Chapter Fourteen: How to Save Someone From Themselves

Holy Crap, Has Time Stopped or Something?

Lacey Loveless, District Eight Female

When I was thirteen, the psychologist at my school told me I almost certainly had a disorder that prevented me from feeling emotions properly.

Despite what I wanted to think, he was right.

I don't know when I first realized that I wasn't, well, normal, per se. However, the first incident I could remember that matched the conditions that psychologist listed occurred when I was five years old. We'd all been clustered in a room for a class or something, when a pretty butterfly flew in front of the window. While everyone else (including the teacher) was admiring it (wildlife is pretty rare in this District, considering how terrible the environment is here), I watched it, but I didn't get hit with the wave of awe and surprise everyone else seemed to be experiencing.

I distinctly remember thinking, I've never seen a butterfly before! How am I not excited?

So, I tried to force myself to be excited, but it didn't work out. Once the butterfly finally flew away, everyone else settled down and we started up class again.

But I remained the same as always.

Now, I'm seventeen. I haven't felt actual happiness, ever. I can't get invested in a romance, meaning that not only have I never found my "true love," as most of the insane girls in my grade call it, I've never had my heart broken into pieces over a boy dumping me.

You know, most people would want to not feel anything if some boy dumped them. But, I'm so used to not feeling anything, I'd rather get the sensation other girls say I'm supposedly going to feel if that happens: your heart apparently gets slowly ripped in two as you start crying over your loss. I'd rather that because at least then it would prove I was actually capable of feeling and displaying emotions.

Instead, I'm just a shell. Not an actual person, forget that, all I am is a robot that needs to breathe and eat on occasion.

I know what you're thinking. "Okay, Miss Sad Sack, I get it. Is that seriously all the bad things that happen when you don't have any emotions?"

No. That's far from the worst part.

You want to know the worst part?

Then buckle up. It's going to be a painful ride.

One day, when I was about three years old, I stole a piece of food off of a table that someone was working as a vender. At the time, you'd probably think, "that's not a big deal, you were a three-year-old who didn't really understand the concepts of ownership and money yet." But, even after my mother noticed what I'd done, returned it, and apologized profusely on my behalf, I didn't feel sorry for what I'd done.

Not. One. Bit.

And this feeling of total apathy towards everyone but myself just kept progressing. Pretty soon, I was hurting things and still feeling nothing. People came next- I left a trail of broken relationships behind me wherever I went in those days. And then-

I shake my head. Let's not go there. Not yet.

So, this brings me to my big revelation. I feel like I'm ready, and like I've prepared long enough.

I'm volunteering into the Hunger Games this year.

Not for the fame and fortune and all the insane perks that come with it- for one, I could care less about all that crap, and two, the last victor we had was, what, eighteen Hunger Games ago? The seventy-seventh? Chances are, I'm not coming out of there alive.

But, I need it because I want to feel something- anything- before I die. If the Games don't change me emotionally, I can safely bet everything I own that nothing else will.

If I'm going out, I'm doing it in a blaze of glory.

However, I have one advantage as compared to nearly every outlier tribute in the Games: I've been preparing for this moment for years in advance, wanting to give myself as good of a chance as possible. This, I'll be going in with a huge advantage compared to everyone else, even though I'm probably going to be smaller than most of my competitors.

Today's the last day before I go in. So, even though one more day of prep isn't going to make or break me, I want to get it in.

For me, routine is everything.

Compared to the places the Careers train, my "training center" looks pitiful by comparison.

The only things I have to train with are a stubby little knife (which I liberated from a friend's junk drawer) and a beat-up mannequin (which I found in a back alley behind a clothing store and figured wouldn't be missed) that's covered in so many gashes that I'm surprised it hasn't gotten around to falling apart yet. It's also located in a dilapidated alley in a very seedy part of town. I'm surprised no one's tried to mug me in the three years I've used this as a training spot (although I'm pretty confident that at this point I could fend them off with the knife if I really needed to).

The mannequin didn't come with a head, so I can't exactly train as if it were a person, but it's a good enough substitute for now. I can brush up before the Games if I really think I need extra practice. There aren't too many opportunities to watch TV around here, but on the few occasions that I can, just about everything on in Hunger Games-related in some way, and they make it pretty clear that everyone gets some training time before the Games so the outlying Districts aren't at a total disadvantage.

But, I can't focus on the Games yet. I still have today and tomorrow morning to get through. So, I heft the knife (not that that's very hard) and get to work on my dummy. I want to shout and scream curses at it while I do it, but the last thing I need is to attract a Peacekeeper. No matter what they catch you doing, they will always find some way to punish you, and that's the last thing that I want when the thing I've desired is so close that I can practically taste it.

Finally, three heavy slices later, the mannequin finally gives in to temptation and collapses into a pile of cheap plastic. That's probably me getting signaled that it's time to pack up. So, I begin putting the pieces inside one of the numerous cardboard boxes that litter the alley, mostly because the worst thing you can do at a crime scene is leave evidence behind.

"Lacey, you seriously have nothing better to do than clean up an alley in this day and age?"

I would probably have jumped about five feet straight up if I hadn't recognize the voice. Instead, I just whirl around, realizing my best (and only) friend, Taffeta, has made another one of her "dramatic entrances." (Those entrances usually involve sneaking up behind me and making a snarky comment.)

"Can you stop doing that? I've told you I hate it when you do that at least a billion times."

"And I've responded to that request a billion and one times. I think it's pretty clear that I'm not going to stop, right?"

All I can do is shrug. That's one of the main reasons other people shy away from Taffeta- she can be quite annoying at times.

"Come on. There's got to be something you can do that's more interesting than this in your free time."

"Well, there probably is, I guess. Do you have any suggestions?"

She doesn't respond, instead, grabbing my hand and practically dragging me out of the alley as we walk towards the town square. I hide the knife in a pocket, not wanting anyone to see me with it for fear that they'll tell a Peacekeeper. Several creepy-looking characters eye us as we walk, but no one tries to talk to us, thankfully. Finally, we get out of that part of town and enter the smoky, bustling town center.

Coughing frequently due to all the nasty smoke in the air (the clothing and other factories here are far from environment-friendly) we manage to stumble to a curb so we can sit, which we find on accident, since the smoke is terrible if you want to actually see where you're going.

Finally, we're able to stop, although we keep our heads down as we talk so the smoke can't get into our eyes. That crap burns. Bad.

"Okay," I wheeze out, "what should we do?"

"How about go somewhere-" she stops and coughs several times before continuing- "other than here?"

"Maybe to my house? My parents probably won't mind," I say.

So we do that, hoping to get to a place where the air is at least a little bit clearer.

Soon, we arrive at my house (well, technically, my parents' house), a small, one-story thing with peeling blue paint, a couple of missing shingles, and a crooked chimney. However, at least we have a functional bathroom, which is more than a lot of kids in the District can say.

As I throw open the door, I look for people, namely, my parents. "Mom! Dad! I'm home! Are you there?"

No answer. There isn't even a door banging open to signify that someone's here. Meaning Mom and Dad are working late again, which has become more and more common as of recently.

"Okay then." I turn to Taffeta. "They probably won't mind you being here as long as we don't raid the pantry."

So, we quietly retreat to my room, a compact space with just enough room for a small bed (perfect for fitting my tiny body) and a small rack that holds the few outfits I have to my name. We just sit down on the bed, trying to figure out what to do on this currently boring day.

However, it appears we aren't really able to come up with anything. Neither of us feels like walking, we don't have a television at home, and it's not like I spend most of my time trying to figure out how I can have some fun- most of it goes towards school. (I know a lot of the girls in my District don't care about school- I do, mostly because there's not much else to do in this District and at least the work keeps me occupied.)

"I guess, just sit around and talk like we usually do?"

"That doesn't sound too bad."

At around sunset (which is nearly impossible to see through the smoke) Taffeta stands up and gets off my bed.

"See you tomorrow, Lacey," she says. "Hopefully, neither of us gets Reaped!"

Then, she vanishes into the shadows of the central room, where I left the lights off to save energy. I hear a door opening and closing, and then she's gone.

I immediately feel a nasty sensation in my stomach. I didn't ever get around to telling her I was planning on volunteering in. While part of that comes as a relief, since I know she'd be the kind of person who'd try to talk me out of it (in this District for my generation, people think getting sent into the Hunger Games is a suicide mission, since we don't have very many victors), part of me thinks, Wow. Great job. She might never see you again after tomorrow and you didn't even have the decency to tell her.

Silently, I just sit on my bed for a few minutes before I realize that I'm starving. I haven't really eaten anything except for a piece of tesserae bread before I left to train for the last time. However, I know my parents will be home soon, and they may or may not have the energy after work to make a decent meal.

On second thought, I decide to just go for it. My parents go through a lot so I don't have to get a job, and every little thing I can do for them is helpful. So, I hunt through the house for the first thing I can write on- a scrap of cardboard- and get a pen from the drawer where Dad keeps the supplies he uses to write letters.

I scrawl down a message for them: Mom, Dad, I got hungry. Ate something quick. Don't worry about dinner for me, just rest. Love, Lacey.

I slapdash together a meager meal- another piece of tesserae bread, a handful of strawberries that look like they'll go bad any minute, a small square of white cheese, and a glass of water- and shovel the whole thing down. It's gone within five minutes, and within ten, there's no evidence I was ever at the table.

It's a good thing, too, for as soon as I'm finished cleaning up after myself, both my parents stagger in the door. They're not drunk, but they might as well be, considering that they're barely any more functional than a drunk after their jobs.

Mom squeezes out a quick little "Good evening, Lacey," before stumbling off in the direction of the bedroom that Mom and Dad share, presumably to go to sleep.

Dad doesn't even do that. He at least nods to acknowledge my existence, but he goes into the bedroom right after Mom. I can't blame either of them. Working in a textile mill, based on what I've learned from classes centered on going into a job like this, is a very difficult thing to do, especially if you're working there twelve hours a day. If I had to do that for a living, I'd probably go nuts.

Hence, a silver lining of sorts for me volunteering. Whether I come out or not, I won't be stuck in a textile factory for the rest of my life.

Since everyone else is in bed at this point, I figure there's really nothing else to do. My parents are asleep; I'm not sure whether or not I should tell them about the Games. Like Taffeta, I'm afraid they're going to try and talk me out of volunteering. They'll probably think I've officially lost my mind.

But that's their business. Mine is to see if something can actually break me.

I quietly traipse back to my room, making sure to shut off all the lights before I slide myself into bed.

Tomorrow's my big day. It'll be the day that harbors either the smartest or the dumbest decision I've ever made in my life.

But all I know now is that only time will tell what comes out of this decision.

Author's Notes:

-Thanks to DefoNotAFanGirl for sending in Lacey.

-We've officially passed a thousand views! Thanks to all who have read up to this point for helping me get there!

-Coming up next is the D12F, created by jupiter101. This will be followed by the D5F, the D5M, and the D6M.

-I hope to see you next chapter!