Tributes courtesy of AlexFalTon (Bodhi) and A Proud Bibliophile (Ivy).
Both of these POVs take place a week before the Reaping.
Warning: Bodhi is Hindu, and while I did some research, I'm not very educated on Hinduism. If I get anything wrong please let me know.
District 8
Bodhi Blackheart, 17
My foot slams into the wooden dummy as I twist in the air, nearly perfecting my butterfly kick. I land a bit off balance, and have to move a few steps to regain my footing. I groan with disappointment at the failed landing. I've been practicing the kick all morning, and I've become a bit disappointed that I haven't achieved it yet.
Just keep working and you'll get it, I tell myself. I take a few deep breaths before trying again.
I've had to work on my patience. I tend to get frustrated when I can't do things right. My perfectionism likes to grasp ahold of my atman. I've been trying to cleanse myself and be at peace, but it's difficult when I get so angry at myself. I don't get angry at others, but I have a bad tendency to lash out at myself. Dad has complained that he's heard me shouting at myself on far too many occasions. It disturbs the peace in the household.
I hate when Dad gets upset with me, and he does get upset when I yell. The only time I've ever seen him mad was when I disturbed his meditation with my yelling. I admire him so much, and the last thing I want to do is disappoint him.
Dad isn't my biological father, but I've only known a life with him, so I don't consider him to be anything else but my Dad. He found me abandoned when I was only a baby, and he took me in. He likes to say finding me was repayment for his wife passing away during a miscarriage. After he told me that, I've always wanted to be the blessing he sees me as.
He raised me in a small wooden house at the edge of District 8. It's a bit run-down, but having a pretty house isn't important to either of us. He's taught me to live as a good person so that one day I can achieve moksha. Right now we live in our own bubble of peace, away from all the violence in Panem, but one day I want to be able to leave my bubble and help everyone else follow their dharma.
Lately there's been talk of rebellion in our District, and I don't know how to feel about it. The world we live in right now is terrible, but revolution will only bring more death. Is it worth the violence to achieve what may be a better future?
I swing in the air again, this time missing the wooden dummy completely. A quick flash of anger shoots through me, but I take a deep breath and manage to stay calm. It's just something I need to work on. I suppose I've lost concentration, seeing as I've been working all morning. I haven't gotten a chance to pray today, which might be the cause for my unsuccess.
"Bodhi?" I hear Dad call from the other room, "Breakfast is ready!"
I join him in the other room, where he has set up a small breakfast of fruits, probably freshly picked.
"Did you pick these this morning?" I ask, sitting down across from him. He nods in response. "I could have helped. You know I enjoy gathering food."
"You were practicing your Kung Fu. I didn't want to disturb you," he responds simply. We both bow our heads for a quick prayer before digging in. "How is practice with your staff going?"
"Well," I respond. Dad decided several years ago that I needed to be able to protect myself. While we would never hurt a living being, we know not everyone carries the same tenets. Despite living on the outskirts of the District, District 8 has been known to be very dangerous, and recent gang activity has popped up around the area. I began training at Kung-Fu and with a staff when I was ten.
It's come in useful more than once.
About a year ago, I believe it saved my life. I was simply looking for new berry bushes in the outskirts of the District with my friend Yazmin when one of the gangs approached us. They were poorly equipped and one of the smaller ones in the District, but we were still greatly outnumbered. I managed to fight them off using my martial arts training. I thankfully didn't seriously hurt any of them, but after breaking one of the bigger member's noses, the rest scampered away with their tails between their legs.
The whole affair had me struck to the bone in fear, but Yazmin kept calling me brave and fearless. Her smile made me feel so much better. Wanting to be honest, I admitted I was terrified. Yazmin just told me I was even braver for fighting them off despite my fear. I wonder if she thinks I'm brave for talking to her despite how red and stuttery I get.
"How are you feeling about the Reaping?" Dad asks anxiously. He has a frown plastered on his face. He expressed many times how immoral the Hunger Games are. I know he's very scared I'll be chosen. He prays extra hard the month of the Reaping, and I doubt that's a coincidence.
"I feel confident, Dad," I promise him. "Remember, District 8 is large. I didn't take any tesserae. The odds of me going in are extremely slim."
Dad nods, but he still looks afraid.
"It will all be alright," I tell him. I don't want him to worry. I hate seeing his usually cheery expression dampened by fear, especially when it's fear for me.
Dad calms a bit. "I just don't want you getting hurt or getting stuck in that horror show. You're a good boy, you deserve more than this evil country."
District 8
Ivy Nottingham, 16
I coat my hands in another layer of flour as I continue to roll out the dough. It's slightly sticky, and some of the dough clings to my hands when I lift them. I groan in frustration and shake my hands to get the mixture off. After a few aggressive flicks of my hand, the dough goes flying across the room and lands on the wall.
I glance at it for a second, debating whether or not to clean it immediately. I figure that it will make sense to clean it up later. I turn back to my rolling pin and continue flattening the dough.
"Why is there batter on the wall?" Mrs. Higgens casually inquires as she enters. Her walker clacks against the ground as she walks over to the dough on the wall.
"Uh…" I begin.
Mrs. Higgens dips a finger into the concoction and delicately licks it. Her face wrinkles up.
"Too much salt," she decides.
"Oh," is all I can say. Mrs. Higgens shoos me aside and takes over rolling the dough. She carefully adds a few more ingredients to balance it out.
"Remember, too much seasoning is both gross and expensive!"
"Okay."
Mrs. Higgens is my elderly neighbor. I've known her since I was a baby, but it wasn't until I was thirteen until I started working at her bakery. I discovered early on that I by no means have a talent for baking. It doesn't matter much, because I have higher ambitions in mind. I'm much more interested in politics than the simple marketplace in my District.
It's not a far-fetched dream, either. My friend Lachlan used to joke about how impossible it would be for me to one day become mayor. However, I'm starting to grow in connections. My family has some mutual friends with the mayor, and my sister Nina even has an internship with her. I probably would have gotten the internship before Nina, but you need to be eighteen before applying. In just two more years, I plan to apply.
I'll probably get it, too. Nina seems to be doing a good job (not as good as I'll do, but she's decent), so our mayor will probably have a positive image of our family. I also have very good references - I make straight A's in school and my teachers love me (except for Mr. Harris, but that's just because he can't understand the concept of a friendly debate). Mrs. Higgens has already written me a great recommendation letter. I had her write it in advance because she's getting up there in age and I wanted to make sure I got her recommendation before she died.
Perhaps that's a little bit insensitive and ruthless, but you have to be a bit ruthless to make it in the political world. No one ever got successful by being nice.
"Here, place this in the oven," Mrs. Higgens orders, shoving a pan into my hands. "By the way, your friend was hanging around the shop this morning."
"Which friend?" I ask as I gingerly open the oven. It's already been preheated, so a gust of hot air hits my face. I stand back as far as possible when I push the pan into the oven. I'm very mindful of the hot metal inside the oven. I manage to get the pan inside the oven without burning myself and sigh in relief.
I burned myself really badly when I first started working here. It wasn't a life-or-death injury or anything, but it hurt like hell and sometimes at night I can still imagine the searing pain on my arm. There's a pretty nasty scar on my arm from the whole event. Whenever I see it it just reminds me of the pain I was in. Nowadays I try to stay away from fire or anything hot as much as possible.
"The boy. The one with the blond hair," Mrs. Higgens says. "I think I know why he was here."
When I look back at Mrs. Higgens, she has a sly smile on her face. She winks at me.
"So, Ivy… When did you get a boyfriend?"
I laugh aloud.
"Lachlan's not my boyfriend," I respond. "I'm not interested in him like that at all."
Lachlan's one of my closest friends, but lately he's made it clear that he's a bit interested in me. As much as I love the guy, I'm not interested in that sort of thing. With anyone. I told him this and he understood, but he still can't help but lounge around the bakery sometimes to talk to me.
"Are you nervous about the Reaping?" Mrs. Higgens asks. She has already begun preparing another loaf of bread. I slide beside her to help.
"Not really," I admit. "The Reapings are a bit rigged, aren't they? I know enough important people that I'm going to be safe. No one important ever gets Reaped."
"They don't?" Mrs. Higgens asks with minimal interest. She yanks the salt shaker out of my hand. "No, honey, I'm doing the seasoning this time."
"No, they don't," I respond. "When was the last time you saw a mayor's kid get Reaped?"
"Six years ago, I think," Mrs. Higgens shrugs. "It happens more often than you'd think."
I shake my head, not fully believing her. No matter what Mrs. Higgens says, I am confident that I will be safe at this upcoming Reaping. Even if my theory about the Reapings being rigged in my favor is incorrect, I still have less of a chance than a lot of kids in the District. I didn't take out any tesserae. I'm sure I'll be fine.
I have too many plans to be Reaped. I couldn't be Reaped because… I'm actually going somewhere in my life. The kids who get Reaped in District 8 are always the poor ones with no future. But I'm going to be important, and things always work out well for important people.
