Magenta Rosewood, District 6 female- winter's cry
I really hate District Six.
"You should've been proud of your District," everyone reminds me, but I still hate it. And it's hard not too.
I mean: District One has there streets of gold, District Two has there winning streak in the Games, and District Four has there "a pretty, little ocean." Or that's what the the dying girl from Four said last year.
But District Six has crime. It infects the streets littered with stubs of cigarettes, brothel doorways, and bottles stripped of their alcohol. It's in the hearts of the half dressed Peacekeepers, or the young drug runner who feet still bleeds, or the elderly man who owns a gun. Crime is in there very hearts. Or that's the Six that I have grown up in.
I've learned to run fast in the back alley of Mercedes's drug den, or fight better with a knife than some senior gang members at Cel's bar (you want to see the scars that prove it?). I've been whipped at the post for stealing books for Ol' Ben (for several coins), and lost I've lost a left pinky in a booby trap surrounding Mayra's rich house (don't try to steal from there).
And now I am walking around my hated Hell to say goodbye. An emotion that tastes like the sweet smell of stolen oranges, and the rush of adrenaline after completing a successful run. Maybe reminiscing about the past has stirred up this forgiven emotion that tears are in the corners of my eyes. The water in those corners remind me that I am human. A damn, weak human, and that damn, stupid emotion. I can't name it, it's too pure for me.
To a passing stranger at this late hour, my appearance is nothing out of the ordinary. Loose trousers covered in grease stains from the factories pumping of smoke, a tunic of dull brown—more patches than original fabric (found it in the trash.) My choppy, black hair is tucked under a hat, with a few strands pressed to my dirt-streaked face, and I ease the nerve to brush it away.
No stranger can see the tears in my small eyes (thank Panem!), or feel this strange emotion. And no stranger can detect a long knife hidden under my stained pants. One that will draw blood, lots of blood. No stranger could even know I am Longfang—the drug lord of District Six.
And no stranger knows the secret I am holding about tomorrow.
—
Glass crunches beneath my feet as I walked through the crime torn streets. Eyes narrow and wary for anyone, my pale hand clutches my knife in my pants. I am unnerved, anyone could attack. My eyes dark to the side alleys filled with the stench of rotting trash.
A long time ago I once overheard my teacher commenting that it was like the Dark Days never left, and I can't help but agree. But if the Dark Days were like this I could easily survive it.
A rustle comes from another alley, and my head snaps to where I heard the noise. In no time at all I'm on the ground in a crouch, knife out and eyes peering into the darkness.
I forced her mind to stay level—even though I want to run like the coward I am. Peacekeepers don't patrol this area, and Berk certainly knows that I live here.
The new head Peacekeeper was out for blood to find and capture me. (Let him try.) And as much as the citizens may hate me, they hate the Capitol more. So when asked about my appearance, they are quite vague.
'He has pale skin,' and 'Longfang has dark eyes.' Few know Longfang is a girl.
Focus! My mind screams. It could be one of the rebels. As well as Berk (that bastard) is trying to capture me, a small scale rebellion is taking place in the drug monarchy. People are angry about the higher prices of morphling and the Peacekeepers cracking down. And everyone in the drug network craves for my top spot, that top dog. I don't go hungry, I don't worry about the Reaping. The Peacekeepers don't know who I am. Their 'Longfang' is just a boy who runs a drug network. But this spot is mine. I will keep it.
Crunch. Someone is stepping on glass, and it sounds like it's from the alley on my left. The person is untrained for sure and I probably could take them in a fight, but I'd just injured my arm a few days ago (stupid Peacekeeper, but I'd made him pay. His blood was a dark red).
Everywhere in Six there are window ledges sticking out in the same distance apart. It was the perfect place for climbing. I sprint closer to the dismal, gray building and leap upward—grasping on to the ledge. A flaring pain shot up from my arm, and I bit my lip to hold back a scream. I try to keep silent as I keep climbing upward toward to gutter that was on every building in Six.
By the third floor I was breathing heavily. I now realize that by doing fewer drug runs I have been getting quite out of top shape. But no one likes drug runs, fighting is better. Your life for a dose of morphine. And that's a problem, but my attacker probably doesn't do drug runs either.
And as much as I have faith in her abilities of running, sneaking, and escaping I don't want to look back. I would rather not see if that person is chasing me, because I would panic. Fear is what gets you killed out here; it doesn't let you think strait or even act well.
When I reach the metal gutter, my attacker is gone. He just gave up, and I feel the tension in my shoulders release. I lean over the edge, peering over to see how high up I am. The ground was far down and anyway would look the size of birds. I feel dizzy looking over the edge, the floor was miles away, but I could almost feel free of the ever pouring smoke in the sky. I could see the billowing clouds from where I stand—or crouch.
I am ready for tomorrow, for the little joy of the saved face, for the signing of her own death. I am ready, bring it on.
I never owned much. Even lying in my old, musty bed the room felt empty. From the shelf, to the dark chest of draws, to the window letting in the gray sunlight of the morning, it was all empty. And my damn room matched my damned heart. Empty. Waiting for that void to be filled. And it matched my attitude.
I felt that odd emotion rush up her veins, and it filled my eyes with water. Cool rivers soon ran down my face, leaving tracks of fresh, pale skin—newly washed with the tears of a martyr. The walls started closing in, and I couldn't breathe. I need to get out of here. Before someone see's me weak.
My breath makes a rushing sound as I threw on my only dress, and run out of the building. I completely ignore her frizzy, dark hair, and that several Peacekeepers that patrolled the block. The ones who are trying to kill 'Longfang,' and the pathetic smaller gangs revolting. I just have to get out of this damned District.
So today the Reaping will be my savior. My wrath will be unleashed.
Walking into the District square was truly a time of anger. No one noticed me: the white clothed Peacekeeper just stabbed my freaking finger (thank Panem it wasn't the pinky) with the blood tally pin, the woman with gray hair just waved her onward to the 16-year-old section, and the bloody bastard they called Berk was standing on the podium like he was a damn Victor. He doesn't deserve such "honor."
On the platform stood the eight adults they call Victors, their victory of killing innocent children—not that I haven't. I guess that makes me a Victor. I smirk, I will be one soon.
The people kept crowding closer to the stage, each one pleading for the safety in the midst of a war zone. The windows blown out, the pavement crumbling, weeds sprouting up, and—was that blood on the sidewalk? I feel a heartless grin sneak up to my face, the troubled soul died in a skirmish war. It was dried but by how red it was, it was probably a few days old.
A stillness settled over the crowd as the mayor stood up and walked over to the cheap, wood podium. Even the damned blonde crowding next to me shut up, and 'bout time for that. (No stabbing was necessary for the bitch to shut up.) The mayor's eyes were dark and gloomy, he must be still weighing the odds that his 12-year-old son would be reaped. The odds were slim to none, but even so decades ago a small 12-year-old was reaped. One whose odds were none, and she still was reaped.
I feel another smirk settle on my face, the mayor will not have karma on his side.
When the mayor keeps reading the damned Treaty of Treason. People visibly zoned out, shoulders were resting on heads, hands clasped—not in the destruction of the long lost war, but in foreign emotion. One that still survives despite the blown out windows, and murdered bodies. Hope. How can they're hope survive? I lost mine a long time ago.
The mayor finally finished reading the damn history—the past is in the past, right?
Then the damned escort stepped forward, and the entire square held its breath. You could hear a pin drop. I would drop a pin, if I wasn't scared too. I wonder how the Careers do it, gather up the courage to sign their death. It's hard you know, people should give them more credit, well more courage for being killing machines.
But even with my mind going a mile a minute, I can still feel the fear. It tastes like cold steel and burnt bread. And it covers me with bumpy skin, and chattering teeth.
The Escort, Silvester, seriously needs to get out of this District—he's blinding me. He's wearing a bright silver suit that seems to reflect the light, with bright silver shoes and hat. The colors look like beacons of light compared to the cement and dirt colored back drop. Just sweetheart, take the joy to somewhere it won't get crushed.
His light skinned hand reaches into the glass bowl holding slips more fragile than a person's final breath, and the square holds it breath even more. It wanders around stirring up little white wings, and rests on a single white slip. He slowly draws out the fragile, little thing, and opens it.
"Alison Begnta," He reads those words with a smile, like it's a good thing. A sobbing girl with brown hair walks out of the 17 year-old section. Pathetic.
Now it's my turn, here goes something. I draw in some shaky breaths and raise my voice. Surprisingly I don't feel anything, I'm as light as a feather and as stiff as a board. I'm frozen, I'm inhumane, I'm going to die if I stay in this damned District.
"I volunteer," I let my cold voice ring out in the crowd. An adult in the back lets out a sob, a sob of joy. The little coward will live another year. I feel my lip curl at this, and the girl make a path for me to get out of the hoards they put me in.
I strut up to the stage, letting my mind wander about the food I'll get to eat, than my death. I ignore my shaky legs and try to sallow the idea that I'm dying.
But it's either a knife in my gut, or a rope around my neck. Hanged in this damned District, or be stabbed in a glittering forest. I chose the forest.
"We have a volunteer!" Silvester regains his composure and wipes the look of disbelief off his face. He tilts the metal thing that amplifies my voice toward me. "What's your name, darling?"
I force out the most cold voice I could muster—which is freezing mind you. "Magenta Rosewood." Everyone knows the Games are rigged, so telling everyone I'm Longfang isn't a good idea. The Capital would have me dead by the first night. Now I just tell my pathetic name.
I plan to be regal as my angle. Regal and cold. And angry. Lots and lots of anger.
The escort walks up to the boys' bowl, and the Square hold their breaths, (again.) We all know two volunteers in the same year is too good to be true. The reaped will just have to accept his fate. Silvester digs into the bowl and draws out a paper. Much faster than last time, or was time just going slowly for me?
"Castor Heyme." A boy walks out of the 17 year-old section, tears leaking out of his moss green eyes, and it's obvious that he is trying to control his poor emotions. He's not a good actor, I notice. But, he could be acting that he is bad at acting. Ugh! Already been a few minutes and I'm already paranoid.
He barely makes it too the stage, and too soon I'm forced to shake his hand. I may play it cold, but this guy could be useful. I force pity into my eyes and give a 'reassuring' smile. That should get him to trust me.
All too soon we're forced to walk to the marble Justice Building, the only thing in this damn District that isn't broken in and in good shape. I try not to make it obvious, but I'm digging my heels into the pavement and walking really slowly, annoying the Peacekeepers is my little revenge. They can't push or kill me now, I'm a tribute. One of the chosen 24.
This may be heaven in hell. I'm sitting in plush velvet, and around me are pictures of mayors and presidents. A bowl of fruits in on the dark colored table, and some of the fruits are in my tunic.
I clutch the gold ring on my right ring finger. This ring was my mother's. In a time back where hope flourished and people were actually happy.
Suddenly, the doors bursts open. A older woman with brown hair hurries in. Her gold eyes bore into mine, and I sallow the need to flinch away. She comes up to me, as if she is walking on eggshells.
"Thank you," she whispers. She must be the mother of Alison. "Thank you so much." She begins to sob. Pathetic, like her daughter.
"How can I repay you?" She asks, her gold eyes filled with tears. "I can give bread to your family, help your boyfriend, take care of the people you lov—"
"I don't have anyone who loves me. My family is dead," I comment dryly. The mother's face falls.
"I'm sorry. I should leave now," I nod at her, but before she turns around she wraps her arm around me. Then, whispering so silently that I have to strain my ears, "Remember, that the enemy isn't the tribute clutching the knife. Remember who the real enemy is, Longfang," I stiffen at the name. How can she know?
Before I could ask her, the door was pushed open and the mother is gone.
No longer than a few minutes later, a small girl with curly hair wanders in. She plots silently next to me, and I stiffen (again) at such closeness.
"I'm sorry, Magenta, but I will keep this short." Her mouth barely moves, and based of the angle she's at its so the cameras can't see it moving. They just must think she's my friend, but I don't know her. She has a secret she must tell me.
"We are so sorry you had to volunteer. But on behalf of everyone in the District we want to thank you." I open my mouth the argue but she continues too quickly.
"I know you think you weren't helping, but every time you stole from the Capitol or cheated them or fooled them, you helped us. No you didn't directly help the people, but in the long term you have helped.
"Don't play this game. Give them hell, but please get out of here alive. We would like to have you for us." I am really confused. I'm not helpful, it was only for me. I'm selfish, this wasn't for anything else. But I don't make anymore, I just relax my body, trying to make it seem like this girl is my friend.
"You must give hope to those who don't have it," The curly haired girl got up. She faces me and draws me into a hug. "Longfang, remember who the real enemy is."
I feel her press something into my hand, and when the curly haired girl leaves I study it. It was a simple piece of paper, nothing really extraordinary about it. Nothing special except a sketch.
It's of a bird, one of the only birds that thrives in this damned District. It has the black wings with white patches, and fire danced around the bottom of its white tipped tail.
A mockingjay.
Castor Dean Heyme, District 6 Male- TARDIS Traveller
I hate when things are broken, and I hate it even more when remain broken. I hate when people don't fix it themselves. That leaves me to fix it, and honestly I don't mind.
My dad used to say the urge to fix things is why I was made for Six instead of Two or Five or one of the agriculture based Districts. He says the angels up in heaven knew about that and placed me accordingly. I think I only loving repairing things because it's what the district does: build and repair.
There's many things I hate about my district; the crime, the poverty most people lived in, the lack of victors. Yet there are many things that counter the cons, the things I love; the garage, my dad, Dylan–my best friend, and the wild just a hundred yards past the fence.
We are not supposed to go passed the fence in which electric currents swam down the wires, but if I'm cautious I can wriggle under the danger without being seen and enjoy a few hours of freedom. Sooner or later I'd come back. I would never ever willingly leave my dad. Since my mother's death, he always seemed on the verge of tears and just barely holding himself upright. But that didn't stop me from going past the fence and plunging into the wild.
Unable to fall back asleep, I creep out of my bed and tread quietly by my father. His heavy breathing and faint snores tell me he is deep asleep and I have no intentions of disturbing him.
I cross the hall and step onto the kitchen's freezing tiles. Despite being June, mornings plunged down to cold temperatures before heating back up again around nine. The kitchen is tiny, one meter wide and two meters long. It is only able to hold one banged up stove we salvaged from the dump and repaired, a cramped counter top, and a compartment under the table for food.
I walk over to the counter top and grab the small apple resting on the surface. It's two days old and taken (illegally) from an apple tree I found on one of my ventures beyond the fence. Sinking my teeth into it, I feel some lukewarm juice trickle down my throat. It is definitely not enough to sooth the morning soreness of it, but it's all I can do.
Glancing down at my watch, I notice it's five. Six hours to kill. Hopefully it will just be hours I'm killing…
Hefting my pack with one hand, I sling it over one shoulder and head to the door. There I pause, looking behind me at the two-room home. I feel guilty leaving my father to wake up to an empty house, but I'm not entirely worried. He will know where I am headed. I left before like this so he's used to it. With that thought, I let out a sigh of reluctance and step out into the five o'clock air.
There is no a moon tonight, only a thin crescent suspended halfway up the sky, sunk into dark nothingness. What stars I could see glimmered faintly. Being in an industrial District, the lights drown out half the stars and only if I go to the outskirts, where the fence keeps the neat, grid-like District from the untamed woods, can I see the stars.
Light seeps into the sky from the east, turning the inky black into murky grey. I listen to my footsteps hit the road; crunching when it's dirt, slapping when it's pavement. It's silent other than that. The factories don't normally start until six and today they will not start at all. One could say it is a..."special" day.
I would be there right now had I taken my bike, but today I felt like going slow and savoring the scenery. I always do that on this day every year. These day could my last day at home, I think every year around this time. And I don't want to forget my home if that's the case.
A couple minutes later I find myself on the outside of a large cluster of old, decaying buildings. To my right is a garage, it's door a crack above the ground. I smile, knowing what it means. Dylan is already here! Tossing the apple core into a nearby bush, I sneak around the back and kick open the back door. It swings open easily, squeaking on rusty hinges. The figure of a boy, previously hunched over the hood of an old car, turns around at the noise, ready for an attacker. When he realizes it's me, he instantly relaxes and a smile creeps up onto his face.
"Cas!" he greets. "How's it going?"
I shrug, setting down my bag onto the cement floor. "Alright, I guess. Nothing too exciting. How 'bout you?"
He spreads his arms and I notice his fingers are dirty with something dark. Probably just grease from the engine. "Just fixing this baby," he replies casually, patting the car's side.
"Well, you know me. Happy to help."
"Actually, I was thinking of doing it...later," answers Dylan as he closed the hood, pausing before later. I know what he means but I don't say anything. We have this unspoken rule that we will never bring that up on this day, at least until we are both safe. "Too early to concentrate."
I want to point out that it's always too early for Dylan's focus, but for some reason I keep silent. Teasing just doesn't sit well with me today for some reason, which is strange because he and I teased each other before like it was no big deal. With nothing to say, a silence surrounds us. Being close friends, it isn't so much awkward as threatening. Any thought of the future is threatening to us, being teens. One small action and our lives can be altered forever, for better or for worse.
I take a deep breath.
"Well," I begin, glancing around the room. "Wanna do something? As long as it takes my mind is off other things, I'd do anything."
Smirking, Dylan gestures to the car.
"If that's the case, then we have…" the boy leans over the table to check his watch he set on the table before, "…five hours to fix this car. You ready?"
I grin. "You bet."
Five hours later…
I stand in line, waiting. One by one, twelve to eighteen-year-olds are leaving to find their place among the crowd. Sooner than I want, I am at the first of the line and the woman boredly says, "Hand." I extend it and she pricks a finger with a needle, taking that finger and smudging it on the paper. As soon as she is done, I yank my arm away from her and make my way to the array of boys to the left of the center aisle. My hearts beats faster with a sense of dread and fear. I don't want to do this. I don't want my teenage years to be in jeopardy, I don't want this to be a gamble, a risk, for my life. My feet shuffle along the stones, trying to delay the whole thing, but I end up among the boys age seventeen and unwillingly turn to face the stage. The only good thing is Dylan standing right beside me. At least I have a friend.
"Hang in there, buddy," reassures Dylan with an annoying yet comforting smirk. "In thirty minutes, this'll be over and we can go back to the garage." When there's no obvious response forming, he carries on, "Just think, after this we only have one more year until we're finally out."
I heave a sigh, closing my eyes. I nod to show I've heard, but most of my attention is focused on calming my nerves.
The clock strikes eleven and our District's mayor steps up to the front of the stage. His eyes have a distant look to them and I know he is thinking about his own children's fates and weighing the possibilities. With luck, his son will be safe another year.
The mayor starts reading the Treaty of Treason, as customary every year, and I notice the people around me zoning out. Their heads droop slightly throughout the duration of the speech and their eyes become unfocused and glassy. I feel myself fading and don't try to stop it. I don't care about the words being said any more than I care about the Capitol and the Peacekeepers, which is impossible for me to do. I hated the Peacekeepers even since I learned how my mother died; whipped to death for everyone to see for trying to make life fair. Fury grows inside of me and I clench my fists, digging my fingernails into my palm.
Snap out of it! I think. Not here, not now. It's past! Nothing you can do can change it now!
Closing my eyes, I take a deep shaky breath. I barely noticed Dylan's concerned look my way, but my mind replays it over and over again, trying to subdue my emotions.
Control it, the rational half of me thinks. What would your friends say if you let vengeance take over?
It takes the whole speech, but I finally get a handle on my impulses. The mayor recedes from his spot and another man takes his place. Silvester Lush. The escort steps onto the stage. His clothing choice gleams in the sun so it's hard to look directly at him. The light bounces over his silver pants, silver jacket, and silver shoes. I guess he's trying to live up to his name Silvester. I wouldn't be surprised if he felt the urge to dye his jet black hair silver, too. He is like a beacon of light in this dirty, run-down district.
With a greeting of "Welcome to the Ninety-Seventh Annual Games!" and a "First, the ladies," he struts over to the bowl containing the female names and reaches a pale arm inside. He digs around for a second before grabbing one and triumphantly yanking it out.
Please not Sera.
"Alison Begnita!" he announces and I instantly am relieved, then I feel a tiny bit guilty that I'm relieved as I watch a brown-haired girl trudge up to the stage, tears leaking from her eyes.
Though why should I feel guilty? Everyone is glad when they find out they aren't reaped for the Games. They are all fine that it wasn't them or anyone they care about. I start to feel guilty that I felt guilty over being relieved. As someone in the actual reaping pool, I have the right to be fine with someone being sent to death instead of those I love, don't I?
"I volunteer!" rings a cold voice throughout the square. Not panicked, not desperate, no love or emotion at all. It snaps me from my thoughts. Mine, Dylan's, and everyone else's head turns to find where the voice came from. An adult lets out a choked back sob in her good fortune as I stare intensely at the girl's section, waiting for the owner of the voice to step out of the crowd.
A girl, about sixteen, walks out confidently. She has long, black hair and dark eyes, and an expression that I take as 'Don't mess with me'.
The Reaped girl—Alison, I remember—spins around, tears of happiness escaping down her cheeks, as the volunteered saunters towards the stage. By the sad smile Alison has on her face, I think the two girls are friends, but the Volunteer doesn't smile. In fact, she ignores Alison as she gets into position standing next to the escort.
Silvester perks up and says brightly, "We have a volunteer!"
Never would have guessed, I think sarcastically, watching as the disbelief wipes itself from his face and he regains his composure.
"What's your name darling?" he asks, that false grin on his face.
"Magenta Rosewood," she answers in a cold, drawling voice. I scan the escort's face, wondering how he will react to this sort of tone, but he just raises his eyebrows and moves on the the bowl of boys' names. My heart is beating fast now and I try to slow it down with deep breathing. I hope it's not me, I hope it's not me, I hope…
Silvester Lush plunges his hand into the bowl.
No one I care about, no one I love.
Silvester Lush churns his hand in the slips of paper.
Please!
Silvester Lush pulls out a slip of paper.
Don't say 'Dylan'. Don't say it. Don't, don't, don't.
I dig my nails even harder into my palm with each don't.
Don't do it, don't say it, don't you dare…
Something warm trickles onto my fingers and pools in my hand. I clench my fists tighter…
Tighter… tighter… more wetness…
Silvester Lush opens the slip and takes up his spot in the center again. He leans forward to speak something into the microphone. The whole square is holding its breath. Standing there, waiting for it, wishing it wasn't them…
"Castor Dean Heyme!"
I release my tense fists. They hang loose my my side. Red liquid drips from my palm to the ground. My wish has been answered: it isn't Dylan. It isn't anyone I care about. And I'm fine with that.
I just wish I reworded my wish differently.
It was me.
Dylan is rigid, he glares at the escort as if that will make him reconsider. His eyes, they hold disbelief behind that glare. For once my friend is powerless to fix something. I know he hates it because I hate it too. It's one of the many things that makes us close. He hates it when he can't figure something out or make something right. Just like now. Just like this.
Unless…
"Don't, Dylan," I order, anger flashing across my face. "No, you do not do that."
My best friend turns his head. I can tell his teeth are clenched. He looks ready for a fight.
"Don't you dare do it," I whisper before turning around and walking to the aisle. I step out of the boys' section and face the stage. Blinking in tears, I inhale and force my feet forward. One step at a time, that's all I need to worry about; getting one foot in front of the other. I got this…
Tears blur my vision. I hold them in as I walk up the steps. Strangely, they're not for me. They are for my father, who has to live alone now having lost everything he holds dear. First mom, then me. How does this man cope? How can he not shatter?He's strong, part of me answers. And so I have to be too.
My next thought is: Dylan. The tears are for him as well. I will never see him again unless, by some miracle, I manage to outlive twenty-three others—including this cold female on the stage with me. Something tells me she's hiding something behind that innocent name of hers. On stage I plant my feet on the wood planks and wait for something to happen. My vision swims in the tears I'm holding in, like a river hitting a dam. Soon that dam will break, but not now. Not now. Be strong.
I look in the direction of my friend and shake my head. I don't want him to replace me in this. He has a little sister—only five—that needs him. His has his mother and father that support him, despite being consumed by poverty. I only have my father and although he has lost me now, he will have Dylan and his family to help him through.
No, I say in my mind, trying to convey that with my head. I can stand myself going, but not Dylan. If I go, I die. If he goes, he dies and his family and I have to live without him.
Silvester continues the reaping and my shoulders relax. No one can volunteer anymore. Dylan's finally safe. The escort makes us shake hands and I close my eyes briefly, drying my eyes somewhat, before turning to face the girl. Magenta Rosewood. That name would suit a smaller girl with a harmless appearance and happy aura. It doesn't fit well with the Volunteer, from her cold, angry tone to her tough, confident posture.
I hold out my hand automatically and look into her eyes. They hold… pity. Pity? And she offers a smile. My brain can't put together the cold, drawling voice with the smile. It just doesn't go right, like I'm trying to force two puzzle pieces the match when they're really from different puzzles.
So I ignore it. I don't care if she really is a nice girl that wants an alliance, I make up my mind: If someone is in the way of me coming back home, I take them out. I am coming back to District Six! I can win, so I will. And I will tear down everything and anything that will stop me from seeing my friends and family again. Just wait and see.
The Reaping ends and the girl and I are shoved into the Justice Building. One hour for visitors, then it's off to the Capital.
I am locked in a room by a Peacekeeper. Alone. Alone with my thoughts and my defiance.
I sit and wait.
The room is better kept than most of District Six. The two chairs are carved from dark oak and so is the table that stands in between. From where I sit on the plush, blue velvet I can see pictures of the many mayors and presidents hanging on the wall. There are some victors, but by now they are long since dead. I hope I can have my picture on the wall. Then, I would be Victor! I would win these Games and come back home. I'd embrace my father, hug my best friend, finally kiss Sera after all these years. I'd have a good life, I would be something Six can be proud of. They have been long overdue a victor and this will be the year. Six will finally win again!
If only…
I begin to feel restless and I stand, moving towards the window. From it I can see the railroad tracks, leading the train straight to us. Part of me wishes it never comes, while the other part… well, I can never back away from a challenge. The tracks soon become boring and I move on to studying the pictures of mayors and presidents that line the walls. The longer I scan the faces the angrier I get until I spin on my heel to face the other way. I don't see the portraits anymore and the fury dissipates, leaving sadness in its place.
I move to the door and twist the knob, pulling the wood toward me. I have a few seconds to look around before the Peacekeeper guard notices what I did.
"Nice try, kid," he growls before yanking the door shut. Startled by the sudden motion, I let the door close, staring at it. The dam is so near breaking—the river straining to be free—that I don't bother try to hold it in anymore. My forehead touches the door and the river finally spills out. It's broken.
Damn you, Panem!
A knock vibrates the door and I hastily stumble back, wiping my tears with the back of my hand. The knob twists and in comes my father. I cast all thoughts aside and sink into his warm embrace. His strong arms from working in the factory hold me tight. Too soon he pulls back a little and meets my eyes. He's silent. I feel like I should fill it.
"I'm sorry, Dad," I say.
"What for?" Good question. Why did I say that? I didn't volunteer, so this isn't my own choice. He chuckles a little. I study the wood planks below me. "Castor, look at me. You are going to fight in there, y'hear me? You will get out of there and come back to me, alright?"
His voice rises and I know he so badly wants the Capitol to drown in all their cruelty. I glance up at my dad's blue eyes, so different from my green ones. His are bright, mine are probably dark with fear. Suddenly, with one quick motion, he takes off something from around his neck and slips it over my head. I look down where the pendant rests on my chest and instantly know what it is.
The locket used to be my mother's, then she died and my father took it up as a reminder. A token of their love. And now he is giving it to me just before I go. I feel like I shouldn't be wearing it. What if I lose it in the Arena? The only reminder of my mother, gone, forgotten a million miles away. What then? Light glints somberly off the dull surface, the shine washed away after so many years. I finger the silver oval and look inside. Two pictures grin up at me and I give a slight smile back, directing my gaze up.
"Thanks," I whisper, tucking it into my shirt for safety. He nods, looking me over. I am painfully reminded again how short my life can be.
"Promise me one thing," he says.
"Dad, I'm going to die. How would—" I begin only to be cut off.
"Castor." There was a firm edge to his voice, saying he won't take 'no' as an answer. "Promise me you'll fight. Promise me you will get passed the bloodbath. Try as hard as you can to come home, but…" he trails off, his gaze wandering. "If you can't make it, I'll still be proud. You have skills, you know how to handle a knife, you're smart. Show them—show everyone—that it's high time our district has a victor."
I nod and hug him again. "I promise, Dad."
I promise, I promise, I promise.
It is so easy to say that.
The door swings open and the guard leans in. "Time's up!"
"I love you, Castor Dean," my dad says before patting my shoulder and turning to walk away. He takes the knob and pulls the door halfway. Pausing, his gaze locks with mine. Last chance, Cas, last chance to say it.
"I love you too, Dad," I say. He smiles. The door closes. I am alone.
Dylan. Where is he? Already half an hour has passed since I was shoved in this room. I begin to worry. It isn't like Dylan to bale on the last minute without an explanation. He's straightforward and direct about most things, so why is he not here?
Five minutes tick by. Then ten. Soon there is only fifteen minutes left until it's goodbye for what will probably be forever…
Unless I keep to my promise I made with Dad…
I sit down on one of the plush velvet seats. It is more comfortable than I would like to let on. The portraits on the wall stare at me and I turn to face the other way.
My minds races trying to figure out why my best friend isn't here when the door creaks open and… in he comes. Immediately I jump out of my seat.
"Hey," he says in greeting. "Sorry I couldn't come earlier."
"Why?" It came out harsher than I meant. I bite my lip, not wanting our last moments together to be an argument. He seemed to have the same idea, for he gave a weak smile.
"I had something to get," he said. "For you."
I blink. What am I supposed to say? My father already gave me something and a tribute was only allowed one token. How can I choose between them?
For the first time in years, we have an awkward silence between us. I move forward and wrap my arms around him to show how much he means to me, he does the same after a moment of surprise. It's not a bad way to spend the last time you have in your home.
After a while we simultaneously pull out. I breath out and Dylan rummages in his pockets before pulling out something sleek and black. At a closer look, I notice the white face, the dark hands, the gentle ticking. He places it in my palm and my eyes shift downwards where the watch rests in my hands. There are a few scratches on the leather band and some are spelling out initials: D.S. It suddenly strikes me.
"This is... yours?" I ask.
He nods and says with a sad smirk, "Thought your need was greater than mine."
I open my mouth to interject, but he keeps on going.
"I know it won't work in... there, but just... keep it as a reminder." His brown eyes dart around nervously, scanning my face. "A reminder of the district. And-and the people, like... your dad."
I let out a small laugh. "And you?" I say with a smirk.
Dylan scratches the back of his neck, "Um, yeah. If you want it too..."
He blinks, then breaks into a sad smile. It's the little things like that that make me forget everything momentarily.
"Of course I want it to…" I say quietly. I wrap the watch around my wrist and follow the thin hand tick away the seconds. Without a second thought, I reach over and hug Dylan once more.
There are things I won't miss about District Six: the crime, the poverty, the previous lack of victors. But there are some things I will miss more than anything at all: the garage, the wild a hundred yards past the fence, my dad, and my best friend Dylan.
I hope I can come back. My time here isn't over. Like the other tributes, I had my future in front of me. And now? Let's see.
I'm ready to play the game. And try not to feel like I lost the brother I never.
A/N: Hello everyone, TARDIS Traveller here! I am the writer of Castor Dean Heyme, male tribute of District Six. So glad to be part of this, and happy that this story is finally taking form. It's my first ever Hunger Games 24-by-24 story. Hope you enjoy my one-twenty-fourth part in this. Read on!
And now this is Celtic! So an update, we got the rest of Alana's chapter from GenuineHarajukuDoll and I updated it. If you read and enjoyed, leave a review! Now we're starting to gain momentum!