District 8 Awakening: I Dreamed a Dream
I Dreamed a Dream from Les Miserables
I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I'm living
So different from what it seemed
Now life has killed
The dream I dreamed…
Note: PE stands for Panem Era
Thread Meedle (37) D8 Victor of the 77th Games
A cool, subtle breeze wafts through the land of the dead. Faintly whistling amidst sullen trees that hang low and whose limbs reach for substance, a reason to continue living. With decaying bark and withering leaves, the evergreens reside in a place where no one calls home; a welcome feared. Flowers bloom, resilient against the harsh, arid climate in District 8: the textile District. Workers thread and sew to the bone to keep order here, never stopping for the Games or the tribute's funerals. These things go unsaid and stay 'hush, hush'.
The cemetery for the lost children. Always bleak and grey despite the sunny climate, an eerie chill fills the large acre field. Graves span from the 1st Games to now, a hundred years of senseless and sinful deaths. Sisters and brothers, friends and soul mates all reaped and sacrificed in the Capitol for 'entertainment'. Atrocities committed in such a damned place, the earth seeped with virgin blood.
The population in District 8 was never large in any means, only ahead of Districts 5 and 6. Hardly anyone is without a job here. Everyone, whether you're twelve or eighty are forced to work long hours in the factories. Working so hard and sacrificing so much… just too barely make it, to keep afloat.
Oh dear. I seem to have gotten ahead of myself, I haven't properly introduced myself! I apologize, I'm Thread Meedle. I am the Victor of the 77th Annual Hunger Games, the second Victor after the Mockingjay Rebellion preceded by Victor Delta Brookes and succeeded by Victor Reed Linden. Both are dead, passing away several years ago making me the oldest Victor alongside Electra Ross from the 80th Games.
Pretty crappy intro, huh. Well there isn't much about me that you should know. I mean, really, I was just a normal kid before all this happened. Working in the factory, going to school, my family… so many things I took for granted. Until I was reaped and thrown into a game, the Hunger Games where killing is praised and bloodshed is beautiful. I killed three people; an eighteen year old, a sixteen year old and a fourteen year old just so I could survive, because I was afraid of death. I feared the pain and suffering I would endure in those final moments, my life flashing before my eyes. Killing my first person had left me numb, I could no longer feel sympathy or remorse; I was a robot. A monster created by the Capitol. By dear old President Yowlin, that fucking bastard. Then I just killed whoever challenged me, obstacles standing in between me and living. I didn't care for fame or fortune, I obviously didn't volunteer so why? Why did fate have to be so cruel and drag me in, my destiny so obscure? I lived a life, shitty and miserable but in my opinion better than leaving loved ones behind to mourn…
My thoughts begin to fade and my surroundings become apparent. I stand before my tributes, the ones I have failed and the ones whose lives were ended. Some are buried within their home grounds, some too mangled or burnt to ash for a proper funeral. Two tributes however affected me so greatly that I only think of them, the others lost and searching for a way out of the darkness that swallowed them.
RIP
Victor Quinne Ophelia Calico
April 3rd 80 PE – September 4th 96 PE
A brave and resilient soul
RIP
Paxton Winterrose
January 23rd 75 PE – August 20th 93 PE
Loving son, brother, and friend
These were my tributes for the 93rd Games. Thirteen year old Quinne and eighteen year old Paxton, both who knew each other before their reapings. Quinne was best friends with Paxton's younger sister Icelynne through grade school, inseparable she told me. Paxton and Quinne's older brother Henry were always together so naturally the four would hang out together whether it be the town square or school, they were together. That all changed on reaping day of the 93rd Annual Hunger Games.
I won't go into detail, all you need to know is that both were chosen. No one volunteers here, obviously, and only Quinne survived. Paxton had shielded her during the bloodbath and ultimately perished by a District 4 male whose name I didn't bother to learn, Quinne avenged his death and hung the sixteen year old during the finale.
I remember her eyes, a fiery sapphire soon dull and glassy after she could cry no more for her district partner, a girl's innocence lost. I remember the emotion her face once lit, enough to fill a room then fell dark and sullen. Quinne had hid, secluded herself away from the others and before the final day set traps, nooses that flung tributes upward and broke their necks. I was turning thirty at the time, happy to be free of mentoring and watching tributes die. Finally able to retire, I didn't consider Quinne's depression and anger that caught Seraphina's attention. My mistake cost Quinne her life, when she needed her the most I shut her out. I resorted to the Victor's Village and shut out everyone, I had long been excluded from Capitol affairs but people still praised me, loved the monster I had become…
I was never so angry and distressed after hearing of Quinne's 'mission'. Three years after her Victory had she executed and planned, a risky riot that she recruited Victor Mercedes Fenton for who was later found trampled to death in the flashy streets of the Capitol. All her bones had been broken, her skull flattened and brain matter oozing from her bleeding body.
TMI? Well I don't give a fuck. I saw her corpse, the faint smile that stretched her deathly pale skin, her hazel eyes soft and cold. Screaming, the screams that never cease to escape my lips sounded from my sinned lips. Anger and despair filled me and all I did was scream and yell, at Seraphina or Quinne for being so stupid… Instead of crying Quinne had stood tall, her hands clenched at her sides and eyes glazed. She had grown cold and harsh, broken yet strong…
She was only sixteen when she died…
I was forced by Seraphina to witness her torture along with a teenage boy. The boy, witnessing one too many killings, was quaking in terror and wide eyed the whole time. I will never forget the screams, the maniacal laughter, the silence that followed…
The room had pooled with the crimson liquid, the very pores of the room seeped with the agony and fear of her political opponents. Seraphina takes her time, slithering and hissing as the suspense builds and tension thickens enough to strangle. Admiring her handiwork and finally releasing both of us, no words were exchanged. I never saw the young teen again, recalling only the dark, hopeless look in his dark brown eyes.
I bring my hand to my face and wipe the sweat beads from my forehead, the humidity suffocating on a cloudy day. Leaving a small bouquet of carnations on each tributes' headstones, I collect myself and head towards the Justice Building where my tributes await.
Closing the iron gate of the District's cemetery, I begin the two mile walk to the Town Square. The sidewalk is nicely kept, the chalk white cement clean of impurities. Sparrows of all kinds flock to barren trees whose leaves have yet to appear, afraid of the tragedy in the weeks to follow…
I quicken my pace, not wanting the memories to flood back; the pain to trickle back and clog every pore of my body. Dilapidated buildings blur into one another as I pass by small shops and eateries to the Town Square, the paint chipping off the words of windows and dirt collecting at the edges. The atmosphere dark and cold, off-putting to such a beautiful District where the trees grow and animals live…
The bright colors of the streamers and festivities snap me out of my daze, the Town Square filled with decorations for the event: The 'highly' anticipated 4th Quarter Quell. According to the ever brilliant Mayor Townsend, decorating gets District 8 more funding from the Capitol. To show that we 'support' and 'love' them for all the 'generosities' they provide us. Yeah, see those quotes? Bullshit. If anything the Capitol sees us as a bunch of kiss asses who sew a bunch of fucking cloth. I head into a familiar liquor store and head to the back of the facility where I know they keep the best damn vodka in the District.
"Hey, Thread. Long time no see." I look over the shelves to see my childhood friend: Cal Hemingsway at the counter with his infamous smirk.
"Cal." I nod and slowly make me way towards the counter, reaching for my wallet and pulling out a crisp $20 dollar bill. He gladly accepts and hands me back my vodka with a couple boxes of pills for hangovers.
"I didn't pay for these…"
He shakes his head and shrugs. "It's on the house. I know how you get during this time of year." He avoids the ugly words and relaxes into his stool. "Plus, maybe the others will need them, especially that… what's his face?"
"Berk."
"Ah yes, Victor Berk Jerald."
I nod and take my items, thanking him on my way out. Victor Berk Jerald is a scary one, he's an alcoholic and overly narcissistic, angry and, just plain depressed. His Games had affected him greatly, I don't really recall what, but I know he was paranoid the entire time and on the brink of despair with his district partner… Alexandria, I believe. Victor Rye Rhodes had difficulty with him after his Victory and the Victors Tour was a disaster. Rumor has it he was put under electro therapy by the Capitol Asylum, but it's never been confirmed.
I find myself at the reception area of the Justice Building and wait as an elderly man dressed in a lab coat calls for me at the end of the hall. I nod towards his direction and walk past pictures of past Victors, all looking the same. The dark look hidden in their eyes, the one I hold dear to my heart as acceptance to what I have faced.
I enter the large room and gasp in horror as three billowy figures lie on metal tables of sorts, ones you see in morgues. All are equidistant from each other in a row with a large lump nearest to me with a almost nonexistent one at the far end.
"Here are your tributes. They should be awake soon… here are their information and procedures." The man hands me the documents and heads towards the door, turning back one last time.
"May the odds be in their favor…" He frowns and exits leaving me with the lingering presence of silence and three dead teenagers. I sit at a chair in the corner of the room, the faint smell of sterilization fumes usually at hospitals fills my nose and brings me back to the awakening of my Victory…
"I DON'T WANT THIS!"
"Stop acting like a child, Thread!"
"That's what I am! I'm just a fucking kid!"
Tears begin to fall as the memory of waking up in that hospital bed fills my senses. That sinking feeling burying itself within me as the realization of my life from then on began to fill every ounce of my being. Victor Delta Brookes had been my mentor for the 77th Games. After the Mockingjay Rebellion, there was only Haymitch Abernathy remaining to mentor so during the 76th Games, they had trainers from the Capitol train us and as the years went by, Victors began training everyone.
Delta was bipolar. Sometimes in an okay mood, then slowly spiraling into chaos. She was moody and didn't put up with whining, or depressed tributes considering she was mentally scarred as well. I don't blame her though, she was messed up and ultimately perished in agony and regret… something I still think about even today besides my own tributes who have failed to emerge from the Games.
A monitor begins to beep and I avert my eyes to the rustling of sheets, the large lump emerging and scaring me half to death. The teen's nightgown hugs his torso tightly as his muscles flex underneath the thin material as he stretches as if merely waking up for school. His shoulder length hair has highlights, dark purples and blues and blacks are strident and are contrasted to his bright emerald eyes. He simply stares at me and slowly lies back down. His eyes strain and he grits his teeth, his lips silently moving as talking to himself.
I don't have time to say something before yet another monitor sounds and the person at the far corner of the room awakens with a howl. Her blue eyes are electrifying and filled with death as she stares at me, the corners of her mouth turning up in a haunting smile. Mercy Jade.
"ahhhhahaHAHAHAHA…"
She's laughing, a cackle escapes her pale pink lips and her eyes seem to darken as she grabs a scalpel and begins to clutch the blade which digs into her snow white skin.
"You won't kill me again, mutt. Oh, no. Not you, but me!" Her voice rises in pitch and her face contorts in laughter and craze. She rests the scalpel horizontal to the wall and smashes her head against the blade, a sickening sound echoing throughout the room. I dart to her as she does this several more times and grab for a syringe at her table and inject her with it, the clear liquid pulsing in her veins. She screams and falls to the floor in a heap, her eyes fluttering as the sedative begins to take effect.
"Damn…"
She lies limp in my arms as I return her to the table as I wait for signs of life for the last one, this whole process happening in just minutes upon entering the room. Blood begins to drip from her wounds as her light blonde hair darkens and the metallic smell of the crimson fills the sterile room. I grab a piece of gauze and wrap the thin bandage around her head, the stabbings no longer visible.
"Ah…"
A faint gasp sounds and the last tribute sits upright from the metal table, her black hair messy and brown eyes hazy as she stretches her long limbs. Mira Knitt, my tribute of the 87th Games sits in front of me and I stand in shock of the sight of all three. Messiah whimpers with his head between his legs, his large body slowly rocking back and forth. Mira's face flashes with realization and sobs loudly into her hands, her usually strong self broken and damaged.
And probably most of all, Mercy Jade. Her stiff body lies on the linoleum floor in a heap, her body contorted in an awkward angle and dark blood tainting her pale skin. Her history is dark, she was reaped and sisters after her were chosen for the Games. Whether it was planned or not, the Jade sisters died in that Arena. Their parents finally cracked after last year when their remaining daughter, Harmony perished in the Bloodbath by Victor River Echo and both were found in their home dead. Overdose on sleeping pills, hand in hand with a note reading…
The Odds Are Never In Our Favor…
A/N: Here are your tributes from District 8: Messiah "Alpha", Mercy, and Mira XD (They all start with M!) and mentor: Thread Meedle.
1. Favorite tribute from 8, least favorite and why.
2. What do you think of Thread?
Love Always, Domi