Misty Boulevard, 18, District 12 female, four months before the reaping
That evening, the bar and the establishment were so crowded that Misty had to stop the entrance after a few hours. The 18-year-old went through her blonde hair with long, thin fingers. The sweat blew her from her forehead over her eyebrows and she wiped her face with an old kitchen towel. Her head roared from the volume of the room, where, in addition to the music of a band, countless drinking conversations were also going on. Before stepping in front of the counter, she pulled her skirt down again. Today she had identified with the other girls that she would only work in the service and take care of a respectable attitude towards her friends. Misty took a tray that was already bent off the number of alcoholic beverages and made her way through the crowd. On the way to the table that had placed these orders, Misty ruffled his nose several times. She did not like the smell of beer and sweat but longed for cleanliness and order. Some already drunk men whistled after her and even tried to touch her but were re-entered with a strict gaze and a brief threat.
There was only one man at the table. In the segregated area of the establishment, it was quiet and pleasantly cool, so Misty took a deep breath before she turned off the tray. Misty wanted to put the filled glasses on the table but was interrupted. The man reached for the glasses and pulled them on as if he were afraid that they would be taken away from him. "Take it," he said in a raucous voice, looking her in the face. Misty swallowed heavily when she recognized him. At the age of 22, the man, drawn by alcohol and starvation, no longer looked like a boy. Haymitch Abernathy hadn't changed at all, at least externally. In the district, they whispered that he resembled a grumpy old man and showed himself only in public when his alcohol supply had fallen out. Misty looked at him inconspicuously as she put the money in her pockets. He had already emptied the first glass for half.
She knew from the old Marylin that most of the winners of the Hunger Games suffered from bad dreams and tried to drown their worries either in alcohol or with morphing. Haymitch Abernathy had experienced more suffering than any other person in the District. His victory was less than four years ago, and as it was a jubilee, he was celebrated like a hero. District 12 had produced just two winners in the 53 years of the Hunger Games, the first of which had died a long time ago. Now all the tributes of District 12 had was a perpetually drunk man who had to deal with his own demons first. Misty hadn't even noticed that she had stared at him when he suddenly turned his head to her. His grey eyes were glassy. He hadn't slept much the last night.
"Is there any problem?" he asked softly, but his words were sharp as a cut knife. Misty quickly shook her head, unsure what to say. She felt his questioning look on her body. "You know who I am," he said, but it was not a question, but a statement. "The question is rather, who doesn't know it? You're the only person who's going to put District 12 in a reasonably good light," Misty said. The tips of her ponytail swept over her bare neck and made her shudder. Haymitch pointed her lips and slammed them. He certainly stared at her for more than a minute until he burst into loud laughter. "Well spoken! Say this into president Snow's face! It's more likely that the sack is drunk in public than that I "let the district stand in a good light!" he said, reaching for the next glass. Misty looked anxiously towards the peacekeepers, who ended their evening at the bar. Speaking out publicly against the Capitol was dangerous, the consequences cruel and unspeakable.
"Don't worry, you won't lose your best customer to a bunch of full posts. You know, they can't do me anything. After all, I'm one of their golden stars in the night sky!" Haymitch extended his arms, making him look like a raven for a brief moment, as he was completely dressed in black. From the leather boots that literally stank for money, to the thick winter coat, which was certainly made in the best manufactories of District 8. Misty should not condemn the young man, she knew. Both had been through a difficult time, but they processed it in different ways. Haymitch drank, she rushed into work. Running an establishment was exhausting, especially when you had to take care of the other girls themselves.
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you mean," she said, her voice lowered, bowing to clear the glasses that had already been emptied. Misty only felt his warm breath on her skin when he whispered, "You don't have to be afraid of them, Cassie, they can't do you anything." She shied away from him. 'I'm not Cassie, I'm sorry. Please drink her glasses empty, we'll close soon," Misty said, swallowing heavily. His glassy grey eyes followed her all the way to the bar. Who was Cassie and why did he say that to Misty? Why was she afraid?
The girl rushed back to the encounter and continued working. Misty looked around him. Everything was as she had left it, only one thing was different. Misty didn't know. She wiped her sticky fingers and positioned herself behind the bar to keep an eye on the winner. The peacekeepers were still carrying their weapons, and another eruption would not go unnoticed. Occasionally, new orders came in, which Misty quickly processed to have enough time to continue watching Haymitch. She wanted to know who Cassie was and what had happened. An unruly strand fell in her face, which she puffed to the side. As Janeira stood next to her with her make-up and trembled like aspen leaves all over her body, Misty turned to the girl in horror. She moved her to a small storage room. "Hey, all right? Janeira?" she asked, pulling her friend. Through Janeira's skimpy attire, Misty felt the heat that emanated from her. The girl said something, but she went down because of her sobs. "What did you say? I can't understand you.'
Janeira almost screamed at her. "I'm pregnant! The damn test is positive!" Misty's breath stopped. She bent over to look Janeira in the eye. "Are you absolutely sure?" she asked softly. The girl nodded as tears flowed down her cheeks. Misty pulled the crying girl at her and muttered reassuring words. She didn't know who these words were going to reassure her or Janeira. A child brought an incredible amount of responsibility and in this fallow land that was actually the death sentence. The two young women were still standing in the storage room for ten minutes. "What should I do when it's there?" asked Janeira quietly. Misty shook his head. She didn't know the answer to that question and it finished her. "For now, stay with us, then we'll keep looking," Misty said, before walking out of the storeroom. Even here, where it smelled of alcohol and sweat, she felt her trachea tighten. She took a deep breath and looked
Haymitch Abernathy's table was empty.
Hal Prescott, 16, District 3 male, seven months before the reaping
Today Hal attended his grandmother's funeral.
His fists were balled in the deep pockets of his black suit, his gimlet gray eyes were searching for somebody he knew. Surprisingly, many people attended her funeral, the white church was completely filled. It was strange that so many people came to this place, with its white floors and ceilings, which were the total opposite of the gray dark District side he grew up in. When he entered the church, he felt the people's glances upon him. Hal found the pipe in his right pocket and gently strived it. He didn't like being surrounded by people, especially by people, he knew did not mourned his grandmother's death. Maybe they were wearing black cloths and held lace in their hands, but deeply inside they were just mourning their own tragic lives.
Hal went down the aisle and sat himself in the first row. The stone floor was covered in dark flowers, he did not know the name of. Old woman and men came to tell him how sorry they were about his loss, but deeply inside he just wanted to be alone. Sitting in their small old apartment that smelled after parchment and chamomile tea, reading and forgetting about the death of the only person who ever cared about him. Hal would hold the picture frame with glued-on clover leave sand and look at the picture of him and her for a half eternity. Him, dressed in his usual tweet suit with sleek black hair, next to a lovely old woman, who held a pink umbrella in her hands even though it never rained during summer. Hal kissed the picture, careful not to leave marks upon it.
"I shall welcome everybody here, all the souls that are mourning over the loss of an amazing gentle person who made us smile every single day", the priest announced. The man wasn't of a sad family with his belly bigger than Hal's entire body. He had not had a lot of hair on his head, folded hands to avoid people noticing him shaking. Cleary an addict, maybe morphing, but not old enough to stop working. Hal looked around when he noticed a middle-aged woman who clearly didn't like being here. His aunt Martha still looked the same after twenty years of work in one of the tech fabrics. Her hair was colored black, the energetic blue eyes were focusing on the priest. Martha held her hands folded, for a pray, that she would never say out loud. His aunt had left the family years ago to start afresh. Hal was a little kid when the evening came when she stood at the front door with two packed suitcases and wished his grandmother a nice life. He knew that the two were not very close, as his mother had done, but Hal respected that Martha came here today.
Before he could continue to think of his aunt, he was called by the priest to come forward and say a few words. The curious glances of those present bored into his body as Hal slowly made his way forward. Normally he hated talking to other people because he didn't get along well with them. They found Hal strange, funny and a dreamer who wanted to achieve something that would never be the same as in his mind. When Hal announced at school that he would become a private detective, he was laughed at.
"Boy, you're going to work in one of the many factories and make technology that makes the Capitol proud!" said his old, run-of-the-mill work teacher, giving him back his job. A red A was on top of the paper, and below he read how enthusiastic he was about his computational skills. Hal did not want to be praised for his computational skills, but because he could combine logically and quickly. His social skills may not have been at the top level, but who needed that to solve a decades-old murder case?
"I would like to thank everyone who showed up today to say goodbye to a really brave woman. She was a sunshine, loving and caring; even in death, this will not be taken away from her. May you rest in peace, Margrethe Prescott," he said, quickly leaving the podium. The priest tried to touch him by the shoulder, but Hal went to his bank row without looking back. Most of those involved held their heads down to say goodbye to their grandmother with the help of a small prayer. Quiet steps could be heard as someone approached. Hal looked at the wooden floor of the church. From the corners of his eyes, he saw his aunt Martha sitting next to him. The black hair elegantly put up, slightly made-up, but still did not represent what one would expect from one of the richer people in the district. The two Prescotts sat side by side and listened to the priest's words of praise. No one said anything to the other, they just waited until the other made the start. The funeral ended and Hal stormed out of the church. Outside it was raining, thick drops fell from the sky, as if it was crying. The mourners spread out in small groups and talked to each other, the older ones left the property via the small cemetery of the community. Hal stood in the rain, without an umbrella, and thought about what he would miss more: his grandmother's hot peppermint tea or the stories she had told him about his parents.
"One day you will stop asking what no one knows, Hal. I can serve you with stories from your mother's childhood, with stories of how much your parents loved you, but I don't know where they are," his grandmother said, tenderly brushing his cheeks. Hal, who was two years younger than today, frowned furiously and clenched his fists. He did not believe that his parents were dead, murdered by the Capitol. They had believed in other things, in things that were forbidden to believe in. His mother, a scientist who dealt with the brain streams of mutations, and his father, a simple member of the union leadership, were hardly rebels. They worked for the Capitol, not against it. They kept order and explored things he was supposed to like. And yet today Hal was sitting with his grandmother in a small apartment that they could just afford. He didn't know where his loving parents were, whether they were already resting underground, but his goal was to find out. Hals's destiny was to be someone who investigated and asked questions about who no one dared to ask.
"Here, take it. I think it means more to you than it does for me," said a warm voice behind him. When Hal turned around, his aunt, who was stranger to him, held his grandmother's pink umbrella in her hands. It was spread out and seemed inappropriate between the other mourners, but in fact it meant Hal more than anything else to hold this umbrella in his hands. With a small smile he took the umbrella and his aunt went back to church with an honest smile.