"To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream"
~Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
I pace the length of my living room – back and forth, back and forth until I've nearly run a trail in the soft rug. I'm exhausted with a lack of sleep and irritated as well as angry at having nothing better to do that sit here and wait. I can't help but feel like the last cow in line for slaughter; I know it's coming, I'm terrified out of my mind, and yet there isn't a single thing I can do about it.
My fingers instinctively reach up and take hold of my necklace. The charms roll between my fingers, their presence both comforting and painful. The whole summer has been hell, knowing that at the end, the reaping loomed. It was bearable until the Victory tour rolled through. I refused to attend the party when they stopped here. I knew Finnick wouldn't be with them, so there wasn't any point in going. And then, since Vinny left, I've been a wreck. I've taken to not sleeping, and, when I eventually do, I've had some of the worst nightmares yet. And now, here I am, pacing with anxiety.
At least I won't be the newest mentor anymore. I'm still popular, as unfortunate as it is. Blight took the liberty of watching one of Ceaser Flickerman's pre-reaping specials and apparently I still take up a good portion of the conversation. Why couldn't I have been a nobody Victor? Why couldn't I just win and they all forget about me?
Blight talks to me more than he ever did. I'm sullen and angry and spend most of our conversations calling him names because he is the one who made me get rid of Vinny. I still stand by that decision, and I never once open the door when he knocks but it hurts and Blight is the one who gave me the idea. I think Derek must have told him, hence his attempts at conversation. He feels bad, but I'm confident he doesn't regret it,
I nearly stop breathing when a knock comes at my door. I know it's Derek but I still feel my heart flutter with hope when I pull it open. I don't hide my disappointment but Derek doesn't seem to care; he's as distracted as I am today. We walk together in silence to the town center, Adele being the only one to say anything between us. People are everywhere, getting to where they need to be, looking to friends and family for support. I catch all of their faces, wondering which two will soon be with me. Which families will be planning funerals tonight?
Karina finds us nearly as soon as we arrive to usher us to our spots. Her smile and cheery small talk are soon abandoned for an irritated scowl at my lack of "hospitality." She ignores me up until the point the mayor begins his speech about the dark days and still keeps her chin pointedly forward while he reminds us that we're supposed to be grateful for the Capitol's generosity at allowing us to live despite our rebellion. As if we had any say in it.
A part of me screams to fight. The Mayor believes his words as little as the rest of us, why should he have to speak them, or us listen? The Capitol rules with fear, but we have the numbers. Just from running my eyes over the crowd I know there's enough of us to take down the Peacekeepers and their guns. But that would be suicide, wouldn't it? But they have bombs. And hoverships. I want to do something. But I can't. I'm hopelessly stuck.
Karina smiles broadly when it's her turn to take the microphone. She practically dances her way over to the glass bowl. My heart drums in my ears as she pulls out a slip. When she clears her throat she sounds almost happy. "Jillian Collins!" she shouts.
I find her emerging from the seventeen-year-old section, her eyes glossy with terror. Her eyes move wildly, desperate for someone to do something to save her. But there are no volunteers out here. She turns to look over her shoulder as she reaches the stage. I try to follow her gaze but I can't see who she's looking for other than they belong with fourteen of thirteen- year-olds. Sibling loyalty doesn't extend to The Hunger Games. I wonder if that's what she's hoping for – for her younger sister to jump in and save her, or if she's looking to make sure she doesn't. I had the same thought myself at every reaping: what would I do if I was called and Lily volunteered? They'd have to kill me right there to keep her from going. But that doesn't matter anymore; she'll never be in a reaping anyway.
I blink away the thought as the girl climbs the stage. She looks right at me; her brown eyes are filled with tears. Already I know that she'll hardly make it a day.
Karina moves on quickly to the boy. "Ivan Wilson!" she calls him. My throat constricts tightly when he steps out from the thirteen-year-olds. By his height and features I would've thought him hardly more than ten.
They're taken inside to say their goodbyes while Derek and I almost simultaneously sink down onto a dark couch in the hall. I worry at the edge of my shirt, though it's not much of a distraction. Blight wanders up a minute or so later, hovering near us. I don't acknowledge him, but Derek seems happy that he's here. Maybe he actually likes him or is just happy to have him to talk to while we wait. Even with my eyes on the floor I notice Blight glancing over at me every few seconds. I bite my cheek and ignore it, hoping that maybe he'll just leave. But he doesn't. he keeps looking at me and my nerves, already dangerously thin, feel like they're going to snap.
"Do you have a problem?" I sneer, looking up at him.
Both he and Derek go silent, looking over at me. Karina, who is down the hall even looks over.
"Just… shut up" I huff, leaning back in the couch, running my fingers through my hair.
Jillian and Ivan don't take long with their goodbyes. Karina leads the group of us out to the car and poses us for photos before allowing us onto the silent train. No one says a word once the door closes behind us. Even Karina seems to realize that it isn't the time for needless chatter.
Derek lets them both go to their rooms until dinner. Selfishly I'm relieved when the door closes behind them; they can cry by themselves. I sit in a chair, ignoring Derek, ignoring Karina, just staring out into the rapidly moving trees.
Subconsciously I find my hand reaching towards the window, where I press my fingers against the cool glass. Outside, the world moves so fast that it makes my head hurt, but I don't look away. Vaguely I'm aware of my own reflection staring back at me with sunken eyes and lips chewed raw. I don't look anything like a Victor.
Derek seems irritated with me when we all sit down to eat a few hours later. I don't look at either of the tributes, just down at my food. I remember being in their place and it almost makes me sick to think of it.
Derek finishes a glass of wine, then two, then three before leaning back in his chair to look them both over. "So," he sighs, "what can you do?"
Jillian looks up first. Without tears in her eyes she looks stronger, but I notice her throat bob as she meets Derek's stare. "Well, I've worked in the lumber yard for the last two years."
"So has everyone else" I mutter. "You're from District 7, everyone already expects that you know trees and axes."
She bites her lips and drops her eyes to the table. "Johanna" Derek warns, turning his head to look at me.
"It's the truth" I say, dropping my fork onto my plate with a clatter. I don't know where it's from but I can feel the boiling wave of rage rolling through my veins. This is so wrong. So sick. I pause, feeling bile rise in my throat as I remember Vinny using the same word only a few weeks before. "You want advice?" I ask, looking back at the tributes, who have both gone pale. "Step off that pedestal. Don't run, don't fight, because you don't have a chance of coming back home. I hope you said goodbye."
Neither of them say anything. Not even Derek seems to know what to say. A tear rolls down Jillian's face but other than that, time could be frozen by how still everything is. I'm not wrong, and that's why no one argues. I'm still angry. Lately all I seem to be able to feel is anger, but growing beneath it is the rising numbness. I can feel my insides falling away into the abyss, leaving me completely empty.
We watch the reapings with tense apprehension. The Careers are as strong as ever and there's two others that might get lucky, but otherwise it's nothing special. No one stands out as the clear winner this year.
Derek tries to get them talking but neither of them answers with much more than a nod or shake of the head. He tries to give them advice, to tell them that skill doesn't mean as much as how much you want to win. He's right, but I keep my mouth shut and eyes trained out the window. It's true, but neither of them have that desire or will that'll keep them alive. But, skill still matters, and they have none.