Author's Note: I had originally planned for the Justice Building part to be much shorter. A burst of imagination came to me and I just kept writing and writing. To prevent it from being an extremely long chapter, I cut it in half. The other half shall be uploaded soon. Thanks for reading!
Chapter 4: Failure is Not An Option
Things form an incomprehensible blur.
Cameras recede. The audience spreads out into the land. Picasso is saying something, but all the activity and the cries still coming from one family overpowers him. It's so hot. Why is it so hot? I tilt my head back and close my eyes. I open them when I feel hands supporting me. What's going on? Did I almost faint?
I'm rushed to the Justice Building and made to sit in some highly decorated room. Cool air hits me as I slouch down into the chair. Where is this air coming from? It's way too hot outside for a breeze. I soak it in and close my eyes. I try to recollect my thoughts and my sanity after being shot from what just happened.
What really just happened? This wasn't supposed to happen! This was my last year. My last year! Kids as young as 12 had double the amount of slips in those bowls than me! I shouldn't be sitting here, in the Justice Building, scared out of my mind. This should be some other kid. This should be some other unfortunate boy trembling, near tears. All of these years, I've watched every Hunger Games with unimaginable enthusiasm. Rooted for my favorite, wished death upon the annoying ones. I was its biggest fan. Actually being the one fighting never crossed my mind and I damn sure never wanted to participate. Now, I'm being thrown on camera to die for the same show I loved.
Is this payback? Revenge? Karma? Damnation? No, I didn't believe in the ramblings and beliefs some people spoke of about figures in the sky. They were stupid, pre-Panem ideas. But what did I do? What did I not do? I was a good kid. I obeyed my parents. I helped in the village. I treated my friends like family. Was it because I didn't try in school, was that it? Was ignoring Capitol propaganda punishable by death now?
I grip the handles hard, biting my lip, squeezing my eyes tight. No, I will not cry. Crying is not an option. Crying will never be an option. Crying solves nothing.
I open my eyes, two Peacekeepers staring expressionlessly. Who the hell do they think they are, with their spotless suits, always patrolling and dominating us, whipping and killing us if we get out of line, like we're the livestock? They have no right, absolutely no right. I want to yell at them, kick them, inflict the same type of pain I'm feeling. That'd only get me killed before the Games even started.
I let out a bitter laugh. Could you imagine, a tribute dying even before entering the Arena?
The doors burst open. I tense up until I see who's entering. It's my family. All except one. Before the door is closed, I get a glimpse of my mother sprawled out on the couch, one of my sister-in-laws waving a paper over her. She still hasn't come to yet.
Viviana reaches me first. I go to stand before she jumps on me, almost knocking me back down in the chair.
"Don't go Giovanni! Please! Give President Snow some honey so he'll leave you alone!" Her little arms are around me so tight. She doesn't understand, what child does? This is non-negotiable. The deal is done. Snakes are carnivores. They like their food to squirm and struggle before they devour it.
I give a weak smile and brush her hair back. A silent kiss on the forehead is all I can muster up.
My brothers and sister surrounds me, suffocating me with a hug, kissing at my face, speaking through cries, shouts, shaky voices.
"I can't believe this is happening!"
"Why you? Why us? Mami, she won't be able to live after you're gone!"
"The youngest, the youngest! Oh, why couldn't have been me?"
I stay silent throughout the hugfest. My face is blank as it's squished into my sister's bosom, smashed into Ricardo's sweaty cheek. I refuse to show emotion. That means showing weakness. I want to show my family I can be strong, that I can, no, will win this thing. I want to let out another scream because holding it in is becoming such a struggle.
When the dramatics are finally over, my father appears behind them. My mouth drops open. The gasp that escapes is the first sound I've made since reapings ended.
My father, the strong, solid, no-nonsense livestock herder, is crying. In all of my 18 years, I've never seen him tear up, not even at my abuelo's funeral. He's the rock in the family, the glue that keeps us together. He's my role model. I try to model my own personality after his. So why is he crying?
My mask is shattered once I see him. I come running, yelping as hot tears burn my eyes. We embrace, my face buried in his chest. No words are exchanged. There needs to be none. What can a parent say to their child facing murder? Die fast? Kill yourself before they kill you? The scream I release surprises me, though my father grips my head harder in response. My body is shaking so much. I can feel his shaking too. He's doing a much better job at containing it than me.
I feel so young in my father's arms, so naïve. In a way, it's comforting. I feel like a little boy again. I've sent my first animal to the pens and I can't understand why it has to die. He's comforting me, telling me everything's okay, that that is what they're made for, to feed us. Now, I'm that animal going into the slaughterhouse to feed the Capitol's hunger. Irony at its finest.
I compose myself, pulling away from him. What came over me? I showed weakness. If I wanted to win, I couldn't ever break down like that again. My father must be ashamed of me.
Instead, he inhales deeply and stares into my eyes. He looks so old and weathered, deep lines forming all over his face. This is not the Papi I'm used to.
"Giovanni," he begins. "Mijo, I love you. Always have, always will. You must promise to come back. Your mother would never be the same if you don't. We would never be the same if you don't." He gestures to the rest of the family, who's huddled in the corner, sniffing and making light cries.
It struggles to come out, but I make it. "I will. I promise. No matter what."
He's wiping the tears that continue to flow from my eyes despite my hardest efforts to control them. "My boy. My son. My youngest." He's crying once again.
"Time's up. You have another visitor." The out-of-place voice of the Peacekeeper seems to jolt everyone. She escorts them out and shuts the metal doors. During the very early years of the Hunger Games, tributes were given one full day to be with their loved ones. Several attempted runaways and suicides later, it was quickly slashed to one hour.
The door opens. Ivan. His eyes are red along with his nose. I should feel relieved to see my best friend right now, but the only think I can feel is my temper rising.
"Giovanni, I'm so sorry-"
"Stop what you're saying." I wipe away the tears. I hit my fist on the arm of the chair, causing the Peacekeepers to look.
"I know what you're gonna say." I fake a worried tone. "'I wish it wasn't you', 'Why do you have to go into the Arena?' I clasp my heart, mimicking my sister's actions a few minutes ago.
I get up now, the anger that I felt on stage returning. "You guys come in here crying, screaming at the top of your lungs. Is this a going away or a funeral? Stop mourning me like I'm already dead!"
"Why're you so angry?"
"Did you really just ask me why I'm angry? Do you hear how stupid you sound? Ivan, in less than a week, 23 people will be out to kill me. Most people don't find that too comforting! Act like I've already won, like I'm the victor. Tears are sorry excuses for motivation. Everyone has broken down, given up on me. I'm supposed to count on you to be there, Ivan! I consider you as my brother. Give me the support I need." My voice is shaky again.
Devastation into shock into anger is the waves of emotions I read on his face as Ivan soaks in my attitude. "I'm sorry that the thought of seeing you die on national TV upsets me." He folds him arms in defense. "And lashing out at me isn't going to up your chances of survival."
My hands start to form fists until I realize he's right. Why am I angry at him? It's not his fault. He's hurting as much as I am. I slump back down, embarrassed with myself once again. I should try being quiet more often.
Ivan sighs and walks over to me. "If you don't make it, I'll watch over your parents," he says.
"I'm coming back." I try to say it matter-of-factly but I come off sounding like a child. We make small talk and try to lighten the air by joking at how ironic things are. After the initial blowup, Ivan's presence made me feel a lot calmer and at ease. It's more like we're hanging out than saying goodbye.
He gives a chuckle, bitter than usual. He grabs at my shoulders and looks me straight in the eyes. "Give it your all, hermano." Two pecks on the cheeks and he's gone.
I have five more minutes left according to the Peacekeepers. I stare at the door in anticipation. Will Maya show up? I wait and wait.
She doesn't come.
I'm escorted to the train. What's all this commotion about? Me and Sofia are huddled inside as cameras and Capitol people barge their way through the crowd forming. Lights flash as shots are taken of me staring out into the window.
With a shaky start, we're off to the Capitol.
I whisper to myself, staring out into the vast desert of District Ten. "I will come back. Alive. Failure is not an option."