Beneath the Blistering Sun

A train whistle crashed through Meera's restless sleep. Her heart jumped. The scratchy sheets stuck to her skin as she opened her storm blue eyes. Inside the packed room the air was stale and stifling, even with the cracked window. Within those sparse hours of slumber a suffocating sweat had formed on her brow, worsened by nightmares—now in her half-conscious state it felt like she was drowning in the heat.

Another whistle. This time closer. A whistle that sent gooseprickles down her spine.

The reaping.

She had almost allowed herself to forget.

A train was porting in the station. A train that would take one male and female Tribute to the Capitol to fight to the death. It should have been enough to chill the sweat away from her weeping bones, but it wasn't. Meera was barely able to pull the sheets away from her legs before the door flew open.

Mapes was a skeleton silhouette. The clunk of the door sent a few girls jumping in surprise.

"It's time," the ominous whisper rattle out of those wrinkled lips with a fire. There wasn't much more to say other than that. Every orphan heard the solemn cadence in her voice, it was slight but enough to spark fear in the strongest of children. Without reply each girl of age followed her. The others stayed in their sweating beds, cradling close to one another with wide and watchful eyes. It was easy to figure out what those lucky ones were thinking. Someday this would be them, someday they would be dragged in a row and wait for their names to be called. When it wasn't…a glimpse of relief would sweep over them. When it did…Meera shook her head, she couldn't fathom what it felt like, she had never felt it. She imagined it was like hearing Death shout out your name. Your number would be up, "the end is near" Death would say. Today you are a Tribute, tomorrow a dead little girl with sour memories and hopeless eyes. No one will remember that you died because you died for nothing.

She crossed her arms as they walked along the cold floor, down three flights of stairs and into a tiled room. The showers in the poorhouse were communal, rarely used because in District 5 it wasn't uncommon for the water to be shut off most of the time. But of course during the reaping every faucet was catered with all the water needed, water enough to wipe away the sandy grime of District 5 so that their sacrifices would look pristine for the cameras.

Only the young ones were self-conscious as they discarded their clothing, but not Meera. She slipped out of her nightgown and walked to the nearest shower. It spit chaotically for the first heartbeats, hissing before it decided to flow more freely. The water was colder than she remembered it being. Her teeth chattered together as she grabbed the nearest soap bar and began scrubbing.

One of the girls was crying. It would have been hard to tell if it hadn't been for her low and mournful whimpers. It was her first reaping. Meera gravely pursed her lips and tried to look away but it was hard.

"It's always hard for the first timers."

Dark auburn strands stuck to her cheek and neck as she turned her head to the side. Zara was violently lathering her left arm in soap that slivered down her ebony skin. Her expression read with equal parts fear and empathy. Meera swallowed hard, looking back to the tile wall. The terror was so heavy in the showers she wanted to scream.

"She'll be fine," she whispered it to Zara, quickly realizing that she really telling herself the lie.

"You never forget your first time."

"Sadly."

Zara spit out some shower water and groaned. "Sadly," she agreed.

Dressing felt ritualistic—somehow symbolic. In the poorhouses and orphanages no money flowed in. There were no special dresses for them to wear for such an occasion as the annual reaping, on items of luck. Orphans barely had a right to their last name let alone material possessions. Mapes had laid out the dresses on each bed. They were all identical, all made from the same cheap fabric. A simple white dress, nothing more. Meera slipped it over her head and fastened the buttons. It fell just below her knees and somehow made her fair skin look paler. She tied her hair half up and glanced at the free flowing strands, already they were drying from the heat.

No one spoke. No one even dared a loud sigh. When all were dressed they wander down the steps and into the hall. The boys were waiting there as well, each wearing a hardened face. Today was no day for smiles and laughter.

Mapes was sipping a glass of water. Her hand shook as she lowered it back to the table and lifted her eyes to the orphans. Zara once said that the only time Mapes was nurturing was on the day of the reaping, looking at the middle-aged woman now Meera had to agree. She could barely muster a smile let alone gentle words on most days, but today Mapes knew she had to make an exception.

Her sorrowful eyes shifted from one face to another. Only 10 of them were there, but it was half the poorhouse. Meera could barely touch her breakfast. Something about the day felt wrong—different and foreign. She pushed a roll of bread to Zara's plate before grabbing water and dropping her eyes to the cracked plate.

"I know it seems frightening but—"

Ding-dong-ding

A series of bells interrupted Mapes's speech. Meera's gaze twitched to the windows. The glass panes rattled in response to the bells. Someone dropped their silverware. Even Zara who had been nervously stuffing her mouth with sandy bread froze. The bells were calling to them. Time was up. Their song was shrill and deafening.

Suddenly Mapes dropped her napkin and rose to her feet. Every eye turned to her, waiting for her to say something, anything. She rubbed her wrinkled lips together.

"Good luck."

Meera's lips parted. It wasn't comforting, but nothing would be at this point.

One by one they lifted from their seats and walked to the door.

The bells were louder outside. The chiming melody made Meera's ears ache. She could feel every groove and rock underneath her boots. The rays of the sun bled over them so radiantly she had shield her eyes to look around until they finally adjusted to the brightness. At some point her fellow friends were lost in the crowd of gathering children. They were all heading south—toward the District center. Some were joined by older siblings, others by parents—Meera's eyes lingered on those in particular. She wondered if she would be as scared right now if her parents were there to hold her hand and sigh sweet lies to sooth her. Her eyes narrowed at the thought, there was no soothing the gathering storm.

The sun climbed higher into the sky as the clearing of decrepit buildings emerged. The sandstone steps leading up to a newly erected platform, which was decorated with a single microphone and two glass orbs, each one filled with names. Television screens had been set up. The camera crews were awaiting the beginning of the ceremony. Iron doors remained closed for the time being, but peacekeepers flanked its sides. The sight of them made Meera's blood curdle. She didn't flinch when they pricked her finger, but her insides quickly started to twist once she fell in line with the others.

Her white dress stirred around her legs.

The bells continued.

She could feel her breaths shortening. This wasn't like the fear of being picked for the power stations and factories. It was realer, more acidic and trembling. In the factories you could die, but in the Hunger Games there was no chance of a girl from District 5 surviving. It wasn't until she felt a sweaty hand grabbed her that she finally allowed a single gasp to escape her lips. Her eyes urgently shifted to the side. Zara didn't look at her, but her hand was comfort enough. Last night Zara was terrified, but now, standing in front of the platform steps, she looked calmer than ever. It was Meera who was scared. It was Meera who could barely breath.

She swallowed hard and tightened her grip on Zara's hand. They might have lost their families, but they had each other.

After one final rattled ring the bells stopped.

The square was silent.

Dust from Firefly Field drifted in. It was a terrible day for a sandstorm. Sweat trickled down Meera's neck. A tinge of pink kissed her nose and cheeks.

They stood there for what seemed like hours until the doors inched open. They creaked and moaned with the sound of metal on metal. A few children took a step back. A heartbeat thumped against Meera's ribcage as she watched a single figure emerge from the darkness and into the noonday sun.

He wore a strange leather-trimmed outfit that looked uncomfortable for the heat. His skin was dyed a pale blue, almost silver looking, and his hair was sculpted from wisps of darker blue strands. The man walked with self-assurance, even cockiness. He crooned into the microphone with a hum before adjusted his high-necked shirt and smiling.

"Hello and welcome!"

His voice statically echoed through the square. Meera felt Zara's hands tense.

"I am so honored to be the Capitol representative for District 5 during the 43rd Hunger Games! May the odds be in all of your favors, and your families! The Tributes that will be picked should be proud to represent such an…illustrious District."

She grimaced. It was an obvious lie. No one cared about the people of District 5, only their electricity. He was simply sweetening them up for the slaughter.

Cameramen excitedly navigated on the steps to get a better angle of the representative. His image was plastered on the screens above the crowd. Up close he looked much younger then his voice hinted at.

"Shall we get down to it!?" He cheered, rubbing his hands together.

No one replied, but of course he wasn't expecting a reply.

Ladies were first.

Suddenly Zara's grip felt too restraining. The man was swirling his silver hands in the glass orb like he was about to cast a terrible spell, and it started to make Meera's head swirl. She harshly wiggled her hand back and felt the fabric of her dress. If Zara was shocked she didn't show it. He smiled happily as he waded through the thick slips of names. He actually looked excited about this, as if it was an honor to perform such a duty. When he finally pulled a single paper out Meera straightened her back and parted her lips.

At that moment she only recognized faint details.

The representative's cold silver-blue lips.

The sand-laced wind.

He ripped the paper open. His mouth leaned close to the glinting silver microphone. That was when she felt talons fasten against her heart and squeeze.

"Meera Eastwood!"

Heads turned from left to right.

She felt like someone else, she had to be someone else. This wasn't her life.

Her feet turned to stone. Her face went pale despite the burning heat. Even if she wanted to move, at that moment she couldn't.

The man licked his lips nervously. "Um—Meera! Meera Eastwood!?"

It was Zara's touch that shook her. She turned her face to her friend and wordlessly moved her mouth—nothing was coming out, everything was spinning. Why couldn't she move? Why couldn't she speak?

"Meera, it's you."

No. It wasn't her. It couldn't be her. She had just slipped past the factory workers. She still had another year before she was forced to break her back in service of the Capitol. She blinked her eyes in shock. No…no…

"Meera Eastwood!" the man laughed, "Don't be shy now…"

"Meera…" Zara's voice broke. Tears were welling in her eyes as she grabbed Meera's hand.

Meera's lips quivered, "I—I have to—"

The tears fell down her friend's face.

"Go," she finished.

Her feet started moving before she thought to stop them. Slowly her hand slipped away from Zara's. Children parted the way.

"Ah! Here we are!"

Meera glanced around. The looks she was given were the worst part. Looks of pure pity and horror. Her eyes turned to the screens just in time to see her own face. Paler than normal and jarred, she didn't look herself.

"Come along!" the man beckoned with a wave of the hands as she reached the steps.

Each changing stone felt like it would fall out from under her feet but she kept moving. Meera couldn't tell what was pushing her forward, it wasn't courage or fear…it was something else, something that didn't have a name, at least not one she had known before. Sand stung her skin.

Beside her she listened to the representative clap and laugh. He was enjoying every minute of this. Cameras were pointed at her. She stared into their black lens and furrowed her brow.

Slowly her brain shut down. All she could think of was the day before, standing in line and terrified to be picked for the power station. She remembered feeling guilt for being relieved once she hadn't been chosen. Looking across the crowd of unfamiliar faces and familiar ones alike she knew for a fact they were thinking the same thing.

Poor girl, their eyes and expressions screamed, only 17 and waiting to die.

Whether it was because of the growing sandstorm or the white noise buzzing in her skull she fell into a deafening daze. The Capitol representative was prattling into the microphone but it sounded like another language. Just a sequence of sounds. She watched as he slithered over to the boy's orb and shoved his hands in. His fingers were more determined this time, more trained.

When he smiled and shouted the name into the microphone Meera parted her lips and squinted. She couldn't hear a thing. Eyes were on her, cameras where on her and all she could hear were distorted thoughts.

Movement in the crowd pulled her gaze to the crowd once more. She didn't see the male Tribute until he was at the steps. Mousey and frail he looked, barely a few inches taller than Meera. She had never seen him before in her life, or perhaps she had and her mind was trying to save her the grief at that single moment.

The representative happily pranced down the remaining steps to grab the boy by the arm and escort him to the platform.

"What a pair!" The Capitol native grabbed their hands and raised them to the sky. His hands felt cold despite the heat, like a snake's. It made her cringe.

"Here! Your Tributes of the 43rd Hunger Games!"

No cheers, not even the faintest of applause, only morose and dirtied faces. In a sudden fit of clarity Meera's eyes frantically scanned the crowd, if only she could see Zara's face one last time...even Mape…maybe then it would give her the strength to fight. Her lips parted. The harder she looked the more the faces muddled together.

Suddenly hands were on her wrists. She sprang forward instinctively only to be dragged back. The ballad of iron doors echoed as she got a mouthful of sandstorm and was pulled into the blinding darkness. The coolness of the shade should have been intoxicating but it only made Meera sweat more. She clawed at air before she realized that the doors had shut and she was gliding along sandstone.