I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.
Liasyma Marlowe
District Six: the land of transportation. What a quaint, lovely place.
"Ms. Marlowe," my attendant asks, her pudgy cat-like face scrunched up in confusion. "We need to return to the stage. The reapings will begin in only half of an hour, and you cannot be late!"
I keep shuffling along the wide cobblestone street, disregarding her warning. "My dear Catheria, how many times have you ever been to see District Six?"
"Well, none, ma'am, but-"
"Exactly!" I proclaim, holding up my anemic white fists. "I only get to come to this beautiful place once a year, and am going to enjoy this experience to the fullest! It's only a walk around the block, anyways. Calm down."
Catheria rolls her bright yellow eyes. "Yes, ma'am."
Relly Jay, District Six Female
The sun beats down mercilessly from the blue sky, and I can already feel a sunburn beginning on my shoulders. I adjust my wide-brimmed straw hat, re-tying the light pink bow, and let out a sigh. My, oh my. These flowers won't plant themselves!
I heft one of the heavy rose bushes, but I am unable to carry is very far, and the plastic pot slips from my hand and cracks on the ground.
"Dang it," I hiss.
Over by the front of the house, my mother rises from the ground, rubbing her mauve gloves together to dislodge the dirt that has caked onto the fabric.
"What is it, honey?" she calls. On any other normal weekday, she would be working at the hovercraft factory. But she gets today off because of the reapings.
"I cracked the plastic."
She walks over, and runs a gloved thumb across the side of the pot. "Don't worry about it, Relly. We don't need the container anymore, anyways."
Placing her foot on the plastic, she gives it a huge push, and the entire spindly rosebush goes spinning across the lawn, smashing down the grass and violently rattling the little white blossoms. A few snowy petals break off and float down to the ground, but when the plant finally comes to a stop, there doesn't seem to be any serious harm done.
"Alright Relly," my mother says, pulling a strand of dark blond hair out of her mouth and placing it behind her ear. The finger of her glove brushes against her cheek, leaving a light smudge of dirt behind on her pale skin, the tone that she and I both share. I've even been told that, except for my lighter hair, I'm a dead ringer for my mother.
She takes the plant by the stem, plants her foot on the plastic casing, then pulls the block of dirt out of the pot. "I'm going to need your help," she says. As she struggles to keep the rosebush steady, I guide the bundle of roots and soil over to the hole in the ground.
"You can let go," I tell her.
The plant hits the ground with a jolt, and my mother smiles with satisfaction. "Excellent." Squinting up at the sky, she pulls the gloves off of her hands. "You know what, Relly? We can wait until later to plant the rose bushes. You should go run along with your friends."
I feel my face brighten. "Really?"
She looks to me, a thin smile on her pale lips, and gives a single nod.
I laugh with excitement, quite pleased with my unexpected freedom. "Thank you, mom!"
Ripping the gloves off of my hands and tossing the wide-brimmed hat into the bushes, I sprint into our house, searching for my father. I find him in his office, presiding over a thick stack of papers, each one detailing an order from one of his customers. See, he's a clock maker. A pretty good one, too.
He inspects a tiny little mechanism underneath a magnifying glass, his lips pursed in concentration. When he leans slightly forward, his rectangular spectacles slide down his nose, and he pushes them back up into their proper position, slightly annoyed.
I run up to him and hug him from the side.
"Bye, dad," I say. "I'm going to go see my friends."
He looks to me, his curious brown eyes made larger by the lenses of his glasses. "I thought you were planting flowers with your mother?"
"She let me off the hook," I say, grinning.
My father shrugs lightheartedly. "Fine by me. Just be safe, alright?"
I nod hurriedly. "Of course!"
Chuckling, my father turns his attention back to his work. "Have fun, Relly."
"I will!" I cry, sprinting out of my house. "Bye mom!" I say, waving to her as I run across the yard and out onto the sidewalk.
"Bye, sweetie," she calls, waving back to me.
As my sprint slows to a fast skip, I think, Nothing can squash my good mood today. Nothing at all.
Alder Haynes, District Six Male
I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling, and close my eyes. A sigh escapes through my nose, and I raise my arms in a yawn. I have been sitting here for what, three hours? I am so far beyond bored that I can literally feel my synapses dying off, one by one, like stars dying in the night sky.
It's not like I have anything else to do, though.
The young woman lying on the medical table lets out a low whimper. She's been here for three days, and is still wearing the same tattered gray dress that she had on when her distraught family carried her here. Her lips are cracked and chapped, red canyons of blood spread between white shelves of dead skin, and the blue veins contrast hideously against her sallow skin. Her sickness has smeared two purple dark spots underneath her bloodshot blue eyes, almost dark enough to rival her wavy, black hair. According to my parents, this woman waited three and a half months to get treatment for this unknown ailment, and before, when the symptoms were just starting to appear, she had excellent chances of survival. But because she waited so long to get treatment, my parents and I can do very little to save her now.
At least her sickness isn't contagious, because if it was, her entire family and anyone else who came into contact with her would be suffering, as well. And if she was contagious, I most certainly wouldn't risk sitting in the same room as her.
But, judging by how much her condition has deteriorated since her arrival, I give her less than a day to live.
If she valued her life, why would she wait to come to us? It makes no sense.
Her family is too poor to pay for treatment, but my family will pay for the treatment of those who cannot afford it. We don't really need the money because we're among the only physicians in all of District Six. We can afford to be altruistic.
So again I ask: why would she wait?
"You are a fool," I mutter, standing up from my seat. I don't think she hears me, though. And if she can, she doesn't have enough strength to respond.
As I pour myself a glass of water from the jug on the back table, I hear someone unlock the front door. Down the hallway, the barrier sweeps open to reveal my mother and father, both encumbered with bags of groceries and medical supplies. Every now and again they make a supply run, and every time they ask if I'd like to go with them, and I always refuse, because why bother with the outside world? The world doesn't care about me, and I don't care about the world.
"Alder, why don't you open the windows or something?" my mother chides, dropping her bags at the corner of the table. She walks over and throws the curtains back. "It's like a cave in here."
To be honest, I really couldn't care one way or the other. Darkness, light. They're both the same.
"And have you even brushed your hair?" she asks, walking over to me. She runs her bony hand through my dark blonde hair, her fingers seeming to catch on every single knot. "You do realize that you actually need to go out in public today, don't you?"
Oh, right. The reapings are today.
I push away from my mother, a sneer on my face. I don't like it when she touches me. She is such a busy body, and even though she thinks she knows me, she really knows nothing at all.
"Rachel," my father calls from the kitchen, "leave the boy alone."
At least he understands.
My mother frowns, but refrains from pestering me any further.
Since my parents are home, I don't need to look after the patient any longer, and I may as well go get ready. The Peacekeepers have a tendency to severely punish those who are late for the reapings, and I do not intend on being penalized for something as meaningless as a late arrival.
Relly Jay
"Tag," Keelie says, tapping me on the shoulder. "You're it!"
I flounce after her, my arm outstretched. We aren't really interested in playing tag, but it's something to occupy our time as we head to the town square.
We pass a group of boys, and with a little bit of resentment, I notice a lot of them watching Keelie, though she is oblivious to their attention. I look down at the ground and sigh.
Keelie has always been the "hot" one. I'm the cute one, but she's the one that guys want to date. And even though I love her like a sister, I do have to admit that I hate her a little bit. Okay, maybe "hate" is a strong word. It's more jealousy than anything. But still, I wish that, for once, I would be the one that boys notice.
"Hurry up, slowpoke," Keelie cries, waving her arm at me from the end of the street. How did she get there so fast? "The reapings start in ten minutes!"
Oh, jeez.
I set off at a sprint once again, my short, sleeveless blue dress fluttering against my legs, and take the turn a little too fast and almost slip on the gravelly surface. "Whoa," I say, holding my arms out for balance.
"Don't kill yourself," Keelie says, giving me a lighthearted slap on the back as she runs up alongside me. "Don't wanna show up to the reapings all bloody, do you?"
"Nope," I huff, pumping my arms and legs, desperately hoping to make it on time, because if I showed up late I would risk district-wide public embarrassment.
We make it with less than three minutes to spare. Huffing and puffing, I let the guy with the blood scanner prick my finger.
"Relly Jay, age fourteen?" he asks.
"Uh huh," I gasp, winded from the run.
He scans Keelie next. "Keelie Bennett, age fifteen?"
"Yup."
"Go," he says, waving us away.
Keelie and I hurry over to our respective places in the crowd just as the mayor commences his speech, detailing the glory of the Capitol and why the Hunger Games are a fit punishment for the Rebellion. But are they a fit punishment, really? I don't think so. I think they're evil.
The mayor throws his free arm up into the air. "And now I shall hand the spotlight to our beloved escort, Liasyma Marlowe!"
Nobody cheers for the withered woman as she steps forward to take the microphone. Our escort looks sick, as if she doesn't get enough food and sunlight. "Oh, thank you, dear."
Turning to the audience with an eerily wide smile, she says, "Well, District Six, let us hesitate no further. Females first!"
With spindly spider fingers, she reaches into the bowl and pulls out a single name. Two words fall away from her dark purple lips: "Relly Jay."
My entire mind grinds to a halt, but I feel myself step forward, as if my entire body is on autopilot. The ground passes under me, even though I don't consciously register my own footsteps. Before long, I find myself in front of our sickly escort, and up close, her skin is even more waxy and unappealing.
"Welcome to the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games," she says with a wavering voice, her lips pulling back into a putrid, overly-purple grin.
I can't believe this.
I am going to die, I realize, the words ringing in my head with a cold finality.
Alder Haynes
Sauntering along the beaten roadway, I look up at the cloudless sky and wonder how long the reapings will last. I hope they don't take very long, because I can't stand to be around so many people for much longer than twenty minutes. Crowds make me nervous.
As I round the last street, I see a small brunette girl sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, rolling a couple of gutter pebbles between her thin fingers. Her unnerving black eyes are fixed upon me. Why is she looking at me like that? What is she plotting?
I quicken my pace and hurry past her, though out of my peripheral vision I can still see her looking at me. Even when she is behind me, I throw a glance over my shoulder, and she's still staring at me. Most of me couldn't care less what she's thinking about, but there is that one lingering thought in the back of my mind, that dark smear of paranoia on an otherwise gray page of indifference. Part of me wants to know what her little mind is thinking about behind those dark eyes, but the rest of me just wants to get the reapings over with. And in the end, my apathy wins.
The registrar takes a sample of my blood, confirms my identity, then sends me on my way.
Up on the stage, the tiny escort stands with her arms crossed, seemingly uncomfortable. She is so skinny that her figure closely resembles a skeleton wrapped in pale, flimsy skin. Perhaps it's just because she's old. Her peppermint colored hair has been styled into a puffy bob cut, though the volume of her hair only serves to make her cheeks appear more hollow, and her neck appear more twig-like. Our escort isn't exactly the picture of health.
On the back of the stage I see our two surviving mentors, both males. District Six has had three victors, but our first, a woman named Miriam who won the Sixteenth Hunger Games, died three years ago, leaving these two as the only remaining mentors. Brandt and Nyx, I believe they're called. But other than their names, I don't know much about them.
Finally, exactly when the clock strikes two, our mayor takes the spotlight, and gives his annual propaganda-laden Hunger Games spiel. I close my eyes and tune out, wishing that he would speed it up. I just want to go home.
Eventually, after what feels like an hour, the disturbingly thin escort eagerly takes center stage and gazes out across the audience. "Well, District Six, let us hesitate no further. Females first!"
She draws a paper and calls a name, Relly Jay, and a young blond girl steps forward from the fourteen-year-old section. Her face conveys no emotion, shell shocked by those two words. Two words, nine letters; yet it is a death sentence. And this girl knows it.
Ascending the steps blindly, she halts next to the escort, completely mute.
Liasyma ignores the unresponsive girl, and proceeds to draw the male name. "Alder Haynes!"
Oh. That's me.
I shrug, and break from the ranks of young boys, the rest of them relieved that their names weren't called, that they can go home and live out the rest of their pathetic lives, that they won't have to go die in the arena. Unlike them, I don't care. Death is the end result of life. My life isn't worth much, so why should my death be any different?
I mount the steps, and the escort's face falls when she sees my utter lack of facial expression. I assume that she's at least a little disappointed at having to deal with one tribute who's catatonic, and another who couldn't care less.
"And so, darling District Six," our escort says, linking my hand with Relly's, "I give you the male and female tributes who will represent you in the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games!"
The audience claps for us, but I know that they only clap because they won't have to go into the arena. At least, not this year.
Casting a glance over to my district partner, I watch her fight to keep her face neutral. Her attempts fail, though, when a single tear trails down the side of her face and falls from her chin.
The crowd doesn't see the tear, though. No, no. They are too busy rejoicing, delighted that the Capitol granted them one more worthless year of life.
Relly Jay
The walls are covered in expensive paintings, and rows of silk tapestries hang from the ceiling, each one bearing the seal of the Capitol, and directly underneath is the much smaller seal of District Six. A chandelier hangs above my head, plated with gold and covered with hanging crystals. I don't think I've ever seen so much wealth in such a small place.
My mother and father sit on either side of me, sandwiching me in a sullen, devastated embrace. How could this have happened? Why am I the one sitting here?
On the left side of me, my father pulls something out of his pocket. "I was meaning to give this to you next month, for your birthday," he says, his voice wobbling with tears. He looks to me with bloodshot eyes. "But I think that an early birthday present is in order."
I hold out my hand, and he drops the object in the center of my palm. It is a little heart-shaped locket, plated with gold, and a tiny copper rose has been stamped on the front. I open the heart, and find a miniature picture of my family on the left side, and a small clock on the right. This must have taken my father weeks to make.
"Thank you, daddy," I whisper, tightening my fist and holding the necklace close to my chest.
As I lean my head against his shoulder, one of the Peacekeepers sticks his head in the door. "You have more visitors," he says, voice low. He steps out of the way, revealing both Keelie and Elijah.
I smile, happy that they came to say goodbye.
"Oh, Relly," Keelie says, tears streaming down her face, and she runs over and wraps her arms abound me. "This sucks! Of all the people, and they chose you, I just can't…!" She steps away from me, wiping her hands across her face. "I am so sorry, Relly."
"Why are you sorry?" I ask. "It's not your fault."
She waves her hand dismissively, but her tears cannot be held back, and despite her best efforts, she breaks down into sobs. In a way, I think it's kind of funny that she's crying more than I am. Maybe I'm just still in shock. Maybe my tears will come later.
Elijah touches my arm, and draws me into a hug. I rest my head on his shoulder, and he does the same. "I really wish they hadn't picked you," he murmurs. I can feel the vibration of the words running through his chest.
I push away from him, and give him a tiny smile. "I'm going to miss you, Elijah."
He gives me a kind of smile that I've never seen on his face before. "I'll miss you more." He looks down at his feet, and smirks. "See you in two weeks, right?"
Grinning, I reply, "Yep."
He looks to me, but this time I don't see any humor in his brown eyes. Now it's just sadness. "I'm going to hold you to that, Relly."
Alder Haynes
My parents sit in uncomfortable silence, and I know that they want me to speak, but I have nothing to say. And because I am a firm believer that silence says more than words, the last conversation I have with my parents will consist entirely of silence.
"Alder, is there anything you want to say…?" my mother asks desperately.
I keep staring at the ceiling, lips sealed. No, there is nothing I want to say.
My father lets out a sigh of exasperation. "You are going to the Capitol. And I hate to say it, Alder," he says, his voice catching on the last syllable, "but the possibility exists that you may not be coming home. Can't you at least say 'goodbye'?"
I roll my eyes, and sink against the couch. So many pointless questions. "Why do you care so much? If I say the word 'goodbye', it doesn't increase my chances of coming home. 'Goodbye' won't save me in the arena. 'Goodbye' won't make me better at handling weapons. And 'goodbye' won't heal the fatal wound that I am sure to receive. So, why say it?"
I'm not ever taking a token with me. What's the point, if I know that I'm not coming home?
A broken sob escapes from my mother. "Alder, how can you say that? Do you want to hurt us?"
"No, I don't want to hurt you," I deadpan. "I am genuinely curious."
Standing from her seat, my mother avoids my questioning gaze. "Because your father and I are only human. We want to know that you love us enough to at least give us closure before you go off and get killed in this Game."
Good to know she has so much faith in me. But I don't expect to come home, either. So I guess I can't blame her.
"Fine," I say. "Goodbye, mother. Goodbye, father."
My mother sighs, seemingly with relief. "Thank you, Alder," she says slowly. Even more slowly, she adds, "We will miss you while you're gone."
Well, then. They're going to be missing me for a long, long time.
Thank you for reading.
Halfway through the reapings! *big sigh* Sorry this update took so long. I promise that the District Seven reapings will be posted sooner.
And Atmosphere has surpassed fifty reviews! I can't thank you enough, dear readers.
