Daughter of industry and decay, born of plague and passing,

Hewn by the test of time for the reaper's bloody massing.

Death is no stranger to District 8's offering.


District 8 | The Reaping of Lacey Weft


I can't help but shiver as I turn down Angora Avenue where I used to live. It looks like any other road in District 8; rundown tenements line the streets, exposed brickwork covered in soot and grime. The same cracked walls and broken windows, the same broken glass covers the pavements; the same small circles of candlelight burn in the windows - but it is not the same. I hold my breath as I pass along it, trying to focus on the space in front of me. It's impossible to ignore what surrounds me.

Four years ago this road was shut off for quarantine- no one was allowed within twenty meters of the place, and no one was allowed out. The peacekeepers stood with masks over their faces and their guns ready to shoot anyone who tried to escape. I know why they did it; they didn't want everyone to get sick - but I wish I hadn't been caught in the middle of it.

I was nine years old and we - my parents, my two sisters, my brother and I - lived in the second tenement on the left in a third floor apartment. We woke up one day and suddenly were not allowed to leave the road. None of us had the virus, but they still wouldn't let us go - because it had already started to spread.

They used to send food packages each day, but not enough to feed everyone. Mama said we could only eat a little bit at a time, which left us always hungry. I heard afterwards that there were around three hundred and fifty apartments down Angora Avenue, and that around one thousand four-hundred people lived there when the virus took over. Only around fifty of them had the virus when the route was shut off, but within a month, pretty much everyone was infected.

The food ran out long before we did.

My brother and I used to scavenge food from other people's apartments. You could always tell no one lived there by the smell; they never cleaned out the bodies. We wrapped scarves around our noses and mouths and raided the cupboards for anything left behind. Some people would steal from the living, but I was always too scared to do that.

After another month, the peacekeepers came into the block with their special quarantine uniforms on. They started carrying out all the bodies and piling them up in the middle of the road. I watched from our window, wide-eyed as the pile got too big they set fire to it. I still remember gagging on those awful fumes.

I was seated under the window, holding my raggedy old doll when the man found me. I think he was more surprised about it than I was. No one was supposed to be alive.

I was taken away in a strange white van, and I remember how they prodded and tested every inch of me but couldn't find anything wrong. Out of all those people, I was the only one to get out. I heard someone say it was a miracle, and I didn't know what that meant at the time Now that I do, I don't think I agree with them.

After that, my raggedy doll and I went to live with Aunt Cotton and Grandma Gabardine on Thimble Street. I like it well enough, but I hate going down my old road and will usually take the long way round to the factory just to avoid it.

Tonight, I can't. As I turn down Bobbin Walk I finally let my breath out, knowing that Angora Avenue is behind me.

After searching for grandma all night, it is a relief when I see her standing in the glow of one of the electric lights. She is staring up into the blank sky as if she can see the stars, except you never see the stars in District Eight. When I get closer, I hear that she is humming to herself.

"Grandma?" She stares right through me, right through the tenements on Bobbin Walk, right through the world. "Grandma, it's me, Lacey."

She pats me on my cheek but doesn't really acknowledge me. I feel sorry for her. The worse it gets the more cut off she seems; she gets stuck in silence and loneliness, unable find a way out. I wish there was a way to help her, but Aunt Cotton says we just have to look after her and bring her back to us as much as we can.

She is always wandering off these days. She forgets where she is meant to be or even where she is currently, so she goes off in search of somewhere else. Sometimes she asks us to take her home even when we already are there. Aunt Cotton says she is confused and thinks she lives where she lived when she was a girl.

I take her by the elbow and lead her back towards home. Aunt Cotton will finish her shift at the factory soon. She'll be worried if she comes home and finds the apartment empty.

Luckily we get there first, and the whole place is completely dark. I sit grandma down in the chair and put a blanket across her lap. For a moment she looks at me and smiles through the shadows. I get a candle out of the kitchen drawer and light it, setting it down by the window.

I take my raggedy doll from off the sofa and place it on Grandma's lap. "Do you remember her?" I ask her.

She runs her fingers over the old fabric, feeling every ridge in the two old button eyes.

"You made her for me when I was little out of the scraps that no one wanted."

She lifts her eyes to look at me, to look through me. Suddenly, I feel completely alone.

Aunt Cotton is better at bringing her back to us than I am, as she can remember more. She talks to Grandma about her childhood and all the other old stories she used to tell.

The candle gutters from the draft wafting in from beneath the door. Soon it will go out completely and we will be left in darkness again. I pull up grandma's blankets, tucking the ends down the side of the chair. She smiles absently, humming a few notes from a forgotten tune. Familiar footsteps pound up the stairs, followed by my aunt's keys in the lock. It's the same fumbling sound I hear every night as she struggles to get the key lined up in just the right way.

I spring to my feet; she's finally home. As she pushes open the door I run to her, throwing myself into her arms, resting my head against her shoulder.

"You're back!" I scream. She laughs and suddenly everything feels a little better.

She helps grandma get into her bed then the pair of us curl up on the sofa together and share stories about our days. When I tell her about Grandma she holds me a little closer.

"You did good, kiddo," she says. "Grandma's lucky to have you to look after her."

"She doesn't even remember who I am."

"She can't help it. I know if she had a choice, she would always remember you first."

I don't remember falling asleep but when I wake up the next morning, I am still on the sofa. A bright mid-morning light bursts in through the curtains. I must have slept in: It takes me a moment to remember why I don't have to go to school. Then, a familiar, nervous lurch jolts my stomach and I know why.

It's Reaping day.

This is my second year in the Reaping but my name is in the ball eight times after I signed up for tesserae.

Aunt Cotton is already up and cooking breakfast. She works so hard- she gets up before everyone else and goes to bed after we're all asleep. I don't know how she does it. She smiles at me as she dollops porridge into my bowl.

"Hey, sleepy-head, I was wondering when you were going to wake up," She carries the porridge across to me and sits down on the end of the sofa. "How are you feeling?"

I shrug.

"Once the Reaping is over you won't have to worry about it for another year."

"I've got no choice in it so I've just got to get through it," It's what my mama used to tell me. She would always say, 'No matter how bad a situation is, you will always find a way to get through it, and things will always be better on the other side'.

I force each spoonful of porridge into my mouth and gulp it down. It's like eating wallpaper paste.

For a moment Aunt Cotton just stares at me, and I know there is something she wants to say - she has that look on her face. People feel they need to say things on Reaping Day, just in case they don't have another chance.

"I'm proud of you," Aunt Cotton finally says. She is smiling but I can tell she is kind of sad. She worries about things and Reaping Day is just another reason.

"For what?"

She shrugs, "For everything." She gives me a strange, sideways hug which I struggle to return while not spilling my porridge.

"You know I'm proud of you too," I tell her.

"For what?" she says, imitating me exactly.

"For everything! People need to tell you that more often. "

She sticks her tongue out at me and ruffles my hair, "Eat up, you'll need your strength."

I get dressed in a very old but clean dress. It is nothing special: The hem has fallen down at the bottom, but hopefully no one will notice. I pull on my socks and buckle my shoes. I'm ready now; I will get through this, and tonight the three of us will be nestled up safe together.

When I step out into the main room, I see that Grandma Gabardine is eating her porridge while Aunt Cotton tells her about the people she used to know at the textiles factory. When I step into the room, Grandma stretches out her hands towards me, cutting Aunt Cotton off mid-sentence.

"Why look at her!" she says smiling. "There's my little Linnie. When did you grow up so much, eh?" If she acknowledges me at all, she always calls me by my mother's name.

I kiss her cheek and turn to Aunt Cotton, "I'd better go."

"Alright. We'll see you later, alright?"

I nod.

As I head out onto Thimble Street, I join the herd of children all headed in the same direction. Some of them I recognize from school, or from the factory, but mostly they are just unfamiliar faces; just more pairs of plodding feet. Some groups walk as families - brothers and sisters lined up together. Reaping Day is for families, in some somber way.

I suppose the square is meant to look intimidating; somehow, everything looks bigger on Reaping day. I don't know if it is the banners, the screens, or the countless peacekeepers that surround the place. I am shorter and smaller than almost everyone. I wish Aunt Cotton could have been here with me, but she has to make sure Grandma is okay.

I feel lost in the crowd. Today I am no miracle; today I am not the little girl who can survive anything. I am just another name in the reaping ball.

I push my way through the hordes, trying to find the area cordoned off for thirteen year-olds near the back. I am grateful to find my friend Florence standing near the edge of the group, so I join her nervously.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," I reply, and we both stand awkwardly searching for something to say that isn't about the Reaping. I guess we can't think of anything, because in the end we both stand in silence.

Florence stands on her tiptoes, looking at the fifteen year-olds who stand a couple of groups in front, looking for her sister. She waves, smiles, and mouths some words to her and I begin to wonder what it would have been like - if my big sisters had been standing there, what things would I have said to them?

What words of encouragement could they have given me?

District Eight's only Victor, Woof, takes his seat on the stage next to Mayor Pearce and Emelie Locket, the escort for District 8. The three of them stare grimly out towards us, watching the final people arrive and waiting for the clock to strike twelve in only mere minutes.

I've just got to get through this; things will be better on the other side, I remind myself again and again. I am almost relieved when Mayor Pearce gives his usual introduction about the history of Panem, because at least it gives me a reason not to talk to Florence.

"Now let us celebrate District Eight's past victor- Woof Burrell."

Woof gets to his feet as we all applaud. We may not have had much success in the past, but that's all the more reason to be glad we've got Woof. Grandma used to say he gave people hope, because it showed how even a poor District like Eight can sometimes win. He won the year I was born, when he was seventeen years old. I've never seen his Games, but I've heard plenty about them. Each year on Reaping Day there is always someone who wants to retell that story

Finally, Emelie Locket is introduced, and she steps forward to take her place at the microphone. "Happy Thirty-fourth Hunger Games!" she coos. "What an honor it is to be back in District 8. Let's hope the odds are in your favor, and the Reaping brings pride to the district."

She minces over to the girls' reaping ball, crossing her fingers in an over-dramatic way - as if she really wishes us luck - and reaches into the stylized glass.

My heart is pounding. It will all be over soon. She will read out the name, and then it will all be over.

It seems to take an age for her to grab hold of a single slip of paper and pull it out. She opens it as she approaches the microphone again, and a broad smile spreads across her face. Everyone draws in a deep breath, and the square falls into silence as we anticipate what is to come. I feel sick; my stomach is flipping over and over, and I will the words to come out; any name but mine, anyone but me. Anyone but me… one more second and it will all be over.

"Lacey Weft."

It's not over.

My knees buckle beneath me, and a hand grabs me and pulls me upwards, directing me out to the clear pathway that leads up to the stage.

I look around, hoping that Aunt Cotton will come running out of nowhere and sweep me up into her arms, but no one appears. I can't see her anywhere. Heat rises across my face and for a moment I think I might cry.

It is a long walk from the group of thirteens at the back to the stage. I can feel all eyes looking at me, waiting to see what I am going to do. I take in a deep breath. I can do this - I have to be able to do this, because I am going to survive just like I did before. I have something that no other tribute has - I have stared death, hunger, and devastation in the face, and I am still here to tell the tale. I will do this.

I feel steadier by the time I climb up the steps. No one will have let me survive Angora Avenue just to kill me now. That's not how it works.

As I walk by, Woof gives me a friendly wink and I smile back at him, hoping everyone will see my resolution to make it through.

Now I am stood on the stage I can see better. Aunt Cotton and Grandma Gabardine have moved to the front of a group of adults so they can see me. Aunt Cotton pushes up on her chin; it's her way of telling me to keep my chin up. I nod back at her so she knows I understand. Grandma Gabardine is clapping, even though everyone else has finished. She gives a loud whistle and I can't help but smile, even though Aunt Cotton is trying to get her to be quiet.

"And now for our male tribute," Emelie Locket continues. This time she seems to pick out a name quite quickly, but maybe it just feels that way because there is no longer a chance of my name being called.

"Corduroy Weaver."

It takes me a moment to pinpoint him, but soon I notice a tall seventeen year-old making his way through his group to get to the stage. He makes it about halfway along the line before the realization of what is happening spreads across his face. He falters for a moment, then composes himself.

We two tributes stand beside each other as the crowd applauds again when we shake hands. His grip is cold and clammy, and I am pleased when I let go of it. He seems pretty strong and he looks massive now that he is close up, but he also appears very nervous. His face has turned a pale shade of green, and I can see his lip is trembling.

"It'll be okay," I whisper to him, but that just seems to tip him over the edge. A tear trickles down the side of his face - I can see him trying to pull them back, but he can't. It is lucky that the anthem plays at that moment and drowns out his sobs.

The peacekeepers lead us away inside the justice building. I am taken to a small room and left alone.

There is only a very small window, and it is too high for me to see out of, so I slip off my shoes and climb on top of the sofa. It isn't much of a view. All I can see is the bakery over on the opposite side of the road. A young boy passes, followed by a man and woman who walk arm in arm, but otherwise, the place is quiet.

"Oi you, feet off the furniture!" I turn road and jump off the sofa landing in front of Aunt Cotton.

Grandma Gabardine goes to sit down, settling herself on the comfortable cushions. Within moments her head begins to tilt forward as she begins to nod off to sleep.

"I've got something for you," my aunt says.

"What is it?"

She pulls out my raggedy doll from behind her back and presses it into my arms.

"Why are you giving me my old raggedy doll?"

"She's been with you so long, she's been through it all with you, and I thought…" she stops to wipes the tears from her eyes, unable to continue.

I hug her tight, holding my raggedy doll between us. I guess she's right. I might not be able to take a doll into the arena, but I am going to need someone with me in the Capitol that I can trust.

"You are going to come back to me," she whispers into my ear. "Even when everyone else leaves, you always come back."

Her tears fall against my cheek, and the more she cries, the bigger the lump grows in my throat. Everyone is always leaving my Aunt Cotton.

"You're a good girl," she whispers, "A kind girl, and brave. You can do this, you can do this - I know you can," She gives me a final squeeze- so tight I feel as though my ribs might meet. "Now say goodbye to your grandma."

I finally pull away from my aunt and kneel down in front of my grandma, holding her hand in mine. She doesn't wake up, but I figure I should say goodbye anyway.

"Thanks for giving me my raggedy doll, Grandma. I think of you every time I look at her. I am going to miss you while I'm away, but I promise I am going to come back," Aunt Cotton rests her hand on my shoulder and I look up at her, "I'm going to come back to both of you."

Everything is going to be alright. I have no choice but to do this; therefore, I know I am going to get through it.

I am going to find a way to survive – again.


Authors for this chapter: Lacey Weft written by speccy13