening more and more often for the past few days, and the only way to find a way to deal with this situation was for Holly to let herself out of the house, and be free into the nature; she smiles at the distant sounds heard, as they are the trademark of District Ten. The gentle lowing of cattle is the first thing a visitor to District 10 hears. This region raises strong, healthy livestock, which becomes the meat that helps us raise strong, healthy children of Panem.
Her hourglass figure rests for support upon the patio of the outside, and can hear the faint murmur of the television seeping through the thin doors that made a weak frame for the one apartment in a five story townhouse, the best that a family of a single mother and her two children could afford. Now, a recap of District 10's tributes, the familiar voice of Caesar Flickerman announces, perhaps that same smug grin on his face, looking lively with a winning smile permanently etched onto his face. The boy from 10 was first seen in the Tribute Parade with his district partner, the girl from 10, wearing golden cowboy hats, shirts, and pants, representing the people from his district who herd livestock. Later, when the chariots are parked, he and his partner are seen in the background, behind Katniss and Peeta's chariot, talking to each other.
She was almost disgusted — scratch that; seriously disgusted at the way that the people from the Capitol were acting. These were actual people, with lives and families at homes that nobody seemed to care about and they weren't just the unnamed people who had died in the Bloodbath, or on the first day, or in the morning of the eighth day due to a Gammemaker automated fire. It was horrible, and sometimes Holly wished that she could do something about it.
Nevertheless, Holly took a deep breath and let her steel grey eyes gaze inside of the house, light brown plaited and long blocking her vision along with the lock that was firmly bolted, perhaps by her mother; there were screams and cries and Holly decided that it would be best to leave the house for the rest of the day. She placed her hands in the pockets of her faded jeans, a hand me down from the secondhand shop around the corner, and the equivalent of three days and fourteen hours of work, minimum wage for females. Her mother sometimes worked, whenever she felt in the mood not to be depressed and drown her sorrows in wine.
There are notices up all around town, and Holly suddenly remembers why the places had been so empty, and why her mother had been drinking more than usual because there was no need for sorrows when her father had left the family twelve years ago, but this was also another time when parents felt their lives falling to pieces, and though there were celebrations yearly for those families who made it past the Reapings without losing a single child, two doors would be closed, and wreaking sobs would be drowned out by the loud music and celebratory noise. By the time that she reaches the Town Hall, running and feeling out of place with the ragged shorts which have holes near the bottom and the old shirt that reaches past her knees and engulfs her smaller figure, there are people staring at her.
She's not even sure why — in fact, most of the children aren't here and there are other ones still arriving from the other end of the hall. There are no parents that she recognizes, and all of the children have vague, dazed expressions on their faces almost as if they do not have a care in the world though the Reaping are about to begin in a few minutes and even the twelve year olds look relaxed, just the slightest bit tensed and worried when they all turn, facing Holly and then she realizes what had happened.
There's this patronizing sound of the tick tock tick tock, tick tock, goes the clock and it takes all of the control that Holly has to not go over there and rip off the clock where it's cemented on the wall, but it wouldn't look good to do that and she tries to ignore the stares and the evidence.
The screen near the front of the Forum was already past the two minute mark, and the imperial march, the sound of the clock going tick-tock, tick-tock made her realize what had happened, and that she had missed the Reapings — the one where she had been Reaped. By the time she makes her way to the stage, the name Preston Barnhills is announced and she bites her lip, already nervous enough because this just seems like a dream, but it's not.
Preston Barnhills; the name is reluctant to come out of her own lips, and Holly remembers; childhood memories come rushing back to the surface, and she remembers that the two of them used to play war — it was only a game back then, darlings — but now it would be for real. He makes his way to the stage and lets out a light whistle, and Holly tries to tell him to be quiet because nobody cares about how he can communicate with animals, nobody really does care. Preston does have a chance, however, of winning; the statistics start playing out in her head and Holly can't help but remember that his older brother, Lorenzo, was one of the sole victors in a Game, from District 10. It's not a game, anymore, though.
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DISTRICT ELEVEN
Oriole was standing in the children's playground when trouble arose again — to be fair, she was not one of the children of District Eleven who spent their days searching for trouble — though most did not waste time on such trivial activities, instead spending their hours harvesting crops alongside their elder parents, siblings, and neighbors, for the minimum wage pay that was given to those under eighteen years of age. Nevertheless, Oriole was not accepted for the harvesting jobs, and there were barely other here.
Sometimes, she spent the remainder of her days playing in the orchards, running down the paths of primroses and stopping to smell the roses no matter how many bee stings eventually ended up on her skin. "Hello," she whispered, more nervous than usual; when wasn't she? "Can I play with you?" She spoke louder, eventually loud enough for the children to here.
They turned their heads slowly, almost as if they were in a daze and upon gazing on Oriole, they immediately started squawking, running away as fast as their legs could carry them; if Oriole was younger and naïve to the ways of the world, she might have run after them but after all these years she knew that would be of no avail. Everybody in town avoided her because of her appearance, and she just wondered what she had done wrong in a past life to deserve a fate, to be tormented and taunted, avoided and a recluse like this.
Oriole Jay, what a horrible name, she mused to herself, walking awkwardly through the sand, sputtering heavily when a little entered her mouth, water from a bottle hastily poured dripping down her black hair which stood out of place. Instead of being tucked behind ears, or cropped shortly like how the other children had their hair, Oriole had made the bad habit of growing hers out which she was already starting to regret in the midday sun which was blazing; two wildfires had been controlled early of that humid week.
Her bright orange-gold eyes were half glazed over as she remembered why she was here; the only advantage to the condition in which Oriole was in was the fact that she could not be Reaped — perhaps why the majority of District 11, children and parents included despised her. To be fair, Oriole despised herself as well; who wouldn't, if your parents were random test tubes, your very creation the only result of a failed experiment all the way from the Capitol, sent to where the rest of the failures reside, wallowing in self-pity. She looks down for a moment, examining what dangled off the chains which were barely staying on her bony wrist; there was a tiny golden charm, on a gold chain, with a little carved oriole bird that the old lady gave her.
She was created it a lab at the Capitol, supposedly a cross between a bird and a human. The experiment left Oriole slightly human, but with black wings, speckled pure white and dotted orange, retractable for the most part, lengthy however; her claw like nails scratch at a wispy scalp. The scientist had taken pity on her, changed her genes to make her more human, and set her free. She then flew as far as she could, landing in District Eleven. An old woman took care of her until age 10, when she had to take care of herself. She managed to find enough scraps to live until age 12, when she took out tesserae. The rest, as they say, is history.
Oriole walks slowly out of the playground, dusting the sand and dirt off of her skimpy clothing and walks to the edge of town, where the rest of the inhabitants have long since cleared the area, leaving it for the society of lepers and other disgraces. She pondered upon flying, being able to stretch her wings far and feel the wind rushing onto her face — and decided, perhaps it was worth to do so. Upon landing, Oriole noticed the existence of a taller more human like creature than she was, who looked out of place and recognized the familiar lopsided smile, waving a hand before awkwardly crashing to the ground, one of her wings snapping back into place after a sickening crash and thud.
Nero Radiant was one of the few people who was aware of Oriole's existence besides the children of which she had for so long tried to grab the attention and require the acceptance from them; he was dressed in a black shirt and dress pants, Sunday wear no doubt; worn shoes with a hole in the bottom of the left one clashed with the polished look of the uniform. "Where's Will and Alyss?" She asked, a little louder than her usual voice. Something was going wrong; as he slowly turned around, Oriole gasped loudly, falling back onto the floor and trying to flap her wings in a rapid motion but nothing seemed to work and she was cornered within minutes.
"What did I do wrong?" The Peacekeepers only looked down, with their steely eyes and Oriole was immediately reminded of the vultures she had sometimes circled over, which perched upon trees in the harvesting fields, waiting for just somebody to die of heat exhaustion so that they could prey upon their bodies; blood-caked fingernails reach forward as Oriole tries to claw the guards away though they are much stronger than the thirteen year old mutation, merely an experiment gone wrong.
They speak slowly, in a monotone voice, "You will be taken to the Capitol. Both of you will be taken to the Capitol." Oriole smiled broadly; she had been waiting for this moment for years, to finally be able to return home where she would be accepted. She let her body go limp, and fell into their steel arms.
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DISTRICT TWELVE
Constant swishes of raven black hair, wavy curls floating in and out of the house make their mark and swoop in to an unsuspecting family, returning to the cold bed as Asphodel hopes that her mother will never figure out that she had left in the first place — her mother is fast asleep, however. For a moment, Asphodel looks out of the windows again and wishes that she could return to the fields again, to the forest green woods of District Twelve, inhale the pine fresh scent but it is not possible. She stood up suddenly, remembering the occasion of the day and went over to her mother, whose arm was draped around Asher, her three year old younger brother and smiled at the dazed expressions on their faces, happy smiles as though they were dreaming of an utopia, a place that didn't exist in a world full of crime and crushed dreams.
"Time to wake up, sleepyhead," she murmured in a loving manner, ruffling the bright red hair of Asher, and patting gently on her mother's forehead before remembering; in a rush, she ran to the lower level and picked up the medicine that the neighbors had offered to give in time of need, pressing the cold compress gently not realizing that the water had heated over the period of the night. The whines of Asher started up again, and Asphodel sighed; there was never a time of peace in this house.
There had been, not too long before, but that was a time in which she was a young child and barely remembered those dancing days, those cinematic daydreams which came soon enough, crashing to an end, untimely deaths and accidents. Her father, tall figure with a black coat that was barely seen in photographs, already ripped out, all memories stuck to an ebony casket, had died when she was four years old, and though Asphodel does not recall him much, there is still a father shaped hole in her heart. She sighed, looking at her mother once more, remembering when this sickness had started; Asphodel herself, was the one to deliver her brother, seeing as the healer was working on a miner who had gotten a prick though his hand. Soon after that, her mother got sick and she had been the one to raise Asher, the little troublemaker.
Her mother is still having a dazed expression, and Asphodel sighs, walking over to the bed and picking up Asher, smiling as she places him on her hip, walking down the narrow staircase in order to prepare the typical breakfast — it was simply luxurious, today; she had gotten some good deals from the Hub, and Greasy Sae was especially nice because of the situation with her mother. "Do you want some moatmeal today, Ash?" Asphodel asked, sweetly.
"MOATMEAL!" He screamed, his tiny arms flailing around but a big smile on his face; sometimes, Asphodel envied her little brother and how joyous he was all the time. In a way, she wished as though she could protect him from the evils of the world forever, but it seemed as though she couldn't be doing that forever and he would grow up soon enough.
Her grey eyes flicker as she walks over to the front door, picking up the oatmeal package that was already soaking wet from the slight thunderstorm that had occurred the night previous; she can see the amber specks while glancing sideways in the mirror, but all she sees is a girl with unnecessary optimism. Nothing unusual. Nevertheless, the oatmeal had been pricy but today was a special occasion and the food couldn't go to waste; Asphodel did any job she could to get money, and over the years, she had learned how to bake a bit, mine a bit, hunt a bit, and she often helped the town healer.
The bell rings and she immediately throws together a bowl of oatmeal, feeds Asher, and runs out the door, disregarding her appearance; once the bell rang, you must be in the Forum or face the Capitol's wrath, something that wasn't too she walks by, breaking into a slight sprint near the end, when she had nearly reached the place, her brother staying at home; he couldn't possibly watch something as horrible as the Reapings, though most younger siblings did, Asphodel tries her best to ignore the rows of haunted eyes, pointed collarbones, wasted and pale skin which yellows as badly as the children's rotting teeth.
"And your female tribute is," the man says, the gold mascara already slightly fading; Asphodel wished that she could just disappear, but she had to be strong. Please don't be me, please don't be me, "Asphodel—"
Asphodel sighed, pushing her way to the front of the crowd before her last name could be announced; something horrible like this was bound to happen and then she regretted her decision. What if somebody was going to volunteer for her? She brushed that idea out of her mind; the only volunteer in all of District Twelve's history had been Katniss Everdeen, all those years previous to the current. "Wax Staey!" The male tribute was announced mere seconds after, and a few giggles went through the crowd.
There was no way that this was going to be possible — somebody was going to speak up, and correct the Capitol man, right?
Wax Staey wasn't a male; Asphodel resisted the urge to sputter this out loud, to scream it for everybody to hear but then the mischevious blonde let out a slight laugh, and pressed a finger to his, no her lips, as to keep the secret. Asphodel just sighed, and carried out with the game. There was no reason to ponder upon the fact that she was going to die within the next few weeks, another girl from her district was dressing up like a boy to be a tribute in the Games, and her mother had a deadly illness that her brother couldn't possibly tend to.
Yeah, life was going great. Just great.
/
DISTRICT THIRTEEN
Delmer was restocking books at her grandfather's bookstore when somebody came crashing through the doors, demanding to see whoever owned the story; she scoffed, recognizing the voice of one of those women from the book club, who always wanted to read and return books even though those sort of tricks barely worked in the clothing shops and boutiques. She felt a sudden yank to her left arm and realized that one of her best friends, who was also seventeen, was pulling on her arm while her grandfather was distracted with another customer, and looked as though he was about to tear his hair — if he had any left — out. "Come on, Dels!"
"No," Delmer refuses, shaking of Maia's arm. Though Delmer was the stronger of the two, with a height around five feet and eight inches, being broad-shoulders and well muscled, she usually was the one who was able to get her way in things such as this, but she succumbed once again, her vibrant amber eyes slightly drooping as she sneaked out of the back door of the bookstore, hoping that her grandfather wouldn't notice.
Her raven black hair, wild and frizzy, tangled itself into knots and Delmer roughly brushed it through with her hand, never wondering for a moment why she was caring about her appearance now when she never did previously. "What are you even doing here, Maia?" Clever while being a mixture of witty and hyper, Maia usually never showed up at this part of town unless she needed a favor from Delmer — Maia's past time consisted of creating complicated strategies, to help those from her district that are reaped. Of course, they never end up listening because they think she's off her rocker, which makes sense for the most part.
"Don't you remember what's going to happen in two minutes—"
Delmer suddenly cut her off, remembering and breaking into a sprint, running down the deserted streets as the rest of the children had already been gathered; for a moment, Delmer wondered if she should run back to her house to pick up Deidre and Alexei, her two younger siblings who would also be participating in the Reapings though this was Alexei's first year, as a twelve year old. "We made it," she stops panting, running into the appropriate section before the reading of the card begins.
She finds herself on the stage minutes later, a dazed expression on her face and Alexei's starting to cry, tears running down his cheeks and Deidre just has a confused expression on her face, pinching herself repeatedly to make sure that this isn't a dream; and it isn't. It's more like a nightmare, a harsher version of reality.
Maverick Temple was her fellow tribute, Delmer realized — though he was from District 13, just like her, his father was the only victor that District 13 had, in all of their history and had perhaps a greater chance of winning than she did; after all, he was easy on the eyes and had a larger build, much like the rest of the Career tributes who would be joining them, and perhaps killing them, in the next few weeks. His bright blue eyes seemed friendly enough, but narrowed in a conniving manner upon their handshake and Delmer immediately wriggled out of his hand's tight grip and gave a lopsided smile to the crowd below.
Happy Hunger Games, indeed.
a/n: This chapter was a bit rushed, sorry! But I absolutely hate reapings, and I'd rather just get them over with. If this was one of your tributes, please leave me a review to tell me how I did. If not, please leave a review about which POV start was your favorite. Remember, submitters, each (signed & anonymous —if you wish to be a sponsor, you can be anonymous) review counts as a point! I recommend stacking up your points early, because you'll need them routinely during the games. Also, each follow counts as a point. Also, sorry for the long break between updates and I'll try to update this story as soon as possible, but right now I'm trying to focus on the updates for my Gallagher Girls fic, the defiant ones.
Also, the first three reviewers will get their tribute(s) in the next chapter, along with three random assorted point of view's, :)
Please review?
x clara