Jason Baize (17) D8M
Everyone knew that Reaping day was the worst. I couldn't stop myself from shaking, my hands gripping my arms to try to maintain some semblance of calm. The other boys, nearly men, around me all looked mostly the same. We were unprepared. We were mostly weak, mostly kids who had spent more time inside than out, spending all of our calories on factory labor. We were all two years from being safe, from never living through this fear and instead living through a constant mess of work and sleepless nights. And one of us would be a lamb led to the slaughter, death only a matter of weeks away.
Some of us grabbed leaned on friends for support, all ideas of properly manliness thrown out the window when death was fast approaching. We were children, huddled amongst each other, hoping for safety in numbers. We were trembling prey, hoping that with enough of us gathered we could become invisible, just a mass of bodies that nobody could pick any individual from. Some of us leaned on boyfriends or partners; some of us held hands or hugged our best friends. Some of us, myself included, stood alone, staring at the stage of death, waiting for one person's death certificate to be drawn from the bowls ahead of us.
When our mayor walked to the stage, I took a deep breath. I knew how to control my breathing. My older sisters had taught me that. I let my eyes close as my breathing steadied, each breath a reminder of my life. I inhaled for five seconds, held for four, and exhaled for six. It wasn't the proper ratio, but it felt so impossibly right. I opened my eyes to see the yearly propaganda film playing, the screams of the Dark Days, the Final War, a horrible foreshadowing of what was waiting for two unlucky children, and immediately snapped my eyes shut again. I didn't need to see that. I didn't need to have a panic attack during the Reapings. It would just make me feel worse for the next year, a year I reassured myself would come.
I opened my eyes again to see our escort on the stage, counting the steps it took her to reach the center. One, two, three, four, five... Each number was certain and calming. Each number reassured me, its regularity one small thing that made sense in the sea of sound and fear surrounding me. The harbinger herself, Calico Damask, smiled, cheerfully saying what each escort had to say every year. "Welcome to the Reapings for the 21st annual Hunger Games." Her chipperness was untouched, unlike our previous escort's. One escort retired, the boos and the fear more than she could handle, but another one came like nothing had happened. "This year, let's start with the girls, shall we?"
Another few seconds where I could breathe, my breath not being held just yet. Another few seconds that my fate would remain unknown. "Would Silver Weave please come to the stage?" No screams came from the female section. I heard no cries of terror and saw no fear on the girl's face. She was walking up to the stage, her face completely blank, her motions totally robotic. She didn't move when Calico greeted her, her eyes not seeming to recognize the woman at all. She stood mutely on the stage, her arms limp at her side and one hip cocked, while our escort moved to the other bowl.
"And for the boys?" Calico asked, and it was time for my breathing to stop. Collectively all the boys gasped, silence filling the once-anxious square. We all watched as our personal angel of death moved her hand through the bowl, reaching deep before pulling up, grabbing slip and reading out, "Would Jason Baize please come to the stage?"
One of my eight slips had been pulled. I heard a scream from the parent's section only distantly. I heard my breath and felt it, my breath the only thing worth noticing. Air came to me in gasps as I tried to walk to the stage, then yanked myself backward when a Peacekeeper grabbed me to speed me up. I could feel my eyes filling with tears, hear my sisters screaming for someone to volunteer, but I just kept yanking backwards, my own screams wordless, my own terror echoing off the walls of the buildings around me. I didn't want to look strong. I didn't think to look like a worthy ally to anyone else. I thought about coming back to my family, about curling up with them and never leaving the house again. I didn't want to reach the stage but I did.
My hand was made to hold Silver's. I raised both of our hands above our heads, Silver not helping at all. I looked at her more closely now that I was closer and noticed just how much she looked like me, the same hair in a longer cut, the same eyes without the light, the same hourglass figure with a cuter outfit. If I didn't know better I would have thought we were twins. I only prayed that I didn't seem like her to anyone else. I had screamed and fought, but even that terror seemed better than the nothing she felt.
Here we have a story that's a bit of a personal journey. It's going to be really flowery, as you can already tell, and it's a self-insert (if you couldn't tell). This is not an SYOT; it's just me writing for myself for once. I make no promises about the update speed, hah. It's going to be written when inspiration hits. Reviews are welcome, but I ask just this once that all of them be positive. Usually I'm chill, but this is a much more personal work, and any negativity is unnecessary. Thanks, Silver