He sings a sad song of remembrance,
Sins of the father, unable to forget.
District 5's son shoulders the fears of his foundation
District 5 | The Reaping of Radon Astatine
One line blends into another as hair, eyes, nose and mouth begin to take shape. When it's done I'm left staring at it, wondering what to do. I've just drawn last year's Victor. It was her on the day she came to our district; I remember the exact way that District 1 girl's eyes were filled with coldness as she gave her speech honoring last year's tributes. She clearly knew nothing about them. They both died in the bloodbath by some other Career's hands, a horrifying sight for 13 year-old me.
It's strange that I remember those ice cold eyes, those lips drawn in a tight, pale line, and the way her eyes darted back and forth and her hands fluttered as if someone was going to jump on that stage and attack her at any moment. For someone who had trained her whole life to win the Games, she didn't really look happy of the accomplishment. I always thought Careers were supposed to be arrogant and pleased with themselves all the time.
Not this girl.
What's funny is that I can remember all that, but not the color of her dress. Not like it matters - my drawings are never in color. There is something about the Games that commands harsh black and white, nothing else. No lines blurred, nothing mixed. There isn't any gray really; just black and white - alive or dead. My uncle's sketches are the same.
I walk down the stairs and out of my room. My grandmother sits at a table and raises a pale, leathery hand at me. Most of us in District 5 are pale; we spend all day in the factories or in a school building. There is a patch of woods surrounding the district, but most of the trees are dead there; killed off from chemicals spewing from the factories. That's probably one of the reasons District 5 never wins the Games: The kids here never see the sunlight.
My grandmother pulls out a chair: "Come here and sit, Radon." She smiles as I hastily shove the drawing in my back pocket and plunk myself down. "What have you got there?" she whispers. Oh, she knows already. I reluctantly pull out the slightly crumped drawling as Grandma looks at it with great interest before suddenly shoving it back to me. She hates these drawings, though she would never tell me - but someone will want this. I didn't make it for nothing.
"I'm going to Uncle Mercury's house!" I shout at her.
"The Reaping is at 11:30!" She shouts back with a surprisingly loud voice for her thin frame. Grandma is that type of person, always surprising me with her strength.
I walk out of the tiny three-roomed house and shut the door behind me. I used to hate having to go over to my Uncle Mercury's house; he was a past Victor, and my survival, should I get Reaped, is somewhat of an obsession of his. He taught me everything, but what I excel most at is snares - all those knots and lines forming a big picture. It just fits me. Snares were his best thing too; that's how he won, by leaving his enemies helpless.
Enemies? Is that the right word for them? Or was that just what the Capital wanted him to think?
No matter, that was what got him home to me. One of my earliest memories was of my uncle's hands over my own, leading me in tying a knot. His face was a mask of determination. Why are you doing this Uncle Mercury? I can remember asking him then, feeling crabby because I wanted to play. Then someone was shouting at him - my grandmother, maybe? Could it have been my mother? But his face stayed determined: I want you to come home.
That was what he said. I can still remember the conversation word-for-word, even though I couldn't have been more than four. His words confused me so much then, but now I understand them better. He taught me how to pick out edible plants in those dying and decaying woods; because of that, I'm especially adept at identifying fungi.
Snares and plants aren't much use as weapons, however.
Fortunately I picked up one offensive skill: throwing knives. I hated the things and I always will, but my Uncle - seeing that this was my best "actual weapon" skill - first failed to understand why I refused to do it. I'll admit it; I am pretty good with them. But then he slowly understood - I feel like a killer with them in my hands. With snares, it's different. I can leave someone hanging defenseless, but someone will have to come and "take advantage" of the situation. There's no rule that says I have to. But with knives, it's your kill and yours alone.
Uncle Mercury has come to understand me; and I him. Besides, there is one thing we do together that keeps us so close: The Book.
The Book is completely compiled of sketches. Every sketch is of a tribute, usually at their interview; if they are known for something unusual, like a perfect aim with daggers, or even a signature smirk, we'll sketch that too. Under the sketch of the tribute's interview, Uncle Mercury has recorded their score in his neat handwriting.
In bigger letters is the most important part: There lies an adjective, one word to describe each tribute so they won't be forgotten - at least by two people: A man damaged beyond repair and his reluctant nephew.
If they're a Victor, we sketch that as well. I was given that assignment this year, and though I put it off for a while, it's done now. When I walk up the doorsteps to the mansion Mercury owns, he thrusts the door open as if he's been standing right there waiting for me. He likely has been. He takes the drawing in his hand, smiling as he leads me into the Grand Foyer - or whatever it's called. He runs into the room adjacent to press the drawing into The Book.
It still amazes me just how big this house is. My grandparents could be living in a much bigger house with the money Mercury received as a Victor, but they chose to stay in the same place. I think it's because it's the same house my father grew up in - he died when I was four, followed quickly by my mother. It was some huge accident at one of the many power plants here. People ask me a lot if I miss them, but I can't even remember them. It's impossible to miss something you never really had in the first place.
I stare up at the clock on the wall. 11:20! How is that possible? I look around wildly. "Uncle Mercury I have to go to the…I have to go now!"
He stares at me - just stares without words. I know what it means – I have to get out of there before he completely loses it. It's happened before: Two years ago, when I was 12 and it was my first Reaping, he just went upstairs to his room, drew the blinds, turned off the lights, and stayed up there for 3 days.
I rush out of the house. Not again; not this year. I practically sprint all the way to the Town Square; the puddles on the street from this morning's rain splatter my pants with mud. By the time I get to the Square my hair sticks to my forehead; I'm not sure if it's sweat or the water spraying up from the puddles. Here it's so crowded I can hardly move my elbows. I've noticed though that the 14 year-old boy section seems smaller than the rest.
My Grandfather always says that I am more observant than others.
The Capitol's escort, some woman dressed in eye-watering yellow, walks onto the stage. I remember her name as Sapphire Williams; once she stars her speech, I recall why I was able to place her name in the first place. Sapphire has one of the most annoying voices I've ever heard. I actually see some of the 12 year-olds cringe; I think I cringed too at that age.
Sapphire makes her way over to the bowl after a short introduction, saying all-too-enthusiastically, "Let's have our gentlemen first."
She grins in her sticky, sweet smile. I clench my fists. Don't let it be some 12 year-old.
Please not a 12 year-old.
Please.
"Radon Astatine!"
That was my name. Mine.
Mine.
The gravel underneath my foot crunches as I step forward, hands clenched and eyes down. Don't let them know. Don't let them know what you're feeling.
My palms are sweating.
All the boys in front of me step aside as I walk through a sea of faces. I know you - and I know you, too.
Crunch.
One step at a time - up the stairs, deep breath. Creak. Will there be a volunteer? Please. There has to be. I'm only 14. Some 18 year-old. Please!
But all that greets me…is silence.
Silence…and the sea of faces. That is when I realize - they know that I am trained by a Victor. They know about the traps, maybe even the plants and the knives, and they think I will be coming home.
I keep my eyes down as Sapphire goes over to the other bowl. Out of the corner of my eye I see Andrea Dixon, my mentor. She is a viscous killer with a record kill list. Her hands flutter – morphine, the drug that's for pain, inside and out. No, she will be no help.
"Ladies next!" The shriek-like voice nearly makes me jump as Sapphire's hand goes in. Who will it be? Who will I have to watch die? And maybe, just maybe, who will, in turn, be killing?
Not a 12 year-old.
Please don't let it be a 12 year-old.
"Agata Patience!"
I don't know the name, nor the face as a girl comes out from the 17 year-old section. Not 12 - I could never do that. Agata has a blank face - blank. She walks up the stairs, one at a time. Creak. A bun holds back her hair, but not enough of it. There is something in the way she walks, tilted oddly at the side, though nothing seems physically wrong with her. Maybe it's the way her eyes are so dull. Is she…unstable? No, oh please no. I could never…I could never.
"Let's have them shake hands, shall we?" Sapphire breaks in, her words like my knives in cutting the silence. Have any in the sea of faces sensed what I did? That a girl so possibly…off could possibly be sent. So cold…so harsh. It's like harsh gray lines, almost forming a face. Almost. So nearly a complete face…so nearly perfect. But the lines don't connect in a few places; they just…miss. Just like Agata.
I give her my hand, a gesture meaning, "I am here for you."
But I cannot be.
Such a cruel gesture to have us do. It's mocking, really. I try to tell her with my eyes that I am sorry, but her eyes show nothing. They're a blank, empty space; and something in her dull eyes tells me that she is not sorry. I drop my hand down to the side of my mud splattered pants. Eyes down. Don't let them know.
"Let's have some applause for our District 5 tributes!" Sapphire announces. But no one claps. Silence. Empty space. Not a sound can be heard. And then, a wail - a high, keening wail shattering the silence like glass. A sound I never knew a human could make.
Uncle Mercury.
Authors for this section: Radon Astatine - katsparkle13
Editor's note: Because of a vacancy for the District 5 female, only one tribute is written here.