Because the last chapter was so short and not so great, here's is the next chapter that I promised would be longer a couple of days early! It is finally Reaping Day and soon enough, we will have a glimpse of the other tributes and then the games. I hope y'all are just as excited as I am. Enjoy!
(A song that helped me write this chapter: "Light of the Seven" from Season 6 of Game of Thrones)
It is a quiet day in District 12. Even though the Hob twenty-five years ago would close because of legal reasons, I have heard it is closed today for tradition; I still wouldn't visit the Hob even if it were open as I am in no mood to socialize whatsoever. I am also in no mood to hunt, the nerves would be a detriment to my aim, and Rye seems to be in no mood to speak to anyone besides his own family so we coop ourselves up at home. Our house, however, has an unsettling atmosphere as all four of us mentally prepare to be sent to the Capitol; the air is cold and full of restless emotions and thoughts while we bathe, dress, and manage to force ourselves to cram somewhat of a meal into our systems. Even though I feel as if I could throw up, I have to accumulate some strength in order to be able to go up on the stage and present myself as one of the tributes to fight to the death against the other districts' victors, some of which are my dear friends.
We don't wander outside until we absolutely have to. My father keeps the bakery closed and will keep it closed until my parents return with one child or none, and it's no secret that they're thinking the same. My mother looks at the two of us with such anguish in her gray eyes, an emotion that I have never seen before. There has been a certain sadness swirling within her Seam-colored eyes especially after particular nightmares, but this emotion is new and never been seen. I can only imagine the sleepless night she endured last night or the overwhelming thoughts that are intruding her mind as they are mine, but hers are most likely worse having dealt with the games twice and now watching her very own children do the same for a Quarter Quell. I wonder if Rye or I make it out alive, if we will be as broken as our parents. I can't think of how our parents will be if neither of us survive. But how the Capitol will probably enjoy every moment of that, breaking down the Mockingjay even more.
I pull my hair in a side-braid as I am my mother's daughter, and I will show that in any way that I can be just as persistent as she is; it is a symbol of siding with the Mockingjay, and I do not stand for what I am up against with the other children. The golden- colored band with the red flame that Bones gave me ties the braid together, ensuring that it is seen. I wear my black, dressier pants that I never wear for hunting, brown boots, one of my mother's black blouses, and a burgundy colored tailored jacket that buttons vertically down my abdomen. With fall bringing in cold, crisp air that almost takes your breath away as you walk outside, I am grateful that I am not forced to wear a dress. If these Hunger Games are like how they were years ago, I will have to endure dressing nicely with a dress and makeup, and that sounds just as distressing as thrown into the area.
"Willow?" a soft voice catches my attention from flattening my clothing and looking at my overall appearance in the mirror.
My gray eyes catch hold of another pair of gray ones as I look at my mother through the reflection of the mirror. "Is it time to go?" I ask, dread boiling right under my ribs and into my intestines as she nods her head yes. This could be my last time in my room so I take in as much detail as I can: the chipping of paint on the windowsill that I kept meaning to fix, the furniture that I've had since I was little with scratches and dents from my brother and I experimenting with kitchen tools to see which ones made more damage, the clean bed sheets that I had just received only months prior for my birthday. It feels like home, and I may never feel this way again. Nothing in the Capitol will make it seem I'm back here no matter how hospitable they will come across.
It's as if time is moving in slow motion as I close my bedroom door behind me, walk down the stairs that have spots that creak more than others, and as I follow my parents through the house, I ensure I take in as much I can as if this is my last time which it very well may be. I continue the same pace and I turn to walk backwards, absorbing my childhood home surrounded by primroses and memories.
"Willow?" It is now my brother who speaks, using my name in a questioning manner to ensure that I am following in a timely fashion. I don't see the hurry though; if we're late, it's not like they can carry on without us. We're the only ones being reaped today. The show can't go on without the Mellark family. If only we could just run away, then we wouldn't have to worry about the games or the Capitol.
"I'm coming," I reply, my voice soft but steady as I turn my body around, my back against my safe haven. "Sorry," I apologize and I catch up to the other three in just a few quick steps. Rye and I are in between our parents, sandwiching us to provide as much comfort as they can. With our mother's arm around me and our father's arm around Rye, it feels as normal as it can get. If only we weren't on our way to our possible death sentences, it would be as if this is a normal day for us.
The walk there is almost torturous, each aching step closer to the front of the inevitable crowd and whomever is on the stage to unsurprisingly announce my and Rye's name to take us away, and it is even more emotionally challenging and uncomfortable to walk in front of the crowd and onto the stage with Rye and our parents with everyone else knowing that they are safe this year from being reaped. They may not be safe next year if they do decide to keep the games, but Rye and I are the ones keeping District 12 safe from having to fight to the death themselves. I'd rather not have the games happen at all, but at least no one else to being punished. Why we are being penalized at all, is beyond me, as we are all innocent. We children of the victors are innocent. Panem, as a whole, is innocent and the lives that have been lost thus far have not been justified and never will be. The war was supposed to end the violence forever with absolute no hope of it ever returning. They have had twenty-five years rebuilding, perfecting, and ensuring that everything is fool-proof; if there is to be another war or battle against the Hunger Games, there would be a high chance of us losing. I am not too optimistic about the outcome to be completely frank.
My parents, Rye, and I all walk up the stairs and onto the stage where my brother and I will be presented as the oh-so-fortunate tributes for the would-be-100th Hunger Games. How lucky we are to hold such an honor for Panem; how lucky we are to be experiencing something that shouldn't be happening at all. I can't help but have not only the dread drop deep within my stomach but also have bitter resentment for everyone involved with being on board with this decision. The war that my parents fought in was to dismantle the games, and now was the fight all for nothing? The scars and lost lost ones, are they all in vain?
I have accidentally zoned out during the speech that our escort makes, which I shouldn't have if I were smart, but I'm sure someone in my family will fill me in understanding that I'm thinking more about how I'm being forced into the damned games than listening to ridiculous talk about how brave Rye and I are or something of that nature. I catch words like 'war', 'games', and 'victors', but that's it. I don't really care to pay attention to as I'm trying not to panic. I can always watch or listen to it on the train.
My eyes catch different movement as he walks towards the container with a single slip of paper, microphone in his hand, and I am forced to be in full alert now. "As traditions may never die," Yeah, but I might, "ladies first." His hand swirled in the huge, glass bowl before finally grabbing the single slip of paper with my name of it. I wonder who it could possibly be, I think sarcastically. Why waste everyone's time and just get it over with? The whole district knows Rye and I will be the ones entering the arena; it won't be any surprise to anyone. Have to keep things even more entertaining than it already is for the Capitol, I suppose.
"Willow Mellark," he bellows, grand posture and all, as if this is some joyous occasion to be entered into the arena. Giving my brother's hand a tight squeeze before standing next to the man whose name I didn't catch at the beginning but who will be our escort for the games, I look at the faces before me and it really hits me in that moment that I may never see these faces again. Friends, acquaintances, customers. They may never see me again, and I may never see them again. Are they as sad as I am? Are the friends that I have made over the years grieving over the fact that we may never speak again? I hope someone brings the best squirrels for Alex and that Oliver is delivered the snakes that he needs. And I especially hope Bones doesn't miss Diana too much.
"And now for our gentlemen," our escort announces, strutting towards the bowl to pull out my brother's name. I hear the plural form of the word 'gentleman' as I did with 'lady', and I don't understand why they're keeping this as if it is some big reveal. None of us are surprised when Rye's name is called out with the same tone of voice. I feel a warm hand wrap around mine once more, and I don't need to look to see that it is my twin who is now beside me. There is no volunteering as tribute seeing that we are the only children of victors in District 12. Other districts it may be another story, but there is no hope for the Mellark twins. Not like I could do anything about it, but I couldn't accept anyone else taking my place; I would feel so unbelievably guilty.
As soon as Rye steps up beside me, there is a moment of silence before someone in the middle of the crowd presses three fingers upon their lips and sends us off in a silent salute, but the solemn moment is broken as quickly as it happens as Rye and I are pulled away, inside the building behind the stage that we had just been standing on. While the doors are being slammed behind us, I am thankful for the temporary warmth the building provides before we have to leave via the train that will transport us to the Capitol.
I suddenly feel hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look at the person whose grip holds me steady, and I see Bones staring at me intently. I had been unaware of his presence on stage, but I had been unaware of really anything through the blur of the Reaping that I must have just missed him. In all of my thoughts, I was in the middle of reality and future prospects that I hadn't been fully in moment, missing a huge chuck of what my surroundings were. Which is not something I can't do while in the arena.
"They're not letting either of you say goodbye to anyone," he states with his words rushed, obvious that is running out of time, "I think you're the only ones not able to, because you two are the Mockingjay's children. I may be wrong, but that's beside the point. Willow, you have to stay strong. Don't do anything you might regret. Don't panic. Aim straight if you find a bow and arrow; I know that weapon is your strong suit. You are your mother's daughter, don't let them extinguish your flame; rise above them and burn brighter and faster than they can even imagine. Be a Phoenix."
Don't let them extinguish your flame.
Rise above them and burn brighter and faster.
I have to be something that can never be put out.
You can shoot down a Mockingjay, but a Phoenix can and will come back much bigger and more gloriously glazing than before.