XVI. CALATHEA AND CHANDLER
These have no longer any hope of death;
And this blind life of theirs is so debased,
They envious are of every other fate.
Calathea Matheny. 18.
District Eleven Female.
Surely she had accepted it by now, but that didn't change the fact that Calathea Matheny was horrified of defying her father. It was a valid fear too, Marake was nothing short of a terror, two fingers cut off his right hand during toddlerhood to get him to stop crying so much. It hardened Marake, the way his parents raised him to "be strong" and what not, the way they abused him into being the son desired, not the son who was weak and died of sickness or the son who walked into the middle of a gang's crossfire. That was Marake's brothers, and he wouldn't let it be him too.
And through hardening Marake, his parents hardened Calathea just as much. She'd never met her grandparents, and she never would considering the fact that her father's friends slowly tortured them for five hours before killing them, per his request. But that was for the better maybe, considering her grandparents could be considered the catalyst for who Calathea is, somebody afraid of being her father, somebody who will never be her father.
"I'm doing this to prepare you, Cal," She still remembers the day he took her to one of his farms for the day to toughen her up, "You have to be strong, you don't want to be like–"
"I don't, I don't," The District Eleven girl's body permeated with fear as she looked her father in the eye whist he handled her his illegally obtained pistol, lord only knows how Marake got the weapon, "You're right."
Calathea looked across the field of cannabis to the wall where her father had strapped somebody against it. She didn't know his name and she never would know his name. He was just as irrelevant as Calathea feared she would become, and worst of all he was lazy, weak, didn't work to his full potential. Didn't even have a full potential worth working to, "and you know what we do to people like that, right?" her father's low voice hummed.
"Yes father," She picked up the pistol and walked closer to the man on the wall, "Of course."
"Then do it," Marake was always rough, never gentle. That never got him what he wanted after all, and while Calathea eventually learned that faking softness could occasionally reap rewards, this wasn't when.
The closer she got to the man against the red wall, whether or not the deep color was paint or blood being a mystery, the more she could see him hurting. His pale brown eyes were watering, and even though his skin was deep in complexion, the District Eleven girl could tell he had been burned by either the sun or a match set ablaze by her father. But he deserved this, right? He wasn't being productive and that meant that he wasn't worth anything, right? All Calathea knew was what she had been taught by Marake, and that meant that she knew this poor man, probably one with a family and a whole life, had to die.
"Go on and do it," He was attune to her hesitation which meant that he had to fix it. He had to mold her into his perfect prodigy, the heir to his collection of drugs and guns and bloodlust. The heir to his monstrosity, "I'm only going to give you a minute longer."
"Please," The man on the wall finally cried, which didn't bode well for him, as Marake looked like he was just about to kill him by himself which would ruin the purpose of his little experiment in strength with Calathea. So instead he punched him square in the jaw, chuckling when he screamed and a single tooth was spat from his mouth.
And Calathea knew that there was no getting out of this. She knew that her time was thinning and she had to shoot him because at least then it would be over and she wouldn't have to think about it again (at least not until the next time, but maybe there wouldn't be a next time and this would be an isolated incident) and she could go on with her day and pretend the time where she removed a man from the world that she was beginning to regret existing in didn't happen.
So she looked at the pistol, it's polished silver coating glowing bright in the sun as she carefully put her left hand on top of the weapon, cocking the compartment with bullets before she combined both hands around the trigger, pointed at the still crying man, and squeezed a bit tighter as she heard a faint "please" before a single bullet flew out of the gun with a roar and planted itself in the corner of the mans head.
It was horrible. It was exhilarating.
Calathea wasn't done. She cocked the gun again, closing her eyes to ignore the blood she had drawn and shooting again, this time colliding with the man's neck. The District Eleven girl knew he was gone and she knew that she didn't want to open her eyes. She knew that if she did she would never be able to recover from the sight of his exposed brain matter and his rolled over eyes, all pain which she caused. Pain she didn't want to be the catalyst for, but it's not like she ever had a choice in the matter
"That's my girl," Marake cheered, Calathea now assuming that the man was fully dead, "You understand what happens when you're weak now, right."
Like I didn't before.
"Of course father," She smirked, trying to hide the tears that she wouldn't let dwell in her eyes, "I'll never be like that so don't you worry."
Yet as time went on, Calathea couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if she turned the gun on her father. It would have been horrible. It would have been exhilarating. But maybe then she would be able to have a smidgen of happiness, of normalcy in the cruel world that she was born into, but it isn't worth thinking about now.
Of course of course, it wasn't an isolated incident. Why would it be? Why would living under the thumb of Marake Matheny only involve a single cruel punishment to the weak? He never did something just once, always repeating his horrendous actions for emphasis. And even though she hated it at first, the killing, the ending lives as a punishment for temporary laziness, in a twisted way, Calathea eventually learned to enjoy it. And she hated herself for enjoying it too, yet it had it's benefits. It surely made her feel less useless and like she had a purpose in doing all the evil things while hoping she'd never follow in her father's footsteps. She accepted the fact that she was dangerous, and there would never be change for her. She'd never admit it, but Calathea Matheny was doomed to be just like the man who raised her.
But maybe that was a good thing. Marake had his perks. While all his workers hated her and called her names, he was good to her. He was always good to her. He would be gentle when he needed to be gentle. He was trustable, and that was something Calathea didn't see in a single other soul. In fact, she had learned to hate them. She had learned to despise, to be doubtful of everybody that wasn't her father.
She was doubtful of everybody that wasn't her father or Chandler Whitt.
Calathea met the boy when she was sixteen, being told that he was to be her bodyguard and that his soul purpose to protect her, both from herself and the crimes that she committed per her father's request. And at first she wanted to doubt him, wanted to pretend that the boy her father's friend had taken from the streets in promise of paying his family wasn't worth shit, was just as expendable as everybody else, but she couldn't so she didn't.
He never complained, was extremely tolerable. Chandler didn't even try to get Calathea to trust her, and that was worth more to her then she could even verbalize. The District Eleven girl didn't want to trust anybody besides her father, yet she could feel an odd sense of comfort in Chandler. And that was what made him good. He just reminded her of somebody that she couldn't quite place a finger on, so maybe it was irrelevant.
"Whitt," She addressed him by his surname on occasion to give her a sense of power, the same sort her father had against her, "Pass me the pistol."
"Yes, ma'am," And Chandler was always formal with her too. Never doubted her superiority or anything of the sort. He knew his place and handed Calathea what she wanted, "Here, enjoy."
Enjoy? Chandler was always weird with his words but Calathea had grown to find it the slightest bit endearing. She considered thanking him for his efforts, but that would be far too kind of her. He was doing what was told, and that was hardly worth being thanked for.
"Please, what did I do?" There was a man strapped to the wall, red with blood not paint. And he was terrified. Terrified of Calathea and the rest of the world. Terrified of what she was about to do. Good.
"You know exactly what you did," The District Eleven girl snarled, embarrassed by his laziness and lack of strength, "This isn't my fault, I'm just doing what's best for everybody."
He was a waste to society. He had no business working for Marake or for her, and he would be better off dead anyways.
"Make sure he doesn't try to pull anything suspicious," She requested to Chandler, his only reply being a small nod of the head.
She didn't know the name of the man. It didn't matter. He didn't matter.
Calathea held the pistol in her hands with a sense of pride. She was ready to rid the world of him. She was ready to do the world a favor by eliminating the weak. The District Eleven girl pointed the weapon at his throat, her eyes wide open when she released the trigger and snickered as a bullet hit his neck. And the man didn't even scream.
She lightly tossed the gun at Chandler, the boy trembling a bit when he caught it before she went to admire her work. It was horrible. It was exhilarating. The man was dead to Calathea and her dominance.
Just the way Marake liked it. Just the way she liked it.
Chandler Whitt. 18.
District Eleven Male.
"Whitt," Chandler had always had a hard time believing that Calathea Matheny, his boss, the person he had been sworn to protect saw him as human. She said that she was a bit fond of him, and he tried to believe her as hard as it was, "Pass me the pistol."
He looked down at the silver weapon in his hand. He had no idea how Calathea obtained such a thing but he had learned with the Matheny family that it was best for him to avoid asking questions. It wasn't like he would ever get an answer anyways. And he wasn't sure that he wanted answers regarding why the family was the way they were.
All Chandler knew was that a man had approached him one day in the fields where he worked and had offered him a contract. He had the reputation for being a hard worker, and he was known to be loyal. He was told that if he were to protect the life of Calathea Matheny, a girl whom he'd never met before (and maybe he never should have), he would be paid handsomely and he would be finally able to afford to help his family. It was too good an offer for Chandler to refuse, and he was unsure exactly what there was for him to protect Calathea from. She certainly wasn't normal but she could definitely hold her own and she didn't need him.
"Yes ma'am," Even though he had known her for about two years, Chandler was always careful with his language around Calathea. He didn't want her to think anything bad of her, because he had seen what happened to people who didn't obey her. People who were weak instead of obeying his wishes. People who Calathea had a twisted way of seeing and she didn't think they deserved to be alive. Still Chandler couldn't really do anything about it. He was indebted to her and her family and therefore he gave her the weapon, already somewhat dreading what he knew was about to happen, "Here, enjoy."
Enjoy? He thought that maybe he was cracking a joke with her, even if she didn't laugh about it. But Calathea probably wasn't capable of laughing anyways. Chandler had accepted it as facts that his boss was incapable of feeling even the slightest drop of happiness, instead enslaved to a twisted world that he would never quite understand. But maybe his offhand remarks that could be interpreted as humorous to some extent would one day be able to bring a touch of joy to Calathea's cold world.
There was a man strapped to the bloody red wall of one of Calathea's father's farms, and he was begging for mercy, yelling "Please, what did I do?" Chandler wasn't quite sure of the answer to his question though. He had been taking breaks in the fields of cannabis where he was assigned to pick the crops, humming and singing as he worked, and occasionally trying to fraternize with the other workers. It was a bit messy, the way he was certainly stopping the flow of work, yet Chandler didn't think it was too big of an issue. Perhaps that was the biggest difference he had from Calathea. While they were both undoubtedly perfectionists, he often did everything himself if it required getting the job done, while Calathea relied on the labor of others. It was certainly a toxic combination, but it was also quite affective.
"You know exactly what you did," Calathea answered the still petrified man's question. She was almost nonchalant about the whole ordeal, even though it was a horrible thing that she was doing. She just didn't seem to mind that she was acting cruel, because she was so used to using force to get what she wanted. It was all that she knew at that point though, and Chandler could hardly blame her. While he seldom interacted with her father, he was certainly a bit afraid of him, and he didn't get the feeling that he was the best parent. It was clear that their relationship was complicated, "This isn't my fault, I'm just doing what's best for everybody."
Chandler knew too that Calathea had been raised to not be weak, and perhaps that was what led to her disgust towards seeing weakness in others. And yes, disgust was the proper word for it, since whenever she was confronted with people being less than stellar, Chandler genuinely thought that she would be sick, and she often stared at them with eyes that somewhat resembled death itself.
And when he first met her, he was afraid that he too would be tormented to her disgust and despair, yet over time it became quite clear that he was, or at least he was in her eyes, safe. Chandler had always prided himself in being a hard worker though, so perhaps that was why he was chosen to protect Calathea, "Make sure he doesn't try to pull anything suspicious."
He nodded at her. He wasn't quite sure what she meant by "suspicious," though he assumed it meant running away from the leather binds that were nailed to the wall. But that was impossible, people had tried to escape that way, but it never worked. They'd always be caught and that always meant that Calathea or anybody else would chase them off and then they'd be taken back to be killed in an even worse way than being shot. At least that was rather painless.
And Chandler felt bad that he had never learned the name of the man that he now had to watch die, but maybe it was better that way because he was certainly less attached to him. He had gotten disturbingly used to watching Calathea kill people, and if there was one thing that he knew, it was that less attachment always made it easier, especially in the few instances where he himself was behind the trigger. Calathea would occasionally leave that job to him to "test his loyalty to her," or something like that. The District Eleven boy was certainly loyal to her though. Not only did she save his family, but she was also oddly comforting at times.
She pointed the gun straight at the man and without a single bit of hesitation, she pulled the trigger and made a somewhat cackling noise as the bullet hit his neck. She flicked the gun towards Chandler who caught it instantly before she approached her newly produced corpse to ensure that it was in fact dead. And Calathea did her job well.
The first time Chandler saw Calathea kill somebody, he had a bit of a hard time sleeping that night, as he was a bit scared of her, yet this was no longer the case. He accepted it as the new normal, or at least his current reality, yet that night still, Chandler couldn't sleep. And that was because the next day was the Reaping for the 51st Annual Hunger Games, yet was that really such a reason to lose sleep? He no longer needed to take out tesserae thanks to Calathea's family, still he knew that he always had that chance. But what was even worse was the clause that stated in his agreement when he went to work for the Mathenys that stated that if Calathea were to ever be reaped, he would have to Volunteer so that he could protect Calathea in the arena (though she didn't really need to be protected), and then she'd be able to win, even if it meant killing him eventually in the end. It was horrific, knowing that either way he would die, and he also knew that if he didn't Volunteer, his family would surely be punished to some terrible degree, as would he, them all sure to wind up like the man from earlier that day.
"You don't need to be worried," Calathea whispered as he escorted her to the Reaping, "Our names are barely in there."
But it was natural for Chandler to worry, especially in such a life or death situation and especially when it was his last year of having such a worry, and chance was so so small yet he was so so worried.
They didn't say much as they entered the line in the town square. The two of them never had all that much to say to one another regardless. What even was there to say to somebody that was so above the world like Calathea. She never showed fear or passion or anguish or anything. He didn't want to think of her as a monster though. He was sure she could be human to some extent.
Once he and Calathea pricked their fingers at the center, they separated. She actually flinched when the Peacekeeper drew her blood, almost like she was afraid he would somehow recognize her or something. It was odd, almost.
And then Chandler sat in his place for a while, dreading what would happen once the Reaping began and hoping he wouldn't be doomed to death. Hoping that if any name was pulled, it would be his and not Calathea's because maybe then he would have a chance. Maybe then he could break free and live a life without her or anything and he could provide for his family without having to watch people die again and again and he wouldn't be stuck with that brat who also wasn't a brat. But what was he even thinking? He didn't want to get Reaped. Chandler didn't want to die.
His stomach continued to swirl with dread as some obnoxiously dressed woman stood at a microphone, addressing everybody like the filth they were and stalling as she swirled her hand through a bowl of names, announcing that as per usual, the female would be going first.
Chandler wanted to mutter under his breath, Please not Calathea. Please not Calathea, but he didn't want people to hear him. He just wanted the next five or so minutes to be over so that he could go home and get back to Calathea's farm and the life he knew and hated but was at least familiar with.
"Very good," The Escort pulled a name from the glass bowl as Chandler's hands began to sweat, "Very, very, good."
She didn't speak at first, instead eyeing everybody in the square for a moment before she brought the microphone closer to her lips, "The Female Tribute that will be representing our fair District Eleven in the 51st Annual Hunger Games is…"
Please not Calathea. Please not Calathea.
"Calathea Matheny!"
Calathea Matheny. 18.
District Eleven Female.
It was like a fever dream when Calathea's name was called. She'd never been the sort to be all to concerned with the Hunger Games, always assuming that she would be void to them considering the fact she never had more slips in then required and compared to all the people in poverty in District Eleven, she never really thought that there would be a chance of her being called in to die.
Yet she was horribly wrong.
She walked to the stage with a sense of pride in her step. It was the best and only thing that she could offer. And she was fine for a moment too, confident that she may have a shot at making it out before she realized who her partner would be.
Chandler Whitt was hired to protect her. Chandler Whitt was told to Volunteer if she was ever to be Reaped for the Games. Chandler Whitt was hired to protect her.
And she was beginning to doubt that he would in the arena. Why would he even think of valuing her life over his. She knew of the threats that her family made towards him if he didn't protect her or didn't Volunteer, but all was fair game in an arena built to kill.
Calathea was built to kill, but not like this.
Marake didn't say much to her when it was time to depart either. It was like he too was in disbelief of what was happening. And they didn't hug or cry because why would they hug or cry.
"Chandler's going to make sure you come home," That was all that he said in the room.
But the boy didn't say anything; he just smiled and nodded.
What good is Chandler Whitt anyways?
Chandler Whitt. 18.
District Eleven Male.
He barely had time to analyze the way that Calathea walked up through the aisles of the town square and up onto the stage with a sense of pride before shaking the hands of the Escort and looking out into the audience and smiling.
For once, Chandler had to think for himself and not her. He knew what was about to happen and he was dreading what was about to happen. How would he even say it without sounding like a complete and utter fool of himself. The District Eleven boy knew that he had to be confident to some degree, but since when was Chandler Whitt confident?
It all happened too fast.
The Escort pulled out another slip of paper from the bowl as Chandler looked around the square in a frenzy. He was dreading what he knew he had to do. She called a name and Chandler watched as a small boy walked up the stairs before she asked if there were any Volunteers, as was custom.
And that was when Chandler had to pounce.
"I Volunteer," He sharply exhaled as all eyes turned on him, "I Volunteer as Tribute."
Calathea looked somewhat disappointed when he stood next to her on the stage. She knew about the arrangement, the contract, but that didn't mean she was happy with it. No, she definitely wasn't happy about it as she scoffed at him when they finally made eye contact.
And his poor mother was bedridden so he couldn't stay goodbye to her at the Justice Building. He couldn't even have the slightest twinge of normalcy before he left. He was doomed to the Mathenys and doomed to himself.
Chandler was oh-so terrified of what would happen when he was left alone to Calathea's disposal.
Wow I cannot believe we only have one more Reaping left! Thank you to GuestTwelve for Calathea and timesphobic for Chandler. I've been looking forwards to them for a long time, and I hope this was worth it for you too.
To everybody else, take care of yourselves please and thank you for reading the chapter.
Best,
Linds