Today's treat is cookies.
They had become a favorite here in our shop many years ago, but I was always trying to improve upon them, make them more likely to be purchased. But not even just that. Liked, wanted. I loved to see the smiles on peoples' faces as they bit into the decorated sugar and savored the taste. It was like a piece of heaven where most people felt that it was like hell. It also appeases my mother, who strives to remind me that my work is best kept in the kitchen where it belongs.
After several batches have been carefully assembled, my mother arrives to wrap them. She has pulled together small, glistening translucent bags to place the cookies, in trios, into. As rough as my mother could be at times, she was just as artistic in a way that no one really saw. She arranges the bows neatly at the top of each bag.
Our work is marked in silence for most of the morning, even into the business hours. No one arrives though, and my mother becomes frisk, realizing that, soon, she'll have to face it. There's no way around it. She has to face it, like every other parent today. She may lose one of her own.
"I have your clothes set out." She finally says. Her voice is quiet, broken. Her gaze avoids my own. "You and Collin best get ready." I can tell, despite my mothers forced hardness, she is struggling not to cry. Moved, I wrap my arms around my mother, gently, and lightly squeeze her shoulders. It is the only comfort I can give to her.
"I will mind Collin." I say, allowing her some space. Time to really gather herself together. It's the same every year. In three years, she'll never have to think about it again. Or perhaps, that's all she will ever think about. I don't know. I cannot fathom what parents think about when their children become of age.
Perhaps that they never should have born them at all? Perhaps cling to the hope that there is hardly a chance that their child would be chosen? Maybe that, all in all, they can't look at their children, like my mother cannot bear to look at us. It's too hard to become attached to something that you may not have too long.
Like trying to keep a canary in a cage. It has to be free, to fly and spread its wings in the air like it was born to do. To flutter in the sky, without a wonder or a care. I suppose that, in lue of things, I should feel that, should I ever get married, I should avoid having children for that very reason. However, I just can't see a future without watching a child grow up, play and love, like I was able to do my whole life.
I would feel better about just letting the canary free.
I try our room first, but Collin's clothes are untouched, as are my own. I don't take a second glance, but head straight for the stairs to find out where he'd gone to.
It didn't take long to locate him. He sat between our little shop and the next, face down, pulling up clumps of grass. His face is blank, his demeanor slightly sullen. I crouch down in front of him, and tilt my head to look at him. He doesn't pay me any mind.
"Hey, the reaping is in an hour. We have to get ready." I tell him. He doesn't look up at first. In fact, he doesn't look up for a long time. When he does, he looks me straight in the eyes and I feel that fear. He doesn't hide it well at all, and the distress is clear on his face. His blue eyes bore into my own, and I don't look away.
"There's always this feeling…" He starts to say, his hand knotted in a clump of earth. "Like today might be the day that begins the end of my life." He pauses and looks down at his hands. I think of my own and know what he is thinking. Could these hands that have hardly done anything close to kill, end the life of another human being? My thoughts grow cold, because I know the answer. No. No we could not.
"I know it's unlikely," He continues slowly. "But I can't help feeling like today's different. This reaping, is different." I don't know quite what to say to that. So I grasp my brother's shoulders, holding his gaze.
"Have faith." I say. But I can feel the hypocrisy behind my words. My faith is so high above my head it's unreasonable. Unreachable. Just like another thing that I try to put to the back of my mind…
"Your name will not come out of the reaping this year." I tell him. Positive. Optimistic. Collin needs these words to convince him it isn't all in vain. He does this every year. And every year, I comfort him. I wait. It takes a few moments, but color returns to his cheeks, and he stands.
It's almost surreal, preparing for the reaping. Like prettying a lamb for the slaughter. My blue shirt is tucked neatly into my trousers. Buttoned to the collarbone. Shoes cleaned of all flour and dirt. I brush my hands down the front of my shirt and run my fingers through my partially dried hair.
I avoid looking into the mirror as I walk out of my room and head down the stairs. I feel that, if I look into it, I will be acknowledging the fear that I feel. Not just for myself. Or even just for Collin. But also for whatever poor female is chosen this year.
Females naturally have a harder upbringing here in the Districts. Most female tributes, die within the first hour of the games. If not the first hour, the first day. I can only recall about eight games, but I had yet to see a female, or male even, in most cases, survive the initial bloodbath.
Twelve is always decimated before the final day of the Hunger Games.
My father intercepts me in the hall on my way out the door. Collin is waiting outside already and Glenn is kneading away. My father has abandoned his work for a short period of time, for what reason, I am not sure. Then he hands me a small, warm piece of bread. I take in its warm aroma and smile. Fresh bread. A treat even for the baker's son.
"Is Collin ready?" I ask, already knowing he is. I ask merely for my fathers benefit. He grunts slightly and nods his head to the door.
"Yes," He says gruffly. "awfully skittish today. Your mother's tending to him as we speak." I sigh. Collin, though older than me, is less prepared for death than I am. Although my thoughts turned this way, only out of my inability to think positively of myself.
The journey to the square seemed especially long in the odd humidity that had settled in today. The droves of children follow both behind me and in front of me, getting in lines to get blood checked. Merely a small thing for the Capitol, to ensure all of their intended prey, or audience, as I suppose they called it, was present for the day's festivities.
The square is crowded, more than usual this day. There are older folk lining the street where the canaries and being caged, separated by gender and age. I pass a few snide gamblers, while in line for the census, who are preparing to make their bets early. I suppose most of them have already seen some of the other reapings. The games were just an avenue for greed, a pave way for bloodlust. I turned away in disgust, unable to keep from thinking horrible things about the Capitol as I strode forward.
They pricked my finger quickly and I shuffled over to the "MALE 16" Sign, where more boys my age were huddled in ranks, each trying to hide behind one another, as if by hiding, they would be protected from the imminent hand that could pluck their name from the goblet. There are approximately forty of us or so in all, and we are by far the largest age group gathered thus far.
I am looking around to see if I can spot Collin when I lay eyes on her. Her hair, so dark and glistening in the sun, is arranged on her head in a delicate swirl of braids. Her eyes, even from this distance, glow a distant gray, almost like silver in the twilight. Her face is composed, calm. However her shoulders are rigid and she looks about stiffly. I realize she is looking for someone and my eyes leave her when she trains her gaze to the group behind her. I find myself looking back to see a small girl, her blond hair pulled into pigtails and her blue eyes wide in terror. It is Primrose Everdeen.