Creeping Dawn: The First Hunger Games (SYOT OPEN) Chapter 7: District Four: Delma Velasquez, a hunger games fanfic

District Four Female: Delma Velasquez

There is a long, spindly crack in our dining room table, its branches and careful influence spreading across the old wood in a threatening fashion. My mother usually tries to cover it with a rough blue and beige cloth, woven from fabric and old fishing nets, but its tendrils creep from beneath it to matter how carefully she arranges it. It reminds me that no one is ever truly safe in my home, and likely, no one ever will be while I am still alive.

I used to spend hours sitting at that table, pouring pastel colored sand into jars, layer upon layer creating a soothing sunset, or mimicking the rise and fall of the blue sea. But that seems like it was a lifetime ago, when my fingers were still pudgy with baby fat and grubby with the crap little kids manage to get on their hands. That was before the crack formed. There's no time for such pleasantries anymore. Instead, the colors that my hands touch tend to be silver and red.

I slit the knife along the iridescent scales of the fish I hold in my grasp, opening it and pulling out his innards. Blood splatters onto the dock below me, but I don't flinch. I hardly flinch anymore, though I used to be fairly squeamish when I first found this job. Still, as I stretch my shoulders, I yearn for the days that I used to complain about- boat rides through the bay with my father and brother, hauling tons of fish to the market, the dinner parties my father used to host for his employees.

"That's not what she told me."

A voice sound a few feet in front of me, and I look up to see two of my former classmates repairing sails on a boat nearby as they chatter away.

"Well, then what version did you hear?"

Both are blonde and pixie-like, limbs appearing almost stretched due to malnourishment. I watch them as I continue to idly scrape scales off the fish, reminded of a better life. The smell of blood and guts enters my nostrils, creating a pungent odor as it mixes with the saltiness of the sea.

"Allis said that she and Palomar didn't do shit last night. That he drank too much and started crying to her about his family. Or I guess, his lack of one."

"So he made it up to cover that up?"

"Trying to protect his precious masculinity, probably."

"Poor guy."

"Yeah."

I glance over at them again, and this time, one of the girls spots me, meeting my gaze before quickly looking away. I set my tools down as I crouch towards the waves lapping against the dock. I rinse my hands quickly, face reddening as the sun and the whispers bore into my already rough skin. I can imagine what they're saying.

So sad. Family destroyed. She's dangerous, at least that's what my parents say.

I sigh but don't react, instead splashing water onto my hot cheeks, the saltwater burning the sunburn that resides there. I stand and walk to my boss, head held high. I refuse break my gaze with the girls as I pass them, giving them a slight smile rather than ignoring them. It could be sarcastic, genuine. I don't even know if I'm really sure what I intend to convey with it.

"You done then, girl?" My boss barks, not bothering to look up from his list of numbers. This is how people stay safe from my family and the trouble we might bright. Don't look, don't talk, don't refer to us by name.

"Yeah," I say easily. "And you said you'd give me the wages in cash today."

"Don't have cash on me." He mutters.

"The hell you don't," I shoot back. "I'm serious. I need that money in cash. Now."

"I could fire you," he sneers, but hands me the money anyways.

I pocket it. "Thanks!" I give him another easy grin before leaving the dock, rough wood transitioning quickly to cobblestone as I begin the walk back home. I don't really need the money in cash, but it's nice to have something to present to my parents every so often, especially on a day like this, where fear and anger hang heavy in the air. Besides being the first official selection of tributes, today also marks the day a peace accord was drawn up, the day my brother's idealistic notions officially turned to dust.

Anything that reminds my parents of my brother draws out anger. I'm sure, in some capacity, they are scared for him, ashamed for not caring for him better, guilty for raising him "wrong". But all they show is their fury for the danger he put his family in after going off to fight for the rebellion.

I shake the change in my pocket and watch as the sun arcs in the sky behind the clouds. Normally sunrises look like a promise of renewal.

Today it looks threatening.

-:-

I can only remember one time I hated the sea. It has so many facets, so many personalities, that I can almost imagine it as a disordered person, benevolent and calm one moment and dark and angry the next. Today, the ocean is so still, you might imagine it as a giant lung of the Earth, holding a particularly deep breath. The water, an opaque gray-blue, doesn't sparkle, as the sun has been snatched up and swallowed by a large cloud. It still shines in the cumulonimbus' belly, however, and the District remains in a moody state of in between- the sky is neither dark nor light.

The only time I didn't love the sea was the morning after my brother had disappeared in the middle of the night, leaving only a note that read: I have to fight for our freedom. I love you all. Marcos. We were awoken by a bang, a wooden crash that jolted me from sleep. The smell of something acidic was the first thing I noticed, followed by the barking of orders and yelling that echoed from downstairs.

-:-

"Search the entire home!" I jump out of bed the precise moment the gruff voice nears my room. "Anything incriminating, bring to me!"

I back against the tall windows that double as doors to a tiny balcony that juts out over the cliff our house is built on. A short way down, the sea churns, the stilts of our home stretching into nearly gray waters. I contemplate jumping, imagining how long my muscular limbs could fight against the anger of the tide as I tried to escape the men invading our home.

"Hey!"

I'm broken from my dreams of escape by the voice of a Capitol soldier, recently called peacekeepers by the president. Because, after all, that's what they were there for. To keep the peace.

"To keep us all slaves, he means," my brother whispered to me as we washed dishes one night, the television on in the room next to the kitchen. I didn't respond at the time, but now, as the man roughly grabs me and shoves me from my bedroom to the downstairs dining room, his words ring true in my ears.

"Delma," my mother pulls me to her, hugging me tightly.

"What's going on?" I ask, still smushed against her chest.

"Your brother ran away," my father hisses, his face lined with something that doesn't exactly resemble anger. It looks numb, as though he can't quite grasp the situation. "To join the rebels. The soldiers think we have something to do with it."

I don't respond. I knew Marcos' dreams, his aspirations. He'd drag me along to combat lessons after work a few days a week, telling my dad that he was only interested in watching the men practice, not actually learning the skills. When the fighting broke out, I had a strange feeling he'd be gone before long. And now it's happened.

We watch in silence as the peacekeepers destroy our home, tearing down furniture, carelessly opening the doors that lead to the kitchen's small balcony that overlooks the sea.

"What do you need with this?" a man sneers, holding up the family portrait my father's friend did of us in charcoal. When we don't respond, he tosses it carelessly over the edge. I can feel my parents stiffen beside me.

"And this?" he throws my mother's fine china over the railing. He seems annoyed by our lack of a reaction.

"Frankly," he continues. "I'm inclined to believe that you all are rebels, hoarding such fine goods rather than donating all you can to the Capitol's army."

"Please," my mother finally speaks up. "I have a government job. We're loyalists."

The dining room table is flipped, and a horrible cracking noise sounds through the room. I can't help but flinch, tears forming in my eyes as my parents continue to plead with the peacekeepers.

After they leave, I stand still on the balcony, refusing to face the wreckage behind me, desperately trying to ignore the massive hole that feels as though it's stretching through my heart.

I trace the rotting wood with a broken nail, gently scraping more paint from it's weathered surface. Our house is much of the same- old and blue, practically sagging with old age. The wind whips through it mercilessly every night, and when it rains, there are always leaks in the roof. And now, it is almost destroyed, our furniture overturned, our family broken apart.

I watch as the sea swallows up the family portrait.

I didn't love the sea that day.

-:-

The peacekeepers continued to harass us for months that slowly became years. When the war finally ended and Marcos didn't return, they assumed he was dead, and ceased to bother us. It was a miracle that we weren't arrested, and I know it has more to do with my mother's previous job in the government of District Four than it has to do with innocence.

Some days, I resent Marcos for what he did to us. My father's business crumbled, as no one wanted to work for or buy from the 'rebel' who had so many Capitol soldiers breathing down his neck every moment of the day. It was too dangerous for them, and so he quickly lost business, then money, then a job altogether. My mother lost her government position. When the peacekeepers finally left us alone, he and my mother were finally able to find work in a cannery. My friends left me alone.

Some days, however, I understand him. His passion, his drive for something greater. These, however, are thoughts I don't voice in a house were Marcos' name is like a curse, in a house where he is dead, despite there being no actual confirmation. I push the front door open, trying to forget my brother.

"Home," I call, my voice echoing through the shabby halls.

"We're in the kitchen," my father responds. His own voice is flat, devoid of any emotion besides the crushing weight of numbness.

The floor creaks below me as I make my way to them, carefully handing my father the coins. "I made this today," I grin. "It should help, with the bills and all that."

Something flickers in my father's eyes. "Thanks, honey," he offers me a smile in return. Next to him, my mother stares at the coins rather than at me, counting them quickly. She nods her assent to my father's remark, though her face is hard.

"Go change, then," she instructs. "You have to look nice for this selection thing."

"Okay," I shrug, indifferent to her stern tone. She didn't use to be so bitter, her nature caring to a fault. My father used to be dynamic and caring as well, but now they are both simply shells.

I don't know exactly what I am.

-:-

District Four was a place of war, just like every other district. It still bears the signs of death and destruction, oil spilled in the harbor, piles of rubbish in the alleyways, starving children everywhere. I'm sure there are dozens of marks we can't see, the ocean swallowing ship carcasses and trapped soldiers like calcium pills.

I walk to the reaping with Skipper, my normally relaxed and easy strides somewhat rushed. We are late, and two children are about to die.

"I didn't see you this morning," I say. It's more of a question than a statement, however, and he hesitates before answering.

"I thought I'd take the day off," he finally replies. "You know, with all the commotion going on."

"Well," I say, watching as the crowd thickens the nearer we get to the town square. "At least you don't have to worry. You're twenty."

"And you're seventeen," He says, voice dry. "Only this year and next, apparently."

I shrug in response. We met gutting fish, and we bonded over our mutual hatred of our bosses. I clung to him, because Skipper was one of the only people to talk to me after my family was harassed for so many months. He had little to lose after the war, and he accepted me. Today, however, everything feels off, even our normally easy friendship.

We separate with a quick hug as we enter the square, filing into our designated places. The girls around me ignore me, choosing instead to commiserate with each other, ignoring the chattering of the Capitolite onstage and the glare of the lights and cameras.

"Welcome everyone!" she chirps. "So happy to have you here on this historic day!"

My mind lazily drifts in and out of focus. I can't help but think it'll be me drawn today, the peacekeeper's vendetta against my family carried out somehow. Their daughter fighting for her life on television after their son abandoned them would break my parents. I curl my toes in my sandals, waiting and waiting to hear a name that isn't mine.

I might even pray.

It doesn't work.

"Delma Velasquez!" the woman shrieks with glee, her hair dangerously listing to the left. She straightens it and bares her scary smile.

I am shaking like a leaf as I make my way to the stage, clenching my fists to keep my hands from trembling. I thought I was ready for this; I thought I knew what might be coming. The last thought I have before I face the cameras is realizing just how wrong I was.

It looks like I am fated to join my brother.

Hello! Thanks for reading another lit update from myself. I'm glad you are on this syot, and appreciate everyone who has submitted! Updating has been great lately, so pray that I can keep it up lol. Here are some questions.