A/N: Sorry for the long wait, guys! I'm back on track, and you'll be sure to see more updates this summer! Enjoy!
Chapter Two – The Reaping
Despite how Shinji's joking around and Lisa's making perverted remarks, we're all burdened by the weight of anxiety. Sometimes, I don't understand why the two try to pretend as if the Games are nonexistent and wave it off as if it's some extraterrestrial bullshit. Do they care if they are in that forsaken bowl more than thirty times each?
Shinji's got a small family to feed – his coop of aunts, a curious trio of mentally handicapped women all obsessed with bird watching. When his father passed away from a devastating stampeding accident, the same accident that lost Lisa her own parents, he left a note to Shinji in his will to help support his incapable aunts. His father loved his sisters no matter how frustrating they could be at times. He would always, according to Shinji, visit them and play games with them; they were especially enthralled with simple tournaments of "rock-paper-scissors."
And now Shinji? Every week, he cheerfully prances across the town to his aunts' little shack, dragging his crates of redeemed grain and oil from signing up for the tesserae program. He doesn't seem burdened in the least by it. His father's legacy seems more important to him than his own safety.
Lisa, on the other hand, dedicates herself to helping Shinji out. In her own reserved way, she admires him for doing what he does. I can somehow see it on her expressionless face whenever Shinji exits the Orphanage shack hefting those rations over his lanky shoulders. It's quiet awe. She graciously signed herself up for the same program, risking her odds each year to help make the aunts' lives just a little better. You'd never expect such a moper to do that, but well all know very much how weird Lisa is.
And me? I've got that knife to pay off for in addition to helping the three of us survive on the meager lunches we receive from working on the prairies. Since Shinji and Lisa are so preoccupied supporting Shinji's aunts, someone has to feed the three of us, and that someone happens to be me. Honestly, it doesn't make a difference for me to throw in some extra rounds of tesserae; I already have my name in that bowl so many times. It's as if I know I'm destined to go to the Games sooner or later. Sadly, I accept that fate.
However, I've got to say, being thirteen and all, I've only been in a Reaping once. Last year, I had my name in about sixty times altogether, and I was sure that I was going to be drawn. I remembered those kids from my school looking at me with a pity in their eyes, looking away in sorrow. They seemed like they wanted to comfort me, but they knew it was fruitless. I was inevitably going to be picked as the female tribute.
I would be a liar to say that I wasn't scared. Hell, I was scared out of my mind. This knife I kept was going to kill me, yet I still insistently held onto it. Why? I have no idea. This strange affinity tied us together, me and this knife, with an indestructible wire, stronger than steel. No matter how much I tugged and resisted, we always snapped back together in the end. And I can't forget that it's my uncle's legacy to me.
As it turns out, the daughter of a wealthier family, an uppity blonde chick who only had her name in there about three times, was chosen. She was one of the people who looked down on me, basking in the light of her fortune of not having to toil in the fields. Here in Ten, we're separated by two statuses: working class and business class. The workers are Shinji, Lisa, and I and all of the others out in on the prairies. We do the shoddy work with the longhorns. The business class, primps as we call them, reside near the Central Square in three-story buildings, managing the imports and exports of the District. They're not exactly what one would call rich – just more fortunate. They don't have mansions and expensive hovercraft, but having the privilege of living in a clean little house or apartment with running water and electricity? It seriously beats the Orphanage that threatens to collapse whenever a storm whirls by.
Anyway, this blonde chick was picked for the Reaping, and the second she stepped up on the stage, our eyes locked. I could see the shivering terror in her irises from where I stood. We didn't even hear the name of the male tribute; we were just staring at each other in silence. I finally got the will to nod, to encourage her. I watched her take a deep breath and focus her attention to the instructions of the escort, a busty strawberry blonde who always seemed far too happy for the event, year after year.
The girl was killed in the Bloodbath by a berserk Career and his lance.
"Hiyori!" Lisa's voice rolls me back into reality. We are about two minutes away from reaching the Central Square, which shines brightly in the sunset like an evening star.
"What," I say bluntly, stopping in my tracks. "If it's to say my dress is dirty, I don't give a flyin' fuck. Ya'll know I hate dresses."
"No, it's not that," Shinji says, stepping in. He exchanges a glance with Lisa who nods. He redirects his attention to me. "Promise me that you'll listen."
"Make it quick," I snap.
Shinji takes a deep breath and straightens his dusty brown tie. He bends down on one knee so that his face is level with in height, much to my irritation. "We haven't really talked too much 'bout this, but there's somethin' that we've got t'get straight."
"What."
"Well, it seems like all three o' us have a great chance of bein' picked fer this bullshit, so if the odds put me and one o' you two in the Games, remember this: I go." Shinji lowers his eyes.
"Wait!" I sputter. "The hell does that mean? You go?"
"What I mean is," Shinji says, with a grim expression, "If you an' me are in a situation where we have to kill each other, I'm the one who goes. Ya'll just kill me."
"No way!" I shout. I smack him across the face; he takes it wordlessly. The three of us are silent for the next few seconds, me breathing heavily, Shinji wincing through the pain of the slap, Lisa standing passively. Quieter, I repeat myself, "No way."
"Maybe it ain't the time to talk 'bout this," Lisa suggests diplomatically. "Let's see how this goes, an' then we'll go on from there."
"Yeah," Shinji agrees. "We better hurry 'cause the Reaping's gonna start any time now."
We hurry to the Central Square, trying to push the thoughts of the Game out of our minds, but it's fruitless in the end.
It always blew my mind how year after year, Matsumoto Rangiku, our district's escort, can be so…bubbly about all of this. This year, she prances around the stage—as usual—ranting about how the Games started and how "ever-so fortunate" we are to be spared from utter devastation via Seireitei and constantly tugging down the neckline of her blouse, teasing those drooling Seireitei bachelors watching us on their televisions, as if our district were some kind of sick sit-com.
"And so," she squeals, throwing back her head, enlarged about four times its actual size thanks to her overdone curls. "We've come to the very moment tonight, in which we select our candidates!"
"Candidates?" Shinji whispers. "The hell? What happened to callin' us plain, ol' tributes?"
"Dunno," Lisa responds, adjusting her glasses. "'Member the time when she called us victims by accident?" Shinji snickers a little too loudly, granting us irritably glares from several guys from school.
I'm still fuming about what Shinji said earlier this evening. Self-sacrifice was never agreed when we decided to live together and support each other. We're a team. There's no fucking way we're going to turn on each other, is there? But now as I think, I remember that year when two siblings happened to be chosen from District Six. You'd think that they'd form some kind of mutual alliance, but in reality, the brother beheaded his sister in the first fifteen minutes of the Game. This sick event seriously fucks up our morals and beliefs.
"And now," Rangiku announces. The screen behind her switches from her flawless face to a clear shot of the two crystal bowls on the table before her. "We must choose our tributes!"
The Central Square is dead silent, minus the white noise from Rangiku's microphone. My heart throws itself against the walls of my chest, and a migraine begins to eat away at my brain. In moments like these, I just want to let life slip out of my fingers, drift away from my lifeline, and escape the torture of anticipation. Eighty-four times, I think to myself. Eighty-four, you're practically screwed.
I bet Rangiku's heels, smothered in glitter and satin, can be heard clacking all the way back at the Orphanage. Clip, clop. Clip, clop. Kind of like the hooves of longhorns. She clops to a stop, posing seductively before the two goddamned bowls, biting her lower lip and tapping her chin with a manicured nail. Several cameras flash.
"Ladies, first!" she proclaims.
I turn to Shinji. His fists are clenched white at his side, and his eyes are squeezed shut. I can see him thinking about his three aunts, hysterical and sobbing. I face Lisa. I've never seen so much fear and anxiety swimming in her otherwise passive eyes as she stares dead-locked on a pebble on the ground. I want to think, Why're you guys so nervous? At least your fate ain't fuckin' inevitable like mine is. Eighty-four slips. But I can't bring myself to think like that.
"Always see the glass half-full," my uncle always told me. "That way, there's always gonna be a light at the end o' the tunnel."
"That doesn't make any sense," I always responded. "Two cheesy statements thrown into one? Gimme a break, Uncle!"
Whatever the hell he meant by that. I start counting to myself, a habit I've had since I was five. I count the seconds it takes for Rangiku's hand to finish its pre-drawing exercises, a ritual she'd insisted on for ten straight years. I count the seconds it takes for her to heave a patronizing sigh into the microphone before she offers us a smile of false hope. She's used to seeing kids go off to their deaths, so it's the least she can do. I count the seconds it takes for her to reach her hand into the girls' bowl and meander through the piles of white slips, digging through the paper, swirling her fingertips around the rim.
And then I lose it.
"For god's sake, woman!" I scream, jumping up. "Pick up a damned piece of paper already!" Just as these words tumble out of my mouth, I'm cursing myself for being such a jackass.
Rangiku jumps, almost stumbling on her ridiculous heels. "Ah, what's this?"
"Hiyori, what the hell!" Shinji hisses, nudging me hard.
I can feel every person in District 10 land their eyes on me, and voices begin to flood the Square. Fellow teenagers whirl around, shooting me looks mixed with fear, anger, and sympathy. Adults, standing on the sidelines, murmur to one another. Children too young to enter the Games stretch up on their toes to see what the commotion's about. Instantly, heat billows into my cheeks; I mentally kick myself to relax. What's done is done, right? But my heart just about feels ready to explode from all this tension.
"Hiyori, that was caught on fuckin' video!" Shinji whispers furiously. "You've just—"
"I know!" I spit, stomping on his foot. Shut up, Shinji. Just shut the hell up.
A sharp, earsplitting whistle screeches across the Square, and the noise drops back to dead silence. I see impeccably shined shoes—the Head Peacekeeper. You will receive your punishment tonight, girl, during the ceremony. The Head marches over to Rangiku and whispers something into her ear. He hands her six unmistakable slips of paper—names. The entire square sucks in a breath. The Head's always been keen on making punishments public, even organizing death trials right here in the square for all eyes to see.
I must be a complete idiot because it then hits me smack in the face: my name is on those slips. I've gone numb. I can't hear anything. Not Shinji's raged outburst or Lisa's gasp or the Head's quiet chuckle. My eyes are fixed on Rangiku's hand, tossing the additional six slips into the girls' bowl. Despite the blatant gravity of the situation, she restarts her mixing routine, swirling the sea of papers like it's a thick chowder, but luckily, I can't hear her cliché remarks. The head steps off the stage, however, before he disappears, we lock gazes. He grins. He mouths, Ninety, bitch.
"Our female tribute is…Sarugaki Hiyori!"
Like that's a surprise.
A/N: How'd you like it? Feel free to leave some feedback in that little box below! Thanks!