Your problems are the worst ones because they're yours
-Unknown
Behind the Head Peacekeeper's House, June 16th, 4:30 am
Calico Jones (16) POV
District 8 female
"Alright, now get out before anyone sees you," the Head Peacekeeper says, thrusting a wad of bills into my hands. A twig breaks, and he looks over his shoulder frantically, only to realize that it was only a rat. I roll my eyes, taking the money from him and counting it. I wince.
"You shorted me," I say, looking up at him from below my eyelashes.
"'Scuse me?" he asks, gruffly.
"We agreed on $150," I say, holding his gaze. "This is $100."
"Can you just be happy I gave you that much and leave my house?" he says, closing the door on me. No way in hell I'm accepting that, I quickly shove my foot in the door, surely breaking a toe in the process.
"We agreed on $150, and I'm not leaving without the rest of it," I say. "It's not that big of a deal for you- you just need to give me $50. For what you must make, that's nothing. For what I make, it's everything."
"I've got places to be, little girl," he sneers. "Now get off my property before I report you for prostitution."
"If I go down, you go down with me," I say. "Give me what you owe me, or I'll report you."
"I could kill you" is his feeble last attempt.
"I welcome it. Besides, we both know that that threat's as empty as your head."
"And your heart," he says, throwing me the last $50. "Get out of my sight."
As soon as I get the last of my money, I turn around and walk away quickly, stumbling in my heels and praying my dress didn't ride up. You'd think after several years of doing this, it would become easier. You'd think I would get used to it. You'd think that things that used to be hard wouldn't be hard anymore- no pun intended. Well, it doesn't, and I'm not, and they are. At the age of thirteen, I thought selling my body would get easier, but it doesn't. It just doesn't, no matter how hard I try to make it.
This early in the morning, the fog that usually clings around the air of District 8 is merely floating just above the ground, chilling my ankles and nothing else. I shiver slightly, wishing that my dress covered more, but knowing that that would defeat the purpose of it. In my peripheral vision, I see a faint orange glow and find myself drawn to it, walking slowly, almost as if to not to disturb it, like a moth to a flame. When I get closer to it, I see three men, homeless by the looks of them, huddled around a garbage can fire, passing around a paper bag with a bottle of some hard liquor in it. They don't notice me, so when I approach them from behind, I clear my throat.
"Lady of the night?" one of them asks sarcastically, smiling a big toothless grin.
"No, I'm a quantum physicist," I answer, just as sarcastically. "What's in the bottle?"
"Why, are you a Peacekeeper?" another one asks.
"No, I told you, I'm a quantum physicist," I say. "I don't understand what you don't understand about that."
"It's rum," the first finally says, extending the bottle to me. Reluctantly, I take the bottle, dreading the sickly sweet taste, but too poor to be picky. I take a few swigs from the bottle, enjoying the feeling of the drink warming my insides before handing it back.
"Thanks," I say, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. Before I go, I remove a cigarette from my bra, place it between my teeth and lean over the fire, lighting the cigarette as well as allowing the men a look at my ass. "Y'all let me know if you need anything, alright?"
"Yes ma'am," Toothless says.
With my cigarette lit, I walk away, unsure of where I'm going, because, like them, I don't have a place to call home. Sure, I have my parents' house, but my relationship with the two of them is bad enough where I don't want to go there if I don't have to. I haven't been to their house in a few days, but with the realization that today's the day of the Reaping, I realize that I ought to visit them, if just for the five minutes it'll take for me to change my clothes and for them to wish me luck, if they even care to.
The walk home isn't a long one, but between dreading my homecoming and the Reaping, it seems to take forever. When I finally reach the beginning of one of the nicer streets in the District, thanks to my mom being a CEO or some shit, I flick my cigarette onto the ground and trudge to the fourth house on the right. Once I get to the door, I grab the shiny brass doorknob, gleaming against the pristine white door, give it a twist and find it thankfully unlocked.
The clock on the stove reads 5:48, meaning that my anally punctual parents will be awake in exactly 12 minutes- Mother to review her business plans and Father to write. When I was younger, I looked up to him, because he was always optimistic that his big break was just around the corner, and that he just needed to keep working harder. Now, I think he's just stupid.
Deciding to use these twelve minutes to my advantage, I crash over to my room, half worried that I'll wake my parents and have to face them. The floorboards of the stairs creak under my heels and I hear my dad yawn.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
I practically leap into my room, close the door softly and flick on my light, squinting at the sudden brightness. With my eyes nearly closed, I go across the room to my pile of dirty clothes, grabbing a pair of dark wash skinny jeans, a burgundy tank top and the oversize denim jacket that's always on, unless I have to look "sexy." I pull my clothes on and swap out my heels for a pair of worn black sneakers. Once I'm dressed, I tuck the money I made under my pillow, along with the loose cigarettes from my bra.
I regard myself in the mirror that rests above my desk, knowing that no matter how little I care about my own appearance, I should do something about myself. I finger comb my hair slightly, and work whatever I can into a braid, then use my fingers apply more dark eye makeup. Fine. Whatever. Good enough. I shove a pack of cigarettes and my lighter into my jacket pocket, blow my bangs off my face and leave my room, quite literally bumping into my mother on the way out.
"Shit," I mutter.
"Language," she warns as if I'm a child.
"Like I care," I say under my breath.
"Where have you been?" she asks, half concerned and half mad. I shrug. "Answer me!"
"The Head Peacekeeper's house," I say. Her concerned face takes a look of pure confusion.
"What were you doing there?" she asks. There's a lot my parents know- the smoking, the drinking, the drugs- but there's a lot I'm not willing to tell them about. Namely, the prostitution. So again, I shrug, pushing past her, heading downstairs for the door. "Where are you going?!"
"Away from here!"
The Rainier Residence, June 16th, 1:30 pm
Conn Rainier (17) POV
District 8 male
The knight slashes his sword once more across the dragon's neck, and it finally falls to the stone ground dead. He climbs back onto his horse and finds himself able to swiftly gallop across the barren field to where the evil prince is waiting, his sword is already drawn with heavy armor covering most of his body. The knight hops off the horse, approaching the prince and-
"Conn! We have to leave for the Reaping now! It starts in a half hour!"
"Mother, I just got to the good part!" I shout. "The knight just-"
"You can finish writing when we get back from the Reaping, but we need to go now!"
"Fine, I'll be down in a minute."
Glancing longingly in the leather bound notebook where I'm writing my novel, I grab it and carry it down the stairs with me. Writing has been a passion of mine ever since I could remember. When I was younger, I remember asking my parents for books from before the Dark Days. They were hard to get a hold of, but my parents have always had a bit of money, so it wasn't as hard for them as it would be for most other people. When I get to the living room door where my mother is, she snatches it and puts it in her purse.
"They won't let you bring that into your section," she says. "I'll hang onto it and give it back afterward."
"Thanks, mom," I say. The two of us set out of the house together, beginning the short walk to the Square for the Reaping. Since I finished school, I thought I'd be spending more time with my mom, but she's rarely home, so I'm often left to my own devices, writing for hours at a time about brave knights rescuing beautiful princesses in faraway lands. Because she's not around all that much, I've learned to cherish the times when she is at home; since she and Dad got divorced, I haven't seen much of either of them. Dad left Mom for another woman whose name I can't recall, as I stopped seeing my father shortly after the divorce. Mom threw herself into her work. She grew up on the poorer end of the District and always struggled with the fear of losing her newfound money, so she puts in extra hours to make sure she doesn't suddenly go bankrupt. Since she started working nights, she often worked while I slept, and she sleeps while I write. It's a troublesome family dynamic, and though I don't see a whole lot of either of them, I'm grateful for what I have as so many people have less, but that doesn't mean that I don't wish I had more. I understand that things could be worse, but the worse things haven't happened to me yet, so in my mind, this is as bad as it gets.
When we get to the Square, we see my friend Jackson hanging out in a cluster with Sarah and John. He's wearing the watch I got for him. Sarah and John are more Jackson's friends than mine, but we're all still friendly to one another. I wave at them and Jackson smiles slightly while the others glance away and continue talking.
"Conn, why don't you go talk with your friends?"
I may not be the best at reading social cues, but glancing over at the trio, things are already awkward, and I wouldn't want to intensify the awkwardness by joining them. I have enough trouble making friends as it is, I don't need to lose Jackson.
"That's okay," I say. "The Reaping will start shortly, I should get in line."
"Okay," she says, starting to look nervous. "Good luck today."
"Thanks, Mom," I say, stepping into line. Sometimes it's hard to remember that I'm still eligible to be Reaped, and even that this isn't my last Reaping. Since I finished high school early, I haven't been in the typical teenager mindset of worrying about grades and getting a job and being Reaped. There's a strange sense of security knowing that I'll never have to get a job; financially, my parents can support me until they die, and afterward, I'll get a large inheritance. People have said that that makes me sounds stuck up, but I never wanted it to. I can't help the fact that my family has money any more than the others can help that they don't.
I finally reach the front of the line, and the male Peacekeeper roughly grabs my hand and pricks it with a hypodermic needle. It hurts a little, but this isn't the first time I've experienced this, so it's not a huge deal.
"Please make your way to your section based on age group," he barks. "Next!"
I wander into my section with all of the other 17-year-old boys, patiently waiting for the Reaping to start for real. I'm in no hurry for the Reaping to end, because when the Reapings end, the Games start, which is hard for everyone. All too soon, District 8's escort, Vamos Dunbrill saunters up to the stage, clad in a turquoise suit to match his hair, eyebrows, and beard.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Reaping for the 227th Hunger Games!" he calls into the microphone. "I know you're all just as excited as I am, so let's get this show on the road, shall we?"
With a fake looking smile, he walks over to the females' Reaping bowl and draws out a slip. He walks back over to the microphone and unfolds the slip, drawing in a deep breath.
"Calico Jones!"
There's a lull, and a girl from the 16-year-old section walks slowly down the aisle. Her expression is stony, her face completely blank and it's impossible to see how she feels. Is she scared? Nervous? Relieved? I can't tell. As soon as she gets to the stage, she lights a cigarette, blowing the smoke in the general direction of Vamos. He looks at her, disgusted and walks to the males' Reaping bowl, repeating the same process.
When he gets to the microphone, he calls "Conn Rainier!"
A nervous smile spreads across my face and I shakily walk up to the stage, trying to get rid of the unnecessary smile and failing. Why am I smiling? This is not something I'm excited for. I'm more scared than I've ever been, but my nerves have taken control of the muscles in my face and I'm smiling. Once I make my way up the stairs and onto the stage, I wave to no one in particular. What is going on with me?
"Ladies and gentlemen of District 8, your tributes for the 227th Hunger Games. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."
Vamos leads Calico and me into the Justice Building, and thus begins the waiting. The waiting that will consume the rest of my time until I either die or win the Games. The rest of my foreseeable future will be spent waiting.
The Justice Building, June 16th, 2:30 pm
Calico Jones (16) POV
District 8 female
My parents don't come to visit me. It's not so much that I wanted them to, but I guess I hoped that they would come visit me before I board the train, considering this could be the last time they ever see me. But they don't, and I'm not hurt. They're probably busy with work, and I can't blame them for thinking that money is more important than I am. Okay, maybe I am a little bitter, but can you blame me? I was counting on them to come through, say that they'd miss me or that they knew that I had it in me to win. Even though I didn't. I was counting on them to bring me a token for the arena, but now all I have is the clothes that I'm wearing and the nearly full package of cigarettes in my jacket pocket.
But that could work.
I mean, without cigarettes in the Games, the arena would be even more of a living hell than it already would have been. Withdrawal would be painful; I've tried quitting before. Not to mention, the Gamemakers couldn't possibly think that cigarettes would give me an advantage. What am I going to do, eat them? If anything, they'd make it easier to find and kill me. Lighting one and having the smoke rise would be the equivalent of waving a giant white flag saying "I'm over here! Please kill me!" Death wouldn't be the worst thing. In fact, I welcome it. There's nothing for me to come home to anyway.
I draw the pack out of my pocket and open it, counting how many I have left. 16. Wonderful. I'm sure I can get some in the Capitol, so I won't have to waste my own before the Games even start. Then once I'm in the arena, I can have four a day for four days. I doubt I'll make it any longer than that anyway.
Satisfied, I put the pack back in my jacket pocket and sit down on a wooden chair, elbows resting on my knees. I allow my legs to shake slightly, giving my body something to do while I wait to leave for the train. I still can't believe my parents didn't come. As much as we fight, I really thought they cared about me. I'm their daughter… I can't think about this right now. I need to maintain the cold, numb exterior when I leave. It might not work as well as smiling and waving, but I can't bring myself to be cheerful; I was never good at it.
It dawns on me, however, that there's something I've been good at since I was allowed to call myself a teenager, and as much as I loathe the thought, I know it's my only chance of getting sponsors. I don't want to win, but I do want to know how long I can last in hell, to prepare for when I'm actually there.
I take the jacket off, abandoning it on the floor of the Justice Building waiting room and sliding the pack of cigarettes into my back pocket. I take my hair out of its braid, letting my hair hang loose around my shoulders and use the hair tie to tie up my shirt in the back, exposing my midriff. I look around the room, then walk to the door where a full-length mirror hangs. Regarding my reflection and seeing the empty look in my eyes, my hip bones and collar bones jutting out, I've definitely looked better, but it's enough for the name I've been branded with since I was 13 to fit like a glove.
The Justice Building, June 16th, 2:30 pm
Conn Rainier (17) POV
District 8 male
How could this have happened to me? There's nothing special about me, nothing that should have caused me to be Reaped instead of anyone else. I was always just that kid that talked weird, that's the only thing that ever stood out about me. That and my writing. Oh God, my book. Who's going to finish my book if I… Don't make it? Looking at my District partner, I can tell that there's something special about her; something different, just by her facial expressions. Something happened to her to make her cold and distant, and I intend to find out what it is. Maybe I can get her to open up to me. Maybe we could be allies. Not likely, but maybe.
My mother bursts through the door and immediately envelops me into her arms. Hugging her back, I can feel her shaking with tears.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers. "I should have been around more."
"It's okay," I say, breaking the hug. "Everything will be okay. Just like in the books. There's always a happy ending for the main character."
"How do you know that you're the main character?" she asks, looking me in the eye.
"I don't," I admit. "But my death could mean a happy ending for whoever it is."
She nods, and wordlessly hands me the book that she put into her purse just before the Reaping. It felt like a lifetime ago, but it couldn't have been more than an hour.
"In case you feel like writing," she says, wiping a tear from her eye.
"Thank you," I say, accepting the book. She goes to say something, but before she can, a Peacekeeper enters the room and tells my mother that it's time to leave. Mother obeys, not wanting to make a scene and leaves, giving me a fleeting glance before she does.
After my mother left, I thought I wouldn't have more visitors, but I have one more. She… I guess she's my friend. Her name is Kalia. She's older than me and she's a… Well, she goes out when no one else does, and she hangs out with people and they give her money. I give her money sometimes too, but I don't do the same things that other people do with her. I just give her money because she needs it.
"Hey nerd," she says, sitting down on the deep red couch. I sit down next to her, and she looks at me, sighing.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"I'm just gonna miss you, I guess," she says. "I don't really see you winning is all. I mean, you have a better chance than Calico I guess, but-"
"Do you know her?" I ask.
"I'm sorry?"
"My District partner. Calico. Do you know her?"
"Yeah," she says slowly like she's trying to find her words. "Vaguely. We've met. We don't really like each other. A bit of a rivalry."
"Rivalry?"
"We have a lot of the same clients."
"Oh," I say, feeling my face heat up. "So she's a…"
"Yeah," she says. "Like me."
"Oh."
We spend the rest of the time sitting in silence, occasionally glancing at each other but mostly just looking down at the floor. A Peacekeeper eventually walks in, and without him having to say a word, Kalia gets up to leave. As she's standing in the doorway, she turns to face me.
"Good luck in there."
Thank you StellaSlomp and grimbutnotalways for Calico and Conn, respectively!
Questions!
1) Who do you like better, Calico or Conn?
2) What did you like about them?
3) What didn't you like about them?
4) Any predictions?
Oh, and guys, you should all totally submit to Thunder and Lightning: The 33rd Annual Hunger Games by IVolunteerAsAuthor and Betttyy. Seriously, it's amazing. It's on the first's account, and I really hope to see some of you guys chilling in the reviews.
Lastly, there's a person floating around whose username is Annabeth-TheTributeThatLved (Lived without an I). Please note that this isn't me. I don't know what caused someone to make a fake account of myself, but I'm glad we caught it when we did.
-No one says no to Gaston!