The Door Slammed Shut

Belle Hatton, Age 16, District Twelve Female Tribute

I convinced Hope to go back to sleep, after a quiet, lazy morning breakfast of toasted tesserae-grain bread for me, mashed up fruit from the garden for Hope. I hadn't talked much, because I didn't know what to say. My daughter didn't know what the date was, and even if she did, she wasn't old enough to know what it meant. So she went on toddling towards the creaky stairs with her usual crooked smile and half-untied shoelaces as I watched, trying to not think that in all odds I wasn't going to see a day when those steps were steady and shoes were tied.

I did leave for a minute, just a minute, hoping it would stop the feeling that the air itself was strangling me. Dharma, my roommate and Hope's future caretaker, was in one of the Children's Home's side-rooms with a group of twelve-year-olds, three girls in their first year of the Reaping, pale and terrified. Twelve years of live that, in just one second, a word or two today, could just end, first all at once, delayed in some haze by the Capitol's luxury, and then… what? Constant, running fear and pain and wondering exactly what fate awaited them, innocent kids their own age now their sworn enemies? No, none of them would be getting reaped this year. And if I got all this right, my secrets would mostly be buried with me, Hope unknown and out of the Reaping.

"Are you sure it looks okay?" asked Lindy (really Melinda), one of the twelves. She smoothed her hand-me-down blue dress, longer on her than it was meant to be, with a collar too tight. Her sister, Trinity, was—as always—nowhere to be found, your typical seven-year-old even if she looked three.

"It does," Dharma assured, reaching past one of the others for a comb; "really."

I finally offered a quick wave and left again, upstairs to Hope. Bitterly, I thought that she looked better asleep, blue eyes closed, hiding that the trait couldn't have come from me or anybody from the Seam, but instead a damned Peacekeeper probably from Two, a district famous for taking down our tributes early over the years.

I glanced up and out the window, which, if I turned the right way, slightly faced towards town, which I now avoided, and where Meggie, known to most as the un-public Children's Home director and to me as a friend of my late parents', was probably trying to appeal to the merchants' lenience on prices today.

Then I sat on the edge of my bed, where Hope had decided to sleep, and wondered, then decided. I was going to leave for the Reaping before she woke. Selfish, maybe, but what was I supposed to do? Casually drop it by her that she would probably never see me again, try to say goodbye, even though… she'd probably have no memory of me. She wasn't even three yet—would she remember a single one of my stories, or our walks outside, or when I'd taken her through the tunnel in the basement to show her the woods I wanted us to move to when she was old enough, before all this started? I took a deep breath in, still feeling suffocated.

If I didn't say goodbye, what would she think of me when she woke?

I did remember something from when I thought I was about her age. This old, old mix of story and lyrics, probably changed over time, one I'd heard again and again since. My last chance to tell it, though it was probably a bit too morbid, but really? Really, it wasn't any worse than the reality she'd wake up to one day. Cruel, but maybe fair. So I started, my voice wavering where it wasn't supposed to, kind of scratchy.

"Are you, are you, coming to the tree? Where they strung up a man, they say murdered three?" I paused, then went into a storyteller mode: "Once there was a man in District Twelve everyone said killed three townsfolk, who was to be hung in a tree just beyond the fence around the district. The day of his death, he was asked by a Peacekeeper if he had any last words, and he looked out at all the people, and at his one true love, and he told her to escape and be free." I inhaled, willing my hands to stop shaking. "Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be, if we met up at midnight, in the hanging tree; come, wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me."

"After the man was hung, his love went home and later, heard his voice singing: 'Are you, are you, coming to the tree? Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be, if we met up at midnight…'

"She looked at the clock to see it was just before the time from the song, and ran back out to the woods where the hanging tree was. There was nobody there, but instead a ghost of the man who had been hung that day—" My voice broke for a second, thinking of how Hope wouldn't even be able to attend my funeral, see the coffin they would send my lifeless body back in… what would she picture of it, later?

I swallowed, and tried to continue. "The ghost sang to her, 'I told you to run, so we'd both be free; come, wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.' And then the ghost started to fade away, disappearing into the noose still swaying from the branch."

This was the part where there started to be different versions, different endings, different morals. I went with the classic: "His love sang back to the air, 'Are you, are you, really truly free? You still have nothing here, in the hanging tree….'"

I coughed, intentionally and unintentionally ending the story prematurely, before the preachy part, then stood, waiting for some meaningful last words to appear, which none did. I closed my eyes, thinking of the Reapings running on the television downstairs—how did everyone else manage it? I thought of the family in District Two, one sibling a volunteer, the other reaped, knowing that even if their district won, only one would live, only one could be able to come back, knowing they were the reason the other was dead… that kind of goodbye was impossible, one to be said before even entering the arena.

Last words, ones that had escaped me, tossing and turning my last night at home. I ran my hand through Hope's hair, one final time. "Don't go to the tree, Hope," I whispered, tears threatening me. Don't give up. Ever.

I breathed, something more like a sob, and turned away, towards the open door. I steadied myself with one hand on the doorknob, looking back at the saltwater-blurred scene of my daughter sleeping peacefully. Some choke sound escaped me as my grip tightened, even while I felt sicker and sicker, dizzy.

Hope stirred. "Mom-my?" she tried, confused, sleepy.

I closed my eyes tightly, ignored the headache. Stay. Leave. Risk trying to say goodbye, or go now. Become a distant, sad memory, or give up every possibility to remain here. I shook my head, took one slow step forward, and shut the door behind me.

. . . . .

The sixteen-year-old section grew more and more crowded even as the drawing approached, people cramming into the roped-off areas through the story of Panem, the list of past victors and mentor announcement, and our escort's speech. Breathing grew more difficult, my heart was pounding rapidly somewhere in my throat as a thin slip of paper was slowly drawn from the reaping ball. I was shaking, almost vibrating, tensed and ready to move.

"Belle Hatton!"

There it was, that was my name, that was my cue. Nobody was moving, no one knew who I was. I shuffled a bit towards the aisle until people got the message, one step after another, the space around me widening.

It was an awfully long way to the stage, wasn't it? Self-conscious, I started walking faster, reminding myself to try and pick my head up, unfold my arms, attempt a smile or something amidst all the surreal stares that pierced through the quiet, dead quiet.

I became very suddenly aware of everyone's eyes diverting away from me, someone gasping for breath from behind me, and turned, still numb and just out of it. "I—I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" the person was screaming, desperate and eyes wide with fear. "I volunteer! You can't make her go!" Everything registered all at once, and I flinched, snapping out of my daze. Dharma. Volunteering. For me.

"I—… volunteer…" she gasped one more time, stumbling forwards, then collapsing to the ground. I looked up at the stage, because they couldn't accept a volunteer that went unconscious, could they? And she knew! I'd told her I was going to the Games, said to stay with Hope. I was still just standing there, what was wrong with me?

Meggie forced her way out of the crowd, reaching Dharma at the same time as two medics that materialized from the sides of the square. "I'm not accepting volunteers," I said, then repeated it again, louder. Then I was torn, not quite knowing what I was supposed to be doing.

"Come on up, then," said the escort, and I did, my senses oddly sharp now, a bit hyper-alert. I stood in my place on the stage, just staring out over the crowd, trying to not look at the screens, the mess my more casual Reaping outfit probably was. Gunner was reaped, name just an echo carried in the breeze, coming up to stand on the opposite side of the platform.

There was the Treaty of Treason, the anthem, Gunner and I shook hands—he was trembling the whole time, eyes teary—and then: "Happy Hunger Games!" came the trill of the escort. "And may the odds be ever in your favor."

. . . . .

My first batch of visitors—Meggy and Dharma, apparently recovered—were being ushered out, too soon; I was still calling things after them, forgetting about caution. "No matter what happens you can't forget! Tell Hope I love her—!" One of the Peacekeepers slammed the door on my cries, almost hitting me in the face as I took a stunned step backwards.

It opened again, this time the trio from this morning, Lindy, Jenni and Louisa, plus Trinity, half hiding behind her sister. The groups of kids from the Home kept filing in and out, dragging little pieces of me out with them. Siblings Amity and Colin, sweet little kids originally from town, who were always doing more than their fair share of work in the gardens, going to visit the merchants, picking flowers to lay on the graves of last year's tributes. A group of Seam boys that had taken to "homeschooling" each other and some of the others, always doing handy work, repairing the parts of the Home starting to fall apart or cave in. Tacey, a girl that always seemed to talk used books out of the hands of an elderly pawn shop owner; a shy, ten-year-old boy with a gift for playing the piano; a mix of kids around fourteen who already considered themselves elitists. The list went on.

After the hour was up, after all my visitors had left, leaving me feeling a bit empty and depleted, the Peacekeepers came to retrieve me. My steps were suddenly heavy and in slow motion, firmly guided by the Peacekeepers, but everything looked like a blur. The end of the hallway came nearer, the other end growing further and further away, more than it seemed it should've been, like the hallway was growing narrower and more suffocating, but longer and longer.

Behind me, the door slammed shut.

. . . . .

Disclaimer: Original "The Hanging Tree" lyrics belong to Suzanne Collins. No copyright infringement intended.