How long do we have to sing,
Until you finally bring our sons, our daughters, home?

I: Prologue

Aralia Clemens, 14.
District Eleven Citizen.

Saying that Aralia feels betrayed by her district is an understatement.

She's never loved Eleven—it was simply where she was born, where she lived, and where she would die. Her home, yes, but only because she would never be able to see or go anywhere else. If her parents announced tomorrow that they were leaving, Aralia doesn't think that she would be upset. She certainly wouldn't miss it.

This year, District Eleven was only selected once. Their escort pulled one slip out of the bowl with hundreds of names in it. And yet the Capitol ripped away Aralia's older sister like she was nothing. No one. Tossed her to the wolves and watched her flounder in the parade and in the interviews; bet on her demise as if she was nothing more than a racehorse, odds beside her name and all. Aralia's parents and older sister practically lived in the square during the Games, but she could barely stomach a thirty-minute visit each day. Just to make sure that her sister was alright.

For better or for worse, Cicely had been 'alright' enough that she managed to make it home...

Physically, when she stepped off of the train, Cicely had never been better. Her stay in the Capitol after her win had done her good; there were no injuries or scars after receiving the best medical care in the whole of Panem, and she'd filled out more than she ever could have with the amount of food their family had to eat in Eleven.

But mentally? Her sister was gone. Aralia noticed it the moment she stepped off the train. Aralia had long accepted that if her sister came back from the Games, she'd be different, but she'd never expected that it would be even less than a shell of Cicely who'd actually come home.

She lives with the new Cicely, but she doesn't know her.

Old Cicely used to talk Aralia's ear off about everything; now she barely even looks her way. Old Cicely, who'd chase Aralia around the house for a hug, seemed to have abdicated from her position of the queen of physical affection, with New Cicely refusing to even hug their dog. Old Cicely had always been the one to counter Aralia's negativity, but New Cicely fed into it.

All of this...just because that one slip had been pulled.

Deep down, Aralia knows that it isn't District Eleven's fault that everything has been ruined. She isn't even completely sure who in Eleven she's blaming, but the Capitol is too scary a target for Aralia to direct her hatred towards, and she can't blame her sister however much she wants to. So... it's Eleven she blames.

If the District hadn't been selected last year, if their name hadn't come up on that screen, then maybe Cicely would still smile. Maybe she'd even be able to sleep through the night.

Aralia had never realised just how good they'd had it before, or just how bad money was at fixing things. It had always seemed so simple when she was younger—if her father got a bigger paycheck than usual, it would lighten everything; her parents would be able to come home early, and they'd laugh and joke around all afternoon. They'd eat a meal that didn't involve rice, and they'd even get chocolate after dinner. She and her siblings would be fed and happy and they'd fall asleep with smiles on their faces.

But no amount of money can fix the fact that Cicely wakes up screaming like a banshee every night, or that she'll scrub her hands red raw in the sink to try and rinse off the imaginary blood that only she can see. It can't fix the arguments that Aralia hears her parents having every night about whether they should all be living here together, or if one of them should take Inula and Aralia back to the old house where there didn't seem to be ghosts lurking in every corner. It can't fix that fact that Inula spends more time out of the house than in it, claiming that it's impossible to live with Cicely when half of the time she can't tell whether she's in the Capitol or not. It can't fix the fact that Aralia is pushed to the side, because her parents only have the energy to help the child that's hurting the most.

It's almost an insult, Aralia thinks, that the Capitol throws money at them month after month. Aralia would give anything to go back to that time in her life they were starving. They had different kinds of problems then, but they were a family. That's what Aralia misses the most.

Her parents are still her parents and her sister are her sisters, but none of them are the same. Her mom hasn't wished her goodnight in months; her dad never makes jokes anymore; Inula is never ever around; and, well, New Cicely is...New Cicely.

Aralia has tried to reach out to the people around her. She confides in her favourite teacher, in the school nurse, in the girl that she would consider her closest friend even if the extent of their interactions is sitting beside each other in fourth period math. None of them are particularly equipped to help, but they all tell her the same sort of thing: it'll get easier with time.

But it's coming up on a year, and things have only gotten worse. In less than a week the reapings will be held and eighteen other kids and families will go through the hell that the Clemens had faced. One of those families will join them in the hell that they're facing now. Aralia wouldn't wish it on anyone.

Sometimes she thinks that it would have been easier if Cicely had been shipped home in a box and buried six feet under.

It's a horrible and selfish thought that surfaces more than Aralia is willing to admit. She loves her sister more than she loves herself. She just doesn't love the life they now have to live around her.

Time might fix things eventually but Aralia wishes that they could just skip there. She doesn't know how much longer she can put up with this.

But...they've made it one year. Somehow.

She hopes that means something.

Things can only go up, right? At least...that's if they've already hit rock bottom.

hi! i know that the prologue doesn't really explain it but i couldn't figure out a way to do it organically, and figured that i could just mention it in the author's note and on my profile, so: this SYOT will only have eighteen tributes from various districts. the way it works is that someone in capitol randomises a district during the reapings, and then that district picks a tribute out of all available slips. i thought this would be a fun way to do it for my first SYOT and it limits competition a little bit for districts!

so...there might be districts in this SYOT with no tributes, and some with more than two. i want to do my best to keep the gender equal, however, so please keep this in mind if you're going to sub!

if you have any questions, please feel free to DM me here! i also have a discord, though i'd prefer not to put it on my profile—however, if you DM me and ask for it, we can switch over to discord no problem!

the song lyrics at the start of the chapter, and the name of this fic, come from blue october's kangaroo cry!