Symphony Pamplemousse, 18, District One
(Eight years before the Reapings)
"I'm ready," I tell my older brother, a bow and arrow perched in his hands, aiming straight at me.
"You sure?" I know that it's a trick question. Whether I was ready or not, or whether I wanted to do it or not, Maestro was letting the arrow fly. He had already shot one into my leg not five minutes prior. It hurt like hell.
Maestro was secretly ecstatic after being chosen as the volunteer for the 119th Hunger Games. He told everyone that he expected it but I don't really think he did. I was always told I looked a lot like him, coal black hair and olive eyes. It was an hour before the Reaping, an hour before he was going to volunteer
He's always had bloodlust in his veins. At five years old, he found a colony of rabbits in our backyard and coldly and quickly snapped each one of their necks, an almost bored expression on his face as he did it. My twin brothers, Orchestra and Crescendo sat inside my mother's stomach, watching from the womb.
I snapped back to the present, staring down the tip of his arrow at me as he squinted one eye closed, trying to aim as accurately as possible. He had purposely led up to the deepest, darkest corner of the woods, where no one would find us.
Without warning, he lets go of the string and lets the arrow fly. It enters my right shoulder, a piece of the tip coming out the other side. Red hot pain sears through my body as I scream out, my 10-year-old boy voice ringing throughout the woods. Even though we were in a deep sector of the forest, it wasn't soundproof. I fall to the ground clutching the arrow, trying to pull the wooden instrument of pain out of my shoulder.
Maestro rolls his eyes as he sets the bow, clearly not in a hurry to help me. He walks briskly in my direction, listening to the soft sounds of blue jays chirping and the leaves shaking from the light breeze. His tall body stands over me, tears pulsing out of my eyes and onto my cheeks.
"Hold still," he groans, placing his hiking boot on my chest to keep me stable. He reaches down with his hand and pulls the arrow straight out of my shoulder. I screech louder than I ever have screeched before, making the blue jays fly out of the trees. Maestro cups a hand over my mouth, muffling my sounds of pain.
"Shut up," he commands. I force the noises to stay inside my mouth as I nod my head in understanding. He helps me up and throws me over his back, my wound making a squeamish, squelching noise as it hits his green jacket. I dig my teeth into my lips hard enough to draw blood in order to stop myself from screaming.
The walk back to District One feels as though it lasts forever, Maestro occasionally shifting my body over his shoulder so that my wound hits his body.
We step out of the woods and enter our backyard, a decently sized plot of land with light green blades of grass and a dark wood table with white chairs and cream colored pillows. A playset for Orchestra and Crescendo stood there as well.
Maestro opens the screen porch door and steps inside. Our mother stands by the counter, apron covered in flour, as she covers chicken cutlets with egg and breadcrumbs. My brother sets me down on the kitchen table, a puddle of blood on my shoulder having stained my gray t-shirt. Mother notices and puts on a look of concern. She rushes over.
"What happened?" she asks in a tone that's more annoyed than concerned. Before I can answer, Maestro interrupts.
"One of the illegal hunters was trying to chase down a deer. She shot an arrow and it went into Symphony's shoulder and another in his leg."
"Get some medicine from the bathroom and fix him up," Mother instructs Maestro. She goes back to the counter, back to fixing up the chicken for dinner.
Maestro picks me back up again and takes me to the first floor bathroom, placing me on the top of the counter. He opens the medicine cabinet and gets out a bottle of clear gel. He strips off my shirt, revealing my bloody shoulder wound, now a large dark red circle on my upper left part of my body. My tears have stained my face a light watermelon red color. Maestro doesn't seem to care though.
He takes a glob of the medicine and places it on my wound. It feels about the same as when you accidentally put soap on an open cut. I wince, hoping that my display of pain won't upset my older brother. He lets out a groan.
"You know why I did that back there? The arrows in the leg, the shoulder, the side?" he asks, not meeting me in the eye, instead focusing on applying the medicine to my body. He places a thick white bandage over the bloody spot. He's done with the shoulder and rolls up my pants leg to apply medicine to my other wound. A quiet breeze from the open window washes over my barely clothed body, stinging the bleeding bits of me.
I violently shake my head in response to his question, genuinely curious as to why. He applies medicine to my leg, the pain not as powerful as before.
"Pain. I know you're planning to start training at the Academy in a few years. You must be ready to experience pain." He finishes my leg and places another bandage over it. He stares up at me, meeting our identically colored eyes. "It's grueling. You need to be prepared for it."
"Then why do you do it? If it hurts so much?" He gives a little snort.
"Winning the Hunger Games is a lot better than living my entire shitty life in District One. Everyone wants it. You should too." He rolls down my pant leg and puts my shirt back on. He picks me up off the counter and sets me down. He quickly left the room in a hurry, eager to look good for all the cameras at the Reaping.
That was the last time I ever saw him.
Fragrance Jenkins, 17, District One
(One day before the Reaping)
I sit inside the Academy, my black tank top drenched with sweat. I like this tank top. It really brings out my eyes.
My blond hair is pulled back into a long ponytail that swishes with every slight movement I make. My trainer, who I can't even remember the name of, left a couple minutes ago. The lights have been turned off and I'm sitting alone in the almost darkness.
I hear a door creak open and I hop to my feet, ready for whoever it is. The lights flash on and I'm met face to face with a curly haired girl, brunette and muscular, in a sports bra and white shorts.
"Hi, Fragrance!" the girl greets me with a bubbly smile.
"Hi, Citrine," I respond with a blank stare. What was she doing here?
Citrine Topaz is the volunteer that the Academy chose this year, and to everyone, even Citrine, it's a mystery. The girl is strong for sure, and she's fast, but she can't shoot straight with a bow and arrow and her sword skills are mediocre at best. I'm a little confused as to why they didn't choose me. Yeah, I'm only seventeen but they've made exceptions before. She pisses me off every time I look at her.
"Doin' some last minute preparation?" I ask as I stuff my things in my linen bag trying to escape the awkwardness of the situation.
"Yeah. Just wanted to brush up." She walks over to the archery range, placed smack dab in the middle of the room. She picks up a bow and a sheath of arrows and gets to shooting, barely hitting the human sized target.
"Makes sense."
"Wanna shoot with me?" The offer stuns me. She holds a second bow and sheath of arrows, offering the weapon to me. Why the hell not.
I set my bag down and take the items from her hands. We stand next to each other as we aim at the targets. My first one hits the target right where the heart would be, while hers flies into the victim's shoulder. My second one goes right into the head and her's flies past the target. I struggle not to snicker.
"Wow, you're really good," she notices, surprised.
"Yeah, that's what ten years of training will get you." I roll my eyes as I load another arrow into the metallic bow. There's a few minutes of silence only interrupted with the swish of arrows through the air and the thwack of them against the target. As Citrine aims for the target, she breaks through the deafening silence.
"You know, I can see why they didn't choose you as the volunteer." Her arrow hits the target with as much force as her comment hit me. My blood starts to boil. I set my bow down and turn towards the girl, her expression unchanged as if she just told me her favorite ice cream flavor instead of giving me the strongest insult you can give to an Academy resident.
"What did you say?" I take a few small steps over to Citrine, my tall, slim body towering over her more mousy stature.
"I said that I can see why they didn't choose you as the volunteer." She must not realize how much that stings those who that insult is directed at.
"And why is that?" My eyes turn to dagger and my mouth shape becomes curved. Hot flashes wash over my body as rage builds up.
"Well," she starts, setting her bow down where she found it and pacing around the room. "In the Hunger Games, it's not just about how strong you are, or how fast you are, or your weapon diversity. It's about how likable you are. Watch almost any previous Hunger Games. Do you think that more Victors come from tributes who were shy in their interview, or outgoing and talkative?" She meets my eyes, as if she wants me to give an answer.
"Outgoing," I grit as I play into her game.
"Exactly. They got sponsors, gifts, people liked them." She gives a strong emphasis on the liked. "When I was told that I was going to be the volunteer, they told me that my biggest strategy was to be liked, to play to this idea of not being the typical volunteer from District One. But that's gonna help me. Because I can be liked." She places a hand on my shoulder. "And you, honey? You never will be."
A wildfire starts in my body. A blade, long and shiny, sits on the table where I set my bow down. I wrap my hand around it, and without thinking, I thrust it into Citrine Topaz's chest. She stumbles back, clutching her bloody wound, fear and pain in her eyes. I pull it out of her chest as she flops to the ground, bleeding but still alive.
I look down upon the new adult, blood spurting out of her mouth, her teeth painted red. She wriggles around, trying to crawl away.
I push the blade through her chest as a final cry of pain escapes her mouth. Her body goes stiff as her eyelids slide closed. If we were actually in the Games, this would be the time that her cannon would fire.
It's only until I'm wiping the blood off the blade and placing it back on the counter that I look back at Citrine's body and I realize what I've done. I've killed the chosen volunteer, someone who I grew up with. I could be arrested, even executed. What I'm the most scared about, though, is that it felt good. The feeling of having more power than the other, the helplessness, the feeling that there is no escape, that you will die.
I slow my breathing as I think. The Academy is closed at this time, so there's no security cameras on. No one saw me go into the Building, they've all gone home. The Academy is closed tomorrow for Reaping Day, they probably won't find the body until after the Reapings, they'll notice that she didn't volunteer. It won't be until after I've volunteered. They can't do anything to me then.
I force myself not to look back at my carnage, at the body of Citrine Topaz laid out upon the floor of the Academy. I calmly exit the building, ready for the day that is about to come.