Jason Baize (17) D8M
I woke up and screamed. I punched a wall. I threw pillows and tore my sheets. I shattered every plate I could reach. I did none of those things. I laid on the bed with my face smushed into the pillows, wishing each breath would be my last. It was an empty wish, one I knew I would never act on. It was a feeling of blankness. It was dull and void. There was no sadness and no anger, much as I wished there was. There was nothing at all.
Was it minutes? Hours? Days? I laid on the bed while my fingers went numb. I inhaled without telling myself to, the only motion my body would allow. My legs wouldn't move and my arms were glued to the bed. All I could think of was all the things I wasn't doing. I wasn't getting in any last-minute training. I wasn't inhaling every calories I could force into my body. I wasn't plotting for the Games. I was doing absolutely nothing with what could well be one of the last days I would spend alive. And that meant nothing to me, since life didn't matter at all.
A knock on the door woke me up. I tried to glare at the source of the noise and my head didn't move. Chiffon burst into my room without permission, throwing the door open and yanking the blankets off me. "Wake up. It's private session time," she said, crossing her arms and standing over me. I didn't respond. I didn't react. I just laid there without moving, without even blinking.
"That wasn't an option," Chiffon pressed. I thought of all the things she could do to get me out of bed. At home, Dad would always just bully me about getting up. "Get up," he'd say, exasperated. "You have to do school." Fidelia would do nothing. Mom would tell me in kind words I had to get up and it was important even if I was sad. Esperanza, the most effective of the bunch, would just quietly nag. "Hey, wanna come downstairs with me? I'm about to make breakfast. Come on, let's go downstairs." Chiffon did none of those things.
Cold hands wrapped around my ankles and I did nothing to stop them. Silently I was yanked from the bed and thrown to the ground. One arm snaked from my side to catch my head before it could hit the ground, and that was all it took. Inertia really was a wonderful thing. With one arm moving I could move the other, and with both arms moving I could move my legs. Before I knew it I was standing up, glaring at Chiffon without saying anything. I couldn't speak even if I had anything to stay, but I could manage to stand.
"Private session time," Chiffon said before grabbing my hand. She didn't let me change, leaving me grateful that I had been too tired to change out of my training outfit the night before. With my hand held tight Chiffon yanked me from my room, dragging me across the Training Center until I reached the line for the sessions. Already the Sixes were being called, leaving me only a few minutes to gather myself before my name would be called. I flexed my fingers and toes, my arms and legs, trying to remind myself how muscles worked while name after name was called ahead of me.
When my name - Jason, not Joyce; even the child-murderers weren't transphobes - was called, I walked into the room with my head held high. I was still numb but I knew how to fake a brave face. I had been doing it for years. I took a dramatic bow just to make myself feel a bit more jovial and asked for a fighting assistant. I could have tried to show off my survival skills but I knew that wasn't how anyone got a high score. Fighting or weapons got you a score.
Aspasia came out and grinned at me. I knew why. I was still definitely going to lose against her, but I'd made serious progress in the time I'd spent training with her. I wondered whether trainers were allowed to sponsor tributes and hoped that if they were I'd left enough of a mark on her that she'd help me. She slipped into a fighting stance and I matched it, keeping up with her every motion while she easily mirrored mine.
She threw a punch and I blocked it, ducking beneath her second one while I punched her in the gut. She kneed me in the nose and I reeled back, staggering more than I had to. Her next punch was overconfident and I caught her arm, wrenching it down to force her to the ground. She landed on her knees and tapped out of my grip, leaving me surprised enough that I almost didn't let her go. She knew how to break free from that grip. I knew it. Still, I let her go, barely hiding a grin when I processed that she had lost on purpose.
Round after round we fought. She won once, keeping it realistic, and I won twice. By the time the session was over I was winded and bruised and she was limping a fake limp while panting with feigned exhaustion. I left the room more energized than I had entered it and nodded at Silver, hoping she would do as well as I thought I had. She didn't move when I looked at her and I had to look away. She looked like I had felt that morning.
When the scores were announced I sat with Chiffon and Calico, waiting with bated breath for the screen to slowly reach the Eights. I was reminded once again to be grateful I wasn't a Twelve. The numbers flicked by without me really bothering to process them until I finally saw my name on the screen, right next to a beautiful 8. I almost laughed at the idea of getting my District as a score. It was just absurd enough to be funny. Instead I smiled and cheered with my escort and my stylist. I had gained a good score during my private session, but, more importantly, I had also gained the confidence that someone who knew what they were talking about believed in me.