Chapter Eight.
Goodbyes, Part One.
Theon Devalera, 17 years old;
District Four Male.
Theon did not like being manhandled. Not one bit.
Peacekeepers in Four were much more lax when it came to guarding and escorting those associated with the Games, but even so, his hand lightly pressed on Theon's shoulder made him uncomfortable. Uncomfortable enough to shrug him off, turn around just before entering the goodbye room allocated to him, and step closer to the Peacekeeper who stood a few inches above him.
"It's a little thing called boundaries," Theon sneered, wrinkling his nose. "Find someone else to touch."
He wasn't angry. Quite the opposite actually. He just felt like he had to say it. Any consequences that came to mind as a result of practically shoving away a member of authority didn't even come close to Theon's present worries. Sometimes it was harder to think before acting. The spur of the moment was his favourite place to be.
Plus, he didn't like being treated like he was below someone. Equal or a step above, that was how he liked existing.
Once in the room, alone and left to his thoughts, Theon started to hum anxiously, tapping his foot on the ground. This was the part he'd been most nervous about. Not the whole being the focus of every camera in the Square. Being shown to everyone in the country on a television screen. Not even the fact he was volunteering to basically murder people.
He was anxious and worried about saying goodbye to his… parents. Because he wasn't so sure how he felt about actually, potentially, not seeing them again. Not that I'm going to die, of course. I trained, I volunteered, and I'm fighting because I believe in myself.
Even so…
He'd never really had a place in his family, or even in the community. People got close, take the Peacekeeper for example, and Theon had a nasty habit of pushing them right to the edge and kicking them off just to double check.
Then he'd feel extra guilty, smother that down under a grin, maybe train some more or kick something, and let the cycle repeat. And now he had to say farewell to the two people that had shown him the most love he'd ever received, a love he'd rarely mutually reflected back, and Theon was… scared.
I'm actually fucking terrified. He wanted to laugh. What a joke… who's scared of their own parents? It wasn't them he was afraid of. It was himself. He'd never really known his place in anything. He'd never really known how to be anything but how he wanted other people to see him.
And whenever he tried to show them what they wanted to see, it usually ended up being the complete opposite. What a life I live!
When his parents finally entered the room, the atmosphere was more depressing than Theon had planned. He tried to crack a joke, laughing to himself, and when the chuckle only faded and vanished from the air, a frown replaced his grin and Theon slumped forwards, glaring at his parents.
"Soooo…"
"Oh Theon!"
His mother swept forwards, grabbing onto his hands and trying to pry him from the chair. Theon stubbornly refused to stand, which resulted in some kind of awkward in-between, his Mother hunched down, whilst he was struggling to get away from her grip. It would have been amusing if Theon wasn't feeling embarrassed.
Embarrassed to who, he had no idea.
"It's alright, you don't have to touch me."
"I only want to say a proper goodbye. I didn't know you were considering doing this."
"Yeah you did, Mother." Theon laughed, shrugging his shoulders. "Okay, even if you didn't. Why worry? Yeah, alright, so there are other kids going in. Other kids who might know what they're doing. But don't you have faith in me?"
"There's a difference between faith in a son living at home, and faith in a son who wants to kill-"
"I don't want to kill," Theon said, before shrugging again. "Well, no, I don't want to. Need to, yes. Need is important. I'm not exactly going to curl up and cry and let them push me down."
Theon was trying as best he could to keep his voice level. He knew his parents didn't like it when he shouted, and as much as the emotions raging through him gave him some kind of weird high, the after effects were awful. Guilt, regret, self-hatred. Another vicious cycle he was practically permanently stuck in.
Appeasing others by being what they wanted, when he didn't know what he really wanted for himself. He didn't really care about anyone. But he'd never really taken the time to care for his own wellbeing either.
"We just want what's best for you." It was his Father's turn to speak, the man of the house stepping forwards to comfort his wife with a hand on her dainty shoulder. "We didn't really expect you to do this."
"Yeah you did," Theon replied, coldly.
"What?"
"Oh come on. I never really ever fitted in back home. I never really seemed to fit in anywhere. Maybe I trained because it was some kind of outlet."
"What do you mean you don't fit in? What about that lovely girl you brought back home last week? We had dinner and everything."
Theon laughed, his cheeks going a little bit red, before he reached to scratch an itch on his neck that wasn't quite there. "Oh… well, yeah. Yeah… her. Um."
"Ros?"
"Oh," Theon chuckled. "Yeah, Ros."
"See, you have people you care about."
"I wouldn't necessarily say it was the person I cared about. More what's between her-"
"Theon." His Father cut him off before he could continue.
He wanted to feel bad. And Theon did. His heart always fell during these kinds of conversations. He'd see his parents, try to feel the love they had always given him, be the son they wanted, and fail embarrassingly and continue being simply the boy that had no idea what he really was.
All he knew, right now, was the simple fact that he had volunteered for the Games. He had volunteered because he knew he was good enough, he knew he was the best of the goddamn best, and whether or not people liked those who thought they were everything, Theon didn't care.
He didn't want to feel ashamed that he believed in himself. Self-belief was important. Underneath all of his pent-up insecurities, his confidence came from something that was buried deep within. If everyone in Four had a label to stick onto him, then maybe that was their problem and not his.
Maybe he needed to stop overthinking everything and focus on simply living how he felt best.
If only I actually knew what the best for me was...
The final goodbye his parents said to him was strained and forced. Caked in love from his Mother and Father, smothered in something pretend from Theon. He didn't do these types of situations. He didn't know how to show back something he wasn't sure he really felt.
When he stripped back everything, as the door closed, Theon simply realised the honest truth that he found it hard to trust anyone. He found it hard to let them in because he was afraid… he'd always been afraid.
Of himself? If that was the question, he'd never have an answer.
Maybe he had volunteered to find who he was. Maybe in the Games, in some sick twisted way, Theon would get to realise who the real Theon had always been.
Because there was no way being stuck in this shitty loop that Theon would ever amount to anything.
The Games were his only way out.
Nevaeh Blume, 15 years old;
District Five Female.
Fear.
A terrible, clotting sense of terror strangled the sobs from Neveah's throat, leaving the room with a deathly, distraught atmosphere. Nevaeh couldn't keep her eyes clear of the tears. She wanted to. She wanted to pretend because pretending might make things easier.
No matter how hard she blinked though, or played with the frayed ends of her sleeves, twirling the thread, trying to distract herself, Nevaeh's thoughts kept falling back on the end. The idea that this… this was it.
I… I don't want to die…
Nevaeh only had two people in her life. Two people that made everything worthwhile. Even if she longed for more and could never seem to find it, never seem to fit in, Nevaeh had the sun and the moon in her life. She had people that she loved. People that she cared about.
And she was being taken from them. Into a world of unknown possibilities and only one inevitability. Death.
I really… really don't want to die… p-please…
The door opened. Nevaeh's tears were halted by the sound of wood creaking on the floorboards, a rusted metal hinge drawing out the sound. The long ribbon of subtle yellow stretched out in front of her eyes, twisted in the centre, clouding the image of whoever was walking through.
When the door closed, it vanished entirely. Nevaeh usually found peace and distraction in her… gift. Gift, that's what Father wants me to label it as. Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn't.
Nevaeh's eyes misted once more with tears that continued to travel down her cheeks, move down her chin, and land on the carpet. Her Father, the one man that had treated her more than just a daughter, but a friend, something she'd never really had, cradled her in her arms.
She knew he wanted to say something. Nevaeh knew that in his head, so many words of love and hope and disbelief and everything else that needed to be spoken, were being drowned out through the utter sorrow that fell from his eyes, alongside her own tears.
His broken sobbing left a dark blue colour in the space around her, the ribbons turning to splotches of colour, drumming in front of her eyes as he shook in her embrace. The Reaping had been silent, the Reaping had offered her no comfort from the world. No colours to see and get lost in.
Sometimes, Nevaeh thought of things being different. Like she always seemed to want more, there was something about this world that didn't seem… complete. And now, without her Father and only herself to rely on, she realised that maybe she'd never really make something of the short life she'd been given.
The dreadful thought made the sadness intensify, wrapping its arms round her heart. The world was truly dark.
She felt a hand cup her cheek, wet with tears. "Nevaeh… I…. I…." Her father's face was red and blotchy, tearstains in the flush of his cheeks.
Nevaeh squeezed his hand and shook her head. "I can't do this… I can't. I'm not- I'm never going to be-"
"No." His voice grew sterner, a contrast to the anguish that had a second ago been straining his voice. "I will not- I will not lose you. You will not lose yourself. Nevaeh, I've always believed in you. You were… you were our miracle. You will always be our miracle. I don't care what this world thinks it can throw at you, I'm not about to see my daughter succumb- to give up. You can-"
His voice cracked; another sob rattled from his throat.
Nevaeh didn't know what to say. With her Father, a small part of any normal girl came to life within her, a spark in her heart that warmed her life for the briefest of moments before her mind darkened. Outside these four walls, the world was a terrifying place and Nevaeh had never fit in.
She was now expected to become everything that was required of a tribute in hopes of returning to a place that would rather label her an outcast and force her to the side, than welcome her with open arms.
Not that I ever really tried… I just… I can't. Nevaeh tasted the tears on her tongue, her Father's arms wrapping round her shoulders, and the quickening of both their hearts in unison, one beat thumping against both their chests.
"I want you to remember how special you are. Not just to me, but to yourself. I know it won't help you in there, but when you… when your gift becomes a part of your time in the Capitol and Games, I don't want you to let yourself sink deeper into-"
"I know."
"Please, Nevaeh. I need you to fight through everything. You'll always be my precious daughter and I'll always be your Father and friend, but you can't allow yourself to-"
"I know."
He wasn't just talking about Nevaeh's ability – if that was the right word – to see noise in the form of colours, shifting and transforming and wrapping in front of her eyes, but also who she was in her heart. A lonely girl who would stay inside, listening to the sounds of life outside their building, knowing she had no place amongst them.
She'd never fit in and she'd never really tried to pretend to be someone she wasn't. Her Father told her, all her life, that it was better to be yourself and never look back. Nevaeh wanted to believe that. Maybe today she could. But tomorrow. The next day. When she was surrounded by strangers…
The future was bleak. The future was a terrible, terrible place. Worse than the past, worse than the present.
"Look after the piano," Nevaeh whispered, the corners of her lips twitching upwards into the faintest of smiles, thinking of the music floating through the air, colours blooming before her. My special place. "Don't let it get… don't let it break…"
"It was your Mother's before you, and it'll be yours when you get back, sit down, and play me a song. And then it'll be your daughter's, and then your granddaughter's, and on and on."
"Father-"
He shook his head, standing, helping her up with her hand in his. "We only need that one person in our life to make it whole. Your Mother and you were what gave my life meaning. I know that she would be… be proud of you."
Even after the Games? Whether I live or die, knowing what a tribute has to do?
Nevaeh didn't say that. She smiled, nodding her head meekly, pulling her Father into one last embrace. "Thank you. I love you. I love you more than… than anything…"
She felt his hand on her back, relishing this one last moment. If he truly believed in her, or if his love for family was clouding reality, Nevaeh couldn't and didn't want to know. She had to not only use her Father as motivation, but her own survival.
She didn't pretend to have the greatest of lives in Five. Maybe one of the worst. Maybe somewhere in the middle. Nevaeh lived with what she had and tried to fight through it.
This was the worst of all fights, but a fight nonetheless.
When she saw her Father leave, the last goodbye that left his lips before the door closed, wrapped itself through the air in a faint red that touched her chest and faded away.
Her whole life, she'd wanted to fit in. Maybe the fact she hadn't was a blessing in disguise.
It would only be her in that Arena – her and her alone. And then when she came back, her piano, her friend, and her Father.
Her Mother's memory.
They were all worth fighting for.
Phris Cantle, 18 years old;
District Ten Male.
He thought he'd been through it all.
Phris sat in a chair, hands slumped by his legs, eyes glancing around the luxurious room. It was better than anything he'd ever seen before. Fit for a king, or some royal nonce who looked down on people like Phris.
Someone else might have found peace and comfort in such beauty. All Phris could do was wrinkle his nose, curl his lip, and let his stare fall on the door in front of him.
The state of such a room, with death and impending doom stapled to its meaning, made Phris feel emptier than he'd ever felt before. This room disgusted him. The chandelier. The paintings. Even the mirror, his height or maybe even taller, hung up from carpet to ceiling. As if anyone needed a pane of glass that goddam huge. Vanity at its finest. The pinnacle of arrogance.
This was all to rub it in. Phris had seen enough outside this building to realise that inside here, the pain and hurt was a thousand times worse. Because in the real world, day to day, it was easier to cope with suffering in its natural environment.
In here, it was wrapped up in a silk bow, a present that so many let themselves unwrap and believe in.
Phris had lost his ability to hope and believe a long, long time ago.
As he contemplated his feelings on the matter of his situation, a sharp rapping on the door roused him from his thoughts. He'd never actually been in this room, dealt eye to eye with the proceedings, but he was pretty sure people usually just walked on in.
Phris made a random noise, something between a grunt and a yes. The door creaked open and the Peacekeeper on guard duty, lean and helmetless, button-nosed and furrow-browed, stared at Phris with as much contempt as he'd ever seen on a man of authority.
They really saw people like him as underlings, squashed beneath their boots. Too bad for him. Phris honestly didn't care. Life worked that way. Life was shitty and these people only made it shittier. If he cared about his fellow mankind, maybe he'd worry more for their wellbeing once he was gone from this world.
He didn't.
"This isn't exactly procedure, but your Father would like to know if you'd be open to the idea of seeing him?"
Phris, for a moment, didn't know what to say. Of course his loving Father would do that. He couldn't even gather the courage to walk on in, have Phris roll his eyes and tell him to fuck off, and then flee with his tail between his legs.
No, he needed Phris' permission.
On any other bad day, he would have said no. Phris had cut ties with his family for a reason. The Cantles meant nothing to him. But today, on the worst of the worse kind of days, Phris was feeling far too preoccupied to harbour hatred or anger for his neglectful upbringing.
He nodded without speaking. The Peacekeeper grumbled something, moving aside for the man that had been tasked with the simple challenge of raising his son and failing, who couldn't even meet his eye as he stood before him.
Before Phris could speak or say anything, he saw who was behind him. At the sight of her, for the first time since being escorted in this room, Phris' fingers clenched into fists, a vein started to throb in his forehead, and he could feel himself losing his cool.
He'd told himself to not care. He'd told himself that if he was going to live, he would. And if he was going to die, then he would. There wasn't much he could do about anything. Fight, of course. Kill, it was needed. But whatever fate had in store for him, he'd welcome it with open arms.
He'd tried, since the Square, to focus on that and keep his emotions bottled up, like he had done for so long.
This woman though – his mother – left a bitter taste in his mouth. A taste he had to spit out, on the carpet, in front of his father's feet for the two of them to see.
"I thought, given the circumstances-"
"That I'd… what?" Phris nearly laughed, nearly. Instead his eyebrow simply twitched, his lip curled up again, giving the only emotion that could be seen on his otherwise composed face. "Be oh so happy to see you again?"
"On a day like today, yes."
"Empathy was never really your thing, was it Mother? Maybe if it was, you might understand why I left that day, promising to stay away. And why right now, today of all days, your face would be the last fucking thing I'd want to see."
"Language."
Phris did laugh that time. His mouth opened incredulously, seeking some sort of phrase or insult to pour forth from his lips to convey how he really felt. When that failed him, his eyes shifted to his Father, who tried as subtly as he could – and obviously failing – to sink into the shadows of the wallpaper.
Phris wouldn't let him get away so easily.
"You wanted to see me? You had to ask for permission, of course. Although, it'd have surprised me if you would have just walked on in anyway." Phris shrugged his shoulders. "Your wife has more balls than you, Father."
He blushed, stuttering over his words.
Truth be told, Phris had had it with everyone. His parents. The Peacekeepers. His fellow peers, no one coming close to a friend, but those he could put a name to a face and recognise from a distance.
It had been far too long now where Phris had worked through a shitty life, handled the dirt and challenges thrown his way, and let his heart blacken more and more by the second.
Phris did not care. Instead of letting the anger at his Mother, the cheating whore, fill him up any longer. Or his coward of a Father. Or any other emotion other than what he'd always felt. Instead of that, Phris let his back sink into the chair, his eyes fall on the carpet, before closing and letting everything flow from his fingers, drain out, and be absorbed into the air around him.
He was done.
He'd be done a long time now. Call him cynical, call him negative, Phris was who Phris had always been. Humanity had become a stain on this world for far too long now for him to be able to even conjure up a happy thought any longer.
They could do as they pleased. A principle Phris had followed too – illegal or not, he'd made it by, he'd survived, and now he had a bigger game to focus on. A game that he might win, or lose, and no matter what, he would move on with no regrets.
His Father and Mother were gone by the time he opened his eyes again.
Good. Phris didn't need anyone. Me, myself and I.
He'd lost faith in society a long time ago. Like always, it was time to do what he did best and use what he knew to fight for his life.
Because he wouldn't give up, no matter his views.
He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
Fira Trevalle, 18 years old;
District Eleven Female.
So far, she hadn't cried.
Fira considered that a plus. It could be a whole lot worse. As she waited for the goodbyes to begin and the end of everything that had been her world, she tried to keep herself as calm as possible. Fretting and sobbing and worrying and everything in-between wouldn't help the situation.
As terrified as she was, her heart rate a sign of how much this was eating her up inside, she was keeping herself cool and composed. Otherwise, she'd start thinking in terms of inevitably dying, rather than possibly surviving.
If she reached that point, there'd be no going back.
The door opened a fraction of an inch, slowly and hesitantly, like whoever was on the other side wasn't entirely sure if this was the right room or they wanted to come in. Fira bit her lip. Whoever it was, this was it. The moment she'd dreaded since she'd sat down.
Fira was trying to take this one step at a time. The Games were there of course, and as her mind raced frantically between how to say farewell to those she loved and how to beat twenty-three others kids in a fight to the death, she tried her absolute hardest to at least look like she actually had a shot.
Self-belief was the first step needed, and she had that. Not every Victor happened to be some bloodthirsty psychopath from the get-go. Sometimes, and quite often, it was the person you'd least expect. Fira was nothing special. She'd kept her head down all her life, worked hard, made something of herself, and reaped the rewards of a harsh, but steady existence.
It was a start on this hellish road ahead.
The moment the door finally opened properly and Fira met the sorrowful eyes of her Father, the first word she wanted to say was strangled out from her. Her mind cursed itself, the sob choking the noise from her throat. She swallowed it down and smiled, timidly and sadly, reaching out a hand which her Father quickly swept forwards to take.
"Fira… this isn't-"
"It's alright Pa'. It had to happen to someone."
His face creased with more pain when his wife and his other daughter stepped through. Fira wasn't going to pretend to sugar-coat the situation for them. Or tell them she had this in the bag indefinitely. Or that they were looking at a girl that would sweep through the tides of kids and smite them from this world so she could be victorious.
Fira didn't do that. She didn't construct false belief to make her or anyone else feel better. But she also didn't want them to feel sad. Hopelessness was just as debilitating as delusion.
"I can't believe it was you. This was your year. You were getting out."
"You make it sound like prison," Fira smiled, chuckling. The false laughter made everything even more depressing. She dropped the grin and clutched onto Mellis' hand.
"I could have-"
"No. I'm glad you're too old for this."
Fira shook her head. Her elder sister had always been too soft for her own good. If it were the other way round, it shamed Fira to realise that she probably wouldn't have stepped forwards to volunteer. Or even if she had, it wouldn't have been instantaneous. She'd have waited to think it through.
Not Mellis, she'd have been up there in a heartbeat if she was young enough.
"I just wish I could protect you," Mellis whispered.
"Protect me by making sure they don't get into any trouble," Fira said, squeezing her sister's hand, her eyes moving over her parents. Her Mother was silent. She'd never been able to handle words that well.
Maybe that was where Fira got it from. Her strict, stern independence. Although unlike her Mother, she actually valued outside company. She didn't always want to keep to herself. It wasn't healthy.
"I know you know what you have to do in there," she said, speaking for the first time. "I didn't raise a daughter who would just give up."
"No one's talking about giving up. I know what has to be done. I know I have to do it. And I'm… ready."
"You're never ready, Fira," Mellis wiped a tear from her eye. "No kid is ever ready for… killing."
"No kid should ever be ready to live in Panem. But they do. We survive. And a good enough majority get to grow up and die at a decent age. It's called making the most of a terrible situation. Fira can do this," their Mother said, proudly.
Fira tried to smile. She'd always felt confident in herself. She'd always felt like she could do things better than some people at times, or at least she had the focus needed when others preferred to skip hard work for distraction.
And this was the Games, this was something on a whole other scale, but if she at least thought about it in the same way, adapted to fit what was coming for her… then maybe…
"Just don't get cocky. You got to keep your head clear and ready for what they'll throw at you."
"I know, Ma'," Fira nodded, standing up. "I bet everyone around the country is saying it right now, but I'll do my absolute best. That's all I can do."
"Do your absolute best," her mother spoke as she moved, alongside her husband and Mellis, wrapping her arms round Fira's shoulders for a family embrace, "and then do even better."
Silence enveloped the room. Fira could feel their heartbeats thumping away against her own. She could sense their fear and anxiousness, the way their breathing was heavy and Mellis squirmed in their hug, trying to bury her head in Fira's neck and then thinking twice about it.
Fira wanted this moment to last for an eternity. But the clock told her otherwise, and reality, as harsh as it was, told her the same thing. She had to keep herself grounded, think on her family, think back on everything she'd grown up trying to fight for, and then think on herself.
Because in the Arena, her family wouldn't be with her. Her friends would be nowhere in sight.
It would Fira and Fira alone, fighting off the other tributes, fighting off the Arena, and fighting off the Capitol. A tall order for a simple girl from District Eleven, but in this life, nothing was ever easy. She wasn't about to kid herself that this would be a walk in a park.
She very well could end up dead. She might never see her parents or Mellis ever again. But she could try. Trying was all she had. Fighting and surviving.
Fira wasn't the type to sit back and let life choose its own path. If she wasn't going to survive, she would at least do everything she could to make it as far as possible. On her own terms.
Giving up had never been option - not whilst she'd grown up in Eleven, and definitely not where she was headed.
The Games needed a fighter.
And a fighter they would get.
Yeah so I caved and… published something. Don't judge me ;/
One more of these pre-Capitol chapters, then onwards with the more interesting stuff!
I won't complain about review count with the last two or so chapters because honestly I'm really thankful to those that are reviewing, but it'd be great to hear from the rest of you who submitted and haven't commented on anything yet. Gives me more opinions to go on! :)
Thanks for reading!
