Blossom Pellonier, aged 14
"We could do it, you know."
"Do what?" Fennel asks, lifting up his head from the grass, where he's picking weeds and tossing them in the air. "What crazy scheme do you have now?"
"Get over the face and run." Blossom gestures lazily towards the barbed fence at the edge of the field, cracking with electricity. "They can't keep it on all the time. We wait until they turn it off, then climb over. Or build a catapult. It's not impossible."
Fennel pelts Blossom with a dandelion. "Then what?"
"I haven't actually figured that out yet."
"Of course," Fennel snickers and Blossom sticks her tongue out at him. They're lying in the large field belonging to the orphanage, caged off on all sides by brick walls and electric fences. While the other orphans play and shout, Blossom and Fennel lie at the bottom of a small hill, obstructed from view. It's quiet here, and they like it that way.
"There's got to be more than life than District 9," Blossom says. "More than just rotting in an orphanage until we're 18. What if we managed to explore the other districts? What if we went someplace else? We could go anywhere we wanted and nobody could stop us. Where would you like to go?"
Fennel shrugs. "There's always that cargo train. You know, it ships grain from 9 to 10. We could stowaway on there."
Blossom smiles and her best friend pokes her with a leaf. See, this is why she loves hanging out with Fennel so much. He never shoots down her ideas or calls her a dreamer. He never writes off her chatter as plain old noise or makes her wash the dirt from her bright red hair. Instead, he supports her, encourages and entertains her. Her and all those crazy dreams she has floating around in her head.
"Have you ever seen animals, Fennel? Like, pigs, sheep, cows...have you ever seen them before?"
"Only on TV-"
"That doesn't count."
"Then, no. I haven't."
Blossom stretches her hands above her. The clouds are looming in, a miserable shade of grey. "I'd love to visit 10 and see all those animals. But why stop there? We can to District 2...or 1. You know what 2 has, Fennel? Mountains. We could climb up those mountains and live up there. And then there's all that snow. Have you ever felt snow before?"
"You know damn well I haven't. But it's probably all cold and wet." Fennel makes a face. "Blossom, can't we go somewhere warmer?"
"Like 11?" Blossom frowns. "What's there to do in 11? We could travel all over Panem and you want to choose the one place that's basically the same thing as District 9?"
"But think of all the fruit we can eat."
Blossom giggles. "Mmm. Fresh fruit instead of tessarae. Actually, I heard somewhere that each district has their own type of bread."
Fennel sits up; a bunch of grass and weeds fall from his hair. The field is quieter now as some of the matrons bring the kids back inside. "Is that really true?"
"It's got to be true! How could someone make up such a thing!?"
Blossom's stomach rumbles at the idea of something to eat that isn't a measly slice of old bread from the orphanage kitchens. "That's why we're not staying in just one district. We have to try everything!Oh Fennel, what if we went to Three? Or Five? Or Six? We could see all the factories!"
"That sounds a bit boring, don't you think?"
Blossom gives Fennel a shove. "Ah, you're boring. Fine. What do you want to do instead?"
"Um...I don't know, actually. I just can't think of anything-"
Fennel is cut off by a raindrop landing on his forehead. The two of them look up to see the dark clouds looming overhead. Slowly, more rain begins to fall. It's cold and it's damp, but Blossom doesn't care. If anything, it's refreshing. And a little rain has never stopped her before.
"I bet it doesn't rain in District 1," Blossom giggles.
"That's not how weather works."
"Whatever."
"Goodness! What are you two doing out here!?" Blossom is suddenly hauled to her feet by one of the matrons. "Come inside, it's raining!"
"Which district would you like to visit?" Blossom asks. Fennel just rolls his eyes.
"Enough, child! That kind of talk could be considered rebellious behaviour!" With that, the matron stalks off to go scold some other kids.
Blossom glances around. Nobody is watching, so she grabs Fennel by the hand and drags him back outside. "Come on, Fennel! Let's go dance in the rain!"
Demeter Teklum, aged 62
The Reaping for the 75th annual Hunger Games is tomorrow.
But Demeter isn't going to talk about it. Or mention it. No, she's not even going to think about it. Instead, she's going to smile and sit down at the dinner table with her husband and two sons, for what may likely be their last meal together.
Demeter pushes that thought away.
She does everything she can to make tonight feel like every other night before it. She laughs and smiles and carries on all the conversations she can. Her husband Brock, joins in, because he knows she'd rather go out in a blaze of glory instead of cold silence. Demeter is a happy, loving woman, and that's the way she wants to be remembered. Who cares about the Capitol and the President and those damned arenas they want her to fight in!?
The glory and mercy of the Capitol will never compare to a good meal with those she loves the most.
That being said, Demeter wishes her sons would make an effort to join in on the conversation. Roger and Dennis Teklum just poke awkwardly at their food, occasionally glancing upwards with sad smiles and looks of sympathy. They talk a bit, but they mostly share regrets. Roger goes off on a tangent about how he wished he had gotten married earlier and had started a family at some point, so Demeter would have seen her grandchildren before she died. Dennis mentions something about funeral homes. He knows a guy who knows a guy who makes his living dressing up corpses.
It's depressing and it's ruining the pleasant atmosphere Demeter wanted to create.
After Dennis says something about the possibility of cremation instead, Demeter has had enough and proceeds to slam her fist on the table. "Enough!"
Everyone stops what they're doing and they all turn to her in surprise.
Demeter quickly regains her composure, then smiles at her husband. "Sorry about that, dear. Anyways, please continue your story."
Brock gives a small cough, but he nods and continues to talk. Demeter grins. It's forced. Her sons slowly glance back down at their food, with nothing to say. An uncomfortable silence falls over the room.
So what that she's probably going to die some point in the next two weeks? So what her time is limited? Demeter couldn't possibly give a single damn. Instead, she's just going to hold her head up high and laugh in Snow's face when he goes to spit on her grave because she's had a better life than he ever will. She's married a wonderful man, raised two amazing boys, and she's done it all with a smile on her face.
A real smile. Not a fake, twisted grin on puffy white lips. That reeks of poison and artificial roses.
Because Snow doesn't know how to love. He'll never understand the way Demeter stares at her husband with a bright sparkle in her eyes. He doesn't get what it means to Demeter when she reaches across the table to pinch her son's cheek. He shakes with utter disgust as Demeter places her head on Brock's shoulder, then gives him a kiss. Snow knows nothing but hate, and that will only rot him down until there's nothing by a dried-up corpse full of broken bones.
And she'll laugh when he thinks he's outlived her, because she'll be a brilliant little bird, with wings light like air and feathers of the rainbow, flying off into the afterlife. Not him, though. Not him. Not him and his twisted, thorny, bloody roses.
There's only one place for that twisted rose.
Twisted roses burn in hell.
Demeter giggles to herself, raising all eyebrows, but nobody questions it. Roger and Dennis stands up, thank their father for the lovely meal, remind their mother that they love her. And they do, really. These words are full of commitment and promise, not some empty shell muttered to a dead Victor walking because she's going to die, we all know that!
Death reeks all over Panem. It destroys everything, and it may destroy Demeter, but it will never touch her.
"Birds are amazing things," Demeter says to her husband as they wash the dishes together. "Birds can fly, can sing, and they're free, and they never care what anybody thinks. I want to be a bird."
"You'd be a beautiful songbird," Brock says.
Two months later, when half of District 9 is destroyed and almost all houses of Victor's Village have burned to the ground, a curious little mockingjay perches on the windowsill of the house that belonged to Demeter Teklum.
It begins to sing.
Somewhere, another rose burns.
District 9 deserves some love.
Also, I had a lot of fun contrasting Blossom's childish daydreams with Demeter's carefree approach to her own demise.