Clarily Montane, 14 ~ District 8 Female

Revolution Mockingjay

I breathe in the smell of fumes and cough, wanting to throw up even though that's normal for District 8, what with our factories and all. I rub my eyes and sigh, realizing that it's the reaping. I don't want to be picked; then again, nobody does.

I crawl out of bed and slip on a dress. Mom is already helping Marabeth into hers. It's Marabeth's first year, and she hasn't taken any tesserae (while I've lost count of how many times I'm in), but I'm still nervous. My older brother Perenthos paces around. He's nineteen and has already survived.

Marabeth walks over to me, smiling. "Your dress is so pretty!" I exclaim, hugging her.

"I'm scared," she whispers, her eyes large.

I try to smile confidently. "It'll be okay."

She bites her lip and goes back to Mom, who is reaching for the door.

"Time to go," Mom says, opening the door and pointing outside.

All of us walk toward the square. I hug Mom and Perenthos goodbye, and get in line. Soon, Marabeth is at the front — a Peacekeeper pricks her finger and moves along to the next kid. She reaches me. I watch Marabeth closely as she walks down to the twelve–year–olds.

I get in line with the fourteen–year–olds and wait. After every kid is in their group, the Capitol woman walks onto the stage. "Welcome!" she exclaims into the microphone. "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

My heart's pounding, but I try to look casual. I sigh, and rock back and forth on my heels. The usual video plays, talking about war and how District 13 was annihilated. I've always found it rather boring, but there's really nothing I can do about it.

"That was just lovely, wasn't it?" the Capitol woman says, smiling from ear to ear. "Now the time has come to select the young woman who will compete in the Hunger Games!" She walks to the reaping ball, and pulls out a name.

Not me. Please don't be me, I think over and over.

"Clarily Montane," the Capitol woman calls out. Sighs of relief are all around, but I say nothing. I stand there and blink, suddenly dizzy. "Clarily. Montane," she repeats.

I shake my head and clear the dizziness, then slowly walk toward the stage. When I reach the top, I look down at Marabeth. Tears are already rolling down her cheeks.

"Are there any volunteers?"

Silence.

"All righty then, onto the boys!"

I can't believe it.

...

Perenthos sees me first. The door opens, and he walks in and hugs me. "I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," I say, trying not to cry.

"You have to promise you'll come home," Perenthos says, pulling away and looking me in the eye.

"Of course!" I exclaim. "What, you think I'm just gonna' go out there and let someone kill me right off the bat?"

"I didn't mean that," Perenthos says. "Just…try. For me. And Mom. And Marabeth."

"Keep them safe," I say. "I'll try."

"I'll be waiting right here."

A Peacekeeper yanks Perenthos out of the room. Mom and Marabeth come next.

Mom hugs me tightly, saying nothing. Marabeth hugs my waist and cries.

"It'll be okay," I say, trying to reassure them and myself. "I'll come home safe and sound, and everything will be back to normal. Just you wait."

"Promise?" Marabeth whispers.

"I promise."

...

The boy tribute from my district is Ramie Ortega. I remember Marabeth telling me about him. She said he was kind. I'm hoping that he won't kill me in the Games, but I'm sure he will; after all, if it comes down to it, I'll kill him too. I'll do anything to get back to my family.

The train is magnificent. As soon as I walk in, the smells of cakes and pastries fill my nostrils. I mostly eat dessert because I've never had any before. It's sweet and marvelous, and melts in my mouth. I watch Ramie eat occasionally, but mostly I pay attention to the dessert. Ferronia, our escort, occasionally tells me to slow down, but I don't. How am I expected to?

After eating, I head for my room.

I pass Ramie in the hall and say goodnight to him, then crawl into bed.

I'm terrified, though I try to hide it. I don't want anybody to see me that way; I want to be seen as strong. I'm still not sure if I can kill children, however.

Though, as I've stated before, I'll do anything.


...


Ramie Ortega, 12 ~ District 8 Male

YazminDominguez

It was the night before the reaping. I started to get really nervous. It was the night where it sunk in that this was my first ever–so–terrifying reaping day.

The names were drawn from two glass balls by the funny–looking escort, straight from the Capitol with her ridiculous outfit and wild appearance; that outfit was made by my people, maybe even by my father. It frustrated me, knowing they pranced around while we starved and worked to death for nearly nothing in return.

I didn't understand the necessity of all this assassination either. I didn't understand where you could find pleasure in seeing a brother kill a sister for entertainment, or to demonstrate what the Capitol was capable of.

I despised the Capitol.

...

People told me that I had an old soul trapped in a twelve–year–old body because of the way I expressed myself; I guessed it meant 'mind' or something. I didn't agree. I just saw clearer than others my age. Details no one else noticed.

My mom used to say that I had an artist's eye. I missed her so much. She was frail, but always joyful. She passed away right after giving birth to my brother Brodie.

I had a list of people that weren't in my life anymore—like my grandmother. (She died last year of natural causes.) Her first husband was my grandfather on my dad's side of the family; he died when Dad was barely a year old, in the war between the Capitol and the districts.

I lived with my dad, aunt, and siblings. Dad's name was Neil, and my aunt was his half–sister and her name was Ciel; my sister Desiree was fifteen; Brodie was two. No matter what, I would always love these people, because apart from being my family they protected me and gave me the best they could.

When we had dinner that night, the air felt icy and depressing. No one said it, but I knew that they were probably also thinking that tomorrow, one of us—Aunt Ciel, Desiree, or me—may not be there.

Dinner wasn't filling, but it was something. I brushed my teeth and climbed under my blankets.

As I lay there, I fantasized about a new world where there weren't any Hunger Games. One day, maybe soon, the districts would unite and overthrow the Capitol, bringing an end to the horrible game that tore families apart and left them torn forever. I would love it if we were finally at peace. That was my wish. My ultimate wish. But I had a feeling that if it did happen, I wouldn't ever see it.

I was afraid of being chosen, but promised myself I would give it my best shot. After all, it was entertainment, right? If that's what they wanted, that's what they'd get. I would probably be good at knife–throwing; I had pretty good aim. Mom taught me sewing and weaving, and they were my best skills, but I didn't think that would help me unless I could weave my way to victory.

I wished I could draw a new nation. I loved drawing, and designing clothes. Sometimes Dad brought me patches of cloth from the factory, and I made collages or clothes for Desiree's old doll.

I wanted to be a designer, but I didn't really have that possibility. I'd probably end up just working in the factories like Dad. I guessed I was okay with that; if Dad could do it, so could I.

Mom was a fairly pretty lady. She had long, waist–length hair. Not like mine, though: I had blonde curls because of Dad. But I had her eyes, light hazel with specks of gold. I loved my eyes because they reminded me of her.

I wondered what my family would do if I wasn't around. Aunt Ciel and Desiree were almost never in the house. When Dad wasn't working, he was drinking; he drank a lot and stared. I was stuck taking care of my brother, which was not an easy task. (It was okay, though.)

I fell asleep to the image of Brodie playing in the living room, and had a pleasant, dreamless sleep.

...

"Wake up!" I lay motionless. I didn't feel like getting up.

Aunt Ciel kept screeching, so I yelled, "Okay, all right! I heard you the first ten times!" I heard footsteps, and then she poked her head in my doorframe. I raised an eyebrow at her before she left.

After a while, Desiree sat on the edge of my bed and stared at me.

I stared back.

"Whatever happens today, I want you to know that I love you. A lot," Desiree said. "You're all I could ask for in a little annoying brother." She smiled, ruffled my hair, and kissed my forehead.

"I love you too," I whispered.

Since the reaping wasn't until noon, I dressed in my normal worn–down clothes and headed toward the kitchen for breakfast, which consisted of stale bread slices and tea. As I walked in, I said hello to everybody present; they said hello, or waved. It dawned on me—when I saw her face—that even though this was Aunt Ciel's last year, the odds weren't in her favor. Her name was entered loads of times.

...

I played a little while outside with Brodie, and then chatted with my dad, aunt, and sister at the table.

I made my way back to the small, crowded room I shared with Desiree. I headed toward a wall covered by a curtain. Behind that curtain, there were a few loose bricks. In that little gap sat a potted fern. That plant was used to make ramie, the fabric I was named after.

Mom gave it to me for my tenth birthday. (I had no idea where she got it, though. Plants were rare in District 8.) It reminded me how strong and fragile life was at the same time…how it was everywhere, even in darkness. The plant had survived two years, occasionally taken out of a hole to bathe in warm sunlight, and I believed that my her very essence lived in it.

I played with the heart–shaped leaves, twirling them between my fingers.

I put the bricks back to conceal the fern, and pulled the curtain over the wall. I lay on my bed, with my hands covering my face.

I had almost dozed off when Desiree came in to tell me that it was eleven o'clock and I should be getting dressed. I took a cold shower and picked out my best clothes: the ones with no holes, and that weren't too faded. I was in a soft, long–sleeved cotton shirt, cream–colored khakis that were a little too big, and a pair of brown leather moccasins that used to belong to my cousin.

My aunt and sister wore similar, very pretty cream–colored dresses. While Aunt Ciel's had powder blue clouds, Desiree's had pale pink flower designs.

At a quarter to noon we were lined up at the door. We took the fastest trail to the square, and separated into our corresponding groups: Ciel, Desiree, and I hugged Dad and Brodie, since we'd be herded with the other potential tributes while they hung around in the crowd.

...

I scanned the stage while the speech was read. I saw the mayor, Woof Abroforth (the male tribute's mentor), and Rena Florence (who played the same role for the female tribute).

The escort tapped loudly on the microphone. I recoiled at the sound, and at her irritating Capitol accent—magnified ten times. She was dressed in a yellow outfit, with hair and makeup the same shade.

She let her hand swim in one of the glass balls, until deciding which one to pick. "Clarily Montane!"

All eyes were on Clarily. She was petite, with dark brown hair down to right below her shoulders. I couldn't make out her expression.

'Montane'. I thought I recalled that name. Yes, I did, because I went to the same grade as Marabeth Montane: her sister.

There were no volunteers.

The escort read the boy's name out loud, and people turned their heads in my direction. At first, I didn't understand…until my brain registered that my name had been called. Ramie Ortega.

I stood paralyzed, feeling like my heart had dropped into my stomach. Some stranger gave me a light push on the back that jolted me to reality.

I then started toward the stage, other strangers patting my back as I passed them. When I was on it, I looked toward the crowd…which was huge; I didn't know my district had so many people!

I was told to shake hands with Clarily. She had dark brown eyes. I smiled at her, and then we were pushed into the Justice Building, where we would say our final goodbyes to our families. I couldn't really remember much of that. It happened too quickly, and the shock of the moment blurred most of it out.

I found myself in Aunt Ciel's arms, and she was weeping. I squeezed her tightly. She muttered something unintelligible.

Desiree hugged me, and told me she loved me again, devastated.

Brodie obviously didn't understand, but I still got a hug from him.

That whole time, Dad was in a corner with tears in his eyes, saying things like—"Out of the whole population of boys in District Eight…" He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. I smelled alcohol on his breath. "I know I don't say it much, but you're one of the best things that happened to me, okay? Don't ever forget it. Be strong."

That's when I began to cry. I told Desiree to take care of my plant, and Brodie.

After a group hug, Brodie stuck out his meaty toddler hand and said, "Rock." In his tiny palm was a sleek, flat gray rock.

I took it. "I love you."

He blew a kiss at me, and then they were gone, leaving me with an empty, longing feeling.

...

I was rushed onto the train that would be making its way to the Capitol as quickly as it could on those high–speed tracks.

Clarily, our escort Ferronia Pallum, her mentor Rena, Woof, and I watched the recap of the reapings that went on earlier that day. We munched on a variety of finger foods, which were delicious.

I ate a little of everything. I thought I should enjoy my 'Hunger Games tribute' experience to the fullest. It really didn't help me if I got depressed and refused to eat, because it was what it was—I was the Thirty–eighth Hunger Games male tribute from District 8.

So I gorged myself on sausages, breads, meat pies, vegetables dipped in sauces, dishes of every color and taste. Some had strange names, aromas, appearances, you name it.

Ferronia pointed a long, red–tipped yellow nail as she told me off when she found me licking my fingers after a juicy sausage. I ignored her, and the urge to tell her to shut up; she'd never starved, so I just rolled my eyes and continued savoring the sweet meat.

I was occupied with the delicacies on the table, so I didn't pay much attention to the other districts. The Careers were lethal–looking, no shock there.

But what did make me tear away from my meal was the District 9 reaping, because someone volunteered. A volunteer from 9?

After a while I didn't care anymore, so I went back to my roll.

I knew I probably shouldn't have eaten all those dishes, since it might make me sick, but I did anyway. I was determined to live like a Capitol resident all that week (well, sort of) and not stress.

I didn't exchange almost any words with Clarily or her mentor, but who needed them anyway?

The only conversation I had with Woof before being sent to bed was when we were at the table. We had finished watching today's events, and he looked at me from his coffee. "What do you think?"

"I think I'll just end up dying in the first eight hours, that's what I think," I told him, being completely honest.

He nodded as if agreeing. "Don't count yourself out so fast," he said. "You have to train, find out what your skills are, and then—if you still feel like you've got no shot—you're allowed to say that."

He got up, tipped his glass in my direction while raising an eyebrow, said goodnight, and walked away. Probably to his compartment.

Who was he kidding? I had no chance against the Careers, or practically anybody.

As I was in front of my room's door, I came across Clarily; I waved, said goodnight to her, and closed the door behind me. She's very pretty, I thought.

I climbed into bed and closed my eyes. Woof's words echoed in my mind.

Maybe I should listen to him; he was my mentor, after all. He had won one of these terrible Games, and I wasn't the first tribute he'd mentored. He probably knew what he was saying?

I didn't know. What I did know was that I had nothing else to lose.