A couple of days before the Reaping

Penelope "Penny" Peachskin (16)- Citizen of District 8

"What do you think, Penny?" Autumn asks me, as soon as the run-though before her spectacle is over.

Sitting in the front row, I can analyse what happens onstage in greater depth. I can hear the dialogues better, but I can also see the faces of the different players, especially their eyes… how they play a character, what they feel… everything can be assumed on the base of what their eyes express. Today, I saw a great emotion in Autumn's eyes… as usual, after all. Her light brown eyes, so light that sometimes they seem almost pink, especially under the lights of a theatre… oh, how much I envy her for them, and not only for them. Actually, my sister could be a model with her long, wavy, auburn hair, rosy skin, high cheekbones and slender figure. In the past, she has been asked to parade for some important fashion houses that work for the Capitol, but she has always refused. Once, I asked her why, and she answered: "When you're a model, the clothes you wear are everything. In a play, the focus of attention are the players, instead… how they perform, which emotions they manage to convey to the audience… clothes are just a part of the character an actor plays."

"Well… it was good to me, just… I don't know whether you'll manage to lighten the mood," I reply.

"That's why I chose a comedy," she retorts, as if it was a foregone conclusion.

I know my sister doesn't like it, when her work is questioned, but I really can't help it. In a couple of days, there will be the Reaping and other two kids will be forced to take part in the annual Hunger Games. Under such circumstances, nothing can lighten my mood, not even a comedy. It's the first time Autumn decides to put on a show the same day of a Reaping… well, the same evening to be exact, but that changes nothing. In my opinion, it's a risky choice. I usually admire my sister's work and her talent as an actress, but, in this case, I cannot agree with her decisions.

"Umm… I don't know… the whole thing is kind of a mockery," I say.

"It's a comedy, Penny… people need to mind off, even if it's just for a while. Anyway, it's too late to get cold feet, everything's ready and, you know, the show must go on."

"Well said, Autumn. People might question your decisions, but the director has the last word. I'm pretty sure your spectacle gonna be a success," says a voice behind my back.

I turn around and see that our father is limping towards the stage, leaning on his walking stick. Weaver Peachskin is a victor of the Hunger Games. He got hurt in the arena- a rather mountainous landscape- and, when he was finally rescued, it was too late for his leg. But it wasn't cut off, at least. He's crippled since then. After his victory, he has invested money to found the theatre we're in… the Liberty Theatre, "where every artist is free to express … well, not completely free, since every spectacle has to be passed by the mayor, but being given a place like that is great, I suppose.

"Sorry, I missed the run-through, but I'll be sitting in the front row the day of your spectacle," our father goes on.

"I'm counting on it," replies Autumn with a smile.

"No spoilers for you, then, it gonna be a surprise," I add.

"Even better, I don't like spoilers. Moving on… is everything okay?"

"Yes, everything's ready for the show," answers my sister.

"I didn't mean that. How do you feel about… about the Reaping?" he replies, worried.

Our father was reaped when he was eighteen, the last Reaping before safety. Now, Autumn is eighteen too, so I think he's worried about her. If my sister got reaped, what a cosmic joke would it be! I don't wish her it, of course, just… sometimes, it seems that someone is truly steering your fate as if it was a helm. And me? My five slips are just a drop in the ocean, I suppose.

"I've got only seven slips in that ball, the possibility of being reaped is slow. In any case, thinking too far ahead is useless, right?"

"I used to think the same thing, but then my name was called," he points out.

"It won't happen again, not to me, it's nearly impossible," she insists.

"Nearly."

"Oh, father! Why are you so negative today?" Autumn complains, a bit upset.

"I'm realistic," he corrects her. "I want you… you two… to prepare for the worst, that's all. If you're spared, I'll be the happiest man on earth, but if not… well, I'm ready to spend all my money to help you! The whole thing is disgusting, I know… sponsoring tributes, betting on their lives…"

"Everything gonna be okay. Our family will remain united whatever happens, and the Capitol cannot take it away from us," I chime in, interrupting him.

My tone must sound convincing, because they both smile in response, but, deeper down, I feel uncomfortable. I don't know… I've got a feeling that something will go wrong for real.

…...

Last year

Tartan Dye (12)- Citizen of District 8

With my heart in my throat, I head to the main square along with my parents. There, a projector has been mounted to watch the Hunger Games. Watching the Games is mandatory, so, if you can't afford to have a television at home like my family, you should go to the main square. Of course, peacekeepers aren't sent around to check if every citizen of District 8 is actually watching the Games, but this year we have one more reason not to miss them: my brother Denim has been reaped. Even if he's one year older than me, I know that I should have volunteer to save him. Denim is feeble, whereas I'm stronger, I'd certainly stand more chances than him, and this awareness fills me with sorrow. I was a coward. My guilty conscience is driving me crazy… the just punishment, I suppose.

The broadcast starts with Panem's national anthem and the ever-present seal of the Capitol. Then, an aerial view of the arena. My heart sinks. It's all frozen! The white ice is glittering under the sunshine, making it almost unbearable to look at. In the meantime, the tributes have emerged from the tubes, all dressed in warm clothes. The cameras do several close-ups of their faces, including that of Denim. He's clearly scared to death but looks determined as well. I hope he has a plan. Please, Denim, flee as fast as you can, avoid that slaughter! I silently address him. There's a reason why the beginning of the Games is nicknamed "the bloodbath".

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 98th annual Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favour!" says the announcer.

Oh, how much I hate those words! How can the odds be in our favour, if you force us to kill one another like beasts?

20…19…18…17…16…

The eyes of my brother are fixed on the golden cornucopia. No, that's the last place you should go to! Flee, Denim, flee! I keep thinking, as if my thoughts could ever make him change his mind.

…5…4…3…2…1

The gong sounds. All the tributes jump from their footplates. Some of them run straight to the cornucopia, others flee. The slaughter has begun. The first victims fall, their blood stains the frozen candour of the ground. But where's my brother? Oh, yeah, now I see him… he has grabbed a backpack and is now fleeing in the opposite direction. Well done, Denim! But then something happens, something unexpected. A muffled sound… you can hear it also from the screen… and then some steam columns- or are they fountains?- come up from the ground in a violent manner. What's the hell are they? Some kind of volcano? Yeah, but they erupt hot water, not lava! * Anyway, some tributes have been hit by that hot rainfall, and they're now moaning and digging into the ice, looking for some freshness. What an awful scene! Denim was right in front of one of those volcanos when it erupted. Instinctively, he threw himself to the ground. Now, he's getting up again, but then… then I see her, the girl from One is right behind his back! Turn around, Denim! But it's too late. Before my brother can even realize it, she stabs him with her dagger, right in his jugular.

Brother… my feet start running in the opposite direction of the screen, without me wanting it.

"Tartan!" my father calls me.

I don't listen to him, though. I don't listen to the stupid words of the commentators. I can hear only the hysterical cries of my mother. I trip and fall several times. Seeing where you're going is hard, when your sight is blurred by tears. My mind is blank. I don't know where I'm going, I'm just following my feet… and my feet lead me to an old, abandoned warehouse, the place where I usually meet my friends. People call us vandals, but painters is the right word for us. We like decorating old buildings with our artworks. We usually use brushes and tempera, but not today… today, I don't need any brush. With my fingers smeared with tempera, I start painting one of the few sections of the wall that are still blank. Yellow… yes, I'll use yellow… and orange… then, I'll use blue and white to paint some clouds… they must look as candid as ice, before the red blood stains them… but I won't let it happen. My hands keep moving for hours, as if they were controlled by an invisible force. Eventually, when I stop, I realize what I've painted: a winged figure in the sky, who is reaching out to a flaming sun. The figure is smiling… the smile of my brother.

…...

Present day

Autumn Peachskin (18)- Citizen of District 8

I wake up with a smile on my lips. I had a good dream: my spectacle was a great success, and my father and Penny were congratulating me. That feels good! But then my mood darkens. In order for me to succeed, I have first to survive my last Reaping. Think positive, your seven slips are nothing compared to the situation of other people! I keep telling myself. I know that it's a cruel thought, I shouldn't feel safe just because others have more slips than me, but this is the way things are, and nothing I can do would ever change the establishment.

To dispel any negative thought, I get dressed. People are supposed to wear their best clothes on Reaping days to celebrate the Hunger Games as a festivity, but the Games are hated in every district of Panem, expect for the Career districts… and the Capitol, of course. Nevertheless, people cannot afford to express their hatred too openly, not with two failed rebellions behind their backs. No, if I wear a nice dress the day of a Reaping, it's not because the Capitol has ordered me it, it's because I've decided it, since I don't want to let myself down. In a certain sense, this is kind of a rebellion, right? Anyway, I've already decided what I'll wear today: a puffed, knee-long, peach-coloured dress, with which I'll match a leather, red jacket and a pair of white sneakers. When I'm ready, I go downstairs to have breakfast.

"You look wonderful, Autumn!" says my sister.

"Thank you, Penny, you too," I reply.

"You seem in good spirit, Autumn," my father chimes in.

"I'm looking forward to playing tonight. I won't let the Reaping ruin my moment."

"Well, the Reaping is a torture, you see the same desperate faces every year… a smiling girl in the crowd won't hurt, I suppose, just try not to appear too happy, okay? It could be interpreted as lack of respect," he goes on in a serious tone.

"This is your opinion, father," I say, defiant.

"I just think that you shouldn't be so indifferent to the sufferings of Panem," he retorts, a bit annoyed.

"I'm not indifferent, I don't want the Games to condition me so completely, that's all."

"Okay, okay, I think it's enough. Shall we finish breakfast in peace?" Penelope chimes in.

No one says a word, while we're heading to the main square. Maybe I took it too far… well, I'll apologize later.

"Good luck, girls," says my father, before parting from us to mount the stage along with the other victors.

District 8's last victor is a boy called Gemini Webb, who won three years ago at age seventeen. He managed to join the Careers and manipulated them so that they ended up arguing and killing one another. But what has been really sensational is the relationship he has started with our actual escort, Miranda Cleo. Today, she's wearing a long, blue dress with shades of turquoise and lilac. She's showing off also a series of bracelets and necklaces in gold- the same colour of her hair, styled in a wavy ponytail. Her makeup is minimal, the only noteworthy features are a pair of long, fake eyelashes and a black eyeliner that highlights her almond-shaped eyes.

"Good morning, District 8! You cannot imagine how happy I am to be there, in my favourite district! As I always say, District 1 might produce wonderful jewels, but what could we all do without your clothes?" she chirps.

This was meant to be a witty joke about District 8's main industry- textiles, I suppose, but no one seems to appreciate it, not even her boyfriend.

In fact, Miranda clears her throat and goes on: "Ahem… let's pick up the names of our lucky tributes, then! For the girls… Penelope Peachskin!"

When the name of my sister is called, I'm very disoriented. I look up and see that also my father is bewildered. In the meantime, Penny has mounted the stage with trembling legs. Like a bolt from the blue, it's suddenly clear to me what I have to do. I cannot let the Capitol hurt my little sister!

"I volunteer as tribute!" I shout.

"What are you doing?" Penny whispers to me, when I walk past her.

"Go back," I order her, under my breath. Luckily, she does it.

"Oh, a volunteer! Great! What's your name?" the escort asks me.

"Autumn Peachskin," I answer.

"I bet she was your sister, wasn't she?"

I nod.

"Lovely! And now for the boys… Tartan Dye!" she goes on.

A boy emerges from the thirteen-year-old section. I immediately hear a hysterical cry from the crowd. His mother, I suppose. I look at my district partner: he's not very tall, with short, brown hair and dull blue eyes. He has some muscle under his long-sleeved shirt, but it's a bit undeveloped. I've never met him before… his surname is familiar to me, though. The escort anticipates my thoughts.

"Oh, Dye… you're the brother of last year's tribute, right?"

"Yes, Denim was my brother," he confirms.

I remember him. Actually, last year's edition was a disaster for District 8, both our tributes were killed in the initial bloodbath. I can't even imagine what Tartan's family is feeling at the moment, now that another son is about to be sent to the arena.

"Volunteers?" asks the escort, but no one answers. "Very well, then! I give you the tributes of District 8, Autumn Peachskin and Tartan Dye! Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!" she says, eventually.

My father and Penny visit me in the waiting room. My sister hugs me, teary.

"Oh, Autumn! You shouldn't have volunteered for me!" she says.

"I had to, instead," I reply.

"And what about your spectacle?"

"We'll do it when I come back," I answer, trying to sound convinced.

It's incredible how quickly things can change. Before the Reaping, my only concern was the success of my comedy, and now I have to think of my survival.

My father puts his hand on my shoulder. He's teary, too. "If your mother was here, she would be proud of you, Autumn," he says.

My parents worked in a makeshift hospital during the uprising. That's where they met for the first time. After the rebellion, they got married. My mother went on working as a nurse, even if my father's money was more than enough to support their family. But she didn't do it for money, she did it by vocation. About ten years ago, an outbreak of cholera spread out in District 8. Victor's Village was sealed off, but my mother insisted on helping. Unfortunately, she was infected and died in a couple of days.

"And I'm proud of you as well," adds my father.

When time's up, a peacekeeper enters the room to bring out my visitors.

"Father," I say before he leaves me.

He abandoned mentoring years ago, so he cannot follow me to the Capitol.

He turns around. "Yes?"

"I-I'm sorry for this morning… I…" I stammer.

"Stay alive, and everything will be all right," he says with a sad smile, and then leaves the room along with my sister.

…...

Tartan Dye (13)- District 8 male tribute

This Reaping was a sign of fate, that's for sure. My cowardice has been punished, eventually. Please, Denim, help me from wherever you are, I don't want to die… I think, as tears start flooding from my eyes.

My parents visit me almost immediately. They're both desperate, especially my mother. Hearing her hysterical cries again was a torture. She had struggled to overcome her depression for Denim's death, and now… and now she'll probably be forced to watch also my death. I have no illusions, I'm not making it out alive from the arena.

"Tartan, promise us that you'll be careful, don't make your brother's mistakes! Flee from the bloodbath and survive!" says my father.

"I'll do my best," I reply.

"Oh, Tartan! Please, come back!" shouts my mother.

"I'll do my best," I repeat.

How blank I feel in this moment! The same feeling of last year, when my poor brother was brutally killed.

"You can make it, Tartan! When you come back, this painful moment will be forgotten, cause you'll be safe and we'll have a better life!" my father encourages me.

A better life? Yeah, if I win, we'll have a better life… also for Denim. We won't need to work as dyers any longer. We have done this job for generations, and several members of my family died from respiratory illnesses like tuberculosis. My parents have already some symptoms of that disease… cough, fever, and so on… if I won, they could heal. No, it's not all over! I must win for them and for Denim! It can't end like this, and it won't!


So, District 8 has two artists as tributes this year. What do you think of them and of their relationship with the art world?

Thank you for reading and reviewing :)


*The "frozen landscape with geysers" that was named by the previous Head Gamemaker in chapter 1