Andrew Vickens

District 5 Male, 18
Train Rides

I'm sitting in my room, trying to process what exactly had just transpired.

For the past four years, all I had known were the four walls of my bedroom, the small kitchen I could hobble to, the familiar setting of our living room. The common backyard for our islet of homes, when I got lucky, and my parents decided I needed some sunshine. Once a year, I attended the required Reaping, thus far uneventful.

Until this year, obviously, since I'm sitting in a luxurious suite which my family could have never afforded, not in a million years. In a train on my way to my most-probable demise, about two-hundred miles away from District 5, but that's just a tiny detail I can easily overlook. I've been overlooking a lot of things lately.

The worst part is that I'm not even all that upset by this turn of events. I'm fairly certain that most of the other tributes' reactions range from absolute dread and terror to exultation, but I'm just here, kind-of indifferent to it all. I know it's hopeless, just like the rest of my life, so why bother making a scene, right?

I know that I'm probably the oldest tribute here. I mean, I'm almost nineteen. If I hadn't been reaped, I would have spent the rest of my days as a useless jobless asshole in my parents' house, until they died, and then I'd live on some more before getting evicted and dying on the streets. That's how I also know, objectively, that I have virtually no chance in the Hunger Games. The reaping is only another problem on the immense pile-up that has been accumulating for years.

All I can think of right now isn't my inevitable death, nor the interviews and training and scores which, frankly, I couldn't give less of a crap about if I tried. All I can think of is how much I miss my parents, especially my mom. I know they sheltered me, hid me away but I know deep down, this will hurt them the most. They really did love me, even when no one else did.

I lost my sight four years ago and that's when my life went completely off the rails. I can't see, I can't fucking see and that's all that sticks with me as my ears pick up all the unfamiliar sounds which I haven't grown accustomed to yet. The arena is no place for the disabled, that much I've understood from years of watching the Games.

Feeling useless is a something I've grown accustomed to in the years since my accident. It still stings though, every time I'm reminded of it. This clusterfuck of a situation is no different.

One of the main getaways from my current situation is the following: A) Life is a bitch and isn't fair. If it was fair, I wouldn't have been electrocuted until my eyes fried like poached eggs. Literally like eggs, because now they're cloudy, disgusting, and I can't see anything. It's always darkness for me now, even though I can still feel these two useless orbs inside my skull. Sometimes I just want to claw them out, save everyone the trouble of flinching away. They still move, you know, my eyes. They move instinctively towards noises, towards other stimuli but that makes no difference.

My vision is gone and it's not coming back.

A secondary getaway, B), is that I'm beyond fucked. I've seen disabled tributes before, even prior to losing my sight, before my mom had to narrate everything that was happening on screen. People missing limbs, mentally disabled kids, deaf or mute ones. There were a lot of those, especially towards the beginning, since the war had taken a toll of everyone, not only the adults who participated first-hand in it.

The bottom line was that a cripple never won the Games.

Starting out with such a disadvantage…it's not something anyone can overcome. I mean, I'm not counting Momo here, because that guy…well, everyone knows his victory was a fluke.

And anyways, I'm nothing like Momo, for better or for worse. When I was younger, I've seen some kids in the district who were born blind due to some deficiency or another, and those guys… let's just say they're as close to superheroes as you can get. They've got that almost-superhuman sense of hearing, whereas I lost my sight too late in my development to actually get that kind of advantage.

I mean, in four years, a guy adapts, no doubt about that. But there's nothing superhuman about it. No superspeed or super-heightened reflexes that might save me from an arrow flying my way.

I can hear every engine jolt, almost feeling the vibrations in my fingertips which are splayed on the edge of the mahogany frame of my bed. I hear the voices behind my door, my mentor's optimistic tone overshadowing our escort's sardonic commentary.

Contrarily to the escort, Triss has been nothing but nice to us both, me and my district partner Mara.

I feel kind of bad for the guy. He won last year, lost his legs in the process, but still maintained this absolutely infectious optimism. It's really too bad he got stuck with the two of us for his first year of mentoring. I mean, the guy literally guided me to my room, even though I told him repeatedly I could manage on my own.

He told me he wanted to get to his sleeping quarters and that I'd be doing him a favor by helping him roll his wheelchair down the hall, while getting to my room. Two birds with one stone, he said. The truth is that his room is nowhere near mine. I heard him having to roll himself all on his own towards the beginning of the hall, and while it's a touching gesture, I don't want to be pitied or babied or whatever else he's doing.

I keep straining my ears, trying to decipher what other sounds in this locomotive machine I can discern. The hum, the constant pumping and the squeaking of the floor melt together and I sit there with my eyelids closed, in harmony with it all.

This isolation is nothing novel, it's the interactions with other people, people who aren't my parents, that innerve me. It's been so long since I've had genuine human contact with anyone and on one hand, it feels almost-nice to be out of the blanket of the miserable closed-off world I've wrapped myself in. On the other hand, it's alien, as though I've forgotten how to act normally, how to hold a conversation.

It doesn't help that I am beyond self-conscious about the way my face looks now. The way the burn-marks never went away, the bumpiness of my skin where the electricity left tree-like patterns jumping out at me even though I can't see it.

When I was rushed to the hospital, the doctors had been astounded that I was alive at all. Eye injuries subsequent to high-tension electricity were extremely uncommon, because the person rarely ever lived to tell the tale. Fried eyeballs were almost-always synonymous to other cooked organs, which, simply put, meant death. Damage in both eyes, elevated corneal density and an opaque vitreous humour which could not be reversed by anything but the most specialized surgeries… now that was something of a medical marvel. In the most gruesome of ways.

I learned all of this, when I had woken up from a coma just a week after the accident. I sensed my mother in the chair next to my cot, asking her in a panic why the world was black around me. Why my entire face felt like it was on fire.

She explained to me my diagnosis, the one I keep replaying in my head at any given opportunity now. All I could muster was a weak "I see".

That made her cry, I recall, because I wouldn't be seeing anything for the rest of my life. The irony of it was too much for her, it seemed. It all led to this, though. This Reaping.

Now I'm here, hiding in my room. The extreme change of circumstances and scenery is disorienting, but that's not the end of the story. It's also the fact that I've been reaped alongside Mara Griffith.

I had to muster all my courage not to vomit right then and there, as her name was called. I heard the whispers, the sighs, the exclamations of surprise from the entire district. After all, as far as they were concerned, Andrew Vickens was a hidden-away recluse, a person that no longer belonged to the same plane of existence that they did. And yet I was there on stage, a reminder of a horrible accident which claimed the lives of many workers in our most successful powerplant. A reminder of grief that would finally be erased from their lives.

The fact is that when Mara Griffith was called up with me, the entire district cheered. They weren't overtly euphoric, but I could almost-hear the smiles on people's faces as they watched Mara climb those steps to stand next to me. That was the worst part.

It was senseless and horrible, but they all thought this was some perverse justice being served. The victim and the perpetrator going into the Games would certainly spice things up, no doubt about it. After all, the people of District 5 needed someone to blame and Mara was the perfect scapegoat after she had been the cause of her father's negligence, which cost his own life as well as the lives of dozens of honest workers. I'm fuzzy on the details, not going to lie. I wish I had been told more than I was, because I know my parents kept the meat of it away from me.

That's why a part of me wants to go see Mara, talk to her. I had no one to process this accident with, not even my parents who wanted to forget everything that had to do with my disability and move on. The thing they didn't understand is that talking, venting, communicating is what would have gotten me through the hardships I had to suffer. I can't fucking see anything and just moving on wasn't really an option, no matter how much I wanted to.

Denial didn't do shit for me, and I understand that clearly now.

Talking and listening… I was denied that essential part of healing, and maybe that's why I feel almost at peace with dying, now. The problem is that I am stuck here, with a person whose company I've been yearning for all these years. The only person to truly understand how broken I feel, because she lost a great deal in that accident too. I want to talk to Mara, to settle things, but talking, truly talking… I haven't had to opportunity to do that in such a long time that I forgot how to.

Mara had been my best friend, four years ago. I know for a fact I would have forgiven her for whatever happened, if only we had had the chance to discuss it and heal together. The truth is that I haven't seen or heard from her ever since. Knowing she was so close on stage with me, silent, emitting no sound as I could feel the sneering and derision from the crowd assaulting her in waves was a greater shock than getting reaped myself.

The injustice of it all threatens to drown me. What were the odds of this happening? I mean, two people who knew each other so intimately, whose lives were intricately intertwined by tragedy and forced apart by circumstance, reaped together? I'm sure that if I bothered to calculate it, the odds would be close-to-nil.

A part of my brain thinks the reaping was rigged, but I can't afford to think like that anymore. The task at hand, now, is to talk to Mara. To find out what happened between us, why our friendship disappeared along with my sight. I don't want to die feeling betrayed like this.

I know that I should get up soon, to go eat something and at least attempt to talk to Triss about strategy and come up with ideas for the Games. I also know that it's all futile, but that kind of nihilistic thought process never got me anywhere.

I get up, walk to the door, my feet sinking into the foamy and soft carpet on the ground. I make my way to the dining area, where I can feel two people are sitting.

"Hi Andrew," Triss says, his wheelchair squeaking as he repositions himself. "I'm glad you came to join us, food is being served."

I nod, plastering a smile on my face. The tension in the room is tangible.

"Thanks, I was getting hungry. Is Mara here?" I ask, my voice shaking imperceptibly. They probably don't even notice, but I do.

"She's actually still in her room, probably getting accustomed to her surroundings. I sure did when I came here last year," Triss observes. The escort's here then. Unusually silent, probably observing me, trying to figure out just how weak I'll prove to be.

"I'll bring her some food, and I'll be right back," I decide, and Triss hands me a plate full of cheeses, grapes, chocolate candies, veggies and things I can't really put my finger on. It smells good though, and I don't want to start touching everything on Mara's plate to confirm what it is.

"I took the liberty to pile some food I thought you would both like. Whenever you're ready, I'd like for the two of you to come here so we can watch the recaps and start planning your angles. Never too early to plan angles," Triss adds, and I can imagine the genuine grin on his face.

This guy is too considerate, I think to myself. He's always one step ahead of everyone, and it's as though he can read my mind. If I'm being completely honest, it's almost disconcerting and creepy. I guess that's why he won last year, because the guy sounds completely harmless.

Either way, I take the plate, and make my way to the hallway.

"Mara's door is the one to the immediate right," Triss calls after me. I already knew that, though, but I still send a smile his way, which I hope he catches. I outstretch my hand and tentatively feel the walls. I'm almost there and I'm nervous, finding my throat completely dry. I don't know how former best friend reunions are supposed to go, but I'm fairly sure these aren't the ideal circumstances, regardless. It'll have to do.

At least I've got a plate full of food. Can't ever go wrong with that.

I knock on Mara's door.

"Mara? It's….uh…Andrew. Your district partner."

No response.

"Uh…can I come in please?"

I hear shifting in the room. I push my hand on the door, and hear a sudden click on the other side of the door.

"Mara, I know you locked the door, but we should talk."

The bed creeks, on the other side, and I know she's retreated back into her safe-haven. I really need to talk to her though, so I don't relent.

"Mara I swear to god, if I'm able to stand here with a plate full of fucking food, then you can at least have to courtesy to take it from me. I really just want to talk. I promise it won't be weird," I say, louder, so she can hear that I'm getting impatient. It's definitely going to be weird, but I omit that. Right now, I just need her to open the door.

"Leave me alone, Vickens!"

A sign of life! I take that as a step in the right direction, even if she just politely told me to fuck off.

"Fine, but we need to talk eventually. I'm setting this food plate on the ground and I'm leaving. You can come take it."

I make a show out of settling the plate at the foot of her door, mimicking steps withdrawing towards my room. I stop breathing, as I press myself against the wall, near her door. Two minutes pass, and I hear small steps approaching the locked door, hesitantly.

The door opens, and I step right in front of where the doorframe is supposed to be, crossing my arms. I pull my left hand out quickly, and stop Mara from slamming the door into my face.

"What the fuck, Vickens, I told you to leave me alone!"

Her voice sounds upset. Whatever, I've been upset all these years and I need this cleared up. She'll have to just deal with it right now.

"Long time no see, Mara. How've you been?" I ask instead. I know it sounds unpleasant and intentionally mean, but this is necessary. We can't both just run away from the truth days before we're slaughtered. If she wants to avoid me, fine, but I need an explanation. I need to know.

She retreats to the edge of her room, and I try to imagine how she'd look like now.

"Look, I know this is shitty, but I just wanted to tell you that I don't blame you for what happened. What actually sucks balls is the fact that you literally avoided me for four fucking years. You didn't bother to come and see me at the hospital. At first, I thought you straight-up died, but nope."

"It's not like that, Vickens, get out!" she shouts, but she sounds so unsure and defeated that I persist.

"You know I came to your old house, right? At least ten times, before I stopped. I literally had to go around the district looking like some sort of burnt mutant, trying to find you. To talk to you about what happened."

"Stop that, please stop, Vickens. I just want to be left alone right now."

"You know I said that too, after I realized you were hiding from me? That I wanted to be left alone? Yeah, well guess what. I realize now that that's a huge pile of bullshit, and you're full of it."

I am starting to get angry, and that's not what this is about. I need to get back on track. I need to calm down.

"Mara, you were my best friend and we're about to die. We need to talk this out. I just need my best friend again, so please, for the love of god, eat your fucking cheese and whatever else is on your plate and come watch the recaps."

I step out of the room and the door is slammed three inches away from my nose.

I make it back to the common area, and I can feel Triss' eyes on me.

I start shovelling food into my mouth, in order to avoid conversation and to distract myself from what just transpired.

I talked to Mara Griffith.

I talked to the girl who was my best friend and whose father caused my blindness. I am about five days away from dying. Now that my thoughts are no longer a jumbled mess, I know that what I've done is right. If Mara is anything like she used to be, she'll come see me when she's ready. I just needed to make that first leap.

"Triss…will you be able to talk me through the recaps? Let me know if there's any especially sexy tributes I need to look out for," I remark quietly, but Triss laughs like I've made the joke of the century.

"Will do, Andrew!"

When I finish eating, I lead myself to the couch under Triss' instructions and sit in front of the television.

"It's the smart thing to do," Triss says after a while.

"What's the smart thing to do?" I ask, slightly confused.

"Clear up any bad blood between you two. It's good that you know each other. You'll need her, if you want to survive," he clarifies.

"There's no bad blood between us. She just thinks there is," I sigh, facepalming and closing my eyelids.

I hear footsteps and someone indents the couch at the farthest end away from me.

"The first volunteer, Ambrox Linden, is tall, strong-looking. He's blond and has blue eyes, but they're cold, scary and very resolute. We'll have to look out for him," Mara remarks with an even, if not slightly antagonistic, tone and I can't help but smile. Baby steps, but I'm sure by the end of our stay at the Capitol, we'll both get the peace we long for.

And maybe, maybe I'll have my friend back.

Notes: Wheeew this was …different? It's kind of funny that my eyes are going through some shit and this blind character's chapter just coincidentally shows up. Writing's all about that catharsis. Here's to comparing eyeballs to fried eggs (erase that image out of my brain right this instant!).

What did you think of Andy from District 5? Do you think he has a chance in the Games or are you writing him off as a bloodbath, as he has evidently done with himself? Next chapter, we will discover what's up exactly with the mysterious Mara Griffith, while enjoying a quick televised recap of the Reapings.

Once again, thank you for the reviews.

Peace and love.