TRIGGER WARNING: CHILD ABUSE
Sorry it took so long to get the next chapter up. I have a long list of excuses, but we all know it's the holidays and people are busy. As I said in the A/N for my last chapter, I'm not going to give a specific date or time frame as to when I update anymore, as I'm not consistent with it anyways. Hopefully, I'll be able to update every two weeks, give or take a few days.
Also, there are a couple new things on my profile. First, I've reopened the SYOT submission for the male from District 12/13. If you would like to submit, please send me a character profile within the next couple weeks. Second, the poll of whether you would like me to write the goodbye scenes is still up, so please put your two cents in.
Last but not least, thank you to everyone who's reading and reviewing! Have a Happy New Year's! :D
Left, right. Left, right. Only two hundred more steps to our destination, then I'll be free of Mr. Fringe and Ms. Dayton forever.
I wince as one of my fellow orphans bumps into me, accidentally brushing my back. The welts from the last whipping Fringe gave me are still fresh.
"Hey, watch where you're going!" I snap at her. She backs away, looking worried and eyeing Dayton, who's known throughout the orphanage for being able to give a nasty bruise.
Dayton hasn't noticed though, because she's too busy trying to corral the three-year-old Freemont twins, the youngest inhabitants of the orphanage. I look away as she smacks one of them, the girl, I think. I hear the girl whimper, and the boy say something in protest. I hear another smack after that, and then both the twins start crying.
I clench my fists and press forward. What I'm about to do today won't help any of the other orphans, but it will ensure that I'm free forever. That in and of itself won't help anyone much, but hopefully the other orphans will have more to eat.
I shake my head at my brief foray into idealism. I can't afford to be unrealistic today of all days. Reaping Day is not a time for thinking about happy endings. My courage wavers a bit when we enter the square, and I see all the crying children clinging to their parents, or standing by themselves and pretending to be stoic. As usual, a wail goes up for the orphans, especially the younger ones. Though it doesn't happen anymore, some of the older orphans remember a few Games back in the Sixties where two orphans seemed to get chosen every year. Everyone was pretty sure the Reapings where rigged during those years, but no one really did anything about it. Now that Archibald Donovan is the mayor, those "coincidences" have stopped, but everyone in District 11's pathetic excuse for an orphanage is still terrified of the Reapings. Of course, the rest of the population isn't much better. They hate Reaping Day just as much as we do.
As they do every year, Ms. Dayton and Mr. Fringe begin their Reaping Day routine. Ms. Dayton stays with the younger orphans, and Mr. Fringe begins the process of dropping off the Reaping-age orphans in their respective sections. He's been doing this for as long as I can remember, probably because after the debacle in the Sixties, it's not unheard of for an orphan to try and sneak away from the Reaping, which can cause a lot of trouble for the orphanage. Our first stop is the twelve-year-old section, where we have to drop off about half a dozen children, including the girl who bumped into me before. My section, the thirteen-year-olds, is next. I only have two other kids with me this year, cousins named Afton and Friday. They're new to the orphanage this year, their parents not having survived the Mockingjay Rebellion. I've heard rumors that both of their parents were major rebel leaders in District 11. If that's the case, one of them may be picked for the Games. I'll have to move fast, then.
To distract myself from the nervousness that is forming a ball in my stomach, I start a conversation with Friday, who's closest.
"Any idea what you're going to do to celebrate not being Reaped?" I ask.
He looks at me in surprise. "Sometimes certain businesses will give out free things to the orphans after the Reaping, especially if the owners are happy because they have Reaping-age children who weren't picked." I add.
Friday continues to stare at me in surprise, so Afton ends up being the one who answers. "What is there to celebrate? The Hunger Games is still on." His tone is bitter.
I raise an eyebrow in surprise. He is definitely going to get picked with an attitude like that.
"Male tributes!" A slurred voice suddenly yells, and just like that, our District escort, Felicia Davis, staggers onstage. She reminds me of Haymitch Abernathy, the Mockingjay's mentor. He didn't survive the Mockingjay War, being a rebel and all, but if you multiplied his obnoxious intoxication by ten and divided his usefulness by seven, that would be about the sum of Felicia's personality. I think she's a morphling addict in addition to being an alcoholic, but no one knows for sure because none of her sentences that are more than three words long ever make sense.
She staggers over to the bowl, not bothering to make an introductory comments or go through the videos about the rebellions with us. "What a shame." Afton mutters. "We won't get to see any Capitol propaganda."
Friday shoots him a look, and I struggle to stifle a laugh. For being my own personal Doomsday, today is sure turning out to be entertaining.
I don't have much time to enjoy myself, unfortunately, because Felicia grabs a slip of paper from the Reaping bowl and calls out "Friday Harvester!" I don't wait long enough to see his and Afton's reactions before I yell, "I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!"
I glance around as I make my way up to the stage, and sure enough, everyone but Felicia looks stunned. "Hi there!" She squeals, waving at me even though we're only about two feet apart. As usual, her red hair looks uncombed, and her red lipstick is about three shades too bright for her unnaturally pale face.
"Hey." I respond, raising my hand in a casual wave.
She lunges forward and shoves the microphone into my face. "What are you doing?"
Right. She must be asking why I volunteered. Now is my big moment. "I'm volunteering because I'm slowly starving to death." I announce into the microphone. I hear gasps from the crowd, not because they're surprised I'm starving, but because you don't talk about things like that in Panem, especially in District 11.
I continue speaking. "Most of the time, the only food we have at the orphanage is the tesserae all the Reaping-age kids take out, and even that isn't enough to go around. Not to mention that Mr. Fringe and Ms. Dayton beat us constantly." I glare at Dayton and Fringe, who are standing together, looking stunned. I open my mouth to say more, but Mayor Donovan steps in, plucking the microphone from my hand before I'm even aware of what's happening.
"I think it's impressive, isn't it, that District 11 has had its first ever male volunteer, right everyone?" He grins broadly at the silent crowd.
"Alright then." He says, sounding a little flustered. "Time to get the name of this enterprising young man and move on to our next tribute." He inclines the microphone slightly towards me, ready to snatch it away at a moment's notice.
"Coyote Black." I say, making sure the mayor can see my lip curl. He has the decency to look ashamed of his cover-up as he hands the microphone back to Felicia. "Ms. Davis. Our next tribute, please?" He has to grab her shoulders and steer her towards the Reaping bowl with the female names in it because she starts towards the male ones instead. She grabs a fistful of papers out, and throws all but one of them back in. She's silent for a moment before she calls out, "Ivory Plellick!"
Ivory must be an unusual tribute too, because instead of crying, wailing, or begging not to be picked, she saunters up to the stage with a wicked-looking grin on her face. I want to like her for her seeming bravery, but something about her reminds me of Clove, the psychopathic little tribute who tried to kill the Mockingjay during the 74th Games. I eye her warily as she mounts the stage and gives Felicia her name. When they're done talking, Mayor Donovan takes the stage and starts giving a verbal summary of the two rebellions to make up for not watching the videos. While he's talking, Ivory leans towards me and says, "Don't worry. When I kill you, I'll make it quick." I smirk at her arrogance and whisper back, "Don't worry. I'm not planning on making it that long."
"Smart guy." She responds. I don't have the chance to say anything back because Mayor Donovan starts introducing us to the crowd again, and telling them what fine representatives of District 11 we'll be.
Right. After meeting Ivory, I know this much: there may be two Victors allowed this year, if we can trust what President Collins said, but between me and Ivory, only one tribute from District 11 will ever make it out of the arena alive.
And I know it won't be me.