Founded on emptiness; divorced from bonds,
A son's quest for identity threatned by death beyond.
District 9's representative, torn between oblivion and enlightenment.
District 9 | The Reaping of Alexander Cole
My name is Alexander Cole.
The light from the kerosene lamp sitting on the table flickers across the yellowed pages of my book. It's two, maybe three, in the morning; the morning of the Reaping. Sleep seems to have eluded me now that the thirty-fourth Hunger Games are here. The only thing that puts my mind at ease is that this is my last Hunger Games. Five weeks from now and I will be nineteen, safe from any more of the Capitol's sick form of entertainment.
The house is quiet except for the light snores coming from my father's bedroom just a few feet down the hall. If today wasn't the day of the Reaping, he would be waking up in just two hours to go to his job. My father, Dale Cole, owns and runs one of the electrical companies in District 9. He leaves for work at four-thirty every morning and doesn't usually come home until the sun has sunk below the horizon. He'll eat dinner, usually something I have cooked, and then head to bed. We rarely converse. Neither of us ever have anything to say to the other.
I never knew my mother. She died after childbirth the day I was born: I don't even have a picture of her. I've been told I have her reddish-brown hair and emerald green eyes, but even my dad doesn't ever talk about her. I can understand that it must be painful for him; I've been told by neighbors that my father loved my mother very much.
I sometimes wonder if the reason my father is so distant from me is because he blames me for my mother's death. If it hadn't been for me, she would still be alive. It makes sense. On the other hand, maybe I just remind him of my mother too much. My father never really seems angry at me; just very distant and cold. I don't think I've ever seen him smile. He's always quiet and seems a bit angry about something. If we ever do speak, he's usually telling me to clean something up or that he needs me to help him out at the factory that day.
That's our relationship: Silence and orders.
I spend most of my time alone. I don't really have any friends - I'm a pretty shy guy. I'd much rather spend my time reading than going out with a bunch of people. At school, I would keep to myself and just focus on my studies. I've acquired a lot of knowledge over the years.
I watch as the sun begins its ascension into the light blue sky of District 9. On any other day, people would be waking up and greeting the day. Workers would be heading to the factories, heading to harness electricity for the Capitol. Children would either be heading to school or running out to play with their friends, but not today. Today, shutters are tightly closed. Everyone is trying to put barriers between them and the horrors that the Reaping is sure to bring.
Tonight, hundreds of families will celebrate the fact that their children have been spared for another year. But for two families, sadness will overcome their hearts as they pull their shutters closed, not wanting to hear the celebrations from the other families whose children will not be sent to a slaughterhouse.
After a week of media frenzy, they will watch helplessly as their child fights for his or her life in the arena that the Gamemakers have chosen for this year's annual Hunger Games. There is no telling what it will look like and what horrid creatures it could be home to. Sometimes not knowing is the scariest thing of all.
The sound of my father stirring pulls me from my thoughtful daze. I push away from the kitchen table, the wooden legs of my chair screeching against the wooden floor. I head out to the large oak tree on our property and manage to scurry up just high enough to scoop a few eggs from a robin's nest.
You would think since my father owns and operates one of the electricity factories that we would have enough money to buy our food. I wish we did. Instead, I spend my early mornings stealing eggs from nests and picking fruit from the bushes surrounding our skinny, two-story "house".
I smile at Mrs. Sye, our next door neighbor, as we complete a trade of freshly picked berries for half a pound of meat. I learned not to ask what kind of meat it was after a few of our trades. I'm better off not knowing.
Mrs. Sye has been a great neighbor over the years and, I guess, you could call her a friend. She used to keep an eye on me when my father would work all day, before I started going to school. She's also always up for a fair trade. She raises chickens and sometimes catches wild animals in homemade traps.
Really, she's been more of a parent to me than my father has over the years. As far as I know, Mrs. Sye doesn't have any children of her own. I don't think I've ever met or have heard Mr. Sye mentioned. It's kind of sad that she doesn't have any family.
I head back into the house. The bathroom door is shut and my father's feet shuffle on the other side of the door. I sigh before moving to the small stove that sits in our kitchen. I crack the eggs into a pan and let them fry while I cut up the meat and throw it into a second pan.
I guess you could say that my father and I are in the middle of the class-spectrum. We have nowhere near the kind of money the Peacekeepers in District 9 make, but we aren't dirt poor either. We're pretty comfortable at our place; it helps that there's only two of us, too. Most of the families in the District have at least two or more kids to feed and clothe every day. Here, there's just dad and I.
In less than ten minutes, the small kitchen is full of breakfast aromas and sizzling. I set out plates and transfer the food onto them just as I hear the bathroom door creak open. My father, a tall, well-built man, takes a seat at the kitchen table as I hand him a plate of eggs and meat.
Really, if you didn't know either of, there's no way you would think we were related in any way, let alone father and son. My father has black hair that is beginning to recede from his forehead and a dark mustache atop his upper lip. His dark brown eyes are a startling opposition to my bright green ones.
Our builds are also completely different. My father is tall, standing at six-foot-four, and broad shouldered. Sometimes I swear the ground beneath his feet shakes when he walks. I, on the other hand, am just six feet tall and am a stick figure in comparison to my father.
We eat in a heavy silence; the only sounds in the room are the occasional clang of a metal fork meeting a plate. I wish I could attribute my father's cold manner to the fact that today is the day of the Reaping, but I can't. We're always like this; cold and distant.
Once we have finished our breakfast, I put the plates in the sink. I don't bother doing them now; I'll have plenty of time after the Reaping. I finish clearing off the table and then head out the door once again.
I walk out to a bluff of rocks that have been warmed by the golden sun. I take a seat on one and close my eyes, relishing in the feeling of the water that sprays onto me from the lake below. District 9 sits on a chain of five different lakes, once called the Great Lakes. All the factories in the District are situated on the Lakes so that we can use its water to make electricity: Tshe Capitol's electricity. Of course, we don't get to use any of the electricity we slave to harness. It all belongs to the Capitol.
In just a few weeks, I will be joining my father in his factory. I'll be forced to work twelve, fourteen, or even sixteen-hour days; slaving away to meet the greedy demands of the rich and plush citizens of the Capitol for the rest of my life.
I take a deep breath through my nose as I watch the water lap at the rocks. It's a dark color, having been polluted for so many decades upon decades. I imagine that, at one point in time, this place was beautiful and serene.
I scoot down to a rock that meets the water and stick my feet into the chilly water. Despite the warm, early summer air, the water is still ice cold. It is a beautiful day. The sky is light blue, without a cloud in sight. The steady sun and the gentle breeze provide the perfect harmony. After about an hour, I get up and head back into the house to begin readying myself for the Reaping.
I head into the bathroom and close the door behind me as I strip off my clothes. I dip a rag in a basin of lukewarm water and then use it to wash off my body. I cup some water in my hands and then use it to wash my curly, reddish brown hair. I'll have to have Mrs. Sye cut it for me again soon.
I take a moment to survey myself in the cracked, rectangular mirror hanging on the wall of the bathroom. I am a very unimpressive boy: My arms and chest are not rippling with muscles. My legs are a bit more muscular; I've been told by a few people at school that I was a good runner. I would occasionally win races we'd have during gym class. I didn't really believe them; just brushed off their compliments.
I'm not used to being complimented.
I take the sharp blade my father uses to keep his mustache in perfection and run it once over my own face. The metal is cool against my flesh. I knick myself, right beneath my cheek bone, and a warm trickle of blood descends down the rest of my cheek. I hold the rag against it until it clots and stop bleeding.
I head up the rickety stairs to my bedroom. I pull on a pair of grey dress pants that I've worn to the Reaping for the last couple of years. I can still remember my first Reaping and how terrified I was: I was just twelve years old; a mere child. My fear had been so real, I had been convinced my name was going to be called - but it wasn't, and still hasn't been. Finally, this Reaping will be my last. The odds are in my favor, I suppose.
I fasten the last button of my plain, white dress shirt and sit down on my bed to put my shoes on. I am borrowing a pair of my father's black dress shoes. They are a bit beat up; my father has had them for many years. He actually wore these very shoes the day he married my mother. I run my hand over the worn out and tearing black leather, wondering how much a pair of shoes like this would cost us now.
I sigh as I stand up from my bed. I have just forty-five minutes before the Reaping will begin. I feel a knot becoming tighter and tighter in my stomach - I really shouldn't be nervous. Compared to the kids that have had to take out tesserae, the odds are in my favor. My name has only been entered into that Reaping bowl seven times.
Twenty minutes later, my father and I are walking through the district on our way to the Square. Around us, the other families are also solemnly heading in the same direction. Two girls about twenty yards ahead of me catch my eye. One has dark, wavy hair, and is wearing a white, lace dress and black shoes. Beside her there is a younger, blonde haired girl. Maybe they're sisters: At the Square, all the children eligible of being Reaped are organized by gender and then by age.
Standing on the stage that was built just for today is Marianne Diamond. She is wearing a bright purple dress that matches her short cropped hair and high heeled shoes with a print of some wildcat on them.
Marianne Diamond is possibly the most prudish, most selfish escort in all of Panem. She has a tall and slender build and looks down her surgically altered nose at every member of every district, obviously thinking that she is better than anyone in the districts solely because she is product of the Capitol.
If you ask me, that isn't something to be so proud of.
There are three chairs on the stage. One belongs to Marianne Diamond, another to the mayor of District 9, and then, in the last one, is Sophia Deveroux. Sophia is the Victor of the Thirty-Third Hunger Games and ranks as the youngest victor ever. She's only fourteen, four years younger than I am.
She won her Games by laying low and using poisons on the other Tributes when necessary. The Hunger Games drove her to insanity. Since she returned to District 9, she has been shunned by almost everyone in the district, including her own family. She always looks a bit frightened, like she thinks she's in the arena.
Somewhere off in the distance, a chime rings, signaling that it is two o'clock. The mayor of District 9 gets up from his seat and reads the same thing he does every year, a history of Panem and the Dark Days and how the Hunger Games came to be. I could probably recite it better than the mayor himself after hearing it for my entire life. Once the mayor has finished, Marianne Diamond takes the stage. She moves to the podium and begins with the signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
"Ladies first!" She calls in her high pitched Capitol accent as she moves over to the girls' Reaping ball. Her fingers swish through the slips of paper for a few moments before she plucks one out. I find myself wishing I had someone to be worried about - someone to hope that doesn't go into the Games. But, I don't. I have no one to care about. As far as I am concerned, I am all on my own.
"Ivy Cameron!" Marianne Diamond announces, putting on an entirely fake smile for the cameras. It is easy to see that she has had one too many surgeries to keep away the wrinkles in a desperate attempt to hold onto her youth.
My eyes flicker over to a girl who is making her way to the stage. I am slightly startled to see that it is the same dark, wavy haired girl in the lace dress that caught my eye on the way to the Square. Behind her, the younger blonde girl is crying and shouting. I think she may have attempted to volunteer for the older, dark haired girl. Ivy, her name is Ivy, I tell myself. The older girl refuses to let the younger one volunteer and makes her way up to the stage.
"Now for the boys!" Marianne Diamond chirps excitedly, moving over to the boys' Reaping bowl. I can feel the blood pounding in my ears. My chest feels tight. Only seven slips, I remind myself. There are only seven slips of paper in the bowl of thousands that reads my name. She couldn't possibly pick my name.
"Alexander Cole!" The world around me goes entirely still and silent as the sound of my name rings in my ears, like an eternal echo. I have a faint idea that the boys around me are staring at me. I feel a poke in my back. The world changes from its stagnancy to full on spinning. I feel dizzy.
Two men dressed in white grab each of my arms, forcing me up to the stage. I taste bile in the back of my throat. What is happening? Is this even possible? What? Once I am on the stage, the Peacekeepers let go of me. I clench my fists at my sides and force myself to breath. I am so dizzy that I fear I might topple off the stage and into the crowds of people.
Marianne Diamond announces us to the people of District 9 and tells us to shake hands. For the first time I look at Ivy Cameron: Her wavy black hair contrasts nicely with her pretty, green eyes. She is tall, just a few inches shorter than I am.
She's pretty, I think as I hold out my hand to her. She grasps it in hers and we shake, never breaking eye contact. I swallow dryly.
Ivy and I are both whisked away into the Justice Building. My brain barely manages to register that this is where we will say our goodbyes to our family members. I wonder if my father will even bother to show up.
I am practically shoved into a room and then left alone. I take in the room: Plush, velvet couches and chairs, expensive mahogany tables and bookshelves that are lined with the most expensive-looking books I've ever see. The deep red carpet sinks beneath weight of my foot as I move to take a seat on a plush, burgundy couch.
Just as I sit down, it hits me. I've been reaped. I am going into the Hunger Games. I am going to be contestant in the Thirty-Fourth Annual Hunger Games. In a little over a week, I could be dead. Who's going to do this morning's dishes? I think. Surely, dad won't have time to do the housework and cook for himself. I always do all that stuff. I'm not even sure if my father knows how to cook. Before I was old enough to learn, Mrs. Sye would cook and clean for my father for a small price.
The sturdy, wooden door to the room opens, jarring me from my internal worries, and my father steps into the room. He shuts the door behind him and we remain in an uneasy silence. Even now, when I am being sent away for slaughter, he has nothing to say to me; no tips for the arena, no worrisome words. I don't even get the simplest expression of endearment.
"You're smart," My father says, startlingly breaking the cocoon of silence after a good two minutes of. I look up at him, my eyebrows furrowed in confusion at his words. "You're always reading those books, so you must be smart. You could use that as an advantage."
I bite my lower lip. Is this his way of expressing his love for me? I nod back at him just as a Peacekeeper comes to the door. All too soon, the only family I've ever had is whisked away; my odds of ever seeing him again very slim.
I lean back into the couch, my mind still going over my father's words. I prepare to wait for a while since I know that I have no one else that will come see me. I don't have any other family or friends. So, of course, I nearly jump into the air when the door opens again.
Again, my brows furrow in confusion. Mrs. Sye is standing just inside the door. I am confused as to why she would come to see me. Sure, we're neighbors and we often trade with each other and I would even venture to call her a friend . . . but still, why would she want to come see me? So, when she comes over and sits next to me on the plush couch, I remain awkwardly still.
"Oh, Alex, dear, this is such a tragic turn of events." Mrs. Sye says. I remain silent and still, unsure of how to respond. "Now, I know you weren't expecting me to show up here, but I wanted to give you something before you left for the Capitol."
Mrs. Sye hands me a piece of paper. I blink a few times at it: It is a very old, faded, painted picture of a young woman. I look up to Mrs. Sye for some sort of explanation.
"That's your mother," She tells me, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. I want to ask her how she got this or how she knew my mother, but the words seem to not want to form. "I painted this picture the morning she married your father."
I take another look at the picture. The woman, my . . . my mother, is wearing an old looking, white dress, her curly, reddish brown hair flowing down past her shoulders.
"This was hers," Mrs. Sye says as she hands me a pendant on a string. I hold it in my palm; a lightning bolt. "That has been in your family for many generations. I was your mother's; a family heirloom. She was wearing it the day you were born. She asked me to make sure it got to you. She wanted me to give it to you at the right time. I think now is the right time."
My mind is absolutely reeling. Mrs. Sye knew my mother. She was there the day I was born, the day my mother died.
A Peacekeeper knocks at the door, signaling that Mrs. Sye's visiting time is up. Before getting up to leave, Mrs. Sye pats my cheek and kisses my forehead. I watch as she exits the small room, leaving me alone. I am consumed by a feeling of lonesomeness that is bigger than I've ever felt in my entire life.
I clutch the tiny pendant and photo in my hand. These two, small things are the only connection I have to my late mother. I open my palm and study the photo. My mother had the same tight curly, reddish brown hair that I have. In the photo, she is smiling, her emerald green eyes shining, awaiting the happiest day of her life. She is beautiful.
I wish I had known her. I feel that she and I would have had a wonderful, mother-son relationship. Maybe I wouldn't have felt alone my entire life. Maybe my father wouldn't have been so cold and distant. My we would have been a happy family, all of us, together.
I turn my attention to the lightning bolt pendant. It is about half an inch long and must have been carved out of oak wood. I imagine that I was once bright and clean, but now it has turned a darker brown color. I close my fingers over the pendant.
At least if I die, I'll finally get to meet my mother.
Writers for this chapter: Alexander Cole written by Doc95