District One Male: Jacinth Lazurite (15)

The world around others has crumbled. The streets of District One are littered with rubbish of all kinds: dead animals, rubble, bits of plastic and rotting food, all twining together to create a sort of putrid smog and stench. On the poorer side of the district, you oftentimes see the streets littered with more than just trash, but with families too. Old men with bloody gashes on their bodies, hunched and starved children, young women who sell more than the pieces of old clothing in their hands. Even the richest among us struggle, their loyalist instincts during the war a target for the rebels. Mansions have been reduced to rubble, neighbors have turned against one another. Families have been broken apart. It's not hard to consider myself lucky.

The small squat tailor shop that resides in one of the modest shopping regions of the district is a safe haven from the destruction outside. In here, it smells faintly of dust and a rainbow of colors. As I listen to Edgar talk, my fingers dance across the bolts of fabric, the rich hues still slightly blurry, despite the glasses I wear.

"This is an embroidery stitch, Jacinth," Edgar's sharp eyes meet mine. "Not very practical, but beautiful. People paid a lot of money for hand embroidered clothes, back in the day."

"Think anyone could afford something like that now?" I ask, genuinely curious. Besides knowing almost all there is to know about tailoring and sewing, Edgar knows a lot about the District, the Capitol, and life before the war. Today, however, he simply looks at me sadly, and I'm well aware as to why.

"Doesn't matter," he shrugs, turning back to his work. "We have to pass down these skills. Now watch this one, Jacinth. This is called bullion stitch. Another impractical but beautiful thing."

I watch as the needle flawlessly twists and turns in his aged hands, lined with stories and skills. We work in slow silence, my eyes squinting to catch the details and perfections of his work. It's hard to replicate, and I take off my glasses to rub my eyes. The world around me twists into a blur of color, and my head quickly begins to ache ever so slightly. I put them back on, setting down the cloth.

"Edgar," I say quietly. "I'm scared." The works jerk their way out of my mouth. I don't particularly like to admit it, but it's hard to hide my emotions.

"Anyone would be," he says gruffly, continuing to stitch his own piece of fabric. "But I wouldn't be too worried."

"Why not?"

"Kid, both your parents were loyalists. You have less of a target on your back."

"They drawing is random. Right?"

He chuckles. "That's what they tell us."

I think about that for a moment. Dad and Mom were both loyalists. My father worked in a factory during the war, never sent into combat. He repaired advanced machinery, his quick hands useful to the Capitol. My mother and sister worked in the infirmary, helping wounded soldiers. Obedient in every way, I suppose. It still doesn't assuage my fears much.

"Thanks, Edgar," I mumble, turning back to my cloth.

"Anytime, kid. Anytime."

-:-

"Jacinth!" The voice is loud and bright, like sun cutting through storm clouds. I know before turning that Constance is behind me. I watch her bound towards me, all blonde hair and spunkiness. She lost her father to the war, but swallows the sadness. If it had happened to me, I likely would be in shambles, but Constance seems to be okay. It barely makes sense to me.

"Hey," I grin, though it wavers slightly. I give her a side hug and mess up her hair.

"Hey," she pants, tired from the short sprint. She quickly fixes her hair, poking her tongue out at me. I watch her for a moment as she fans her face.

Constance and I don't outwardly appear to have much in common, despite our blonde hair and light eyes. She is pretty where I am average, outgoing where I am shy, rude where I am polite, and tough where I am sensitive. She leads; I follow. Sometimes it hardly makes sense to me. She's lost so much, whereas I am grateful. Somehow though, our friendship clicks, and it has nearly all our lives.

"I saw Malachi down by the town square," she tosses her hair over her shoulder. "He wanted to talk to you."

"Why didn't he just stop by Edgar's?" I ask. "He's always does that."

"Said something about 'getting ready to die'," she gives me a little grin, like it's a joke. I shake my head but can't help the small smile creeping onto my face. My boyfriend's dark humor is oftentimes contagious.

"He's stopping by my house later," I say nervously. "For the second time since we started dating."

"Well," Constance huffs as we walk up a slight incline. "You picked a good day."

"Don't remind me." I mutter. We near our neighborhood. Small wooden houses line the cobbled streets. Here, smoke is often still thick in the air. The rubble that lines the streets still downtown is not as present here, but what takes up a lot of space is the beggars, the starving children, the prostitutes. The people struggling for survival.

"This is me." Constance stops at her house, a yellow home with peeling paint and a small porch. "I'll see you in the square at twelve, ok?" She reaches out, squeezing my arm.

"Okay," I nod, giving her a small smile and squeezing back. "We'll be okay."

"That's the spirit." She laughs as she heads inside, and I am left grinning half-heartedly at a closed door and smoggy air.

-:-

My room is small, but it is the one space I can truly call my own, and I love it for that. On sunny days, light will stream through the window, illuminating the wooden bed with its thin mattress, the desk my father built for me, the mirror next to my closet. Today, however, the weather outside reflects the events of the next few hours. Gray skies, dim light.

"Hey, Jacinth!" Veronica's voice sounds from outside my door. "Your little boyfriend's here! Hurry your ass up!"

"Tell him I'm coming," I respond mildly, small smile on my face. Veronica likes to pretend she doesn't care, but I know she's scared for me. I can read her more easily than most, even what she doesn't voice aloud.

I glance in the mirror before I leave the room, straightening the blue bowtie and pulling at the navy suit Edgar let me borrow for the occasion. I adjust my glasses, hoping that I look handsome, and that my boyfriend will find me so.

"There he is!" My mother stands with Malachi in the small living room. She looks flustered, and her face is blotchy, like she's been crying. She pulls me into a tight hug, something she doesn't do often. She's usually too busy to be physically affectionate, settling with a quick 'I love you!' before she rushes out the door with my father in the mornings, heading to the jewel mines.

"Hi Mom," I hug her back before turning to Malachi, shooting him a light grin. "Where's Dad?"

"He had to work today," She says, straightening her shirt. "I took the day off, but you know how things are. He'll be at the reaping though."

I feel a shudder of dread shoot through my body at the word. I wish I could ignore this like I ignore most other difficult conflicts. But this is more than a simple fight between friends or family. It's deadly.

"I think we'd better go now, Mom," I lean in for another hug. "Love you."

"I'll see you after," she responds, voice strangely high.

"Okay," I don't bother to tell her not to worry.

Malachi and I shut the door behind us. For a moment, we walk in silence, joining the crowd of people making their way towards the town square. Most are dressed up. I see a few girls in evening gowns, a couple of boys in suits like mine. Most, however, are just in clean clothes, which is nicer than some can even afford. It's me who finally breaks the silence.

"Heard you were looking for me," I tease, poking him in the ribs. "Wanted to see me before I get sent to my death?"

"Oh, shut up," he says, but his grinning despite the circumstances as well. "It won't be you."

"If you say so," I relent mildly, not wanting to shove my fear and paranoia down his throat. We pass a gaggle of kids walking together. From their hunched shoulders and starved bodies, they are easily marked as war orphans, the kids who were sent to the community homes after the war. Hopelessness lines their faces like premature wrinkles. I give an involuntary shudder.

"There was a reason I wanted to find you," Malachi's voice suddenly sounds nervous, and I look over at him. There's a strange expression on his face. Fear and tenderness and something fiery. The first time he flirted with me, I thought it was one big joke. It took me a while to realize his feelings were real, and it took me another few weeks to realize that even if it was a joke, I didn't mind it at all. But in the few months we've been a couple, I've never seen that kind of look on his face.

"What's that?"

"Just-" he pulls me to him and kisses me hard, quickly, tenderly. Once we break apart, I stare at him, then smile, touching my lips gently.

"There," he smirks. "Was that the best going away present or what?"

I can barely nod.

-:-

The crowd makes my palms sweat, and I try to ignore the intense feeling of danger that pulses in my gut. But, as always, I am unable to escape my emotions. I swallow hard, watching as a Capitol citizen, who they're calling an escort, teeters in five inch heels. Her hair hurts my eyes, and I try to focus on the pain building in my head as she reaches her hand into a large glass bowl to pick a name. The girl barely registers in my mind.

Malachi squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. At least it isn't Constance. I take a deep breath as she reaches to choose the male tribute. She teeters back to the microphone, smiling widely.

"Jacinth Lazurite!"

I feel a hundred thousand pairs of eyes on me. Pressure builds in my head and in my chest until I can barely breathe. I feel Malachi's hand go limp in mine, like a dead fish, eyes unseeing. Everyone is looking at me, and I hate when everyone looks at me. The fact that my fear of being the center of attention is the first thing on my mind at the moment causes laughter to bubble in my chest like champagne. Hysteria rises, and I suppress it. I cannot appear weak.

I somehow make my way to the stage with dry eyes. There is silence and there is weeping. The escort is practically shaking me in greeting.

My stomach turns. I'm going to an arena where I will have to kill children. Where children will try to kill me.

My gut twists, and I cannot stop the vomit that spews from my mouth onto the escort's neon purple dress. She screams.

I am going to the Hunger Games.

Hello! Welcome to the first tribute of my SYOT! I hope his creator likes him. He was certainly hard to write. Some questions!

1) Favorite thing about this tribute?
2) Least favorite thing about this tribute?

3) How can I improve my writing?

Thanks for reading. Please submit more tributes! This is currently the only one I have!

Y'all are some lit motherfuckas. Love ya!

xo ethereal