Callum Lennon, 18, District 3.
Dear Diary,
Today I turn 18. I move out of my foster home and get assigned one from the district. It will be nothing like my foster home, with its old wooden paneling and warm water. It won't be like the large childhood home I grew up with, with its sky scraping staircases and pristine windows. It won't even be in this part of the district. It will be in the poorer area, my foster parents told me I could take my blankets with me so that will be the only soft object to lay with my body. They will wait until after the reaping to assign me a new home, the peacekeepers will. Why bother filling out all that paperwork if I am only going to get reaped without stepping foot in it?
I don't mind this change of homes. The new one may help me feel closer to my peers, it will be in the southern part of the district. The change will also make me closer to the Lancaster's. I will be able to see them more, and help look after the younger kids. It's what I owe them for practically making me another one of their children over the years.
I know there are a few places in the district I need to visit before I go and I can already see the sun rising over the district. Lighting up the dull grey of the buildings surrounding us, I think the buildings are a lot like the people here, boring.
This could be the final time I write in you diary, after all I have told you it seems almost impossible that it could never happen again. But I'm a realist, I always have been. The possibility has always been there. It would be stupid not to see that.
I close the dog eared pages with large hands, setting the pen I was using on top of my fissured wooden desk I stretch my arms out in front of me, watching the light hit them and show off my protruding dark veins. I squeeze my eyes closed tightly for a moment, mentally preparing myself for the steps I am going to take today, the ghosts that are going to be awakened.
I tiptoe out of my foster parents home, already dressed in my reaping outfit I feel oddly over dressed compared to the shadows surrounding my body. My feet pound on the pavement, making an echoing pace that matches my heartbeat. Its an equally short and extremely long walk to get to the house that plagues my mind. I hate to be here, a cold sweat breaks out on my palms just looking at it.
But on a day like my birthday, and my final reaping, it only seems right to face these demons. It seems right to visit the ghosts that haunt me. The house hasn't become occupied, instead it stands crumbling into the ruins of what an elegant place it once was. Its windows are no longer glossy, but instead lay coated in grime and cracks run through them from younger boys trying to find entertainment in a place like this.
I take steps on uneven ground, approaching the house in the way you would approach an old friend that you last saw entering the world beyond this one. A jingle on a rusted door knob tells me that it is locked. For a moment my heart clenches, party in fear and partly in hope that someone else could of come into this place and transform it from something that echoes the memories of childhood.
But I know that no one is here. I walk past it every day. No fire burns on the hob, no children scream and laugh chasing each other up and down the sky scraping staircases. No one can be heard inside such a large and generous building. I hear rumors that some say it is haunted. I don't believe them. Her spirit would not linger in this world for longer than necessary. It would pass onto the next, and hopefully find its own peace. Not that she deserves it.
I tug on a wispy cord around my neck, pulling it to the front of my shirt. It tangles with another necklace I wear. I refuse to look at it yet, instead letting my agile fingers first untangle the cords and then pull the wispy one over my head. On the end of it is a rusted key I am not convinced will still work.
But when I slide it gracelessly into the doorknob it turns, the door opens, crying out in protest. It's hinges need some oil, not that anyone cares enough about this abandoned house to do it. Walking into the door the scent of decay hits my nose, of peeling paint and mould as well as whatever animals have wriggled their way into this home and made it their own. I would like to say the thought of them being here makes me feel better. But that would only be a lie. It makes me feel worse.
I was the one that found her. I came back to apologise, after a week of couch surfing I wanted to fall to my knees, grab her ankles and make her understand that it was not something I could control. That I would be better than the man that had broken her heart with false promises and hidden truths.
I didn't get the chance. I walked into the house, the floors freshly polished and gleaming, the walls eggshell blue with dark trimmings and the sun making them practically glow. I walked up to her bedroom, right at the top of the house it has its own floor. This house was always too large for just two.
I walked into an image that plagues me to this day, at first it looked like she was just sleeping, her head tipped back and covers tucked right up to her chin. I watched her, gathering my strength to gain her forgiveness. But then I noticed her chest was not rising and falling like my own, and a trail of sickness was hardened to the corner of her chin on the left side.
My heart sank that moment. I knew without anyone having to tell me, my mother, the woman who had raised and protected me. She was dead. She choked on her own vomit after drugging herself to the point where nothing mattered anymore. Not the son she despised after one confession, or the man that left her to be with someone else.
I stand in the bedroom now, the mattress has been taken so I stare at a rusting metal bed frame. Dark patches on the floor indicate leakes in the roof and the peeling wallpaper that used to show vibrant flowers now looks dull and forgotten, like its spirit has been crushed too with the weight of what happened inside of this house.
I close my eyes, trying not to picture her body but simultaneously clinging to it, clinging to the last image I have of my mother who had me at 17 and raised me by herself. The same mother who cried herself to sleep for weeks after her man left her and after her parents deaths. The mother who kicked me out so ruthlessly. I can't condemn her for that, no matter how much I try. But I can't condone her either, no matter how much I attempt. Stuck in limbo I never truly know how to feel about the actions that she took, and about the consequences that ripple out into my life now. But I can't change it, she made her choice. But only I am the one that has to live with it.
I joult to reality as I hear a loud thump in one of the walls of the building, it reminds me that this is no longer my home and I suddenly feel foolish for coming here. I should of known no matter how much I wanted to I would not find peace here, peace can only be found when a decision is made, weather to condemn or condone, I don't think I will ever be able to do either.
I have another place to go, another place that will rip my heart into even smaller pieces and then trample them into the ground beneath me. But maybe today can be a day of acceptance, maybe today can start a new life. It is my birthday after all. Tonight I will go to my new home and no longer have the threat of the reaping looming over me, maybe I can get the threat of my past to stop hunching over me too.
I make my way at a brisk pace toward the centre of the district, branching off just before the pathway to get me to the square. Still, no other souls are about. Maybe I woke too early, maybe I felt the need to make sure that I would be alone. I turn a corner and then another, weaving my way through a spiders web into the heart of the district, then back out again.
I follow a pathway of veins long forgotten until I come across the part of the town that most run from as quickly as possible. I round one corner specifically. Looking into a cobbled alleyway, brown moss dies on the walls and the stones look chipped and cracked in the ascending light. It's no place to die in here. Not when it smells of animal decicretment and broken glass litters the ground, not when used needles can be seen in the gutters and burned out spoons lay morphed and abandoned.
Most people think three is a perfect place, we are the brain that drives Panem. But it comes at a cost, the more intelligent a person is the more prone to depression they are. That can be clearly seen in a place like this. A place where all the pressure of the Capitol is placed on top of our shoulders and the other districts breathe down our necks. Just waiting for us to screw up and not be able to solve a problem. We have succeeded for this long, but not without a price.
I feel something warm trail down my cheek, closely followed by another trail until hot teers cascade down my face. I fall to my knees on the grimey floor, placing my hands on my head I picture the last moments he had here, the man I loved turned to nothing, with the help of some pills and some needles.
Taking a deep breath I let my memories flood over me once again, we spent the day together, me and Wren. It was probably the greatest day of my life. We walked down to a small river that runs on the very edge of our district, there is a small patch of trees surrounding it and we spent the day under them, talking and basking in the sun. Our friends had visited us, the Lancaster's and Teresa, most of the district thought me and Teresa were the ones dating. Only those who would be trusted got to know the truth, a number that could be counted on fingers of a single hand.
After, we decided to go back to his to spend the night. A perfect end to a perfect day. But then his sister walked in. I had climbed onto his bed and we were sharing an intimate moment, our lips connected in an intimate embrace.
His sister bursted in, with a toy in one hand she wanted to show off her new doll. I looked over at her with wide eyes before she ran yelling out of the room. Exposing our secret to the world. The secret we had tried so hard to protect for each other and those around us. I still blame myself, I wasn't careful enough. I let it happen. I will never forgive myself for that.
His father came in, we had moved apart, he dragged me out of the house. When I tried to call back to Wren a fist came at me and gave me an eye that was blackened for weeks afterwards. I went home to my foster parents, dejected and with tears streaming down my cheeks and making the path blur in front of me like a swirling pattern of watercolours.
He snuck out, came to me that night with dreams about running away from the district, we didn't know where we would go. Just that there was a fast running river under a part of our electrified fence, he thought we could survive the white water, just keep our heads above until we got onto the other side. My heart clenched as he told me this, I could not leave the Lancaster's, not after they took me as one of their own after my mothers death.
He was crushed by this, taking me in his arms he whispered goodbye in my ear before I could comprehend what he was saying and then disappeared into the night. I tried to follow him, chasing a disappearing shadow until I had to return home. I lost his trail and the last trace of him I had.
The next day he was found in this alleyway, reacking of the scent of alcohol, a dirty needle in his arm and lips that had turned blue, a glassy look over stuck oven eyes and a grimace on his face. He didn't leave a note, I guess he assumed that we would all know why he did it. And we did. Even if his family pretended they hadn't.
I hear his sister blames herself. She should. If she hadn't told her parents about us then Wren would still be here. I would still be happy. I stare at the alleyway in front of me, wrapping my arms around myself I trace the goosebumps that litter my skin. I can picture Wren here, his dark hair tousled and his eyes with a wild look as he decided it wasn't worth it anymore.
I can practically see his image and I walk toward where I can picture him, kneeling beside the person my mind imagines I place a hand on the ground beneath where his body was found. Bringing a hand to my neck I feel the necklace he gave me. It gives me strength to this day and reminds me of him. Of my first and only love.
I can't make myself regret the time we had together. No matter how painful his loss was. But I can't forgive him for his selfish act, we could of made it work. I know we could of. Suicide is a fickle thing, it helps you deal with the pain, but brings so much more to those around you. I guess the thing is that you don't have to deal with the consequences.
I lean against the wall behind me, closing my eyes I let myself grieve for those I have lost. I cry ugly tears as the sun rises over my district, I don't open my eyes again until I hear the streets come alive around me. It is time to walk to the square.
Talia Lancaster, 15, District 3.
Most people hate this place, it reminds them of those they have lost. Me, I love it. It reminds me that no one can truly die when their memory is still in the mind of others. I have too many friends here. Their memories confined to dark tombstones saying too few words to express who they were in life. I guess death has always fascinated me in this way, how the most lively person can be turned to a few words carved into a stone rounded at the top.
I sit in front of a grave, on my knees I have my eyes squeezed tight. I tell them in whispered words how my life is going, how I am scared for today and how I am terrified of being chosen for the reaping. I tell them that I hope they are doing okay on the other side, and I hope they have been forgiven for all they did in their life. I think there is nothing to forgive, we all do what we have to try and survive. But I know that they would think otherwise. They never wanted to kill anyone.
I have a portrait of them painted in front of me, on thick paper I had to steal from the store rooms at our school. The boy has amber hair that curls around his eyes, they are charcoal grey and a smile makes his face stand out and dimples are crooked on his cheeks. His eyes sparkle with the carefree attitude he portrayed during his life and fat black glasses are perched on the edge of his nose, he looks over them in the painting, like he did so often in life. The paining radiates the boy that lies in this grave in front of me, dead for just shy of a year.
His name was called at the reaping last year, he walked to the stage with frightened eyes but a determined attitude. I hugged him goodbye and he told me he would get home with a kiss on the cheek. He made it to the halfway point, killing a 12 year old that though he was an easy target before being taken down by a 18 year old career.
They sliced his stomach, spilling his guts to the ground as his eyes went wide, trying to pull them back into his wound. They abandoned him for hours, and I had to watch his drawn out death, just before he died he whispered goodbye to us. The coffin they took his body back in was printed with the Capitol seal and there was makeup on his face. It was not the boy that left, he was something the Capital created.
I paint him like the boy I remember, before he left to fight a battle he could not win. He was smart, but it was not enough. Cute, but not cute enough for the Capitol to fall head over heels for the 14 year old from District 3. We are never favourites to win.
His death really hit how unfair the games were, how unpredictable and cruel life could be. I was given one gift on this earth, my paintings. I decided to use them for a purpose. I've been rewatching old games, painting the tributes from our district with marticulas detail trying to capture their strongest moment in the games. For some this is when they are on the podium, refusing to show their fear. Others its them crying after making a kill. Their strongest moment doesn't have to be one where they portray strength, it needs to be when their emotion is the strongest. When they are them. Not what the Capitol has created.
For this boy it is when he decided to ally with the younger girl from his district, they were killed by the same tribute, binded by his blade in death. I have a painting of her at my home too. I have painted 6 tributes so far, going back to the 186th games. This has made me relive them all too much, but it has made me appreciate them for what they are. A way to oppress the districts and keep the Capitol happy.
Painting pictures of those we have lost is my own little way of keeping them alive, inside of my memories. Because maybe if someone remembers you you can never truly die. 2256 tributes in total have died in the games since they began, that's less than the population of my district. It makes me ashamed that I cannot name every single tribute that has entered our games. Someday I will be able to. Someday I will have painted a picture of every single one of them.
Turning my head I see the grave of this boy's sister. She died shortly after her brother. He was decapitated. She drowned her sorrow in alcohol and went over the edge, his death killed her as well. I know it's not what he would've wanted. I know it through every bone of my body. I should've realized what she was going to do. But I didn't. Her family grieved for both of their children. One was buried in a pretty Capitol coffin, the other in a flimsy box made of splintered wood.
I painted a picture of them together to help their grieving parents, I don't know how well it worked. Or if it eased their pain. But it helped me to say goodbye to the siblings that were two of my best friends. Callum made the process easier, he's not my sibling by blood but he may as well be. After his mother died we partly took him in and he's an older brother now.
I don't know what I would do without him. I just wish I could help him more, he has not had it easy either, not with all of those he has loved passing from this world to the next. Sometimes, I wonder if the next world is better than this one, less pain, less fear, less unknown. But then I would lose all of the people around me. And I don't think I could place the pain I have on those around me.
I'll see them again someday, but not anytime soon, I hope. There is still so much more left to do. I hear the sound of rustling bushes to my left and my head snaps in that direction, my muscles coiling as my flight reflex kicks in. No one else is ever at the graveyard this early. Even Callum rarely comes here to pay his respects. Instead preferring to write his thoughts out in his diary. He says that those we have lost will hear us no matter what proximity we are to their corpse, I believe that, but someone it just feels right to be near them. Makes them seem that much more real as they fade into memories. That's also why I paint them, I don't want to forget what they look like. And I don't want to have to watch the games to remember.
Looking back to the bushes a small smile crosses my face as an old cat appears, Misty. She's been in my life as long as I can remember, her pelt does not gleam like it used to but her bright eyes still sparkle and meow is crystal clear as she comes over to me.
She presses her body to mine, purring as she tries to comfort me. I feel her lick the tears I had not realised had dried on my face in my hunched over position. I run a hand over her coat, she used to be the only one who could get me to talk. I feel completely safe with her for an unknown reason, like she has an aura around her that tells me everything will be okay. And I know it will. She is my guardian angel.
I stretch stiffness out of my limbs as I get up, picking Misty up with me she cuddles into my arms as I start the walk toward the square, the sun hangs high in the district, promising a warm day with a slight breeze making it manageable. She kneads me all the way to the square, the tiny pricks her paws make help ground me to the present.
When I line up to get my finger pricked for blood she leaps gracefully out of my arms, blinking at me with too intelligent eyes she slinks off jumping onto a low fence nearby and gracefully walking over to see what the commotion is about. I worry about her being out in the open in a place like this. But she is the most intelligent animal I have ever met, she knows what danger is and for over 15 years it has kept her alive. I have to believe it will keep doing so.
My blood is taken from me and I step into the square, I quickly scan the crowd and see that Callum is walking in. I rush over to him, he looks upset, but like hes trying to hide it. What a way to spend your birthday. I give him a large hug, his body is warm against my oddly cool one and he whispers goodluck into my ear with his deep voice. I wish him it back, he makes his way up to the 18 year old section as I go to the 15 year olds.
There, I spot the blond hair of my best friend Varina. "Jesus you're cold!" She exclaims, running her petite hands up and down my arms, creating warmth. "I was visiting the graves" I tell her soberly and her face drops in recognition. Roseanne comes up to us then, wrapping us three in a hug she worlessly links hands with both of us and says a prayer to those above us. I follow her every word, I may not be religious but I will accept all the help I can get on a day like today, we all know the horrors that lie for those in District 3 inside of the arena.
We squeeze each others hands as our escort mounts the stage, she's a tall woman, exaggerated eyebrows that must be tattooed on into such an obnoxious pattern. A large mohawk spikes up above her head that does not appear to be a wig and she wears a flowing blue dress that clings to her figure provocatively. She looks bored though, disappointed she does not have a better district to be the escort for, the careers are the districts they all want. A lot more action from those who are not afraid to be in the games. A lot more fame when they win too.
She says with false excitement how honoured she is to represent this district, before playing a video filmed in the Capitol. I see our young presidents face appear on the screen, she starts off shakey thanking our district for the technology we provide for the Capitol and inventions we are constantly imagining that make the lives for all of us better. Before she ends on her line "thank you for your sacrifice." I watch her solomley, I know she has done good things for the districts, with the increased rations and there are whispers she will be the one to incite change. But I don't believe them. She can't change anything without risking her own life. And the most powerful person in Panem has nothing to gain from making those in the districts have any better lives.
"Wasn't that just beautiful?" Our escort says, a forced tear rolling down her cheek and carving its way down powdery makeup. She walks over to the girls bowl and places a gloved hand inside of it, digging deep she pulls out a name before her heels click clank back to the microphone. As she clears her throat my heart starts to race.
"Talia Lancaster" her voice states. I feel disconnected from my own body. This cannot be happening. I stay still as I hear the gasps from the girls surrounding me. I am frozen in time for a moment, before everything happens at once. I spot a peacekeeper moving in my direction and let their hands go, making my way toward the stage by myself and detaching myself from my body.
In my mind I see myself walk to the stage, solid steps and unfocused eyes I look back over my district not meeting anyones gaze. I know what this is. This is a death sentence. Looking over heads I spot Misty perched on the top of a fense, she yowls a heartbroken yowl and I know that she realises what this means. I don't know how but she is good like that, this will be our final goodbye.
"And now onto the boys" our escorts perky voice seems oddly distorted in my current state and I hope that no one I know is chosen. I would never want them to be marching to their death like me. "Flicker Munroe" the name is no ones I recognize so I my body lets out a breath.
Until an all too deep and familiar voice bellows out that he volunteers. I watch him march up to the stage, feeling angry that he has sentenced himself to the same fate as me. The boy who hugged me and whispered good luck. The boy who has faced so much hardship and now will face even more. I know why he's doing it, he feels like he owes my parents. He doesn't.
"What's your name?" The escort asks him with elation on her voice, District 3 has not had a volunteer in longer than I can remember. "Callum Lennon" He says boldly, I refuse to meet his eyes, this is not how he repays my parents, this is how he condemns himself.
"Ladies and gentlemen I give you your tributes from district 3!" Our escort squeeks out, lifting both of our arms into the air. "Talia Lancaster and Callum Lennon!" I finally meet his eyes, a scowl on my face.
"What have you done?" I ask him, my voice barely a whisper. "Protect you" he replies, not quite answering my question. This is my fault. "May the odds be ever in your favour" our escorts voice rings out, foreboding it reminds us there can only be one victor. It is not likely to be either of us.
Authors note: Sorry if this chapter is not as polished as other ones, I'm quite sick at the moment and am writing this the night before it is due to be released. But I refuse to miss my schedule with this story as as soon as I do it once I feel like I will continue it.
THANK YOU SO MUCH for all of your support in the story so far, I'm loving hearing which tributes you like and dislike! Please don't feel like you have to write super long reviews every chapter, and constructive criticism is always appreciated so I can improve my work.
Thank you all for reading, let me know what you think of these two!
And as always,
May the odds be ever in your favour….
