The house was a rickety old place – it leaked a lot and was dark at night, and bright in the day. It wasn't much of a house – more like a small barn, but it was all that we had. So Dad and I made the best of it.
It wasn't so bad back when Mom was around. I remember that she'd always try to patch the holes with whatever we could, and the smell of baking food always filled the house, which helped a lot. She had been a seamstress and a washwoman, as well as working in the fields, and with that extra money, we had had some money for extra things – like a new dress or apron or table. And even in the winter, when there were no fields to harvest, she always found a way to keep us fed.
Now there was no smell of baking food. Now we went hungry.
I put my goods on my bed. It was a small, rickety old thing – like the house itself. But at least I had a bed. Dad slept on the floor.
I took the loaf of bread, and the remaining apple to the small, rickety old table, and got out a slightly rusted old knife. "Dad, wake up!" I called towards the closet he called his room "I got some breakfast!"
There was a slight groan, and the door opened. Dad stepped out – his bright blonde hair (like mine) tussled and dirty. His eyes had that hollow, empty look that I knew meant that he had been dreaming about Mom. He took the other chair opposite of me and looked at the loaf and the apple. He grunted his approval.
Dad and I don't talk much. We found that's easier. We never were that close – back when Mom was alive. But her death tore both of us apart. I know that she would have wanted us to be close . . . but it was just too difficult, because when I looked at him, I saw the lingering sorrow that so oppressed both of us, and when he looked at me, he saw her eyes.
So we didn't talk.
I cut off a few pieces of bread, and cut up the apple. Placing the slices onto the bread, I handed two to Dad. He wordlessly took it, taking a bite. I ate some of mine, and the silence continued. The house slowly began to light up as the sun rose higher.
Then Dad did something unusual. He spoke without being prompted.
"How many times?" those three words seemed to hold a lot of meaning – for both of us.
How many times was my name in the glass balls?
What were my chances?
"20." I answer, gazing into his eyes. He meets mine for a split second, then looks away, eyes brimming with tears.
The silence continues. I finish, and put the bread in a cabinet, along with the remaining apple pieces. When I looked back at the table, Dad is gone.
I sighed, thinking of Mom and how she always kept us together . . . and how we just didn't work without her. I grabbed a large metal bucket and fetched water from the stream. It was cold, but I poured it into the tub anyway.
I sat in the tub for a long time, even though the water was cold. We were supposed to look our best for the Reaping, as it was the start of the festivities of the Hunger Games. I thought of the Capitol for a long time, letting the suppressed anger build up inside of me. I knew that because of my song today, I probably won't be coming back to this house. I knew this, and came to accepted it.
I just hoped that they won't get the little girl next year.
When I got out, I put back on the clothes that I had on that morning. I knew that I had to have on nice clothes, but somehow, I wanted to delay putting them on. I sat on my bed, brushing my hair with the spidery hairbrush for a long time. It had been quite a while since I felt that clean.
"Lystra?" my dad's voice said from the other side of the door.
"Dad?"
"Can I come in?"
"Um . . . sure." This was odd of my father. He normally never came into my room. I looked around anxiously to make sure that there was nothing that I didn't want him to see.
He entered, and had something gold draped over his arm. He handed it to me, avoiding my eyes. Looking at it, surprised, I stood up, and spread it out on the bed. I let out a little gasp.
It was a golden gown, made of silk – a precious material. It went to the knees and had no sleeves. To go with it was a thin golden headband and simple golden flats. I stared at it for a long while, unaware that we had owned anything so fine.
"Will you wear it?"
It is obviously Mom's. It looks like it would fit me, though . . .
"Of course I will, Dad," my eyes were brimming over with tears from the gesture, however simple. This seemed to be too much for him, because he left after that.
I put on the dress, and left the room, going into the main room where our table is. Dad was sitting there, waiting for me. When he saw me, he gave an audible gasp. I see my reflection in his watery eyes, and I understand why.
I am not Lystra Fay Gull in this outfit.
I am my mother.