One life forged into iron spear,
The other hewn in a womb of fear.
District 4's tributes stand on opposing poles.
District 4 | The Reaping of Emily Mcwha
I awake to the usual sounds of the waves pounding on the shore. That was my lullaby by night and my wakeup call in the morning; the steady, rhythmic roar calms my heart, frantically beating from my latest nightmare about the Games. It had been such a horrible dream, where I was chained up to a tree and a faceless Career that I vaguely recognized from one of the past Games was slowly killing me with my own knife.
It's times like this when I am glad that I live in District Four, and that my family is lucky enough to have a house on the beach. The waves are as soothing to me as a mother's lullaby is to a baby.
"Ems! It's time to get up!"
My brother's voice interrupts my early morning serenity. Even today, Reaping Day, the people in District Four get up early - the poorest always fish, hoping to get whatever extra catch they can.
I drag myself out of bed and walk to the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
"There you are Emmy! Breakfast is ready," Mitchell says. My mother is sitting at the table already, munching on a roll of bread and a helping of fish.
Fish. That's all we ever got. After my brother turned 18 seven years ago, he became a fisherman. The fishermen split amongst themselves whatever isn't good enough for the Capital to eat. The good part of that is that it makes our district wealthy when compared to other districts. The bad part is that all we ever get to eat is fish.
I can hear my mother now if I ever say that: You should be grateful! Do you think those poor starving children in District Twelve care what they eat? No, because they're lucky to even get food out there. Now eat your fish and be grateful.
One of the reasons why I was so indifferent to my mother is because she so selfless. All my life she has raised me to give everything to others and leave nothing but scraps for myself. Why do they deserve the good food any more than I do?
My brother tries to keep the peace between us by sneaking me treats every once and a while to keep me under control, but that doesn't stop my mother and I from getting into fights almost every day. Just about the only good thing she's done for me is sending me to the Training Center.
My uncle – mother's brother - had been a well-known rebel leader back during the Dark Days. He was executed, leaving Mother as his only remaining family. Mother sent my brother and I to the Training Center in case our connection with him got our names pulled from the Reaping bowl. Mother had tried to justify herself with saying that if we won everyone in our district would get food, but Mitchell says that it was proof she loved us very much. I highly doubt that.
The only people I love are Mitchell and my best friend since birth, Zoe. Unlike me, with my wild untamable hair and freckles, Zoe epitomizes beauty. Her bronze locks flow down her waist and perfectly tanned skin. Matched with her stunning eyes, which are the color of the night sky complete with golden stars, she is easily the most beautiful girl in District Four - and in all of Panem, for that matter.
I don't realize I have been eating until my plate is empty. Mitchell takes it to the sink and rinses it.
"You have a few hours until the Reaping. Why don't you go out and do something enjoyable?" Mitchell says to me.
I nod and head out the door. As I walk away from the house, I can hear Mother speaking with a tone of disapproval in her voice. I smirk - like she can control me.
I wander along the street towards Zoe's house; she will be up for swimming, as she loves the ocean almost as much as I. Technically, we're not allowed to swim for any reason other than fishing, but Zoe and I get away with it. Even the Peacekeepers find me endearing.
I have noticed that people in District Four, and I suppose people in general, love to preserve innocence. It's what makes them love me so much. My round face and big eyes are so childlike that people are drawn to me and want to protect me. Despite my appearance, I learned long ago that the world is not filled with the mermaids and unicorns from the legends that parents tell their children before sleep. If you want to survive, you can only care about yourself and a select few others. If you become like my mother and start caring more for others than yourself, then the reality of Panem will rip you apart and burn the pieces.
I learned that long ago, surprisingly from my mother. She was a rebel along with my uncle. She cared too much about the people who got the worst lots in life. She couldn't deal with the aftermath of seeing people die. She is helpless now, depending on Mitchell to take care of her.
That's another unforgivable thing to do. Being completely dependent on another person is highly dangers. Become unaccustomed to surviving without someone to take care of you, and when that person is gone, you follow soon after.
After Zoe is ready, we walk down to the beach. Zoe and I sit in the water, the waves washing over our legs as they crash onto the shore.
"Nervous?" Zoe asks.
"No. I've been waiting for this since my first day of training," I say.
A few days ago, the Head Trainer at the District Four Training Center told me that he wanted me to volunteer this year.
I gather my belongings and exit the locker room at the District Four Training Center. I wave goodbye to a few of the girls I know from rope climbing class and head towards the south exit.
"Emily! Wait," I hear a voice saying.
I turn to see Emmet, the Head Trainer and my personal trainer as well.
"Do you think you'll be volunteering this year?" Emmet asks me, absentmindedly fingering the knife he keeps in his belt.
"I don't know; I haven't thought about it much," I say.
"Well I think you would have a good chance in the Games. Volunteer this year," he said.
I smile to myself. I've never thought much of Emmet, with him understanding my thoughts and actions much too well, but I have to appreciate his ability to see past my charade. Of course, I privately think that his charming smile, dimples and dark brown hair are really hot, but I keep this to myself. I return to the present, focusing on Emmet's words.
"Use your gifts for making people feel sorry for you. Pretend that the girl whose name is drawn is close to you. Cry, do that doe eyes thing you do so well. Hide your abilities. Mags will help you; she's the mentor. Get a low score in training. You can do it," Emmet says.
I nod, and he pats my shoulder before turning to leave.
I shake my head and bring myself out of my flashback. Zoe smiles serenely, her eyes closed - I know from years of spending everyday with Zoe that this is how she calms her nerves. Not that she has anything to worry about; she won't be Reaped. I have a guarantee that I will go into the Games. Not that I'm nervous; no, there is no doubt in my mind that I will be volunteering today, and the only other person who knows is Zoe. She is desperately trying to convince me that I don't have to volunteer, but I'm determined to win. I will not be relying on Mitchell to take care of me until I marry some guy who will do the same. What would happen to me? I would lose my ability to survive alone, that's what.
I will miss Zoe and Mitchell while I'm gone. Heck, I'll even miss Emmet. Nobody in the Capital will know that rather than the helpless little girl I appear to be, I'm a girl who could kill them in a blink of an eye. That's what first helped Emmet see through me.
On my first day, he had been giving me a hard time about how I'd never make it at the Training Center. I got so mad that I threw three knifes at him, pinning him by his shirt to the wall. I used another knife to threaten him, and I used some words that would have gotten me grounded for the rest of life if I had used them in front of my mother. That was the day he realized not to judge by first impressions.
"Emmy! Emmy, are you listening to me?" I hear Zoe say.
"What? Sorry. Just thinking about today," I tell her.
She gives me an understanding look.
"We've been here for a few hours. We have to get ready for the Reaping," Zoe says.
I nod and stand. Zoe wraps me up in a hug.
"Wear something pretty. You want to look good for the Capital," she says, trying and failing to keep her voice from breaking.
I nod and we go our separate ways. I have to remind myself that this would not be the last time I would see her. She will come say goodbye to me after the Reaping.
When I get home, my mother is nowhere to be found, but my brother is sitting at the kitchen table.
"Ems, I was beginning to worry you would never get home. Go get ready," Mitchell says.
I go to my small bedroom and fish in the closet for the dress I had gotten just for today, a simple white dress that makes me look years younger than I am. I bathe, and then slip the frock on. I sit in front of our dirty mirror and try to tame my wild hair, sighing as I look into the mirror. I will never get the Capital to love me; not like they love the most beautiful tributes I see on TV every year. My skin is too tan to be considered fair, but too pale to be perfectly tanned like the other girls in my district. My eyes are a muddy green and my nose is too big; I have a gap between my two front teeth that most people call "cute," but I think just looks hideous. My freckles cover me, making me look like I have some strange disease and my hair- oh my hair! My hair is a horrible cross between brown and red. I had seen girls with red hair who looked beautiful and girls with brown hair who were beautiful, but my hair is an ugly color that reminded me of mud mixed with blood. Not only that but it's so curly that it refuses to cooperate, choosing simply to barbed wire. Don't even get me started on the fact that at 17, I haven't lost any of my baby fat. It's humiliating.
When I manage to get my hair looking halfway decent, I return to the kitchen where Mitchell and Mother are waiting. None of us speak as we walk the short way to the Town Square. When we arrive, I get in line to get my finger pricked. I force a smile at some of the other kids in line when they greet me, but I don't speak to any of them.
"Next!" the Peacekeeper calls.
I step forward and hold out my hand. A sharp prick in the finger later and my blood is wiped on the paper. The Peacekeeper scans it and waves me on to the 17 year old area. There's certain calm in knowing what's going to happen, even if it's something bad. There is no suspense, no waiting for the verdict, just certainty that something's coming.
I find my place where I am every year - I always stand in the place closest to the aisle in the front. Zoe, being a few months younger than I am, is in the Reaping group the year below me, standing closest to the aisle in the back of her age group. This position allows me to be directly behind her. She's already there when I arrive, and she greets me with a strained smile.
"Nervous?" she asks me.
"Not really. I already know what's going to happen," I say.
She turns back towards the stage, but reaches behind her and squeezes my hand with hers.
I look up at the stage and see that the District Four escort, a man named Damian Rivers, is on the stage. Every year Damian dresses like a different fish; I wonder if he realizes that we kill fish here. This year his clothes are purple, contrasting the orange of his skin. He smiles maniacally down at the kids congregated below him, and his teeth gleaming white.
The mayor is also on stage, an old man who is easily over looked because he is so small. I've never really spared him any thought.
My mentor will be Magdalena Delphine. At 48 years old, rumors abound in District Four that she is completely crazy. She had become the victor of the very first Hunger Games when she was 14. Her Games are never shown, so I don't know what happened in them. She doesn't have any family left, and I don't know if she even has any friends.
Magdalena and the mayor are conversing from their seats on stage as Damian still grins excitedly down at all of the kids assembled below him, perhaps wondering who the tributes will be. I turn my attention from the stage to the crowd of boys on the other side of the aisle, searching their faces, wondering who it will be that will go into the Games with me; who it will be that will die. There are some that I recognize from the Training Center, such as the son of a past Victor who I know is planning on volunteering next year. He's good enough with weapons, but he has no brains whatsoever. I don't know his first name, but I know that his last name is Catchrose.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" the mayor calls out.
There are cheers, mainly from the kids training to be Careers, and loudest of all Damian. The film about the mercy of the Capitol blah-blah-blah came on, repeating what everybody in the Districts heard every year.
I tune out the film, and focus on what I know is coming. I will volunteer in just a few minutes. I knew that I will have to look weak, like the helpless little girl everyone thought I was, so I bite my tongue hard to draw tears from my eyes. I pull myself back from my inner thoughts as Damian steps froward to draw the names from the reaping bowls.
"Happy Hunger Games!" Damian calls in his infuriating Capitol accent. "May the odds be ever in your favor! Now for the moment you've all been waiting for! Which lucky lady will be chosen to take part in the Hunger Games this year?"
Damian is smiling maniacally as he reaches into the girls Reaping Bowl. He pulls out a singular slip of paper, and unfolds it slowly for effect.
"Zoe Sorenson!" he calls.
Zoe gives my hand one final squeeze and steps out into the aisle. Immediately, Peacekeepers descend on her and herd her towards the stage. She mounts the steps and stands next to Damian. Her face is calm, because she knows that I'm volunteering this year. She knows she won't go into the arena.
"Any volunteers?" Damian asks.
I step forward into the aisle. I force my voice to shake as I say, "I volunteer!"
Zoe steps down and I walk forward towards the stage. As we pass, she gives me tight hug. I hug her back.
"Good luck Emmy, remember that I love you," Zoe says.
"I love you too," I say.
This will add to my charade. Whether this was her intention or not, I will never know.
I walk up the steps, being careful to stumble and make one of the Peacekeepers steady me. I shakily walk up to be next to Damian, who beams at me as if I had already won.
"Perfect! What is your name?" he asks me.
"Emily Mcwha," I tell him, my voice shaking.
"Well Emily, I'm sure you're very excited to be in the Games," he says. He quickly pulls the attention away from me, because I have just forced a tear to roll down my cheek.
"Now for the boys," Damian says.
He reaches into the boys Reaping Bowl and pulls out a slip of paper.
"Jan Fitson!" He calls out. A young boy walks to the stage as Damian continues. "Any volunteers?"
There are a few moments of silence before a voice, laced with desperate excitement, calls, "I volunteer!"
At first, I think that the boy who walks forward is the son of the Victor, something Catchrose, but I realize that the boy I know from the Training Center is more muscular than this boy, more physically intimidating. The boy is tall and slim, with floppy blonde hair. Not intimidating at all, an easy kill. I realize that this must be something Catchrose's twin. The little boy and the volunteer pass without acknowledging each other, and the volunteer stands on the other side of Damian.
"Wonderful! What's your name?" Damian asks.
"Francis Catchrose," the boy says. His voice is blank without any emotion.
So, I was right about being related to the victor and the boy from the Training Center. Up close, I realize that the boy is scruffy, his hair disheveled, and his clothes grimy. He wears grass stains on his knees, with tear streaks on his face. I have to stop my nose from wrinkling in disgust. Is that really the impression he wants to make on the Capital?
Damian asks us to shake hands. His face is blank, showing no empathy for me, so I force my eyes to widen with fright and I make my lower lip tremble slightly, hoping to stir some sympathy from him. Unfortunately, he turns away before I can see if it worked.
Peacekeepers usher us inside, and it's time to say goodbye to our families. First in to see me is my mother. She gives me a few words of advice, a quick hug, and then she leaves. That's all our relationship calls for. Mitchell follows, wrapping me up in one of his bone-crushing hugs as my feet are lifted off the floor.
"Why did you volunteer Emmy?" Mitchell asks me, his voice rough from tears I hadn't known he had been shedding.
"I had too. I couldn't let Zoe go into the Games. She wouldn't have been able to make it past day one. I've had training. I'll come back," I say.
It's better to let Mitchell think that I went into the Games because I cared about Zoe, and not know that I had been planning this for days.
Although most people think I am the helpless one in our family, I am surely the strongest. Sure, Mitchell can provide for our family, and is one of the strongest physically in District Four, but he needs me to make the world seem like a better place sometimes. I almost feel bad for leaving him to fend for both himself and mother, but I have to do this. I will come back, I know it.
"Ems, you're too brave for your own good," Mitchell says.
He squeezes me in his arms and presses his face into my hair. I do not cry. I cannot. Not when Mitchell needs me to be strong for him.
Mitchell tries to blink back his tears, but a few escape and roll down his cheeks. "Emily," he says, his voice somber, more so than I have ever heard it. The use of my full name, which he never uses, only emphasizes the seriousness of this situation. "You have to promise me that you'll come back. Promise me that when you are in the arena that you'll think of me and Zoe and do everything in your power to return to us. We need you."
I nod, not breaking the eye contact between us.
"Good," Mitchell says.
He opens his mouth to continue, but a Peacekeeper opens the door and tells him that it's time for him to leave.
"I love you Ems," Mitchell says.
He gives me one last squeeze before he turns and follows the Peacekeeper out of the door.
The door reopens almost immediately and Zoe runs into the room. Her eyes are shining with tears, making her look tragically beautiful.
"Oh Emmy, you crazy girl! You should have let me go in!" Zoe shouted.
She drops to her knees, and sobs rack her body. I crouch next her to, and wrap my arms around her slim frame.
"It's alright Zoe. I have a plan. I've been training for a long time. I'll come back, you'll see," I say.
She looks up at me. Her eyes are filled with a hopeless desperation.
"I wish I could go in instead of you," Zoe says. "I don't do anyone any good. You help your family survive. Everybody loves you. The only thing I'm good for is looking pretty."
"Don't say that. I planned to volunteer. I want to go into the games. I would rather go in to save you," I say.
A flicker of affection shines in her eyes as she replies: "Come back Emmy. I can't lose my sister."
She wraps me up in a crushing hug, and we stay there until the Peacekeeper forces her out. I drag myself up onto the couch and sit with my eyes closed. The ocean is too far away to hear, but I imagine that I'm still in my bed at home, the waves soothing me as I fall asleep. I wonder if my new district partner, Francis, loves the ocean as much as I do. I wonder if he is using the same technique I am to calm himself now. Does he even need to be calmed? It is not often that I find a person that I can't read, but Francis Catchrose does not let his emotions show at all. What is he thinking? Is he scared? Does he regret volunteering? Why did he volunteer in the first place? What does he think of me?
I am so immersed in my thoughts that I don't realize that another person was in the room until they lay a hand on my shoulder. My eyes fly open, and I see Emmet standing before me, his hand on my shoulder.
"Emily, are you alright?" he asks me.
"Yeah, just a little nervous," I say.
"Emily, this may be only my second year as a trainer, but I've been alive for 19 years. I know enough to know that you are a lot more than nervous," Emmet says.
Emmet's knack for guessing my thoughts and emotions has always unnerved me, but now I'm glad for someone I can spill all of my feelings to.
"Well, I know that I have a good chance of coming back, but I told Mitchell and Zoe that I was for sure coming back. I don't they'll be so devastated, and I won't be there to make them feel better. You know, Mitchell; he'll never be able to keep going if I die. I don't even know what Zoe would do. I have to come back, and I'm scared that I won't." I say all in a single breath.
"Emily-Ems, you will come back. I know you, and you are no doubt the best fighter I have ever seen. Even if you do die in the games, I'll make sure that Mitchell and your mother and Zoe all get enough food. Everything will work itself out, you'll see," Emmet says.
I nod.
The door opens and a Peacekeeper motions for Emmet to leave.
"I'll see you when you get back, Ems," Emmet concludes.
He walks out of the room as door shuts, clicking with a finality that sends shivers up my spine.
District 4 | The Reaping of Francis Catchrose
"So the Academy says you're not ready for the Games this year?" barks my father.
"Yes dad," my twin brother murmurs sullenly, his eyes inspecting the flimsy Capitol-made china that graces our breakfast table. It was a gift to my father from his mentor after he won the 12th Hunger Games.
"Hmph," is the only response from the aging victor.
Everything that had once won him the Games has long since deteriorated. He's barely recognizable as the handsome victor who bloodied his hands with the most kills in living memory. Now the muscles are gone, replaced with a beer belly that strains to escape his shirt, his golden skin mottled and laced with wrinkles and his chestnut-colored locks dyed fake bleach-blonde. Only the eternal anger and thirst for blood remain unsullied by the years, traits prevalent among all veterans of the Hunger Games.
A loaded silence fills the breakfast room and I hear every tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. I keep my eyes focused remotely on a spot a couple of feet above the doorway, counting the prissy flowers on the wallpaper, wishing I could be anywhere else in Panem. I can feel my mother shifting anxiously next to me and no doubt her eyes are focused on my dad, waiting for an explosion.
"I'll train harder. I'll do it next year you know I will."
The only person who can ever get my arrogant twin to speak with any kind of fear or respect is our father. Fulvian runs his hand through the blonde hair nervously as he waits for an answer.
"Well, I waited till eighteen before I volunteered too," muses father slowly. Everyone relaxes. "Maybe it's even better this way; extra training time."
"I'm already top of my class for everything. There isn't that much more they can do," laughs Fulvian. The tension dissipates as quickly as it had formed. My father's rage has been avoided for now. We aren't always so lucky, be it me or my mother and sometimes even Fulvian; we have all fallen victim to his anger at least once in our lives, and it's never pretty.
Fulvian's arrogance is firmly back in place now, though, and father becomes more annoying than terrifying. The staple of today's breakfast conversation, and every other day, is my brother boasting about his achievements at the Career Academy. Today he is particularly unbearable, clearly overcompensating after the great disappointment of not being able to volunteer this year. Unfortunately most of what he's saying is true; he is the best and the district's next big hope of winning the games.
I don't know how two twins could turn out so differently. Sure we're both tall and share the same floppy blonde hair, but he's all hard muscle and arrogance, a typical Career. I am more lithe than muscled and hate the name Career; I never enrolled in the Academy, much to my father's disappointment. The Games always seemed nightmarish when I saw them on the TV, and I've fallen out of my family's world since then.
I'm brought back from my thoughts by my father's fist banging against the table. I flinch but it seems that he was just enthusiastically recounting some fight from his Hunger Games.
"...I had this boy from 1, both hands round his neck like this, but then his district partner was running at me, so I got my knife out and waited till the last minute and turned to face her and she ran right into it and then..."
We have all heard this particular story a million times but my mother still makes the right noises of shock and surprise as we hear about my father ripping someone's throat out. Fulvian listens too while shoveling down bacon, grunting with laughter at the particularly gruesome parts. I wince. The only time my father seems alive is when he is recounting the past victories of his Games, his ruddy face reaching an unprecedented maroon color and the light of bloodlust tainting his dull eyes.
"Okay," My father's chair scraped back loudly on the wooden floor. "I need to get to the justice building before the Reaping to talk to Mags."
"Why are you talking to that crazy old woman?" Fulvian asked. My father is friendly with a lot of the other victors from 4, but Mags is not one of them. People say she's crazy, I'm not so sure. Maybe she's just having a hard time living with what she did in the Games; I think that's normal.
"I need to find out who's volunteering this year. The batty women usually won't tell me anything, but it's worth a try."
"The Mark's girl is reaping age now," my mother volunteers.
"No; it's confirmed she will be waiting till next year. Keep an eye on that one, Fulvian."
My brother nods absorbing the new information, still eating. Father nods a brisk farewell and is marching out of the room. In the wake of his noisy departure we are quiet. I listen to my mother sipping tea and my brother's fork scraping on his plate as I finish my own breakfast at break neck speed before getting up.
"I'm going out."
It is unnecessary to say more than that as no one really cares what I do - as long as it doesn't threaten their twisted idea of what a perfect family should be. My mother doesn't even look up; just nods absentmindedly. My brother finally stops eating to look up at me, a malicious glint in his eye.
"Going to see your boyfriend?"
"No what are you-" I splutter confused before I realize he must be referring to Harris. How he found out about my friendship with the boy who works on the docks is anyone's guess. It's very unusual for my brother to take any interest in my life, and I prefer it that way; he's at his nicest when he's ignoring me. When he picks up on something it is for one of two reasons: He's going to take the piss out of me, or he can get me in trouble with it. This time it seems he could do both.
"What, did you two have a lover's tiff?"
"Shut up," My cheeks are burning red. It's not because Fulvian is being a dick (although he is), it's because I know he holds all the cards to ruin everything.
"What are you talking about Fulvian?" My mother looks confused. My twin and I lock eyes over the table as I silently beg him to keep quiet but he just grins at me and opens his mouth to tell on me.
"Mom don't listen to him he's just-" I try desperately but she just shushes me.
"Francis here has got himself a little friend. He works as a fisherman at the docks. Francis sneaks out most mornings to go and meet him."
"Francis, is this true? You know it is not appropriate to be spending time with lower class citizens when you're a Victor's son. What do you have in common with a fisherman anyway?" She pronounces the word like it might disease her tongue as she speaks it. Fulvian smirks triumphantly and my mother looks expectant, waiting for an explanation even though she's already decided it will be inadequate. I guess I have to try.
"Harris, he's been helping me practice so I can get a job on one of the boats too, you know, teaching me how to use a fishing spear and stuff. In return, I help him load the boats in the mornings." I gabble out quickly.
"What? That's ridiculous. You don't need a job, you have all the money you need already. The very idea of you becoming a fisherman is absurd; what would people say?"
"No you don't understand." I really don't know how to explain. If I get a job, I will have my own money and I can apply to get a house by myself. In short, I can escape. But I can already feel my golden idea being tarnished by their disapproval. "I want a job so I can move out."
"Move out?" My mother lets out a little laugh. "Why would you do that? No, no you will stay right here and-"
"And what?" I yell. The silence after my shout is deafening and oppressive as I glance around nervously, scared but unwilling to take it back. My brother and mother just stare at me in shock like they've never properly seen me before. They don't know about my temper. I usually run out of the house when I get mad and throw spears for a while, imagining it's their faces. Damn it, they don't know me at all! "Live quietly in the shadows of your lives, just a mild nagging annoyance on your existence? I have had enough of all this happy family's bullshit! Why do you even want me to stay?"
My mother just stands there, opening and closing her mouth like a drowning fish. The silence stretches on, telling me more than any of their words.
"We don't," my brother says suddenly. My mother starts to protest but he continues yelling over her getting up from the table to square up with me. "Leave. I couldn't care less."
"Now, now. Calm down. Fulvian, sit down, and Francis, you're not going anywhere." My mother flutters nervously between us. "What would I tell the neighbors; my son ran anyway to become nothing more than another poor worker on the docks? No, no that won't do at all."
"Is that all you care about still? What people will think? Whatever, I'm leaving." As I turn away I hear Fulvian mutter, "Good." I already know how he feels, and I thought I had accepted it, but the rejection still stings.
"You can't go." My mother says quietly but firmly. I turn around to try and explain to her as best as I can that I am really going, but I am shocked by the stony look in her eyes.
"I won't let you go." Her voice is like marble chips scraping together. "We will not be the laughing stock of Victor's Village because you're throwing some silly temper tantrum. Your father has a reputation to uphold; the family has a reputation to uphold!"
"Reputation? Reputation? Of what, being a murderer? I'm going and you can't stop me."
"Hey, our father followed a righteous path to victory-" Fulvian protests.
"Do you even have a mind in there or has it been drowned by all this self-righteous bullshit they indoctrinate you with at the Career Academy? Wake up Fulvian, the arena is going to be worse than you can possibly imagine, and you will probably die." I stare at his blank eyes searching for some untainted part of his mind that sees the truth in my words.
"Just because you're too much of a coward to become a Career yourself..."
"Not wanting to kill people unless I have to is not being a coward!"
"Hey, I'm just telling you what dad said."
"You're lying."
"I'm not. It was my first day at the Career Academy and for some reason, I still cared enough to miss you. I said, 'Dad, Dad why isn't Francis coming too?' and he said, 'Because Francis is a coward, but not to worry because you will make up for him.' That's what I've been doing my whole life - making up for the disappointment you are to us all!"
I stare at him, my mind reeling. I remember those days when we were ten and Fulvian kept begging me to go to the Academy with him. We were close then, before the Academy filled him up with their propaganda, before he found new Career friends who encouraged him to think what he was doing was right, and before being the absolute best at everything went to his head. A coward; a coward? Just for not wanting to be one of their Career clones with no mind of their own; just for not wanting to become like him? He was long lost to me. I turned away and left.
"You won't have any money; you don't have anywhere to go. You won't get your silly job either, I'll have your father use his influence with the Capitol officials to make sure you'll never work in District 4. You'll have no choice but to come home eventually."
I close the door on my mother's words and run as fast as I can away from the house, from Victors Village, and then nowhere in particular but just running away. As the initial anger and hurt faded, the stupidity of what I had just done started to sink in. I had left all my things at the house - not that I owned anything particularly special, but there were essential things I had left behind in my quick flight. Food, clothes, money; I had none of these things.
I slow to a jog then just aimlessly wander around District 4. It's a big place, but somehow I still find myself gravitating towards the shoreline and the empty docks. I guess it's because in my mind, it's the place I associate with Harris and consequently calmness and understanding. We may be the same age, but he always seems to radiate a kind of wise vibe and always seems to know what to do. But the problem is, Harris isn't here right now; he and everyone else who works on the boats are gone, sailed away into the ocean and out with their haul until just before the reaping. I suppose I'll just stick around here for a while and wait.
The wooden boards creak as I sit down on the edge of boardwalk, feet dangling into space. Unfortunately, the sparkling ocean is not enough to calm me down; the familiar salty air is not going to feed me, or clothe me, or find me somewhere to live. I try to regain some control on the situation; I still have the plan, although I'm having to instigate it earlier than I thought I would. "Get a job" is the first stage of that plan; I'll have to talk to one of the Capitol's job assignment officials for that. As for getting a place to live; it will take several months - if not longer - to organize that. I suppose I could ask Harris to let me stay at his place for now, but his house is already full to the brim with his five younger siblings. Besides, he's already done too much for me.
The very first time we met about two years ago, he stopped Fulvian and his gang of conceited Careers beating the crap out of me. I was pretty messed up at the time, ignored by my family but forbidden from making friends with any decent people, but he made me see that there was a possibility of escape. He promised to help train me so I could get a job and escape from my family. At the time, Harris had been a couple of weeks away from finally getting a job himself and dropping out of school. But Harris getting a job was no surprise, considering everyone on the male side of his family had been anglers. I, on the other hand - the only skill I could offer was running, although I was quite quick whenever being chased by my brother's gang. That isn't particularly helpful skill for a fisherman, however.
But after all this time, I think I can use the fishing spear at least as well as Harris; perhaps I'm slightly better with nets than him, not that he would ever admit it. But without him I would have had no way out; I would have gone crazy. I can't ask him to help me anymore, it wouldn't be fair. I feel close to crazy right now though. I had not meant to start my new life in a panicked state, jobless and homeless.
Oh God, I'm really homeless. I lean my forehead on the railing pressing into the cold metal like it could somehow numb the mess of emotions in my mind and help me see some clarity.
The sound of someone's approaching feet pounding purposefully into the wooden boards makes me open my eyes. White Peacekeeper boots are all that I see, and I just watch them for a while before I really wake up. Then I leap to my feet because, as if my wish had been personified, the green badge on his left pocket tells me this is not just any Peacekeeper, this is one of the Capitol's job assignment officials.
"Um, hi, sir can I talk to you for a second?" Hi? What the hell am I saying? This wasn't some genie in the bottle that was going to grant me a job because I wanted one; this was a Peacekeeper who has no reason in the world to help me out. But for some reason, I feel like this coincidence means the world is on my side, and I've got to at least try.
"Yes?" He sounds not pleased to be interrupted on his break as he impatiently pushes up his visor so he can glare more directly at me.
"Are there any, um, vacancies for fishermen at the moment?"
"You have to go to the jobs assignment office for that kind of thing," He is already flicking his visor back on and starting to walk away as I hurry after him.
"Wait, please. The office is closed today and I really need to find out soon and I just-" I can hear the desperation in my own voice and know I've blown it. Then he stops walking and glances at me again like he's seeing something different. I just stare back confused.
"I know you from somewhere. Fulvian? Something with an F?"
"Francis; Fulvian's my brother," I answer hesitantly, eying him like he's suddenly going to arrest me for running away from home. But I'm pretty sure he can't do that, if he even knows, which in all likelihood he doesn't. All the same, my feet position themselves to leg it at a moment's notice.
"Right, right, the twins. Your dad's a Victor isn't he? I've been to a few parties at your house, very hospitable family. Very hospitable indeed." He smiles distantly like he was remembering some cherished memory before shaking himself slightly to return to reality. "Right I'll see what I can do."
I couldn't believe my luck. Finally being a victor's son is actually helping me with something. This particular Capitol worker must have been at one of the lavish parties my parents throw to suck up to the peacekeepers and generally show off their wealth. The officer whips out some kind of portable information device with a glowing screen, tapping away at digits. I fidget nervously in the silence while I wait, hoping against hope there is something.
"Right, there is-" A loud bleeping noise interrupts him. He frowns at the device for a few seconds, looks up at me, frowns at the device again then shuts it off all together and puts it away.
"I'm sorry there are no current jobs available in the fishing sector." His voice has switched from vague familiarity back to corporate clone.
"But you just said-"
"I was mistaken." He gives me a brisk nod and turns away.
"Fine, not fishing. Anything, do you have - anything?" I follow him, I would take anything right now, even gutting fish in one of the factories, but I already know what his answer will be.
"None at the moment, I'll let you know if-"
"Check your device; you haven't checked your device-" I block his way now, knowing I'm treading dangerous ground but I can't stop myself.
"Son, I'm going to have to ask you to take a step back-" In his tone of voice is a warning, his hands twitch at his weapon.
"Let me check it then-" I make a lunge for the device sticking out of his pocket, as if by proving this lying man wrong I can somehow solve all my problems. But his patience has been spent and he grabs my arm, twisting it painfully behind my back and making me freeze in agony.
"Go home son." He pushes me roughly away, leaving me bent double and gasping for air as he walks briskly away, adjusting his visor.
"You can tell my dad he can fuck off!" By the time I get enough air to shout, he is probably too far away to hear. I get some odd looks from the few passersby and disrupt the seagulls from their perches. A kind of pounding fever has taken over me as I glare around at the onlookers, breathing heavily, before turning on my heel and getting the hell out of there.
I head up hill, past the houses and the docks, to the edge of the district where the squat factories sit and the dusty grass ends sharply in cliffs high above the waves. The district parameter is visible in the distance when I finally stop, red in the face and clutching a stitch. The path follows a few meters away from the cliff edge; there is no fence, apparently one of the few things the Capitol are okay with is us doing is falling to our deaths. I sink to my knees in the scratchy grass, letting out tearless angry sobs.
What am I going to do now? If I thought the situation this morning was bad, now it had hit a new level of desperate. Without a job, I have no plan, no possible way to try and support myself. In short, no life - unless I go back. No, no I'd rather die. I'd rather slowly starve to death on the streets of the district. The next time I go in that house again will be as a corpse, because my life is nothing in that house - worse than nothing. I imagine crawling pathetically back to my smug parents with no hope for a better future, with no company but Fulvian.
Maybe it would be better to end this quickly today. I turn my head slowly to stare at the edge of the cliff top, the only way out of the district that was not guarded by an electric fence. I get up from my knees and edge closer, feeling the wind battering me as if it was driving me forward, agreeing with me. There was no fixing this situation now, nothing I could be but a permanent burden on my only friend.
I spread my fingers to feel the rushing wind and stare one last time at the place where the sea fades into the sky until my tear-distorted eyes can't really tell the difference anymore. It seems an appropriate day to die when twenty three other young people will be condemned to death - except they won't have chosen it.
"Hey you, boy! What are you doing so close to the edge?"
The rough voice of the aged factory worker almost makes me fall off the cliff accidently as I jump out of my skin. I should do it quickly before she can stop me.
"Don't you know it's almost one o' clock? You'll be late for the reaping! Stop messing around and get to the town square now. Imagine if today you're the one who's called and you're not there. Then there will be hell to pay."
The old lady starts to hobble away. What does it matter if they call my name? I've already decided I'm going to die. My foot dislodges some rocks and they fall sickeningly into the emptiness, making me gasp another quick sob. Then I freeze. Not physically, but mentally, because a crazy idea has just popped into my head.
I could volunteer for the Hunger Games.
I'm going to die either now or later, and this way I could at least take the place of whatever poor kid is reaped - and maybe, just maybe, there is even a chance I could win. As a victor, I'd have my own house and freedom, and I could even leave District 4 if I wanted. The future suddenly spreads dizzyingly out in front of me again. It's either death or a slim chance of not dying. It doesn't take me long to decide. I take one last look down at the jagged rocks beneath the bottom of the cliff, turn, and run.
"Hey mind where you're going!"
I push past the elderly women as I run back down the path driven on by something that was not quite hope, but maybe a desperate last chance. I am running flat out pounding my way from the edge of the district to the center, willing my feet to run faster and get there on time. Factories, then houses, then shops all fly past me in a blur of rushing wind and the sound of my own galloping heartbeat.
When I finally skid around the corner into the square, I find the huge clock ticking away the time saying it's still a minute to one. I sprint forward to join the last few people getting registered, panting and sweaty, running one shaking hand under my eyes to wipe away the tears and throwing my hair off my sweaty forehead. I barely notice the pain when the peacekeeper takes the blood sample but I do notice all the looks I'm getting. Everyone is in their most formal attire, and here I am sweaty and disheveled; no doubt with grass stains on my jeans and tear streaks on my face.
As I slow to a fast walk to my place with the other seventeen year-olds, I glance around nervously for any sign of my family. I catch sight of my mother, thankfully out of reach with the other parents, looking furious. No doubt it's my appearance and what-would-people-think instinct kicking in that's bothering her. Next to her is my father. I don't even dare meet his glare.
I stand nervously as the reaping begins; first there's the video shown every year echoing around the silent square. It's all about strength and the great honor of being a tribute. I don't feel very strong as I wait for the moment I can yell the fateful words, 'I volunteer'. I imagine my father's face when his 'coward' of a son volunteers and let out a little laugh. I don't suppose he'll be pleased; I'm hoping for shock and horror. Everyone around me looks at me as if I've gone crazy as the out of place noise slips from my lips; well, maybe I have.
District 4's escort, Damian Rivers, steps forward to the microphone as the last of the film's music fades away, his high heeled boots tapping a lazy rhythm on the stage. This year he's dressed in purple, which contrasts badly with his orange Capitol tan. From the scaly material his suit is made of and the fins he's sporting, I assume his outfit is representing some exotic fish never seen here in the district, where fish is caught for eating - not decoration. He is talking so slowly it's painful; why can't he just skip the spiel of Capitol catchphrases we hear every year and get on and call the names already? I tap out a nervous rhythm on my jeans as if I can somehow will him to speed it up.
"Shut up."
An angry whisper comes from my left. A couple of kids over stands my brother, looking venomous. My heartbeat reaches a sickening new height, but I force myself to stop my hands and focus instead on the stage.
It's time for the girls.
"Now for the moment you've all been waiting for; which lucky lady will be chosen to take part in the Hunger Games this year?"
I scan the girls' side of the square; hundreds of faces, one of which would soon be my competitor. Will it be some trembling child or a viscous Career? The answer to this could change the outcome of my Games. Paper crackling in the microphone as Damian unfolds the slip pulls my attention back to him.
"Zoe Sorenson," he calls triumphantly, showing his teeth in an expression that doesn't have enough emotion to be called a smile. My eyes flicker over with the crowd, searching frantically until I see the movement of a stunningly beautiful girl looking slightly nervous step out of the mass of faces. It feels like such a waste for such beauty to die so young, but as her quiet footsteps ring out in the square, she keeps her eyes down. She doesn't seem quite as scared as she should be considering she's no Career.
"Any volunteers?"
She is standing with a quiet elegance next to Damian now, still looking too relaxed. I search the rest of the crowd trying to see if the reason she's not scared is because-
"I volunteer."
My stomach sinks as Zoe steps off the stage. The girl who had spoken steps out into the path to the stage hesitantly. A mass of curly red-brown hair obscures her face as she moves forward to embrace Zoe. She must just want to save her friend; the stirrings of pity manage to penetrate the layers of emotion I am feeling right now, but just as I am starting to reconsider, I realize I recognize her pale features.
She's a Career.
As she tells Damian her name with a shaking voice, the cameras magnifying her tearful face on the huge screens, I know there is something else going on besides saving her friend. It just seems a little calculated too me; you can never trust a Career. The drama momentarily distracts me from my nervous anticipation, and with a jolt of surprise, I realize it's the boys turn already.
"Jan Fitson," Damian calls. The boy who won't be going into the arena steps forward from somewhere behind me in the lower age brackets. I watch him walk up to the stage looking more than a little scared. I could just let him do it. I could just keep my mouth shut and go back to…to what? No, I have no choice.
"Any volunteers?" Damien asks hopefully. There's a few beats of silence as Jan stares desperately out into the pitiless crowd.
"I volunteer," I yell with determination before I can give myself a chance to change my mind.
The only sound for a moment is the shifting of fabric and shoes as everyone around me turns to stare. Face upon face of confusion, anger, and sometimes even concern surround me, but no one looks worse than Fulvian as I push past him to make my way to the stage. There is something more sinister than anger in his expression; something deeper founded, but there is nothing he can do now.
There is nothing anyone can do now. My heart is beating out of my chest and a strange feeling of elation takes over me. That's it, decision made, it's out of my hands now. I was going to do this; I know I can do this and if I can't, it's too late to change my mind now. I finally ascend to the stage amongst the growing noise of whispers, which are quickly stifled when Damian starts to speak.
"Wonderful." He gives me one of his typically meaningless smiles. When he turns to face me I can see where his makeup has collected in his wrinkles and little beads of sweat have formed from the hot sun. "What's your name?"
From up here I can see the whole square of faces staring up at me at once. I can see most of District 4 too, in the background - from the cliff tops to the beach, and it all seems to be telling me I am doing the right thing. Somewhere far away I'm telling him my name. My drifting eyes search the landscape in front of me, savoring the moment, the beginning of a new life.
The roar of the crowd confuses me. It sounds like the ocean rushing in to wash everyone away until I notice that it's the hands of the people of the district making the noise. I shake hands with the girl I will shortly be trying to kill and before I know what's happening, we're ushered away into the cool hallways of the justice building. I'm pushed into one room and the girl with the calculated tears into another before we even get to do so much as exchange a word.
The room is too similar to the living room of what used to be my house. It shares the same Capitol style of lavish furnishings and gives me the same oppressive, trapped feeling. The only window is frosted into white blankness, as if nothing else exists outside this room. I can't help pacing the circumference of the room like a caged tiger, still too hyped up to sit down. Thumping footsteps on the other side of the door accompanied by angry yells make me stop. I slowly back further away, eyes locked on the door.
"What the hell do ya think you're doing?" My dad bursts into the room, a force of visibly trembling anger. The room seems to shrink with his arrival and the air grows harder to breathe. My mother closes the door quietly behind them.
"I, I just-" I stutter out but he cuts right over me.
"First all this ridiculous shit this morning about getting a job, a job you think I'd fucking let you work like you were the son of some common wretch? And now you've determined not only to make fools of us all in front of District 4 but the whole of Panem!"
Each word is spat out with venom I would not have thought possible.
"Volunteering. Volunteering when you're not even trained! You know next to nothing; for Christ's sake, you'll be dead in seconds. How do you think that will reflect on me; how do you think I, the best fucking victor Four has ever seen, will explain why my son is a useless, bloodbath tribute? Well go on, say something for yourself, you spineless boy."
I don't speak. I open and close my mouth a few times - this is not how it was supposed to go. Laughing at his rage remotely was easy enough, but face to face is another matter. I thought this was over, that I had closed the door on being yelled at like I was less than a piece of shit on the carpet. I clutch my temples and try to block it all out, shaking my head like I can deny their very existence.
"I'm very disappointed. Very disappointed indeed." My mother's voice is clipped and short, so angry she can barely speak. "Did you even think about how this would affect us? I would never have thought you could be this selfish Francis. You do realize Fulvian won't be able to compete anymore because of this. The Academy has many volunteers vying for a chance to compete next year, and why should they give one family two chances at it, hmm? He was too angry to ever want to see your face again, and honestly, I feel the same. But someone needed to come here and give you a piece of our mind. You have ruined his chance, the chance he earned, without a second thought!"
She turns away, letting my father finish as if she can't even bear to look at me.
"You are just determined to ruin us with your eternal stupidity! How can you stand there and look me in the eye when you are trashing our family's reputations and our futures? You still haven't got anything to say then, boy?"
As I look at them with their accusing eyes and complete lack of care for my wellbeing, I feel the purest hatred I have ever felt for anyone in my life. Not one trace of family love or duty remains.
"Get out." I say, quietly at first.
"What?" My mother looks confused.
"I said get out!" I scream in their faces, standing up to my full height, actually a few inches taller than my dad.
"How dare you use that tone with me; how dare you command me? I am your father and-"
"No you're fucking not. You are not my fucking father anymore!" I yell so loudly my voice cracks. I'm as red as him now as we stand face to face, toe to toe. He breaks eye contact first.
"Maybe you're right. Yeah, maybe you're right." He turns away, carelessly grabbing my mother's arm and pulling her roughly behind him to the door. He shoves her through first before turning to spit his final words over his shoulder. "I'm telling you this, son: You better find somewhere else for them to send your coffin after you die, 'cause it sure as hell ain't going to be under my roof."
I rush forward and slam the heavy door on my last sight of him walking away, mother in tow, the speed of the closing door too slow for me. I want to hurry up and never see them again. The encounter almost makes me rethink trying to win this, but I will damn well not give them the satisfaction of being right. They have no idea who I am, so it only follows they have no idea that I am capable of winning this. I know I am.
I am actually trembling with anger, facing away from the door, palms of my hands pressing stars into my eyes battling the coming tears. I've barely been alone for a minute when the door opens again. I'm on the defensive, thinking they've returned to wound me further - or maybe even Fulvian has decided to come in and beat me to a pulp after all. But my face relaxes as soon as I see the familiar back of Harris closing the door carefully behind him. He looks so pleasantly out of place in the plush and expensive room of the justice building, with his old black boots leaving a slight trail of dirt on the carpet.
"Harris thank God you're here." I gabble in one breath. "My parents were just here and it was awful and they were so mad at me and-"
"Wait a moment. What makes you think I'm not just as mad too?" Harris' voice is full of a repressed anger I have never heard there before. I falter.
"What the hell do you think you're doing Francis? Are you crazy? You know you can't win this, right?" He yells the words I have already heard once, and it pushes me over the edge. Tears start falling uncontrollably from my stinging eyes as I angrily try and brush them away while turning from him. I expected it from my parents; I could expect it from everyone, but not Harris. I sob silently, shoulders shaking for maybe a minute before I hear a resigned sigh and Harris shifting his feet awkwardly.
"Hey. Hey, I didn't mean to...please don't be upset," I feel his warm hand on my shoulder as I struggle to control my sobs. "I just don't understand, Francis. You hate Careers and everything they stand for and now you go and do this? I just don't get it. You were so close to getting that job; we were going to go to the assignment office this weekend remember? Why are you throwing away your life in some sick game?"
"Because I haven't got a life to throw away anymore." My voice is thick with sobs as I turn to face him. "It all, all went wrong. Fulvian found out and he told my mother, and then we had this huge argument and she said I couldn't do it. I went to the docks and talked to the job assignment officer but my father had already told him not to let me have one and I didn't have anywhere to go, and I didn't know what to do."
Spilling everything I've been holding inside all day is too much, and I'm crying too much to continue now. Harris walks over to the other side of the room to get me a glass of water. A few seconds later, I am gulping water between sobs. When I'm coherent, and the sobs are more like little hiccups he continues his questions.
"So why did that mean you volunteered?"
"Because if I win this, I'll have everything. I can have my own house and I can leave for the Capitol forever if I want and I'll never have to see any of them ever again," I try to explain the desperate vision in my mind.
"Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. There are a thousand other solutions before volunteering! You could have stayed with me-"
"You really don't have the room," He considers for a second before shaking his head free of my logic.
"Maybe your right about that but for God's sake we could have figured something out. Anything, anything would be better than this!" He sweeps his hand across the room as if encompassing the whole situation.
"It'll be okay," I try for a smile. He looks so upset right now I can't bear it.
"If you win," He says hollowly.
"I will win. You know I can win," He looks doubtful. It panics me. "I need you to believe I can win, because if you don't, I don't think I can-"
I'm clutching my head again, finding myself climbing to the hysterical once more.
"Alright, alright," He pulls my hands off to my head to my sides once more. "I believe you can win. I mean, you have to win now. You have to come back."
He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. A weight lifts off my heart that I didn't even know had been there, and I'm on the road to calm again. With his simple Harris magic, he has brought me back to sanity again.
"Of course I do."
"Good then. Agreed," He somehow finds a grin to plaster onto his face one last time. Now that all the explanations are over, I realize I just want to have one last normal conversation with him before everything changes.
"Harris, you know-"
"Time's up!" A Peacekeeper opens the door abruptly. I'm panicking once again because it's over, and I don't want to be alone again.
"It's okay; you'll be okay," Harris calls back to me, trying to remain calm for both of us - although he looks a bit panicked himself as he's pushed out of the door. "You promised."
"Harris!" I call after him, but the door is closed between us before he can respond. The last glimpse I catch of him is through the gap between two white suited Peacekeepers, a brave smile still stretched across his face. But a promise is a promise, so I will be seeing him again after all this is over.
After I have won.
Authors for this section: Emily Mcwha written by some managed mischief | Francis Catchrose written by CapitolEffie