I feel like I've been climbing up some stairs and I've miscounted, tried for a step that isn't there and fallen where I expected to be able to stand. It's like the entire of my life has been put in a snow globe and shaken around, and now I'm swirling in it, floating, trying to pull it back together, trying to put the pieces in an order that makes sense to me. Only no order does make sense. Nothing does. Not what I've been told, not the person saying it, not the expression on the face of the man on the screen in front of me. I want to search for Benton in the crowd, or Peyton, or even Caleb, any face that can give me something to hang on to, an anchor to bring me back to myself, but instead I'm unable to tear my eyes away from this one face. The face, so I'm told, of the man who destroyed my life.
I can hear the crowd as if muffled, like they're underwater, can vaguely hear Caesar saying something, but I'm unable to focus, unable to do anything but lock my eyes on this man. I don't recognize him, but for a victor he's reasonably unremarkable looking; in his early thirties, not overly tall or impressive, with a thin face, a haunted expression and straggly, dirty blonde hair. The only thing that sets him apart is his bright grey eyes; cold, smart, dangerous, and currently staring at me. Something in my head is telling me I should turn away, that I should focus myself, but I'm incapable of doing anything other than counting the beats of my heart and taking in every detail of the killer before me. I feel Caesar reaching for my hand, but I still can't bring myself out of my stupor, and its only when the camera cuts away from the District 12 mentor, only when my own dumbstruck expression appears in front of me, that I am able to dig through the dark swirling clouds of my mind and focus on the last piece of advice I received from Peyton.
'Caesar likes to put on a good show. If he says anything that...surprises you, just make sure you remember you are on camera, you are being watched.'
I swallow as this thought ricochets through my addled brain, and suddenly the noise of the crowd cuts back in and I am able to focus. Not now, I think. I can't deal with this now. Right now is about me, on camera, the world watching, and with this thought in my head I let out a gasp, clutching my hand around the one Caesar has placed in mine. He squeezes it back, obviously happy to have a coherent tribute again as he pats me firmly on the knee.
"Tyla, I can see this came as a big shock to you, but I think we can all agree this is another example of the world working in ways we can't understand. It may just be your destiny to play in these games."
He's talking rubbish again, but at least I'm able to cling to this, make some sense of it, and I nod quickly, gasping out the first thing that comes to my mind as he watches me expectantly.
"Yes. Yes, I was meant to be chosen."
The crowd erupts as the gong sounds, and Caesar claps loudly, waiting for the cheering to die down. He gestures up to the cameras as he speaks.
"That tells us our time is up, but I have one more thing to say to you."
The crowd waits, hushed, as he turns to me, clasping each of my shaking hands in his as he pulls them towards him, his eyes fixed on mine.
"Tyla. You're a Community girl who has had to fight for survival her entire life. You put your name in the draw dozens of extra times when you didn't have to. You were planning on volunteering before destiny intervened and selected your name. And your family history ties you to the Hunger Games in ways you didn't even know about. In light of all of this, I don't think anyone can argue that this is a game that you were truly born to play."
A hush falls over the audience, and I know that the entire world is listening, waiting for my response. I look up at Caesar, and I feel almost eerily calm as I say the only thing in the world I know I am sure of.
"I'm ready."
The noise from the crowd makes my ears buzz as they erupt into cheers, and Caesar kisses me on both cheeks, passing me over to be escorted back to my seat as he gives his parting comments.
"That's what we like to hear! Ladies and gentlemen, the girl who was born to play; your tribute from District 7, Tyla Ravenscroft!"
I allow myself to be shepherded back to my seat and drop numbly into it, ignoring the stares, the whispers and nudges from around me as the crowd continues to roar. It takes a few minutes for their excitement to die down, and though I know that Nico will be having his interview now I can't hear it, can't see him, can do nothing but stare at my hands. I spend the remainder of the interviews motionless, staring blankly downwards, my resolve to use the time to figure out the other tributes strategies forgotten as I instead struggle to keep down the contents of my stomach.
I can hear the sounds of the interviews as if they are far away from me, the occasional muffled laughter, the roar of the crowd that sounds so curiously distant. There's a peculiar fuzzing in my ears, a tingling running up and down my spine on a loop, and it's not until we are released from our seats and have trailed back to the training centre, until I am face to face with my mentors, when I realise what this tingling is. Its rage. Pure, pounding, blinding, overwhelming fury. At the sight of Xavier's excited face, Benton eyeing me warily, and Peyton's always impassive gaze hooked on mine, I can suddenly recognize it for what it is, and this rage pours forth from me like a waterfall as I throw myself at her.
I'm screaming, hammering my fists blindly and shouting words I can't even comprehend as I have nothing in my mind but that warning. The warning she was so careful to give. The warning that I should keep my composure, remember I was being watched if anything was said that I wasn't expecting. The warning that tells me only one thing- that she knew.
In the back of my mind, I know that we are in full view of everyone, that every tribute is probably watching me right now, but I don't care. Let them look, I think. Let them see just how angry I can get. I feel arms grasping me from behind, pulling me backwards, and I kick, out, aiming at nothing as Benton locks his arms around me and I am pinned motionless by his sheer brute strength. I continue to struggle as my eyes regain their focus and I can see the faces in front of me; Xavier looking utterly horrified, Peyton as expressionless as always, unmoved by my frenzied attack. And Benton.
It's this that throws me into silence, causes me to stop completely as I process that he's in front of me. He's gripping my arms, stilling me, his eyes locked on mine as he wills me into submission without saying a word, but it's not his arms that are around me, not him that's pulled me into the present. I hear him saying something, and process it slowly- are you done?- and I nod, my breath slowing as I feel the arms slowly pull back from me.
Benton looks up behind me and I turn, looking up into Caleb's eyes as he stares back at me, his face holding nothing but understanding and sadness. I swallow, not wanting to look back at him, and instead look past him at the assorted tributes. They are being quickly lead away by their own mentors but staring back at me nonetheless, and its then that I see Asha. I remember her from the reaping, remember thinking that she was strong, a potential threat, remember being amazed that she showed promise. Remember thinking how unusual that was for someone from her District. District 12.
As soon as this clicks into place my eyes shift to her right, and sure enough there he is. Her mentor. I feel a cold chill run over me and I push past Caleb, shake off Benton as I march towards him. To his credit, he pushes away from his tributes and walks to meet me, his face grim, eyes cold.
"Control your tribute, Benton, she's making a fool of herself."
He snaps snidely at me as I approach, and I feel Benton's hands lock onto my shoulders from behind me, holding me in place.
"Give it a rest, Haymitch. You saw what happened, it was butchery. She had no idea."
Haymitch shrugs and stares down at me. "That's the way the Capitol works. They know you better than you do. Aint nothing they can't get to. Best she learns that sooner rather than later."
I narrow my eyes, hating this cold, sarcastic man to the very core of his being, and grit my teeth as I speak. "You killed my parents," I spit, and he raises his eyebrows and gives a short laugh.
"And won't you? Won't you be killing anyone you can? Won't you be fighting against what could have been somebody's father, mother? Don't tell me that will stop you, because when you are in there, in the arena, where the only thing you can be certain of is death, it won't stop you. Nothing will."
I clench my fists, wanting to reach out and claw at his arrogant, mocking face, but Benton is behind me, willing me to turn and leave, and as much as I hate to admit it Haymitch is right. How can I blame him for fighting for his life? He's as much of a victim of this as they were, as I am. It may be true, but it doesn't stop me hating him, and I take deep breaths, trying to force my anger down as I send every dark thought I've ever had in the direction of this man. He glances up as Benton tugs me back slightly, pulling me away, and then ducks his head to me suddenly, his cold grey eyes level with mine.
"I'm sorry your parents are dead and not me. If I could change places with them, I would."
He speaks so fast I'm not sure it even happened, and with that he turns on his heel and marches away. Benton tugs at my shoulders again, and this time I allow him to turn me, to guide me back to the lift.
The others are gone, and as we step inside I lean back against the wall, letting out long slow breaths as the doors close and Benton leans against the wall opposite me, his eyes fixed on my face. I'm trying to right my brain, trying to pull myself back into the real world, but it's difficult. In just one second every little thing I thought I knew about myself has changed, and right now, the only thing that makes sense is Thornton's bizarre questions that caused me such confusion before. I think back to his queries, how he kept asking about my parents, and suddenly I understand it: he was trying to see how much I knew, trying to make sure this grand revelation would be as big a surprise to me as he hoped- a TV moment worth capturing. The realisation that he knew this about me, knew me better than I did, and that many others probably did too is a sobering thought, and after a moment I shift my eyes across to Benton and lick my dry lips slowly.
"Did you know?"
After a pause he gives a slight nod. I give a bitter bark of laughter and he steps forward, clasping my arms in his.
"I knew that they knew something about you, and that they were going to tell you at the interview, but that's all I knew, I swear. We were told to prepare you for a surprise. If I had had any idea…"
He cuts off, running his hand through his hair, and then looks back at me.
"I'm sorry, Tyla. We were expressly forbidden from saying anything, but I should have. I'm sorry."
I bury my face in my hands as my pulse races, and as the lift doors open I immediately push past him and race to my room. I close the door firmly, although I'm sure nobody would be foolish enough to follow, and immediately rip the dress from my body. The beautiful fabric falls to the floor in shreds as I pull every last piece of it from my skin, and then I barge blindly into the bathroom, turning the shower on full power. I sit on the floor and close my eyes as the water pummels onto my head, forcing every thought out of my brain. I don't know how long I sit there, minutes, hours, but I don't move until my heartbeat is steady, my breath is slow and every scrap of shimmer, every trace of the Capitol is washed away. Even then I stay, waiting, letting the heat and the force of the water become the focus of my world, of my thoughts, allowing myself to drift into oblivion.
When I eventually turn the water off I'm shivering, despite the boiling temperature I had it at, and I reach for a thick towel robe on the back of the door, wrapping myself in it. I tug myself shakily to my feet, my body trembling from the cold and the onslaught of emotion, and stumble from the bathroom, not pausing as I head to the door of my room and open it. I step blindly over a tray that has been placed there and head down the corridor, not stopping until I reach the door at the end of the hall, pushing it open and entering without knocking, stopping as the door closes behind me.
Benton, half asleep, blinks up at me, and then his face changes as his eyes shift into focus and he pulls himself from the bed. He's across the floor in a second, his arm gripping my shoulders, staring down at me.
"Tyla, you're freezing." I shrug him off and stare him down.
"I want to see their games."
He nods as if he's been expecting it. He steers me across to his bed, rubbing his warm hands on my shaking arms as he does, and urges me onto it, gathering the blanket over my shoulders before he turns and fiddles with the screen on his wall. I stay on the edge of his bed, letting the heat from his still warm blanket seep through me as I wait, and before long the sounds of the opening ceremony music are ringing out. It's older somehow, less brash and less modern, but it's the games, nonetheless, and I start as the familiar voice of Claudius Templesmith fills the room, declaring the most exciting games yet- the 2nd Quarter Quell. I've heard of them, but never seen one, and I look at Benton for help. He's stood in the corner, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his bare chest and watching me. As soon as I look over he speaks up.
"To celebrate each 25th anniversary. This was the 50th games, they put in 48 tributes, 4 from each District."
I turn back to the screen as a presenter I don't recognize, presumably an early version of Caesar Flickerman, introduces the Head Gamemaker and they discuss the coming games. I glance at Benton again and he crosses over to me, reaching for a glass panel on his bedside cabinet and pressing a few buttons as the screen speeds up before me. He slows it down right as the familiar buildings of District 7 hit the screen, and I feel my stomach turn at the familiarity. It looks no different. It could be last week. And there's the mayor, younger but no less bored, reading the dreary opening speech. A rake thin woman with hair the colour of burnt popcorn leaps onto the stage, and the next thing I know she is drawing a paper slip and her high, Capitol voice is booming out.
"Clover Ravenscroft."
Every muscle in my body freezes as the camera pans to a face in the crowd. I never knew her name. But there she is. She's beautiful. I knew she would be, with long, golden hair, just like I've been told. And she's weeping uncontrollably. For some reason this angers me, and I watch in irritated fascination as she takes to the stage. The same stage I was on last week. This woman, so foreign to me, so hard to attach any meaning to, is my mother. I can't comprehend it. I stare at her face, trying to feel a connection, feel sadness, feel anything, but I feel strangely detached, almost confused. There's a shout, suddenly, from the crowd, and someone dives forward.
"I volunteer! I volunteer in her place!"
The escort laughs, shrill and bell like, and shakes her head at him joyfully.
"Come along now, you can't take the place of a girl young man, you know this." He swallows.
"Then I volunteer to go in too."
My mother cries out in horror, but the escort beams, reaching her hand out.
"Well that's a different matter entirely. Come on up, dear boy, and tell us all your name."
She holds the microphone under his mouth, and he stares past her, stares at my mother as he answers.
"Amias Ravenscroft."
My father. There they are, my parents, the faceless entities I spent my life wishing for, right there in front of me. I stare, transfixed, ignoring the other tributes as they are called, watching nothing but my parents, stood on the stage, their hands clutching each other. I'm trying desperately to drudge up some emotion, but I can't do it, can't connect myself with these strangers on the screen, can't feel anything other than fascination and a slight numbness.
The next reaping rolls along and I don't even have to look at Benton before he's forwarding it again, and he stops it right when my Amias is in the middle of his interview. "I've gone too far forward" Benton says apologetically, but I hold up my hand to stop him, my ears hooked on what Amias is saying.
"She's my wife, she's everything to me, and I couldn't just let her die. I had to save her. She's all I have."
Liar, I think, and my stomach leaps in repulsion. I turn quickly to Benton.
"I don't want to see this. I want to see the games. I want to see how they die."
I know it sounds morbid and strange but I don't care, and either way Benton just speeds the screen on without question. He slows it several times, whenever there's blood; normally it's just another faceless tribute, but eventually he finds it, and we both watch in silence.
My parents are worse than useless. They are fighting a couple, a girl I don't recognise and the younger version of Haymitch. He looks different, of course; young, less beaten down, still hopeful almost, but his eyes hold their same steely glint as he easily gets the best of Amias and quickly and efficiently slits his throat, leaving him to claw desperately in the direction of Clover as she screams his name before her own head is smashed in with a club. It's over so fast I can barely blink, and I stare at the screen as Haymitch helps up the girl and they carry on as if it's nothing.
I'm still staring long after the hovercrafts have picked them up, and eventually the screen goes black as Benton switches it off and then the bed sinks as he sits beside me. We say nothing, neither of us moves, and I simply stare blankly at the wall, trying to summon up some sort of emotion, anything at all other than cold indifference.
That's your parents, I tell myself. You have to feel something. But I can't. It doesn't seem real. I don't want it to be real. Because this does not match the picture I created in my head. My parents are brave, loving and selfless. They cared for me and they died tragically. My parents are not young and foolish and helpless and tearful, they do not weep when their name is drawn, they do not volunteer for the games when they have a child. They don't declare their love for their wife to be the only thing they have when they have a child. They don't choose to die with their wife rather than life with their child. They don't have a child when they could still be entered for the games. It's this thought, more than anything, that enrages me to speak for the first time.
"I hate them." I say, and Benton nods slowly.
"It's what they do. To them, we aren't people, we're just playing pieces."
I shake my head, angry that he hasn't understood me, even though his assumption makes more sense.
"Not the Capitol. My parents. I hate them." I see him look at me as I continue. "They're pathetic. They're useless. They couldn't do anything."
Benton turns to me, clutching my hands in his. "They did the best they were capable of. They were kids, Tyla. Just kids, like everyone else." I shake my head again.
"If they were kids, then why did they have a child? How stupid and self-centred and arrogant can you be to have a child when you could be called up for the reaping? And how unbelievably selfish do you have to be to volunteer?"
Benton says nothing to this. There's nothing to say. He knows I'm right. Because there's no excuse. There's no excuse to get married and have a child when you could be sent to die at any moment. Even if you want to get married, are old enough to, nobody is so foolish as do it until they are no longer eligible for reaping. There is often a rush of weddings in the months after the reaping, 18 year olds who have escaped being chosen, who now know they can begin planning their lives. They wouldn't do this before, unless they were very stupid. Like my parents. I must have served as a living, breathing reminder that you should wait. A human warning. An unwanted child with stupid, arrogant parents. Parents who didn't love her enough to stay. Parents who would rather volunteer to go to their deaths than keep her safe.
I place my head in my hands as this thought overwhelms me, and Benton slides his hand around my shoulders and pulls me too him, my head resting on his chest. Maybe he expects me to cry. I should cry. But I can't. I'm not sad. I don't morn for my parents, I truly hate them. In one second they've gone from being a perfect fantasy to a horrendous reality, and the only thing I'm mourning is the idea of them, the people they never were. The only thing I could possibly be sad about is the loss of something that never existed, and that might be the saddest thing of all.