Eleven – A Public Reaping
Victor: Derek Palmer (D10)
It's at twelve thirty that I join my family and step onto the bus toward the city centre. It's full, everyone living in the city's outskirts having to find a way in. We stand in the aisle, avoiding eye contact with those around us; my father stares ahead, gripping my mother's hand with his mouth set in a firm line. I don't have to think too hard on what they could be thinking about; after all, it's what we're all thinking about, isn't it? The reaping. The Execution- sorry, The Hunger Games.
I make eye contact with my brother. He is still too young to understand the full concept of what's happening today, and what happens every year, but he's not stupid, he understands that today everyone needs to be quiet, just like when we walk past the memorial on the way to school. He's only eight, but he already understands that once a year, two children go away and don't come back.
The bus rattles and groans with each stop, weighed down by the children and families that wait like fish within a net, slowly being pulled toward the surface, and hence, their death. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck, and my hands have grown clammy. Perhaps if this were like last year I would be calmer, because at least then I was at home, and could hide from everyone if I had too. This year, though, it was announced that the reaping would be a public event, held before the justice building and televised for the nation to see. The reason behind this isn't a secret- the death toll has well exceeded the expected two each year, due to the number of families executed for trying to hide their children- but even so, the thought that the Capitol is doing it only to further exploit us lingers in my mind.
The journey passes quickly, the scenery through the windows changing from the bare land where we package and ship away the stock, to the seaside complexes where the District's fishermen live when not away on fishing trips. Until at last, we are driving through the city centre and trundling toward the justice building.
The crowds of those walking to the reaping grows, until the bus is forced to stop, and we alight, joining the queues of people waiting to register their attendance. I am just thinking that issues are bound to occur this first year, when an outburst of shouting occurs somewhere in front of us. I crane my head to see, and catch a glimpse of the white peace keeper uniform wrestling with an older boy I recognise from school. "Keep your eyes down, Hanna." My mother places her hand on my shoulder, and I proceed like everyone else, with a forced ignorance.
As we reach the front of the line, and have our blood used to sign our identity, I am directed away from my family and toward the roped off section marked with a 15. Never have I seen so many from my District gathered in one place; executions are compulsory to attend only for those directly related to the prisoner, and the mayor has only ever requested adults attend speeches. Today, though, the air has grown stuffy from the sheer mass of bodies forced together. Girls push up against me as they cling to their friends in fright, but I can't see any of my friends nearby. I am alone.
Our bodies are slowly pushed closer together, until I am forced to tilt my face to the sky to smell the sea salt and escape the claustrophobic nature of the crowd. I squeeze my eyes shut, focussing on the sound of the gulls in the air, and searching for the comforting sound of waves that can usually be heard from this spot. With the immense amount of people though, I am forced to listen to the sounds of their harsh breathing and the occasional muffled sob. That is until, at last, Panem's anthem is blared from speakers surrounding us and I am forced to open my eyes and stare ahead- to do otherwise is to risk prosecution. The tension in the crowd only grows- the music is too loud, the peacekeepers, too many. When the anthem ends, we wait without hardly breathing.
It isn't until the doors of the justice building open, and a row of military officials step out, that the reaping truly begins. They line up in unison, their blue Capitol armbands bright against the stark white of their uniforms. A woman emerges last, her face unreadable. She takes to the microphone and reads out the Treaty of Treason, before standing to one side and indicating to the large screen, "For this the eleventh execution known as The Hunger Games, the male tribute from District 4 is…" Names and faces flash across the screen, too fast for me to register them as anyone I know. But steadily they slow down, and one by one the faces become recognisable. James, who lives two doors down from me, and Phillip, who I know from school, are just two that stand out. Everyone holds their breath, waiting for the cycle to stop on the selected male tribute, until at last, "Michael Tanner, 17." I don't recognise him, so I assume that he works in the boats. A murmur spreads from the back of the crowd, and the screen shows a shot of two peace keepers walking toward the boy and escorting him to the stage, his hands cuffed behind his back. When he reaches the stage, the faces start flashing across the screen once again, "The female tribute from District 4 is…" I don't watch the faces, instead looking down at the twisted rope bracelet around my wrist and twisting it nervously. My heart is in my throat, my stomach fluttering anxiously- it can't be me, it can't be me. "Yasmine Brown, 15." It's not me.
It takes a moment before I realise why everyone is moving out of my way, and why a set of peace keepers are marching in my direction. Yasmine Brown stands beside me, tears already trickling from her eyes, begging her friend to let go of her arm. I know her from school, she's one of the brighter students, certainly on the path to work in the justice building. Not anymore, I suppose.
"Let go!" I hear her tell her friend, as she pushes her lightly on her shoulder. It didn't matter, the peace keepers arrive and wrench her friend away aggressively, cuffing Yasmine's hands tightly, as if she had any other choice. When she passes me, I meet her eye, but can't think of anything to do. Smiling didn't seem right, and to reach out comfortingly would seem strange; to her I am surely just a stranger. So instead I just watch as she's lead up to the stage; I watch her struggle to hold a straight face as the anthem plays; and I watch her back as she's lead inside. I watch with the rest of Panem.