Private Sessions: Remember Me

Kaeleah Stonegate, 16, District One Female.

She was sweating.

A lot.

Like major pit stain sweat; like swimming pools nestled deep in her armpit sweat. It was a sweat that wasn't caused solely by her raging teenage hormones, but rather a nervousness and feeling off butterflies fluttering in her stomach. A sweat that only appeared when she thought of her father.

She wasn't supposed to be thinking of him this week. How many times did she need to remind herself that her tormentor was hundreds of miles away? That he couldn't hurt her any longer? That she was supposed to be having the time of her life here, when really, she was still as scared and neurotic as she had always been?

"Kaeleah Stonegate," a monotone voice crackled over a loud speaker, summoning her into the private training room. Standing to her feet, she felt 23 pairs of eyes land on her. She gave them all fake smiles, her teeth easily blending into the white walls; white floors; white ceilings. Everything, white.

Then, trying to ease her jittery nerves, Kaeleah let out a soft giggle. As she nervously made her way to the white door, it didn't even occur to her that maybe her smiles and giggles meant to hide her nervousness was really just another mask—a replacement for her old one she wore at home. Her laughs had replaced her shy mannerisms; her smiles were the same as her stoned faced expressions. Even here, miles away from her home, she couldn't show her true colors. She hid the reds and blues and purples behind a colorless grin.

The room she entered was the same as the prior: white. A glass window was positioned at one end of the room, while all the weapons were lain out at the other end. Behind the window dozens of people in plain suits mulled about, their eyes all locked on her.

"You have ten minutes to show the gamemakers your skills," the same monotone voice that had called her name before instructed. Kaeleah smiled at the people behind the glass, trying to distract them from her trembling hands and twitching feet.

Her father would see the score. What if it wasn't good enough for him? Would he come find her in the Capitol and make his disappointment known? No, he wouldn't. But could he?No. Stop worrying. The sweat began to roll down her arms and legs, coating her body.

Smiling again, she made her way over to the rack of spears. Picking one up, she noticed it felt heavier than normal. She had been training for an entire year for this moment—she had thrown a million spears at a million different targets until she could hit the bulls-eye with her eyes closed. But now, at this moment, Kaeleah doubted she could hit the target even with her eyes open.

Kaeleah had trouble gripping the first spear. Her hands were clammy, and when she hurled the spear at the target, it slipped out from her grasp, landing nowhere near the target. A few people behind the glass sighed—probably thinking she hadn't gone through a year of training prior—and only volunteered because she was crazy. They had no idea the real reason she volunteered was because of her abusive father and his threats. No notion that the bubbly girl smiling in front of them was trying so hard to be free, yet after living a whole life in chains, didn't know how to live without a white mask.

She ended up hitting the target five times out of ten—subpar. A countdown clock behind the glass blinked 2:12, telling her she only had two minutes to show the judges that she was better than this. However, she couldn't bring herself to show the judges anything more. Her eyes were beginning to hurt from how bright the colorless room was, and she was beginning to feel quite faint under the bright lights.

So, she turned, and smiled a very white smile.

The gamemakers couldn't tell all she wanted to do was curl up into a ball and scream. She yearned to cry tears of blue; rub her eyes until they were a bright red; bury herself under blankets of brown wool; let the yellow sun warm her until all she felt was joy.

Instead she just smiled a very white smile, and pretended everything was alright.

Albert Quarius, 15, District Four Male.

"Albert Quarius," the loudspeaker crackled, causing the young boy to raise his head.

Standing to his feet, Albert whipped his head around, trying to locate where the voice was coming from. "Who called my name?" He hissed, glaring at the remaining tributes sitting in the room, all anxiously waiting for their own name to be called.

"The—uh—gamemakers d—" A girl with a seven on her back stuttered, but Albert cut her off.

Pointing his finger at her, Albert snarled. "You! If you are going to address me, you have to do it by my full title, Albert Quarius, son of the most ruthless and notorious pirate to ever roam the seven seas!" He hollered, catching the attention of most all the other tributes in the room. Some snickered, while others looked at him, their eyes wide with fear. Others didn't seem to care—their minds lost in their own thoughts.

"Fine, Albert Quarius, son of the most ruthless and notorious pirate to ever roam the seven seas, it's your turn to go in for your private session," the boy sitting next to her replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes. A few more people in the room began to giggle, amused by Albert's reaction.

"You landlubbers won't be laughing at me once I kill you all!" Albert screeched, his hoarse voice echoing off the white walls of the room. It filled his ears again, ringing and ringing in an endless cycle that never seemed to end. He then whipped around, stomping towards the door angrily. Those idiots have no idea who they are talking to. Me, they are making fun of me! Who do they even think they are?

The room he entered was as white as the last. White walls; white floors; white everything. Among other things, such as landlubbers, chicken, sand, and people not referring to him by his full title—he hated the color white. It was a weak color, paling in comparison to the dark black of the flag flying high on his ship or the deep blue of the vast sea that held many secrets.

"Landlubbers have such poor taste in color," he muttered to himself loudly. This caught the attention of one of the gamemakers behind the glass, who gave him a confused look.

"Excuse me son?" The gamemaker asked, narrowing his eyes at the boy with the fiery red hair.

Albert chuckled, raising his eyes to challenge those of the gamemaker. "I said landlubbers have such poor taste in color," he repeated, giving the man a scowl. The gamemaker's expression only grew more confused.

"Uh—alright Albert, you h—"

"It's Albert Quarius, son of the most ruthless and notorious pirate to ever roam the seven seas," Albert corrected.

"Uh—Albert Quarius, son of uh—the most notorious pirate to ever roam the seven seas, you have ten minutes to show us what you have learned in training," the head gamemaker instructed, pressing a button that started a clock in the far-right corner of the room.

Albert smiled, turning towards the rows of weapons and stations behind him. It was a bit overwhelming how many stations there were, especially since he hadn't made a plan of what he was going to show the gamemakers before he entered the room. On the left side of the room, a shiny sword caught his eye, and he began to make his way towards it. Lifting it up, he began to swing it around.

Behind the glass, the gamemakers were beginning to scribble down notes on Albert. Those landlubbers are probably blown away by my skills, Albert thought to himself, jabbing the sword into the chest of an invisible tribute. He would surely get a ten, if not an eleven on twelve. Then he'd win, and go back to District Four where he'd make all those landlubbers pay for letting him go to the games.

After all his invisible opponents were defeated, Albert made his way over to the weights station. First, he picked up a one-pound weight and held it high above his head. The gamemakers rolled their eyes, not impressed. He then picked up the five-pound weight, doing the same. The gamemakers still didn't seem to care, their eyes drifting to different parts of the room. They were losing interest.

"Hey, watch this!" Albert called up to them, catching most of their attentions. Wrapping his fingers around a silver barbell with a sixty-pound weight on both sides, he lifted it high into the air. He then held it above his head for a solid ten seconds. The gamemakers began to furiously scribble on their white sheets again. Albert is so amazing, he imagined them writing. He is so strong, and will win the games for sure. We have never seen a tribute as great as him.

A million flashing lights, a million different people roaring his name. "Albert! Albert!" They'd cheer. He'd be bathed in riches, practically swimming in gold. No longer would he be known as Albert Quarius, son of the most ruthless and notorious pirate to ever roam the seven seas. Instead, people would call him Albert Quarius, the winner of the 10th Hunger Games and greatest tribute to ever live.

Setting the barbell down, he slid two more twenty-pound weights onto both sides of the bar. With a grunt, he lifted it off the ground. A few of the gamemaker's eyes widened, curious to see if he could lift 160 pounds.

Yet, he couldn't. The barbell came crashing down, clattering to the ground with a loud bang. Albert growled, angrily kicking the barbell with his left foot. "Stupid weight!" He roared, continuing to kick the weight.

A few minutes into his temper tantrum, the clock began to beep, signaling his ten minutes were up. "Thank you, it was a pleasure," the head gamemaker smiled, waiving him out of the room.

"Yeah, I know," Albert replied with a scowl, giving the barbell one last angry kick before stomping out of the room. Slamming the door behind him, Albert stomped up to his room, angry that the stupid barbell had ruined his score of an eleven.

Nina Esteves, Head Gamemaker.

The boy shooting arrows below her was forgettable. Cinis? No, that wasn't it. Cerulean? Ash? Dust? No, no and no. He was so forgettable she couldn't even remember his name. In two weeks, he'd probably be dead and the Capitol would forget the name of the poor boy from Twelve who was just mediocre at shooting arrows. She couldn't help but wonder if he had a story to tell. Surely, he was more than just a footnote in history; a pawn in the Capitol's games.

Cinder Newport, aged 14, the sheet in front of her read. It was a crisp white half sheet of paper, the boy's name written at the top in plain black letters. Below his name was a dozen or so lines where she was supposed to write up what he showed the gamemakers and anything else she picked up about him. Quirks, personality. If he would be good or not for TV. That type of stuff.

However, she felt stumped. He was the 24th tribute she had seen, and she was beginning to tire of scribbling: mediocre at archery or OK w/ a knife. She wanted to write something more personal for the tributes, something that would make them more than just "the boy from Eight" or "the girl with the blonde hair". Sure, there were a few outliers stuffed in the pile of papers, but those were far and few in between. More often than not they were mundane; boring.

Forgettable.

And all those forgettable footnotes in history were beginning to take a toll on her psyche. The blood from seven years of mundane tributes was beginning to cloud her brain—visit her in her dreams every night. She had killed hundreds, but only could remember a handful of them. The rest were lost to her—to history. Their memories only remembered by a select few, sometimes by none.

A timer on her desk began to beep, signaling ten minutes had passed. The boy—Cinder—glanced up at her with wide eyes. She nodded at him, and he began to put the bows and arrows away. After he was done, a peacekeeper helped him to the door and out of the room.

She pressed her pencil to the blank paper and began to write.

Put the equipment away—likes to help out? Seems like a sweet kid.

Nina didn't need to say that he was a nice kid. She could have just written: OK with arrows. That would have been sufficient; it would have been enough. So why did she take the time to do it? In all honesty, she didn't quite know the answer herself.

Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was the extra burst on energy she got knowing he was the last one of the day.

But it was probably guilt.

Her fellow gamemakers began to shift in their seats, taking their assessment papers and heading to the door eagerly. Behind the wall, a grand feast of meats and cheeses and wine lay spread out on a massive table, just waiting for someone to dig in. Feeling her stomach rumble, Nina stood and joined the others, papers in hand.

. . .

Two hours and five glasses of wine later, Nina stood out on the third-floor balcony, her eyes reddened from crying—her cheeks stained wet with salty tears. The night was a cool one—a northern breeze blew past, sending a chill up her spine. Goosebumps dotted her exposed legs and arms.

"Nina, please, come back inside. It's cold out here," her wife, and fellow gamemaker, Rosetta cooed from the open doorway behind her. A faint chatter could be heard from inside the room, where others were still drunkenly chattering amongst themselves.

Nina shook her head mutely, taking another sip of her wine. "I deserve the cold," she replied through gritted teeth, her tone somewhat bitter.

Chuckling slightly, Rosetta took a step forwards, out into the cold of the night. "Why would you say that? You are only doing your job, like the rest of us."

"Exactly," Nina drunkenly slurred, her eyelids drooping slightly. "My job is the reason I deserve the cold."

Holding back another laugh, Rosetta took another step closer, attempting to interlace her and Nina's fingers. "Then I guess I deserve it too, huh?"

"It's not a thing to laugh about," Nina snapped angrily, pulling away from her wife. "We are killing kids, Rosetta. We're taking their lives. One minute they are here, and the next, poof. They're gone, forgotten."

"Technically, they are killing each other so you shouldn't f— "

Rosetta didn't get to finish, for Nina cut her off. "Don't play dumb with me. We, us, you and I, we are the ones murdering them. No one but us is responsible for their lives, and you know it. We are the reason 23 more are going to die next week!"

"Sweetheart, don't you think you are being a bit irrational?" Rosetta asked calmly, placing a hand on Nina's bony shoulder.

"No!" Nina hollered, yanking her arm away. "You think I'm being irrational?! Me?! Isn't it irrational to want to kill children to get some sort of sick and twisted revenge?!"

The chatter from inside the room seemed to quiet. Rosetta's once gentle expression seemed to fade, replaced by one of worry and anxiousness. "Nina, please. You need to calm down a bit. Someone might hear us."

Silence. For a few minutes, the two stood in the cold of the night, listening to the soft sounds of the city. The honking of cars, the music of some far away club. The cries of a child in the street below, the chattering of people from the room inside.

Then the tears began to flow. First like a drizzle, then a downpour. She felt a gentle hand rub her back, and this time—she didn't pull away.

"I—I—just want something to remember them by. Something to make me feel less guilty for what I'm doing, s—something to remind me that they're people too. I don't w—want to just remember them as a number, or as the kid who is bad with a knife," Nina mumbled through tears.

Her wife nodded, seeming to understand. "I'll be right back," she whispered, prying her hand off Nina's shoulder and disappearing back into the building. A few minutes later, she returned, a stack of white papers in hand.

"Come," Rosetta motioned Nina over to a pair of chairs next to the door. Nina trudged over, plopping herself down in the luxurious velvet seat.

A white paper was handed to her. On the top was written a name, Kaeleah Stonegate, the girl's district, One, and her age, 16. Scribbled in the blank below was the note: expecting more, a volunteer? OK with a spear—hit 50%. Possibly hiding something, can't put a finger on it. Secret talent?

"She had a nice smile," Rosetta remarked, giving her wife a weak grin. "Didn't you think so?"

Nina nodded her head mutely, finding herself grinning too. "It was very pretty; her teeth were so white I could have sworn they were pearls."

Rosetta took the sheet, scribbling something down. Nina craned her neck, squinting her eyes to read what her wife just wrote.

When she smiled, her teeth were so white they looked like pearls.

"A way to remember her," Nina whispered, instantly getting the idea. "It's perfect."

Taking the next sheet, Nina read the name off the top. Eris Valliano. District One. Aged 18. Below was the note. Strong, obviously trained. Kopis = weapon of choice. Make sure to put in cornicop. Beheaded & stabbed dummies w/ ease. Very focused. Potent winner.

"Oh, I remember him!" Rosetta exclaimed, taking the sheet out of Nina's hands. "He was super handsome, like a knight in shining armor!"

Narrowing her eyes, Nina couldn't help but hold back a laugh. The mood on the balcony had taken a total 180—solemn to playful. "But you don't even like men!" Nina giggled, playfully rolling her eyes at Rosetta.

"I know, but can't a gay girl appreciate a nice-looking guy?" Rosetta questioned, playfully raising an eyebrow at Nina. Nina only shook her head and scribbled a few words down on the paper.

So handsome, made a gay girl swoon.

"Really?" Rosetta sighed, shaking her head back and forth. Nina only cracked her a sly grin.

Next was Lena Evangelos, the girl from District Two. Excellent with a bladed baton/double sword, easily killed dummies. Trained. Fought like a wild animal, nostrils flaring. Winning potent.

Nina wrote: Had a death glare so scary she could kill a tribute w/ it alone.

Holding back a snort, Rosetta picked up the next sheet. "Lena, she was so scary. Remember when she looked at us after she was done? She looked like she was going to murder us before she got in the arena."

Nodding her head mutely in agreement, Nina scanned over the next sheet. Alaric Pyre. District Two. Aged 18. Sparred with trainer using sword. Not necessarily good with sword, but read trainer very well. Knew trainer's next move in advance. Potent winner.

"He was the one that looked like a ghost!" Rosetta chimed, taking from Nina's hands. She wrote the words she had just spoken down before placing the sheet aside and picking up the next.

The two went on this way for a while, picking up the different sheets and taking turns reading them off to each other, laughing and giggling in the process. Some were easier to fill out than others, as most tributes, though Nina didn't like to think so, were ultimately forgettable. With each specialized note Nina wrote, whether it was about a tribute's unique appearance or special mannerism they possessed, seemed to make the heavy weight on her shoulders soften. By the end of the night, the guilt had left her body completely.

All she was left with was a plethora of comments, and a terrible hangover that lasted far into the next day.

A/N: Sorry for the long wait! I went away for two weeks and now school's beginning to start, so updates are going to be biweekly/triweekly now most likely. I'm a bit out of practice for this chapter, but I hope you enjoyed the POVs nonetheless.

Questions: Who do you think is going to get the best score? Worst score? What do you think your score would be if you were in the games?

paper :)