A/N: There's been a bit of confusion about the reason Monita volunteered last chapter. Don't worry, everything will make sense in due time. It's all part of my master plan. Also, Vista mentions a book in this chapter. Can anyone guess what book it is? First person to guess correctly gets a shout out in the next chapter. And as always, thanks to CragmiteBlaster and 2017tnt for this duo :D
P.S. This is the longest reaping chapter yet!
I know I got to be right now,
'Cause I can't get much wronger.
Man I've been waiting all night now,
That's how long I been on ya.
I need you right now.
Ahenobarbus Lock, 49
President of Panem
I can practically smell seafood and salty sea spray as the landscape of District 4 comes into view. The Justice Building is very expansive and open, surrounded by rows and rows of wooden houses on stilts. The residents of the district are relatively healthy and well-fed, a refreshing sight after the poor, tired citizens of District 3.
The female volunteer is a girl with hair and eyes that are exactly the same color. Metal braces line her teeth. It's hard to tell from the clip, but she seems pretty average in the ways of height and weight.
"I'm Vista Juarez. I'm 18," she says, in a very heavy Hispanic accent.
The escort calls a male name, and a fifteen-year-old boy trudges toward the stage, crying. Suddenly, a strong-looking older boy, who I assume is the selected volunteer, steps out of the crowd. Before he can shout the words, a boy at the other end of the square screams, "I volunteer as tribute!" A tiny boy with eyes that are filled with both fury and depression at the same time steps out of the crowd.
"I'm Dock Breckminn. I'm 12," he says.
Well, this needs more than a little explaining.
Sometimes a certain smell will take me back to when I was young,
How come I'm never able to identify where it's coming from.
I'd make a candle out of it if I ever found it,
Try to sell it, never sell out of it, I'd probably only sell one.
Dock Breckminn, 12 / CragmiteBlaster
District 4 Male
I hate my parents.
Yes, yes, they gave me life and I should be eternally grateful. But I'm not one of those teenagers who gets so caught up their angst that they blame their parents for everything. Both my mother and my father are sick, twisted people who have done some seriously terrible things I don't think I can ever forgive them.
I have to keep moving forward, and I know that. I just have to keep swimming. But sometimes when I peer out of my window and watch the kids I'm not allowed to hang out with, sometimes when all I have for lunch is one slice of bread because they don't want me gaining weight, that can get hard.
It can get really hard.
"Go! Go! Go! Faster!" my father roars.
My heart hammers in my chest so hard I'm pretty sure it's going to come out of my throat. My entire body feels like it's engulfed in flames, and my muscles ache and pound with exhaustion.
I collapse in a heap about a hundred feet from the end of the track, falling onto my knees and then my elbows. By the time he can blow his whistle, I've emptied my stomach of my entire meager breakfast. I'm twelve. I should be dancing and flirting and complaining about having to go to school, not training for the Hunger Games.
"That was pathetic, kid," my father groans. "Boys who go into the Hunger Games keep running no matter what. No matter what. NO MATTER WHAT! REPEAT AFTER ME!"
"No… no… matter…"
I throw up some more. And some more.
"I don't think you understand," he seethes. "That I just gave you an order! Now get back up! Keep running!"
I have to stumble slowly across the rest of the track. The only reason he's so sour is because he was a career who didn't end up going into the games. One of the other boys put laxatives in everybody's drinks. Same thing for my mother. I'm pretty sure they met each other during the competition process for the two volunteer spots.
It's another hour of running and climbing and doing wall sits with medicine balls before my father finally lets me go. It's a beautiful summer morning. The grass is profusely green and the azure blue sky is dotted with puffy white clouds. But it's really hard to take everything in.
The pressure of everything is just weighing me down. I don't know how to escape. I'm trapped, somehow. Like there's a huge pile of bricks on my back, and I'm screaming for help, screaming for someone to take the weight off of me, but everybody is just walking past me, ignoring me.
I would normally spend a free afternoon dancing, but I'm too exhausted to do any moving after the hard day of training. So I pop out my flute and run through all of the fishing songs. Nobody really knows who composed them. Supposedly it was President Snow, but everyone knows that seems like a whole load of propaganda.
The first fishing song has lots of long, low tones. The second one is high and full of trills. And the third is definitely the hardest. It involves so many rapid note changes and sudden stops that it takes most people years to learn. I have all three of them memorized. Each one lasts around thirty minutes and has its own lyrics. At least one of them is performed at pretty much every school choir concert.
The rest of the day is pretty uneventful. When I get bored of running through the fishing songs, I go up to my room and lie down on my bed. I've only been snoozing for about fifteen minutes when soft footsteps wake me up.
At first I think it's my mother or father come to scold me for being so lazy. Then I see the flick of The Party's black tail and I smile.
"Hey, girlie," I muse, running my fingers through her black hair. A stray. We've been friends for years. She's my only friend, really. Because you'd better believe my parents would freak if they heard I was talking to anybody my age. Friendships will distract me from my training, they say.
I give The Party a few strips of fish from the ice box, and she meows once before leaving through the window. She returns about two minutes later and leaves a dead mouse on the windowsill. That's probably the last I'll see of her today. She almost never pays me more than two visits in one day.
My eyes slowly close, and as I fall asleep, I decide once and for all that this is no life to live. Hey, maybe being dead is even better than putting up with this hell for one more day.
I relax against the scratchy burlap pillow, savoring the cool summer air and the short grace note of silence.
Rule number one, is that you gotta have fun,
But baby when you're done, you gotta be the first to run.
Rule number two, just don't get attached to,
Somebody you could lose.
Vista Juarez, 18 / 2017tnt
District 4 Female
Papa insists that we eat white fish, rice, and eggs on the morning of the reaping. Every year. To tell the truth, I don't actually hate it. It's made with love and care, and that's what counts. Eh, that's not true. I do hate it, haha.
"Something wrong, muchacha?" Papa asks. "You're not eating. You need your energy. Today's the big day."
I pick a fried egg off of my plate and move it slowly to my mouth. It takes every ounce of my self-control to keep from wrinkling my face at the taste.
"Just nerves, I guess," I say. "I swear I won't let you down, though. No worries."
Mama smiles. "We don't have any. The both of us are so proud of you. You know that, right?"
I nod and take a bite of my rice. I love both of my parents, and I know they love me back; it isn't like they've ever been apprehensive to show their affection. But I kinda wish they would drop things more often. It feels terrible to even think about, but I think they're a little too emphatic sometimes.
Hehe, I just used a big word.
"I have some good news for you, senorita," Mama says.
"Tell me."
"The dentist says you should have your braces off soon. If we're quick, we might be able to rush to his office and get them off before the reaping."
Something drops in my stomach. At first I hated my braces, but they've become a part of my identity almost. They make me feel unique. Adventurous, almost. I have no idea why.
"I want to take them to the arena," I say. I figure more uniqueness can't hurt, especially for an academy graduate who's more-or-less followed the exact stereotypical career tribute formula for my entire young life.
Mama raises her eyebrows. "I thought you were looking forward to getting those off."
I manage to escape the dinner table a few minutes later, and I retreat to my room to change into my reaping clothes. I pull out the ocean-blue dress my older brother Muelle made me. He's never trained for the games. Neither have either of my parents. They just saw me taking interest at a young age and decided why not.
"My, what a beautiful dress for a beautiful girl," Papa says when I re-enter the kitchen. "You'll do great today, I know it."
Compliments always make me warm inside. I like feeling unique. I like feeling special. Even when I get teased for it.
Do not be angry. The opinions of others cannot damage you. I read that in a book when I was a kid. A book about a brave girl who's proud of herself and doesn't care what other people think of her. It's been hanging on a wood sign over my bedroom door ever since.
The Tributes:
District 1: Jade D'Amore, 18, and Midas Sinthra, 18
District 2: Kennedy Coil, 16, and Gaius Alabaster, 18
District 3: Monita Lidell, 16, and Bernie Tropello, 16
District 4: Vista Juarez, 18, and Dock Breckminn, 12