"Prisoner, Prisoner, " - Prisoner by Miley Cyrus
A Song of Snakes and Rats - The 41st Annual Hunger Games
Training Days, Private Sessions
Male Tribute from District Six, Errol Acosta
I wrinkle the soaked sheets into the tightest ball I can form before burying them into the drawer. Somehow, I've pissed the sheets. Well, half pissed, half sweated them soaked. Its part of the detoxing process, but that doesn't mean I want the avoxes cleaning it up. It's already hard enough, having to watch the way Tressa looks at me, inquiring if I'm going to be an asset or someone who gets killed instead.
I pull myself into the shower, shaking slightly even before the water touches my skin. You've done this before, I tell myself this through the pounding of the water. You've done this before. You've been clean before. I repeat it over and over and over. But I've also always had my family—my mother and her medicines. Her shiny blue pills that simmer down the heat and take away the sweats.
Maybe you can get some pills from the Capitol. I roll my eyes at the thought. Like that could work. Like someone would just give me pills because I asked. I turn on the jets, letting them pound my skin. It wakes me up. Stops the shaking for a bit, too.
When I've dried, I walk back into the room, opening up the drawers and slipping into a pair of tights. I'll need to look less pale. So nothing too dark. Nothing to highlight I'm sickly.
The pounding on the door comes right as I'm pulling over the yellow tunic. It's brighter than my skin, which is the only plus.
"Errol! Wake up!"
I open the door to find Tressa standing there, smirking.
"Ew," she says, smiling. "Go back to sleep."
"What do you mean 'ew'?" I ask. I shut the door behind me.
"You look rough," she says.
"Well, thanks," I say. Everything is soar as I walk down the hallway. My arms. My back. My legs. Even the muscles beneath my knees are heavy, slowing my pace down.
"You're welcome," she says. "How'd you sleep?"
"Fine," I say.
"You look like you could use more," she says.
"Thanks," I say. A yawn follows and I roll my eyes.
"Today," she says. "I was thinking we'd focus more on hand to hand combat."
"Really?" I say.
"We're some of the smaller tributes," Tressa says as if I'm disagreeing, or talking back. "We need to learn how to throw a punch."
"I know how to throw a punch," I say. I extend out a jab, but my biceps tighten, forcing the movement to be slower than it should be. Ugh, I nearly growl.
She looks at me and smirks. "Sure, you do."
"I'm a fighter," I say.
"I didn't say you weren't," she says. Then she smirks.
"What?"
"You look like a stick of butter, Errol."
"Well, you're all about to be my biscuits."
Tressa laughs loudly. "What? Are you high?"
"I wish," I mutter. "But sadly, I'm clean. Mom would be proud." I don't admit how I'm seriously thinking about getting some off of Ward. Maybe I can smuggle some in. Do it one last time. Just once, a voice says in my head. It couldn't hurt anyone. And who knows, maybe the effects from the morphing might settle the nerves and the soreness from my muscles.
As we walk towards breakfast, I hate that I'm becoming consumed with the urges of getting my hands on a needle. When I pick up the fork on the table, right before I stab away at the eggs, I wish it was a syringe. No, I tell myself. You're clean and you're going to stay that way. Who cares if you look like a walking stick of butter.
I play over some of my worst memories to really encourage me not to use.
Stealing coins from mom, hurting their food budget, and forcing them to go without bread for two days.
Stealing different pills from her home office, causing her to have to lock the door and to doubt my every move around the house.
Nearly losing the relationship with my brother—the look in his eyes, like I was some intruder breaking into the kitchen instead of his brother.
The rain beating against the window pane that wasn't loud enough to block out my mother's loud weeping.
Ward isn't present at dinner, thankfully. It's only Tressa and I and the avoxes. Who knows where our escort is, either, and honestly I don't ask. I'm tired of her and her hay crown. Tressa knows what time we're supposed to be down at the training, though, so we'll be fine. Silently, I laugh at the fact that she's really been piloting this whole alliance.
At first, I hadn't wanted her to. I'd wanted more of the control, but I'm learning that sometimes you gotta extend the leash, you gotta lose a few pawns in the beginning. Besides, with the withdrawals and the trying out and the brutal physical training, I'm doing well just to walk, much less think.
"You ready?" Tressa asks.
"Yes," I say. We both stand, Tressa taking a roll, before walking over to the elevator.
"What do you think about the Anti-Careers?" she says. "You think they're really going to let us all just escape. With our stuff. Just like that."
"No," I say. "I don't." I think the arena is filled with more snakes than ever this year. "I think we should treat them all like careers."
"I don't know," she says.
The elevator dings and right as it does, there's shouting. I turn to see Ward.
"Let me walk you!" he says. "Hold the elevator!"
Tressa, of course, holds it. I would have let it close.
Ward enters the elevator and he stinks of sweat. As we descend down, he doesn't really say much. Mostly, he focuses on unrolling down his sleeves. He's doing his best to cover up the sticks, but its too late, I've already seen the fresh prick and the discoloration. Its the very thing to make my own hands start to jitter.
I look over at the glass walls, telling myself to breathe, telling myself not to look at Ward, not to think about anything. In training I won't be able to think about anything, but training. I won't think about the drugs. Pissing my sheets. Ward. Wanting to be high. Missing the sharp pain before the cooling sensation swam up my arm.
I swallow down the spit building in my throat. We're almost there, I tell myself. Almost free. Almost away from the man whose job it is to save me, yet he's doing anything but that.
Male Tribute from District Ten, Blair Cohen
"Hey, Alys," says Sesame, smirking. "Hey, Shadow."
I don't say anything to him. Just keep my eyes on the doors as they open, revealing the tributes from District 6. The girl seems to be a bigger threat than the boy, who looks more like aging cows with their sagging skin and yellowish eyes.
"Hey, Sesame," says Alys. She doesn't stand next to me for long, before she's hopping along and over to stand near Proteus. They make brief eye contact. I know I should follow after her, continuing and solidifying the little shadow ordeal, but I can't. Their flirting is stupid and dangerous. And I'm beginning to think it might costs us if she steps on the toes of Rahni, who doesn't seem to care for Alys' giggles and smirking and hair flipping. I'm sure Alys is aware, but that she doesn't care.
Tassia comes and steps next to me. I stiffen a bit at her closeness. Mom and dad taught me to listen out for bull killers since I was young. They said it wasn't always the things you saw that were the most dangerous, like a mother cow charging you to protect her newborn calf, but the mound she'd stumble into it, where her and the baby both would be eaten by ants. They were even in last year's games. They killed that boy from District 5. The one who felt up his escort on the stage.
I look over at Tassia. If I had to guess, I'd say she's going to be the bull killer in this group. Sure, Sesame and Proteus might be the mother cows with the sharp horns and Yorik the baby everyone needs to protect. But I don't know, I don't think I need to watch out for just them. It's the quite ones who might end you.
"You don't talk much, do you?" I ask.
"I prefer listening," she says.
"Same," I say.
"I know," she says. Her lips tighten a bit, as if she's holding back a smile. "Shadow."
It's the nickname they've given me since I'm always following behind Alys. I remind myself to frown a little at the sound of the name. I don't want them to know that I'm using Alys like a human shield. I want everyone to continue to underestimate me. Continue to count me out. Some might call it coat tailing, but I'm calling it survival at this point. I don't care whose shadow I have to be to win the games at this point. I'm not that naive to think that I can survive against guys and girls double to three times my size. Proteus and Sesame easily could have a one hundred pounds on me. They have muscles that aren't even developing on my body yet.
"Good Morning, Shadow. Tassia." says Denim, walking over followed by Zenna. She and I make brief eye contact, where she nods her head. Again, someone I think I'd do good to watch out for. I mean, they might be calling me "Shadow" but I'm definitely not the only one living in them.
There's Zenna and Tassia and Denim somewhat. He hasn't laid all the cards on the table.
I look over to Proteus, Rahni, and Alys, who seems to be somewhat oblivious to Rahni moving away closer to Zenna and Denim. They all begin talking, planning out the day. I glance over to the district six tributes and then the Careers tributes from One and Two. District 4 hasn't arrived yet.
"Anyone know what they're doing for the private sessions?" Sesame asks.
"Show your stealth" I hear Boarus telling me at breakfast this morning. That was the only advice who gave me. Then it was back to the flask. Sip, sip, sip.
"Good Luck, Piglet!" our escort Mattius had yelled. My stomach tightens from all the nicknames. Piglet. Shadow. I'd like to be called Blair.
"Blair."
I turn over to see Alys instead of Tassia. "Huh?"
"They're talking about the private sessions," she says. "You might want to listen."
"Okay," I say. I stand there listening. Sesame talks about throwing weights around. Rahni says she'll probably stick with weapons, an axe or knife. Denim jokes about Proteus getting naked to earn that forbidden twelve.
Finally, Yorik arrives just in time for the head trainer to announce for training to resume as normal before lunch. Our private sessions will start after, beginning with the District 1 male and ending with District 12 male.
"Let's get started," Yorik says. He heads right over to the spear station, followed by District 8 and Rahni. I notice that she seems to follow him everywhere. Rahni. I don't know if it's a power struggle dynamic or if she's keeping an eye on him. Either way, I know it can't be good.
I look over to ask Alys what she plans to do and notice she's gone. I scan the arena, finding her with Proteus. He's showing her how to swing a sword at a dummy. I fight the urge to frown.
"I think they're underestimating you." I turn around to see Tassia.
"Who?" It's hard not to furrow my eyebrows.
"Our group," she says, stepping closer. "Everyone."
"I think the same could be said about you," I say. My voice sounds higher than I'd like. Curse puberty.
"Of course, they're underestimating me," she says. Her confidence catches me off guard a little, but I try to keep myself from showing it. "That's the point."
"What do you mean?" I ask, curious. "The point?"
"Do you know how many tributes have returned home with scores less than seven?" she says randomly.
"No," I say.
"Seventy percent of them," she says. "Seventy percent of victors who were from the outer districts scored less than seven." How does she know this? Did she request the records? Did she watch all forty something Games last night in one sitting?
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask.
"I'm telling you this because being underestimated is a strategy," she says. "A victor's play."
"Oh," I say.
"So, keep it up, Shadow," she says. And I know it's supposed to be encouraging her sharing this with me, but I feel more paranoid than I do comforted. If she knows it's a strategy I'm using to come across as meek and weak, then won't she rat me out when the time comes. Although she did show her cards, basically stating that she's using the same strategy, laying under the radar, riding the coattails, using her eyes more than her mouth. But still, that doesn't say she won't kill me when she gets the chance, when she realizes their can only be so many snakes in the weeds before they start eating each other.
I keep that image in mind as Tassia walks away. A snake eating another snake once all the rats are dead. I look around the room. Alys. Proteus. Sesame. Denim. Yorik. Rahni. All the people who I know someone would take out over me and there's a sense of peace in calling them rats in my head. That Tassia would target them first if she was going to betray the alliance.
She'd strike a rat way before she'd strike another snake.
Then I feel paranoid for calling myself a snake when to her I could just as well be another sitting rat.
Female Tribute from District Two, Rowena Austel
The private sessions come fast. It seems like we were just breaking for training. And now, we're sitting, waiting for our names to be called. I look over to Nile, who sits next to me. Chime and Avanelle have both already been called, leaving the seats on my left empty.
Chime had nothing to say on the matter. He just seemed above it all. Nothing new there, though. Avavelle, on the other hand, left a bit more lively. She even unzipped her shirt a bit, saying something about how she planned to use all her assets. It was hard to take her serious. If that's anything I've learned from the pair from District 1 is that they're both loose canons and the sooner they die, the safer the rest of us are in the arena. Medusa says I have permission to kill them as soon as the Anti-Careers are down in numbers. Hopefully, that'll be on Day One, right after the bloodbath.
Nile leaves next. He gives me a smile, a soft one. The gesture seems foreign out here, amongst enemies and other contenders. I think about that until my name is called.
"Rowena Austel, " says a sweet overhead voice.
"Good luck," says Nascha.
"Thanks," I say. I take a deep breath. I know I should have smiled at Nascha, but I've got to start creating emotional boundaries. We've become close. Closer than I think its wise to be with a fellow competitor.
As I walk down the hallway, I think about home. About what all the other trainees are saying about me, about how my parents probably purchased my spot and my low score will show it. They all predict that I'll do poorly. An 8 at the highest, I'm sure. But that's fine, I don't care, none of their opinions are real anyway. And I've never trusted any of them since our first class, since our first words together, because I know they're only plotting against me. They were until my name was announced to be this year's female volunteer. And as I look back, wondering about Nascha and Nile, I can't help but picture them laughing or whispering about me, about my score, about how robotic I might seem because I don't always laugh when others do. They called me robot and rat back home, because I obeyed the rules, because I told the instructors when the other girls went out and drank white liquor after training. They said I was programmed wrong, that I don't know the definition of fun.
When I enter the room of the gamemakers, the wondering stops, literally fades like mist when the sun hits it. I remember the mist in the morning on my runs. Will I ever run through it again? It was refreshing against the summer heat.
"You may begin."
I walk over without so much as looking at all of them. Maybe I should have smiled. Maybe I should have said something to make myself stick out. No, I tell myself as I pick up the knives. No, let my blades amuse them, let my blades make me memorable. I walk up to the target, the first about ten meters in front of me. Easy. My wrist flicks. The blade sticks in the forehead. Another goes to the heart before I can blink and the gamemakers can start to clap. I smirk then, knowing I'll have them wrapped around my finger, if they're impressed at ten yards. An outer district tribute might get lucky at that range. I scoot back to thirty. With each step, I flip the knife, tossing it, up, down, up, down, careful not to cut myself. This has a few of them chuckling.
And they called me boring at home. Let's see anyone flip a blade up and down without cutting themselves.
I toss the knife, hitting the target in the throat. I send another blade into the forehead, following one to the chest. I even have enough sense to cover my eyes up, before tossing another blade into the target. It lands a fingernail's width above the one I placed in the chest. The gamemakers start to clap louder now. One of them says something. It sounds like victor, but I'm not sure. My adrenaline is in full swing. I start running, thrusting myself at the targets. I have four more knives to throw. I target each dummy, slinging a blade in it's direction. Head. Chest. Throat. Groin.
"He's a eunuch now," I say. And that sends them over the edge. It makes me laugh, too, although my heart is pounding, craving more. My muscles are tight, ready to pounce, to bend, to leap, to kill. I find myself smiling, too. Really smiling, something I don't think I did back home. Yet, somehow, in a place where so many have cried and weeped and hated it. I'm smiling. Does that make me psychotic? Like Avanelle. I picture her boobs falling out her shirt and the gamemakers giving her two points more to her score, one for each breast. The thought disgusts me. Of course, she's one of those women who isn't ashamed of marketing herself for the fame.
I'd prefer my skill to speak instead of my breasts.
The buzzard goes off and I know my time is done. I look around the room, admiring my work. All my knives are located in dummies and targets around the room. Let Nascha do better, I think. Then I feel guilty, because there's something about her that doesn't deserve that hostility, that competitiveness that easily becomes toxic.
I walk out of the room, smiling. When I'm in the elevator, I become more aware of the sweat sliding down my arms and the shaking in my knees. My heart pounds in my ears still, getting louder with each floor. One. Two.
The doors open and Medusa is standing there, face painted with make up, gold curls rippling down her shoulder like silky sheets. She's easily the most beautiful victor we've had out of District 2. And unfortunately, she knows it, too.
"Did you do what I said?" she asks.
"Yes," I say.
"And what about District One?" she asks.
"Chime seemed above it," I say. "And Avanelle thought her breasts would be a bonus."
"Pathetic," Medusa grows. I walk into the room, smelling her. She smells of lavender and something us. Sweat, perhaps. Body odor. It's not musky exactly, but I've never smelled it before.
Then there's the sound of footsteps and a man is appearing.
"Oh," he says. His gold hair is sliced back and he has one of the brightest smiles I've seen. His teeth can't be real, I think. They're too straight, too white, too curved. "I thought you were gone."
"Seems we lost track of time," Medusa says. She waves her hand at the man, who starts back walking towards the elevator.
He doesn't say anything else before exiting into the elevator, which I think odd.
"Who was that?" I ask, curious.
"No one," Medusa says. She turns, flipping her golden curls. I watch as she walks down the hallway and notice something is off about her steps. She seems to be limping.
The elevator behind me opens again, and I expect the man to pop back up, but it's my stylist, Viper.
She looks at me, wrinkles her nose. "Smells like sex." She walks out of the elevator, moving past me and down the hallway, all while waving the air.
When I'm alone, I wonder why Medusa called the man no body. I wonder why Viper said it smelled like sex. Then I put it together. He wasn't just a visitor. No. Then I wonder if I'll have the same expectations as Medusa. Surely, not. I'm not as pretty as her. And maybe she asked for the man to come. Maybe it was her choice. Something in my stomach tightens, telling me it wasn't her choice. That if it was her choice she would have said his name. She wouldn't have waved him away. Medusa doesn't shy away from attention back home. But she did here. And that scares me.
Alone, I stand there, slightly afraid now. Not of the Hunger Games. But of the after. Of the visitors that might come when I am a victor.
Male Tribute from District Eight, Denim Lane
Zenna sits next to me, swaying her feet, illustrating nerves. She's a willy one. Not called the spider for nothing, I remind myself. She smirks at me when our eyes meet.
"Nervous?" she asks.
"No," Sesame says, as if she was speaking to him.
Zenna turns to Sesame. He shrugs. "What's there to be nervous about? It's just a number."
"It's not just a number," I say. I look down the line, taking in Zenna, Sesame, Tassia, Alys, and Blair. Is it strange that I'm trying to remember so much of them? That I don't want to forget the people who helped me secure my victory. I mean, I know I won't be doing this alone. That each of them will play a part. A vital role in my survival.
"Denim Lane." The overhead voice says. I stand, wiping the sweat off my palms, before walking forward.
"Be fast," Zenna says.
I roll my eyes. Be fast, I think. That's her skill. I rely too much on calculation and not enough on speed. It's why I've never been a fighter who doesn't take hits. It worries me that I'll end up taking a wound or two before bringing down an enemy all because I'm thinking too much and not swinging enough. Wolf warned me of that. He told me speed can be an advantage that offsets the whole game. He talked about his year. About how he ran in, beating all the other tributes, and was out before the real bloodshed started.
From the way we're working things, I know my beginning won't be like that. I'll be around. Causing the bloodshed. Hopefully taking down the Careers.
I enter the room, glancing up at the Gamemakers, who I know are examining my every move now that I'm in front of them. I should be sweating. Should be more nervous. But I'm not. I feel like I did in the streets. I feel my heart pounding, but I'm bringing it down, leveling it out with breathes and the popping of my knuckles.
"Begin," says a gamemaker, a woman with violet hair.
I walk over to the weights. I was told to demonstrate my strength. And I'll do that, but it can't be all that I do. I'll have to do something more. Show them that I'm not just a soldier, a shield, like Proteus and Sesame. I'll have to show them that I'm not a pawn used by Yorik. I know they view him as the leader and that's what he's established himself as. A part of me feels guilty for what road my mind ventures down, but then I tell myself that these people aren't Neem, my best friend and the only person I'm certain I love.
No, these people are just part of moments. They'll be memories. But they aren't the main focus of my life. But then I think back to my parents and how they've never really been much for love and wonder if I am capable of loving at all. I think about my drunk father and my mother, Flaire, who was a punching bag until I aged up enough to take her place. I think about how I left them, the wealth, the coin, because I hated the pain of it all. Only to find a new pain. Only to escape the pot to land in the pan.
I traded the hell of a home for the hell on the streets. I think about that now. The streets. The chill. The absence of laughter most days.
Have I spent so much time on the streets that I'm too cold to care? Has living so long outside the home made me cold and callous? Has being a survivalist left me soulless, too? My hands sweat more as I think about all the times I watch kids get their nose broken all for molded bread. I think about the time I killed a dog because I was so hungry and couldn't go back home, not to my father, the drunk, who believed the other peacekeepers more than his own son.
It was the father wound that kept me there, sitting over a barrel, roasting the thing. I'd vomited three times while skinning the kill, and I tried not to thing as something that breathed and licked my face two weeks earlier. I tried to tell myself that I wasn't a monster. But as I felt the warmth, as I tasted the meat, I know some part of my morality died with that fire. It was that day that I'd realized I'd do anything to stay alive, to keep myself from counting all of my ribs.
I grab a decent sized weight and toss it, slamming it to the floor, leaving an echo to erupt though the air. The gamemakers clap as the weight rolls across t. And by luck, I even manage to rip my tunic right where the bicep shows. It makes me laugh, as if my muscles are literally rippling out my shirt. I toss another weight after that, letting it slam down like the first. Then suddenly, I'm not picking up weights anymore. My gut is telling me to do something else. To show intellectual strength, too.
"Watch me," I say to the gamemakers. "Four thinks he's running the show. But watch me."
I make eye contact with the lady with the purple hair again. She smiles, revealing large front teeth that look something like a rats.
Then I turn back to the weights, tossing them around, before moving to the sword station, where I slash through dummies like it's nothing. By the time my time is up, I'm dripping in sweat and breathing heavy, but I feel strong. And not just because of what I did, but because of what I said. I need them to know that Four isn't the one who is going to lead this alliance. It's going to be me. A true outer district tribute.
Maybe that's why I want to remember their faces so badly, I think, as I step into the elevator. It's because I'll be the one who leads them to their deaths. Who plans the blade that could kill them. And as much as that turns my gut, I'm prepared to be sick the rest of my life if that means I can go back home, if I can at least see Neem again.
The elevator rises and the doors open to reveal Wolf.
"How'd you do?" he asks.
"Good," I say. "Better than we'd hoped, I think."
"Good," Wolf says. He moves in front of the mirror and examines the bags under his eyes. They never leave his face. The deep purple underneath his eyes hangs there with every blink. When I first saw them, I'd thought he'd been punched. I'd thought he'd wore black eyes like most of the kids roaming the streets.
But it wasn't fights that gave him the discoloration, but fatigue. Wolf says he doesn't sleep. You'd think he would, given the large bed and soft sheets he has back home. But I guess there's something that keeps him up at night.
Loneliness.
Nightmares.
Anger.
Shame.
Fear.
I don't know. But I quickly decide I'd rather be sleepless than dead.
Female Tribute from District Eleven, Dasenia Bartlet
"Are you going to sing?" asks Lukas.
I laugh. Actually laugh at the thought of singing for the gamemakers. Of them swaying and humming while I patted my knee.
"What's funny?" Lukas asks.
The girl from ten is called. She smiles, brushes off her hands, and shuffles out of the room, making little sound.
"You," I say. Lukas' widens his eyes, confused.
"How am I funny?" he asks.
"Asking if I'm going to sing?" I say. "Really? This is the Hunger Games. Not the Barn."
"Everyone likes music," he says.
"They're not wanting to hear me sing," I say.
"They might," he says. "You're really good."
Lukas apparently loves my singing. For some reason, I didn't see him coming to hear me sing. But honestly, I didn't really see anyone those nights that I performed. Singing was an escape for me. On those nights, District 11 was in the background. It was white nose. Forgettable.
Who knew singing would be something mentioned now? While I'm in the Hunger Games? Preparing to fight for my life. And who knew the person that would be my ally would be someone who loved my singing?
"I think I'm going to pass," I say.
"Well," he says. "Good luck anyway."
"Thank you," I say.
It's then that my name is announced. I turn around one last time, eyeing Lukas, the girl from District 12 and Viridian, the snake. I don't like the idea of leaving him alone with Lukas. Something in me wants to protect him from the pair already and the Games haven't even started. There's just something—I can't put my finger on it—about the pair, with the way the girl hardens her face when people look her way or how Viridian seems to enjoy looking slimy and standing, watching, starring. It's like he enjoys unnerving people.
I turn around, saying a prayer silently in my head that Lukas is okay. That he's protected. I doubt he needs it, and I don't really know who I'm even saying the prayer to, but something about whispering under my breath, turning the request into a song, makes me feel better. Reassured.
Inside the room is an assembly of weapons, weights, and other things we've seen throughout training. I tell myself that I should do some with the bow, but not limit myself with just archery. Maybe I'll show my skills with insects and plants and snare tying. I might even throw some knives, if I have time.
Gracefully, I walk over to the bow. It's heavier than the one back home. The targets are further, too, which might prove an issue. Still, I think I have a chance at getting their attention, at making an impressive first impression. I thread the first arrow, tighten my stance, and pull back the string. It's tight, but I tell myself that's not an issue. I'll still shoot straight. And when I release the arrow, it does just that. Right in the heart. Right in the center of the target. I smile, impressed. I even turn around. Which is a mistake because no one is watching me. There's a fountain running. Brown liquid pours out of it. A lady with violet hair laughs when a pudgy man runs his finger underneath the stuff. I watch, eyes squinted, anger rolling through me, as the fat man stuffs his finger in his mouth. The woman laughs and so do many others. I tell myself not to shoot him. I tell myself to focus on the target. And so, I send two more arrows back to back into the target. One hits the shoulder, not the best place, while the other catches the dummy in the throat.
Surely, that has to catch their attention, but as I turn around, I notice that only a few are nodding, watching me, writing things down. Really? I think. They're more interested in the fountain than they are me? Seriously, how's this fair? How's this anything but wrong?
I turn back around, sending my last arrow into the target. Then I slam down the bow, furious. This is ridiculous. They're children. Imbeciles. I turn back around, away from the bow and arrow to find all eyes are on me. The slam from the bow most have gotten their attention. Wonderful.
"If you're finished," says the purple haired woman. "You can leave, dear."
"I'm not," I spit back.
"Carry on then," says the woman, waving. Instantly, a few of them move back to the fountain. Anger courses through me so quickly that I can't help but go to a place I always go. A place that I go to when the peacekeepers just beaten someone in the stocks. A place I go to to escape hunger pains or children crying. A place I go to when my mouth waters after holding a tomato too long. A place I got to to escape the abuse of authority. A place I go to to escape the hatred and pain and anger that marks so many of my people.
This place is a song.
This place is when I sing.
You Were There in Times of Peace
You Were There in Times of Greed
You Were There to Hear us Sing
You Were There to Keep us from Free
You Were There When We Tasted Air
You Were There When We Felt the Cold
You Were There When We Held Our Hands
You Were There When We Died Old
You Were There When We Found Our Speech
You Were There To Steal Our Dreams
You Were There
You Were There
The buzzard cuts me off, silencing the next note and leaving me alone with the stillness, with the angry stares of a dozen gamemakers.
Female Tribute from District Twelve, McAfee Sylvane
I am alone. The air feels colder now with all the bodies cleared, with all the chatter from the Anti-Career alliance gone. Viridian left minutes ago, practically slithering out the room. After these last few days, I should know that he's not nearly the eel or the snake everyone thinks he is. But still, there's something about him that seems off, seems untrustworthy despite how many tense or soft smiles he sheds my way. At least that's what my gut says. And if I've learned anything over the course of my life, it's to trust my gut. It's kept me alive this long.
When my name is finally called, I stand, moving out the room and down the hallway I know so many people have before me. It reminds me of the roads back in District 12. So many of us miners walk the same route, day after day after day. It hits me then that I might not ever go to the mines again, that I might not ever see dandelions or apples in the meadow. I try not to think about my mother and my brother as I enter into the gymnasium.
I wonder if they saw me in the opening ceremony or were they gone—drugged out their minds or bursting of liquor. If I had to guess, I'd say they didn't see me, didn't really know much of what's taken place past the reaping. I've always been the reason the two of them breathe anyway. So now, without me there to coax them along, I doubt they're managing to live. More than likely, they're existing. Coping. Barely alive courtesy of the drugs.
Or they could be drying out, since there's no coin for the morphling or liquor or other pills they take. I try not to think about my mother and brother selling themselves to the peacekeepers. My brother has done it before. What's to say he won't do it again.
"Begin," says a woman with purple hair.
I shove my family out of my mind. There's guilt at the relief that comes with not thinking about them, not worrying about their existence, not really caring for anyone but myself. I don't know if that's selfish. Or just the survival mentality that seems to be overtaking me little by little. Either way, it doesn't matter. I keep that in mind as I approach the sword station.
My hands shake heavily when I grip the handle. A voice in my mind screams for me to go with something lighter—a sword or knife or small axe—but I tell myself that if I can swing a pickaxe then I can swing a sword. And so I carry it, arms straining with the weight a little, until I'm up in front of the dummy.
I let out a breath before swinging the blade. It slashes through the dummy, erupting the air with hay, which actually sends me backwards. I don't know why it catches me off guard. Maybe I expected blood, I don't know. And I probably should have slashed through a dummy before in training, but I never did. Ever since the boy from District 2 approached me and Jeriah, I thought to take it a little easy, not showcasing all of my skills right away.
Jeriah. I don't know why, but I think of him when I slash through the next dummy. I think about him dying in the arena during the bloodbath, or worse, the alternative that I'll have to kill him if it's just us left.
It won't be just you two, I tell myself. He's bound to die before the real competitors are left. And I could be dead, too, right alongside him.
I take out another dummy, decapitating it. Hay explodes out and I'm shuffling backwards, really thinking about what if this was someone else. What if it was blood that I was scooting back from? What would that do to me? And why did I pick a sword? Why not a bow? Why not a weapon that doesn't leave me so close to the blood and the death and getting my own self wounded? Why did I have to know how to use a pickaxe? Because you left school. You left to collect coin so you didn't starve. But the sword? Its similar to the length of the pickaxe, so you're familiar with the range and how much distance can remain between you and another fellow tribute. That's why you picked the sword. Remember that.
I step away from the decapitated dummy, contemplating if I should slice down another. Before I choose, though, I make the mistake of looking up at the gamemakers. More than half of them aren't paying much attention to me. I think to throw the sword at them for only a second. I doubt I could toss the heavy blade for one, but for two, I know they'd kill me. I'd be eaten by some squirrel or fish mutt or whatever abomination they've created to kill us this year.
The buzzer sounds for my time suddenly, catching me off guard. I'm so confused by where my time went that I drop the sword, right there, letting it cling on the floor. Sweat forms on my hands, sticky, wet, and I wipe it against my pants. What just happened? My time seemed to evaporate like mist. There then gone.
"You may leave," says the woman.
"Thank you," I stumble out. I turn and move to the door, wiping my pants, swallowing down the thickness forming in my throat. It feels like the time I ate bread and it got caught there. I remember gulping down two glasses of water to wash it down my windpipe. The coughing nearly killed me. Not to mention, its something I hate. Coughing. Probably because I hear it so much. Really, all the time, almost every hour in District 12.
I make it to the elevator, jamming the button harder than I mean to. My heart pounds a little faster than I'm used to, making me seem more angry, more aggressive. When the doors shut, I catch my own reflection in the glass and have to force myself to breathe. I look so angry. So hardened. And I don't know why. Even when I tell myself to breathe- through the nerves, the disappointment, the frustration, the disrespect of them not even paying attention-the harshness of my features doesn't leave.
I look enraged.
I look tired.
I look over it all and its only just begun.
A/N: Still here. Just trying to find a regular updating routine. I'm determined to get myself out of the Capitol. Now, I realized why I wrote twelve POVs. Capitol Chapters are challenging Anyway, let me know the next six you want to hear from. That's it for Errol, Blair, Rowena, Denim, Dasenia, and McAfee.
Questions:
What did you think of these six? Any favorites? Any potential bloodbaths?
Thoughts on the Chapter?
Do you think anyone scored an 11 or 12?