District 9 is here! AKLNxStories submitted the male, and roses burning submitted the female. Thanks to the two of them for these tributes. :)
Tarragon 'Tarra' Amira Daen, 17
District 9 Female
"Go harder, run faster!" I hear mom shout.
Most kids are scared of the Reaping because of the Games and the consequences. Don't get me wrong, the Reaping is scary, but I have more reason to fear it than most.
Panting, I reach the other side of the backyard, and look up at my mom. I'm sure she's having a fit of insanity, and the fits are really bad when it gets close to the games, and by extension, she forces me to 'train' harder. In my opinion, the training is not working well.
It's mostly running, climbing, and knife-wielding. Not much else.
Mom won the games at 15 nearly 25 years ago, losing two fingers of her left hand in the process. She lured 10 tributes in by a sense of innocence, and then murdered them by a knife in the chest. And after the games, and in the years following, mom was ordered by the Capitol, when she wasn't mentoring, to sell her own body. But after a dead body was found in the home of one of the people mom was sold to, that was stopped.
Both my father and I think that she lost her sanity in the Games, and the events following didn't help her much either. Now, she seems to be so insanely afraid that I'm going to get reaped that she practically forces me to train.
The question of my father at this time isn't helping me either. Rumors and some evidence have been found that would seem to indicate that Wheat Dally Daen is not dad. Thankfully, dad, or what I would not like to say, suspected dad, doesn't seem to care about the accusations. He still loves me like a daughter, and still loves mom, even through her insanity.
After I somehow manage to get my mom to relent slightly, I go inside to drink some water. I'm parched.
I also snack a bit. Given that mom is a victor, we have plenty of food, so I don't need to conserve. That's probably the best and only thing that makes me glad mom's a victor. Otherwise, I would have given almost anything for her sanity back. We don't starve, unlike nearly the rest of District 9.
After I gulp down my water, I head to the living room and find dad, who no longer works, partially because he doesn't need to, and partially because it would be better if he didn't.
The latter because when mom goes into her fits, she's nearly uncontrollable. Even dad ended up losing vision from his left eye, and dad and I both have several scars from mom's fits. We've tried to keep all knives under lock and key for this reason, but sometimes there are oversights.
"Dad, mom . . ."
I know I don't need to say more. Dad gets up and heads to his room, and gets the tranquilizer, which always gets more use closer to the reaping, and then goes to the backyard, cautiously, for good reason.
I think mom really likes me, but her insanity and violence seems to dampen it. But, truthfully, if she died, I wouldn't be happy at all.
If only, I can make to the age of 19, one year and five months away, then maybe mom will get over some of her insanity.
I hear shouting, and then the sound of the gun, firing at least three times, then a body hits the ground. Mom's been building some tolerance to the sedative, which is not good, as it means we have to shoot her more, which dad says is a tough thing to do, even though he knows he has to.
I don't go downstairs, as I know what happened.
Samuel 'Sam' Halifax, 17
District 9 Male
Cutting grain is boring. Oops, that's my five billionth time I've thought that statement.
But seriously, it's just slice, bundle, throw in the wheelbarrow, a gigantic one that, when full, takes all the effort Bennie and I can muster to push back to the factory for the rest of the processing. If only they had machines to cut the grain.
At least, working as pairs, in the middle of a field, the two of us can talk without danger of being overheard, the watchers can't oversee all the fields everywhere at the same time. It's not like we're trying to hide anything either, nothing illegal passes our lips, or anything. But if we want to tell stuff privately, we do so here.
Today, though, is just work. We've had to work for an extra hour for the past week, to make up for the productivity we'll lose on Reaping Day. As if 10 hour days were bad enough.
The sound of the bell alerts us that noon is coming. At this point, we should have a full wheelbarrow from three hours of work, and if we don't have it at least 'mostly full', which is so opinionated from peacekeeper to peacekeeper it's laughable, we'll be punished somehow, either we'll lose pay, or we'll be whipped, or something else. I myself have several whip scars from opinionated peacekeepers. I don't think I've ever not fulfilled the required amount. I think I'd rather be someone who maintains the machines, but that's not our District's work. That's some other district which sends the machines over.
A peacekeeper inspects our wheelbarrow, and, fortunately, decides that it's enough, and waves us through into the unloading station. We dump the grain onto the conveyor belt, and then head off to lunch.
In order to make lunch 'as orderly as possible,' which is, I think, really a fancy way to make lunch as short as possible and labor as long as possible, we only eat in groups of four, no talking. All peacekeepers should be able to see are mouths and hands moving, and they should only hear food being eaten. Again, no talking.
Oh, and we only have 12:30 to finish lunch, or, you guessed it, we'll get punished.
It's the same food every day. A slice of bread, which I swear is made from our grain, and an apple, probably from 11. The lunch is small, and not satisfying at all. Oops, that's the five billionth time I've thought that statement.
Tarragon 'Tarra' Amira Daen, 17
District 9 Female
The worst injuries happen when mom's on concrete when she gets hit by the tranquilizer.
Scraped limbs or cuts are common, bruising too. Once, mom had to get treated for a broken bone.
We have a bed we now call the 'recovery bed,' where we put mom to heal from her injuries. The sheets need to be washed often because they get stained with blood. Too often, we're short on bandages.
Without a mom to make lunch, now, I go in the kitchen and just throw some noodles in some hot water, get some sauce out, and have some spaghetti. No meatballs. Whatever.
I'm putting my plate away when I hear knocking on the door. I go over and see who it is, before slapping my head in frustration, then, tumble back, hitting my head too hard.
After I get over the disorientation, I open the door to one bemused Abbey. "Uh . . . hi?" was my amazing recovery speech.
Abbey bursts out laughing. "I wish I could live that moment on repeat!"
I scowl. "We had issues."
"What's the matter? You mom hit the floor again?"
"I don't appreciate the sass, Ms. Abbey Beth Lawsho. My mom is going to be fine, as always."
Abbey starts to say something, stops, and then comments, "Your mom needs mummy-wrap."
"She's not dead, idiot!" I nearly yell, and then go at Abbey.
We tussle for a bit before someone separates us both. Breathing hard, I see dad looking sternly at me, and I shrink back slightly.
"We don't need two people on the recovery bed."
"Dad, we were just having our 'friendly fights,'" and Abbey nods in agreement.
"Don't have your 'friendly fights' when your mom is on the bed. As a matter of fact, I'd rather not hear any sass from either of you."
Once dad leaves, Abbey says, "He did say that he would rather not hear any sass from us, but he didn't say anything about others."
Understanding immediately, we both head out to do what we do.
Samuel 'Sam' Halifax, 17
District 9 Male
Did I mention yet that cutting grain is boring?
I did already, didn't I. If someone, presumably from another district, could read my thoughts, they'd think that I was insane. Everyone in 9 loves cutting grain, right? That's all we do, right?
We're human beings, not automatons. We get tired. Seeing grain-fields for hours on end is truly boring. Even for quiet people like me, who can observe for ages, who don't talk much, we get bored and talk. Speaking of which . . .
"Bennie?"
"Yeah?" He grunts.
"Do you think this is a boring job?"
"Sure, but cutting isn't so hard. The hard part is getting the wheelbarrow back. All things considered, this is a rather good paying job, if you only have to support yourself."
"Supporting a father and a brother, I guess is a bit easier than supporting two parents who can't work. My 10 year old brother probably doesn't have as big of a stomach as an adult."
"At least, I'll be a full-pledged adult in a few months, then I'll be able to get a higher pay."
"And longer work-hours," I remind Bennie. He just groans.
"After 11 hours of cutting grain, you won't notice an extra hour, right?"
"Except it's technically two hours, 11 is just temporary, because the Reaping -"
"End of discussion," Bennie says, abruptly.
How could I have been such an idiot. Don't talk about the Games or the Reaping near him, at least, not directly.
Bennie had an older brother who got sent to the games. Died on the third day, hypothermia. I remember being with him when the news broke. We already knew he wasn't well off by the second day. Bennie's pledged never to get tessare since, choosing other options, like working on Sunday to get more money.
"Sorry," I apologize, "I forgot."
Bennie smiles sadly at me, before resuming work. "Gotta fill up the 'barrow, next dump, I'd guess, is in a half-hour."
I don't question his sense of time. It's right almost all the time.
"How much more left?" I ask. The wheelbarrow is technically where I can see it, but I don't bother anyway.
"Some of the peacekeepers who have lower standards might let this slide. Let's not risk it, though."
Tarragon 'Tarra' Amira Daen, 17
District 9 Female
"Where you girls going?" a peacekeeper asks us.
"Places," I say in a way that's sure to cause suspicion.
"Where are you parents?"
"Somewhere," Abbey chimes in.
"If they didn't send you on an errand, you should go home. And you especially should not be near the factories."
"Oh, they're with us, certainly."
The peacekeeper glances around, and then turns back to us. "I don't see them."
Abbey takes a photo out of her pocket. We've rehearsed this for a while, but never got a chance to try it. I take a similar photo out, containing my father.
"See? They're with us."
"Since they aren't physically with you, I will have to order you two to go home."
Expecting a response of this sort, I retort, "They are physically with us. The photo is a physical object."
"Photos aren't dads," the peacekeeper, clearly trying to maintain composure, points out. It will only take a little more to break him.
"But you didn't ask for a parent, or a dad. You only asked for a physical object."
"Now, I order you to get your parents and come back. Your disrespect for authority is absolutely horrible."
"We aren't being disrespectful," Abbey says, grinning, "we're just trying to understand what you're saying."
"Go home before I have you arrested!" he finally shouts. He's irritated, and I love it.
"But we are at home," Abbey says, "District 9 is our home!"
All of a sudden, I feel an abrupt pain in my stomach, and no longer in control, I collapse on my back. I hear Abbey scream, and manage to turn my head. There's a loud noise, a gunshot, and Abbey also collapses, and then the scream intensifies. Looking down, I see a hole in my stomach. A gunshot wound.
Something jerks my feet. It's very painful. The person dragging me says something about insolence. I feel myself being dragged off, and I can't see Abbey anymore. I can't see much anything anymore, I can't control myself, voluntary motion becomes hard, and then, I get dragged over a bump in the road, and I lose consciousness.
Samuel 'Sam' Halifax, 17
District 9 Male
We're dumping our second load of the day, when we hear a gunshot, and a scream. Immediately, we see a few peacekeepers respond and run out of the building. A second shot is fired, and the scream gets louder. We're apparently far away, though, as the scream is still below talking level.
There's silence for a bit, and then a bit of murmuring, before all us workers are dispatched to collect our third and final round of grain.
I shake off the shots fired. It doesn't have anything to do with me.
With only an empty wheelbarrow to cart back, it barely takes any effort compared to the push to the factory.
Slice. Bundle. Dump. Slice. Bundle. Dump.
Cutting grain is boring.
After a forever of cutting, we hear the bell and start heading back. After being approved, we leave the factory for the night. As I leave, I notice two distinct blood trails on the ground. Apparently, two people were shot, and then, most likely, got dragged somewhere, either the jail, or the local doctor. But I don't know what the doctor can do against bullet wounds.
Tarragon 'Tarra' Amira Daen, 17
District 9 Female
I'm walking on a dark path. Why am I walking forward? I can't stop my legs.
I see a few trees here and there, and ache to climb them, but my legs won't let me. I can't control the lower half of my body.
I yank my legs, but my arms are overpowered. I keep going forward.
I resign to whatever is in front of me. After a few more minutes, a branch appears. To the left, there's a symbol of a walking person. Scratch that, not a walking person, it's a walking me. To the right, is a picture of a skull.
"Choose," I hear, somewhere behind me. My legs won't turn, but I look backwards awkwardly, and I see a hooded person, presumably a man, from his voice.
"You have been shot, and are on the brink of death."
Have I been shot? I try to recall what happened, but I can't remember anything. Family? Nothing. Friends? Nothing. My name? Nothing.
"You can't remember anything because you must make this decision outside of influences. How much do you want to live?"
Two sides rage in my mind, saying stuff that doesn't even make sense to me.
You wouldn't have to see the poverty of 9, and you would escape from the Games.
But what 9? What Games?
You want to see your family, friends, even if it risks stuff.
But who's my family? Who's my friends? What does choosing life risk?
"You must choose quickly, the door to life is closing."
Panic shoots through me, because I can't decide. I feel life edging a bit, and before I can regret anything, I reach out my left hand, and touch me. Well, not me, a picture of me.
"So you pick, so you shall go," the hooded man says.
My legs start walking, no, running, to the left path.
The path has light, but it is dimming rapidly. This must have been what the man was talking about, the life door closing.
I reach the door, near fully closed, and my legs squeeze through the door, and exit.
And all of a sudden, my body dissolves, and I go blank.
Samuel 'Sam' Halifax, 17
District 9 Male
I wake up at 7, as usual. June 20, says the calendar. I see the 21st labeled next to it, and quickly avert my eyes. I already know what will be written under there. The Reaping is tomorrow.
Then I realize, with all the excitement yesterday, I forgot to meet with my only friend, other than Bennie.
Actually, she's my girlfriend. We've started going out a few months ago, after realizing mutual affection for one another. And why shouldn't I? We've known each other since the first day of school, not the first day of the school year, but the literal first day of school.
I'll have to visit her before I go to work, and apologize.
I change, eat a quick breakfast, and head out. Dad will probably already be at work, and Dakota must be still sleeping.
I make the familiar 20-30 minute walk to Eva's house, and knock.
I smile when I see Eva, and we hug.
"Sorry I missed yesterday, I forgot with all the excitement."
"I suppose, there's rarely any excitement to begin with. I'm just glad you're here."
We let go, and go in Eva's house and sit on a couch next to each other.
"You know the rumor I heard?" Eva asks me.
"About?"
"The shots yesterday. Practically everyone heard them, or has heard it from someone who has."
"I was in the factory dumping grain when it happened."
"Rumor is that the two people who got shot were annoying a peacekeeper and being a smart-aleck or something. Just stupid!"
"Wait, they essentially were inviting a peacekeeper to shoot them?"
"Apparently. Then again, it's all rumors."
"But if it's true, that's just crazy."
"You aren't that stupid, are you?" Eva asks.
I look at Eva dubiously. "I don't think I am. Even if I don't like the peacekeepers sometimes, we do have to follow them. But some of them can be so objective, I say. I look down, and realize that I've been squeezing my hands into fists unconsciously. I try to calm down, but I feel myself starting to lose my temper.
"Sam? You're angry, are you?" Eva says, not really in a question, but in a statement, as it was obvious.
"I can tell, I've known you forever," Eva smiles, massaging my shoulders, which has the calming effect I couldn't produce myself.
After some more talking, I happen to see the time, 8:22 AM.
Phew! I need 30 minutes to get to the factory from Eva's. I excuse myself, hug Eva one more time, and then head to the factory, where I'll be dispatched to the fields.
Tarragon 'Tarra' Amira Daen, 17
District 9 Female
I'm aware of a dull pain in my stomach, and roll over to try to appease the pain. Maybe I had a stomach cramp overnight. I groan slightly.
Then I feel someone shaking my shoulders. It's firm, and I lay back on my back.
"Tarra! Tarra! Are you awake?"
Tarra?
And then, I remember everything. Why I'm here, why my stomach hurts, who the person is above me, and my name, Tarragon Amira Daen.
"Hi, dad," I try to say, but my voice is hoarse.
Dad, after recovering from his shock, leans down and pecks me on the cheek. "The doctors had to perform a very risky operation on you. If it succeeded, you should fully recover in a week, but if they failed . . ."
I don't know why dad isn't coming hard on me for intentionally annoying a peacekeeper. Maybe he's just going to wait until I'm stronger to do so. For now, it's all sympathy.
"They say you should be good enough to walk by evening, if you don't do anything now. Here's some water."
"Thanks," I try to get out.
Except it's really hard to drink a glass of water laying down, and I end up getting most of the water on my shirt instead of in my mouth.
Dad chuckles, and gets a new glass for me, and tips the water in my mouth.
I think of the strange dream I had, did I really get to choose whether to live or not? Maybe it was just a dream, but I remember the strange man saying, 'How much do you want to live?'
And I decide, on a hospital bed, that I will do anything possible to live, a decision made, and strengthened by friends and family.
"You know, you aren't going to escape a lecture."
Dang it.
"But not now."
I realize that Abbey also got shot, and ask, "Abbey?"
Dad's face contorts, and I fear the worst. "No . . . she's not . . . dead?"
"Tarra . . ." dad starts, but by now, I know that if Abbey was alive, dad would have told me.
I make a second decision. Not to disrespect authority. Ever. Again. Because Abbey would be alive otherwise.
Broken, I take a nap, sniffling slightly.
Samuel 'Sam' Halifax, 17
District 9 Male
"Bennie?"
"Hm?"
"Have you ever wondered what we'd do without the Capitol? Just 12 districts?"
"Well," Bennie chuckles slightly, "that would mean revolt. But I assume you just mean if the Capitol were to just disappear."
I nod, and Bennie continues. "My dad isn't a history teacher for nothing. I got to read a rare textbook from before the days of Panem."
"They exist?"
"Yep. I didn't understand it all, but apparently the country before Panem was called 'The US.'"
"The US? That's an odd name for a country."
"We couldn't find any more information about the name, as a lot of the text has faded. The best we can guess is that 'US' stood for something. There's also an inconsistency in one place in the textbook, where it says 'USA' instead of 'US'. Even dad's not sure why the textbook got an extra letter, he assumes it's a misprint. Anyway, the 'US' had a form of government where everyone voted who would rule the country, and he would do so for four or eight years, depending on whether the ruler was popular or not."
"Only four years? That's insanely short!"
Bennie nods, but then says, "On the other hand, that means unpopular people get kicked out after four years. And, there seemed to be one ruler who got caught up in a scandal and was forcibly overthrown, at least, that's the best dad can understand."
"If only it was that easy," I comment.
"The 'US' also apparently had two more districts, fifteen 'district' type places. But then, there's this odd contradiction . . ."
"Bennie, this is cool and all, but you still haven't answered my question."
"Oh, if the Capitol were to disappear, the voting system sounds like a great idea."
I consider this for a bit. Snow and the peacekeepers are clearly tyrannical, and the idea of the people choosing who rules sounds like a good idea. Alas, the idea is impossible.
I focus back on cutting grain, not that I wasn't doing it all that time, but I just focus on the grain. Boring, boring boring.
Tarragon 'Tarra' Amira Daen, 17
District 9 Female
Dad and I agree that, even though mom's worried sick, she shouldn't see me, given her mental state.
So, it's just dad, at 6:00 PM, precisely, with the doctor's supervision, helping me get out out of bed, and take my first steps.
Fortunately, the pain, which has mostly subsided, only flares slightly.
Dad lets go of his support, and I find myself experimentally walking, before gaining some confidence, and I take normal steps. The pain does not increase.
The doctor heaves a sigh of relief. "Just don't stress yourself too much, and you'll be good to go in a week. You may go home today."
If only Abbey could see me now.
With dad next to me, I walk home holding dad's arm just in case. I plop on the bed, and dream away.
Samuel 'Sam' Halifax, 17
District 9 Male
On the bright side, at least, there's no work today.
But, of course, the only reason why there wouldn't be is because the Reaping is today, instead.
I don't care too much what I wear to the Reaping, so I just put on a grain-colored shirt, and overalls.
This time, both dad and Dakota are up before me. Must be because I took advantage that I didn't have to be somewhere at 9:00. It's nearly a full hour later than 9. Reaping is at 12:30.
"Hi dad, hi Dakota," I say in the dining room.
"Are you going to wear that to the Reaping?" Dad asks.
"I don't care too much." I mutter.
Dad sighs, but says nothing. I think of the amount of time my name is in the bowl. Every year, I've taken out three tessare, so for each reaping year, my name's been put in four times. So, I must be in 24 times.
Not as bad as some people. Eva's told me that she's in 30 times, five times per year.
Still, the prospect of going to the Games is scary, and it's a legitimate possibility.
I'm not sure how many times Bennie's in, but he stopped taking tessare after 14, before then taking one out for him, his brother, and his parents, so he should be in 18 times. He has the odds tilted for him a bit.
Dad switches on Capitol TV for some of the Reapings, but I'm disinterested. I hear that it seems to be District 5, but whatever.
We'll need to leave at 11:30 and skip lunch for the Reapings.
If only they provided food at the Square.
Tarragon 'Tarra' Amira Daen, 17
District 9 Female
Morning arrives, and I feel a lot better. The pain in my abdomen is nearly gone. I pace in my room, and then try jumping, and the pain flares, so I tell myself not to
I look at the clock, and see that it's almost 12.
Wait, what?
I hurriedly put on a brown dress that looks presentable, and pace-walk downstairs. I don't dare try running, as running is, I suppose, a form of jumping. Just effective jumping.
Thankfully, the Square might as well be next door, only a few minutes of walking. A minute or less of running, but I'm not doing that any time soon.
I see mom, and when she sees me, she runs to me and hugs me, thankfully, around the chest, not my stomach.
"You're alive . . ." my mom says, seemingly in a trance-like state.
I smile, and head into the kitchen to make something for myself, but I notice some food already laid out for me. Grateful, I chow down. Halfway through, dad comes up, and I smile through a mouthful of sandwich.
"Tarra," dad says in that voice which I haven't heard since I sassed my teacher in the middle of the school year.
I sigh.
"You should feel lucky that mom's a victor. Without the money, we wouldn't have been able to afford the operation, and you probably would be dead too."
The word 'dead' rings through my head, but it's repulsive, as if I've actually grown a distaste for death. I did say I'll do anything to survive, though.
"But," dad says, "we're glad that you're not dead," dad says, hugging me. "Let's go to the square, and be a bit early.
Samuel 'Sam' Halifax, 17
District 9 Male
Everything's the same, I tell myself. It's just everyone's one row back. Instead of Eva, Bennie, and I being in the 16 year old section, we're now in the 17 year old section.
And here comes our district escort, Meus.
She gives the standard welcome, speech, video. Even with the video, though, I think of making the Capitol go poof. Meus introduces the victors, and then Meus walks to the girl's ball.
Please, please, not Eva. Anyone but . . .
Meus spins the ball, then opens the lid, and selects one name.
And it's not Eva, thankfully, but one Tarragon Daen.
Then, everything breaks loose on the stage.
Tarragon 'Tarra' Amira Daen, 17
District 9 Female
Something tries to get out of my throat, but I force it down.
How can I be this unlucky, to be shot, lose a friend, and on top of all that, I'm going to the Games? But I see the peacekeepers coming, and I see the peacekeeper who shot me, grinning, and pushing through the crowd. I don't want to come into contact with him. I force my legs to move, and I walk stiffly up the stage. It seems that the pain in my abdomen has increased hundredfold. I try not to hunch over from the pain, but it's hard not to.
Mom, being one of the victors and gets to sit on the stage, seems in utter shock. Then, in an unexpected move, she leaps up and attacks our escort. The escort yelps as mom catches her in a headlock. Mom raises her fist, before it, and her body, flop onto the stage, a dart sticking out of her back.
While everyone watches my mom, I wipe the tears away, and finish climbing the steps, doing my best to ignore my mom's limp body sprawled out on the stage.
But, I remember that I would cling to life as long as I can. How much do I want to live? How much do I want to return to my family?
I must, at the very least, try to return.
Samuel 'Sam' Halifax, 17
District 9 Male
The girl seems to be injured somewhat, maybe in the stomach, by the way she walks, though it's clear that she's trying to hide it for the cameras.
Once she climbs the stage and the escort calms down enough, she grabs the first slip her hand touches, and quickly reads the name.
I recognize the name called. In face, it's mine.
All of a sudden, all I see are people's heads and the sky. I realize that I must have fallen over on my back.
I get up, but I'm in shock, and almost fall again. I steady myself, and then, walk up the stairs to my doom.
I want the Capitol to disappear now.
Johnathan Wilford
Head Gamemaker
Samuel and Tarragon shake hands shakily, before being escorted into the Building.
The girl, Tarragon, seems to be injured somewhat, by the way she had her hand on her left side, and a slight hunch. If it's permanent, in the sense of a couple weeks or so, she'll be at a great disadvantage. I'll make sure she gets a doctor's examination. Even if it's the Hunger Games, we do want to give all players a fighting chance.
And Samuel, I don't know. He fell over, which might show a weakness, but he did seem to shake it off. Other than that, I don't see anything immediate that would distinguish him from previous District 9 tributes.
I put down my notes on the tributes. I can probably by now start assigning odds to the lower districts, but I'm interested in seeing the last three districts.
I massage my eyes, as they've been staring at the TV for too long. I stretch, and then zone into District 10.
Tarragon 'Tarra' Amira Daen, 17
District 9 Female
Dad comes in, and he seems on the verge of tears. I want to cry too, but I try not to. I don't want to show weakness. Mom is, of course, not here, as she's sedated.
"I'm so, so, so sorry for you, Tarra. You need to remain strong." Dad chokes out.
I know if I say anything, I will start crying.
"Tarra, you're injured, and you have to recover if you're going to have a chance," dad says, recovering slightly. "so you could act injured, which you are, and when you're fully healed, go out and surprise the field."
I understand, somehow, what he wants me to do. Play the weakling. Except I will be the most convincing weakling ever. The only question my befuddled mind can come up with, however, is, whether I can come out of being a weakling.
Dad is forced to go. Then, two more friends come in, my closest remaining friends. Another pang fills my heart, which threatens to break me, but I wipe my eyes and look at my friends. I haven't seen either since I was shot. Fennel Bay is two years older than me, and we think, or thought, since I'm going to the Games, that we have a think for each other, and we were considering whether to go forward. He's really caring, for me, and for his two sisters. But I feel that today, right now, all he has for me is dread.
The other friend I have is Bay Brown. She's a great friend, but she's scared of a lot of things. This becomes almost ironic when you learn she enjoys the games. I don't know what she's thinking now that one of her friends is going to the games. She doesn't seem to be very emotional, but I'm not terribly surprised.
I decide to just hug Fennel passionately, as this is, sadly, most like the last time I'll see him.
But I can't afford to think like this, not if I don't want to die. I must believe that I'll see him again. I let some tears out, and we stay like this for a bit, before separating.
After that, Bay tells me, "I know you might not like what I say, but I am excited to see you in the Games. I do want you to come back, as I don't want to see you die either."
Bay starts talking about other stuff, but I don't want to hear it, because it's from someone who is excited to see me in the games, even if she's a friend.
When they're called out, I hug Fennel one more time, before they're taken, and I'm left to face the Games, injured for now, and with a mentally unstable mom.
Samuel 'Sam' Halifax, 17
District 9 Male
"Take this," dad says, tears falling from his eyes.
I can't blame him, I want to cry myself, but everyone knows what tears mean. And that's something I can't afford.
With trembling fingers, I open the pocket-watch type device. A picture of me and Dakota together one one side, and dad on the other. A token.
Before I know it, a few tears drip from my eyes, which I quickly wipe. At least, now, I'll remember of home.
I slip it into my pocket. Dakota and dad are taken away, and I see why a lot of tributes carry their goodbyes into their interviews. The time to say goodbye is too short.
I know who has to be next. Eva and Bennie. Bennie's clearly very sad, and is crying silently, maybe because now he's losing a second person he knows, or knew, to the Games. Eva, on the other hand, is not making any attempt to hide it.
"Eva . . ." I trail, before hugging her, and she hugs back, like she's on a cliff and I'm the only thing preventing her from falling off the edge.
Her tears fall on my shoulder, and I have to struggle not to do the same. But we can't stay like this forever, and I pry her fingers off me. Eva's a bit better, having let go of some of her emotion, and I know that's all she'll have time for, as my time must be rapidly closing.
"Bennie?" I ask. He just lifts his head in response. "I'll miss you a lot. Find someone to help you with the wheelbarrow," I say, trying to smile.
He smiles sadly back. "You can try," he says, "what we said yesterday."
"What?"
"You can try to make the Capitol disappear, or at least, weaken. Even if you die, something great could happen."
The idea seems good, maybe, but it would be really hard to do that. I don't know, and I'd certainly be punished. But when I'm going to die anyway, what harm would it do?
"Maybe, Bennie, maybe."
Then Eva and Bennie go, and I know that the Games, my Games, the Capitol's Games, start now.
If you're questioning the near-death scene with Tarragon, there were a few reasons for that. First, I thought that I needed to practice writing a death scene, but obviously, I can't kill the tributes now. I wanted comment on how I did with it. Second, I thought that it would achieve some character development which would otherwise be lost from the shooting, which is why I didn't just have Tarragon wake up. Thirdly, I found Samuel's POV to be really boring in the beginning, as is clearly stated, so I thought the near-death scene would be good for that. Thanks, guys! :)
How will Tarragon's experience with Death affect her in the games? How did I write the scene overall? How will she deal with a 'mentally unstable' mom as mentor? Will Samuel try to do something to 'make the Capitol disappear' or something of the like? If so, what might he do?