Sorry I took so long to update, but all of the previous chapters have been edited (again), and I think I'm finally at a place where I've cleaned up enough cobwebs in my plot that I can pick this story back up. Thanks for bearing with me!
Also, I originally had strikethroughs through all the misspelled words in this chapter, but I want to keep them in so I'm going to put dashes on the end instead (And I'll do the same with Hy's chapters). Tell me in the reviews if I'd be easier to just delete the misspellings altogether.
[Diary of Jiaxon Shuman]
My parents worry about me sometimes. And not just in the protective way that most of the parents down here have felt about their (remaining) children since the epidemic; this is different. I think I've known it for a while, but today really confirmed it. It's my thirteenth birthday, and to celebrate, they've given me another journal. Which is admittedly fantastic when you consider how hard it is to buy things in our district. But I'm thinking maybe they got it for me because I seem, I don't know, frustrated. With my teachers, with them, with the rutine- routine I've grown up following; maybe they think I need to channel those thoughts into words. Being parents in this day and age, it goes without saying that they have a million questions they just can't ask me. Is it a phase she's going through? Is it a rebellious streak? Is it depression?
I don't really know what I'm feeling. But now I've got this neat journal, so I'm going to use it.
Directly adres- addressing the reader (assuming there will be one eventually if I ever decide to trust anyone with my private thoughts), I don't know where you live. Considering the scant amount of outsiders around, I'm going to guess that you're from Thirteen, too, but I think I'll actually go out on a limb here and just assume you're from another district so I can tell you about my life here.
Repharasing- Rephrasing that, if you really are from another district, chances are, your definition of celebration is different from mine. I've seen some footage from the Victory Tours, and I know you have, too. Capitol parties are amazing. The decorations, the food, just everything; and in that city, the festivities continue year-round. And, judging from the Tour footage we're able to view here, Districts One and Two know how to party, too. Here in Thirteen, though, our supplies are limited. We can't afford to waste paper on decorations and gift wrappings. Or waste eggs and sugar on sweets like cookies. As long as we're not dying of starvation, we're fine is the main mantra down in the kitchens.
Don't get me wrong. I don't need decorations, presents, and sweets to be happy on my birthday. Frankly, I think all of those things are probably overrated up in the Capitol. Nonessentials, just as the word suggests, are not essential. And where I live, to be self-indulgent is to risk the health and well-being of yourself and everyone around you. And that's the greatest wrongdoing.
But despite the fact that extravagent- extravagant parties aren't necessary for my survival down here, I still think they're kind of cool.
Sorry, I'm being rude; a new diary calls for a new introduction. Unless you've read any of my other ones—and I hope desprately- desperately that you haven't—you are not a well-informed reader.
My name is Jiaxon Shuman. It's not that hard, I promise. Just pronounce it like "Jackson Shoe Man" and you're golden. And yep, you read it right; Jiaxon is spelled with an I and an X. My parents were creative. My substitute teachers hate me. I really love my name.
I am an (as of today) thirteen-year-old of just about five feet, two inches. I have eyes that are kind of a watery blue color, and light-blonde hair. The style is a bit choppy, because I recently cut it by myself. That was an interesting day. I wish my uniform came with a hat so I could tuck all my hair up into it until it grows out. I live in District Thirteen, where my family's compartment is on Level Three, about a hundred or so feet underground. Or so I'm told. I'm one of the luckier ones, actually. Some compartments are much deeper in the earth.
Another thing. Tecnic- Technically speaking, I don't exist. No one in my district does. I guess the Capitol supposed we'd die out on our own once we left Panem. Clearly they underestimated our stubbornness relentless determination.
That's enough explanation for now (School – 8:00 is printed clearly on my arm, and I'm still half-asleep in my compartment). I'll check back in later on.
If you're reading this, Alistair, you shouldn't be!
Jiaxon
...
It's still my birthday, but it's later. I've washed my schedule off of my arm and I'm ready for some more writing, so fasten your metaphorical seatbelts! These seatbelts aren't for real because I literally live in a complex system of tunnels. The only cars I've ever seen are the ones on the Capitol-aired programming the higher-ups sometimes grant public access to during the Hunger Games. Wow, I'm getting very off track.
This morning, I described myself to you, the reader. Now I'm going to tell you about Stairs.
He's two years older and two heads taller than I am, but back when he was in middle school, after a very, very weird incident involving misheard instructions, a jammed lock, and a lot of old soup cans, Alistair Walsh and I became inseperable- inseparable. The misunderstanding was completely my fault, but it's nice to know that something good comes out of my incompetance- incompetence every once in a while. And this time, that something good was Stairs.
Before I tell you about my best friend, there's something I need to get out of the way first: He has an awesome nickname, but I can't take the credit for it. It was his older sister's idea, and with her blessing I eventually adopted it. I think it really suits him, actually. Especially since last month's evacuation drill, where he practically dove to be the first one in the stairwell and ended up tumbling down three flights. He got a concussion.
Alistair's probably the closest thing to a brother I have. (He even annoys me like one, but I guess it goes both ways!) Even though he's usually busy with his training, he'll always try to take a lunch break at the same time as mine, or make time to explore the district with me, or tell me to stop skipping my fifth period class.
I don't want to waste too much time on the details since, Stairs, you're probably reading this and loving it. Wipe that grin off your face right now.
If it really is you that's reading this now, I want you to know that sometimes I can literally just sit back and think about how great our friendship is. But if you're actually out there reading my diary without permission, I'll come after you like I'm the biggest Career tribute in the Corna- Cornucopia Battle.
So much has happened since I accidentally locked you inside a storage closet.
Anyway, now I'm speaking to the other, more hypothetical reader. Today, I asked Stairs if he wanted to break the rules. Bold, right? The wording I chose was a lot more exciting than just asking him if he wanted to watch the Games with me while I skipped my fifth period class.
"What is it, then?" he asked, "I have to be at training by one." As proof, he held up his arm, impermanantly- impermanently- temporarily tattooed with his schedule for the day. At age fourteen, you start your fight training. Our district's government likes to keep us prepared for battle, even when there's no danger (and there's hardly ever any). The beginning of training is a big deal for us kids. A rite of passage. When we're old enough to be addressed as "soldier", we consider ourselves adults.
"Let's watch the Hunger Games," I say. Alistair paused for a moment to ajust- adjust his rectangular glasses.
"You want to?" He looked at me a little strangely. I shrugged.
"I just want to see what's happening."
"Okay, I guess," he says after a second, then smiles, "But only 'cause it's your birthday." He winks, but his heart isn't in it. His face is easy to read; it's not hard to tell when something's wrong.
"What?"
"Ah, I just…" At first he tries to wave it off as nothing, but his curiosity wins out over his manners. "Why watch something like that if you don't have to, Jax? The Games are sick." I paused for a moment. Was it sick to wonder what was happening outside of our district?
I asked him this. Alistair shrugged.
"Your parents, they don't like that, do they?"
"Don't like what? Me wanting to watch the Games?"
"Mhm."
"Stairs, I'm thirteen now. Can't I make my own desi- decisions?" I challenged him, straightening up to my full height. And remembering too late that this argument was completely invalid to Stairs. My friend stifled a chuckle.
"Aaw, thirteen. I remember when I was thirteen." He sighed like he was remembering, smiling that stupid grin—the one on his face whenever he thinks he's said something hilarious.
"That wasn't even two years ago!" I pointed out, and we headed to his compartment. It's one of the handful of rooms that has a television, and one of the precious few TV's without a channel lock. Mr. and Mrs. Walsh are important people, both members of the ele- elite group of 'higher-ups' that keep this place running smoothly. Stairs turns on the box.
The only two places in Panem that broadcast anything at all are District Thirteen and the Capitol, and the differences between what's on their respective channels and frequencies are massive.
Thirteen's television generally consists of messages from the president, which came very frequently during the epidemic but now, almost never. The district airs important information to the big leader squad through the radio, stuff concerning food supply and training, and Alistair says he'll occasionally hear something about the 'detainment quarters', a fancy way of saying that there's definitely a prison down here somewhere (we haven't found it yet, but we're still hopeful).
The Capitol, on the other hand, has a lot of programming about glamor- glamour, fashion and food and parties, talk shows with famous actors and actresses, even Snow himself on occasion. This time of year, though, it's all about the Hunger Games. Sometimes it's even more interesting to watch the Games-related programming, all the stylist interviews and other special features, than the Games themselves.
We ended up watching a two hour arena walkthrough instead of the actual Hunger Games, and Stairs was late for training.
Jiaxon
And that's it for the intro chapters! Or, technically, the next one is the last intro chapter because the prologue was narrated by five-years-later Lex. Still, though. Reviews would be nice, takes a second and means a lot. Seeya on the other side, readers BD
