AN: To the guest reviewer — thank you for pointing out the mistake about Gale's age. It's fixed now.
"Honey," someone whispers from above me. White, knobby knuckles have me at my shoulders, and I foggily blink awake.
My mother is uncomfortably poised above me, trying to wake me as if she's personally going to escort me to my death. Thing is, she might as well be. "I laid out an outfit," she says simply.
"What are you doing?" I find myself snarling in reply, shoving her away from me. She's sickly thin and weak, and nearly falls to the ground with my push.
She clenches her fists, her scraggly wrists bending outwards, before she moves to the bed and pulls a white frock to her chest, holding it against her frame as if I look anything like her.
"That's fine," I answer flatly, grabbing it from her. As I pull my fingertips away, I realize the grubby coal stain I left.
My mother's face strains even more. "I can get that out," she says, but I pull the dress back again.
I grit my teeth. "Don't worry about it."
I can feel her eyes on me as I leave, her face knitted together as if she's so concerned about that coal stain, that little reminder of the explosion that blew everything up, that led to her lifeless skin and empty stomach.
When I return to the room, I let down my hair, and it's Prim who moves towards it with eager fingers. "Let me braid it, Katniss," she pleads.
"Have at it, little duck," I answer, looking down at the black streaks. It's a tribute to my father, my district, if anything.
Prim's fingers are just as nimble and skilled as my mother's. I hardly feel her little fingers working through the strands of my thick hair, tucking one part under, one part over, working down my head, down the tail of the braid.
"You look beautiful, Katniss," she breathes when she finally steps away. I reach a hand up to the braid, tracing the intricate pattern down to the tail.
"Oh, little duck," I hum, as I stand up, and drape my arms around her neck, leaning down to kiss her head, just as I did last night. "You're the most graceful duck of all."
Her hands reach down to her dress, which was once one of mine. Prim is no doubt far more pretty than I ever was, even on a day like this. Her hair is a light, summery blonde, each thread light and baby fine. Even her face, with every soft, pleasant feature, her porcelain skin, thin, tight lips.
She is a young, vibrant picture of my mother, and I hope so fiercely that she won't ever turn into the inanimate, soulless figure who lingers around our little cabin.
I look towards the window, catching the sun as it flits behind the windowpane. "I need to go meet Gale," I say. I look to Prim, who's eagerly searching my eyes. "I'll meet you in the center, okay, little duck? Find me when you get there."
Suddenly, she looks so small to me, standing in her too big dress, with her too skinny frame. I'm halfway through the doorway, but I lean in for a quick squeeze and a kiss on the head. "Tuck in your tail, little duck," I repeat with a smile.
"Go meet your boyfriend, Katniss," she answers with a dazzling smile.
"Don't start," I return, offering a half smile. Prim trots back into the house, and I'm left to go leave to the forest.
I try a little harder than usual to not scuff my boots, which I had polished last night with some squirrel fat. I painstakingly place each foot between every twig, every pile of decomposing leaves.
"Little late for that, isn't it? I mean, you've already got that stain on your dress," Gale calls from ahead of me. He's standing in his Reaping Day best, with simple, gray pants that must have been his fathers' (though, you'd never know, he filled the clothes as if he was his father), and a white shirt, coincidentally free of any coal marks.
I smirk. "Oh, like you don't have a stain anywhere, Hawthorne," I remark.
Gale snakes his hands into his pocket, and bends his head down to examine his clothes by my invitation. Cocking his head, he replies "Well, my mother does wash the district's clothes."
I take the last few steps towards him and swat him playfully with my palm. "How is Hazelle?"
He stares off into the distance for a second. "Good enough. Times are hard enough for all of us. She and I have been giving up our meals for Rory and Vick and Posy."
I nod. "I can't remember the last time I had a real meal. But, Prim's doing well," I add.
Gale turns towards me. "What about your mother? You two getting along any better?"
I snicker. "Hardly," I say, realizing that the snide remark has become one of my most used phrases. "She makes me so angry when I realize she left Prim. She left me, too, but she left Prim, most of all. She left us to go live in that delusional dreamland of hers. Where she can get away from this godforsaken cold."
"Calm down, killer," Gale chuckles. "You're going to have to give her a chance. She's still your mother."
I roll my eyes for the second time that day. "Hardly," I repeat.
Gale shrugs, and drops his gaze to the ground. The laugh lines on the side of his slips fade, and he turns to me with a serious face. "What—what if it's one of us?"
I let my breath out of my mouth, and sigh, finding myself leaning my head against Gale's broad shoulder. "How many times is your name in?"
"Enough."
I knit my brow together. "If—if it's you, I'll take care of Vick and Rory and Posy. And Hazelle. I'll feed them."
He sighs. "I know. I know you would. And you know that I'd do the same."
I brush my fingers against his in sympathy, but he's quick to grab my hand in his. "I don't want to go."
Gale forces a smile. "Me either," he replies. "We should get going, though. This might be the only time the Peacekeepers would punish us if we're late."
"Yea," I add absentmindedly. I don't pull my hand away when he keeps it wrapped up in his grasp, rather follow him out of the forest towards the square.
The only glimpses of the other districts I've ever seen is from television, but I'm sure their town squares have to be more decorative then ours come Reaping Day. The districts closest to the Capitol — Districts 1 and 2 — treat the Games as an hour, proudly taking the title as tribute, sometimes volunteering, for the chance. But, as you move more and more to the edges of Panem, the tributes are more wobbly kneed, more tear stained in their faces.
Our town square is a rainbow of blandness. From the children, with their washed out clothes, sheet white faces and stiff postures, to the dirty-yet-clean slate that covers the ground, to the broken, leaning Justice building that stands at the front of it all. But, the Panem logo is plastered everywhere — on the said buildings, the ground, the trains. And perhaps the most identifiable Panem logo of all, across every face of every terrified child — fear.
Our fingers slip away from each other as Gale heads towards Hazelle and I towards Prim. She's already nearing tears, when I take her in my arms.
"Don't cry," I plead, as I bend down to eye level. "Don't worry about me. Hush, Prim, hush. Shh. It's okay."
My mother raises her hand as if she's offering to console Prim, but I pull Prim's shoulders closer and narrow my eyes at my mother. "I'll find you after, okay? It's going to be alright."
I pry her fingers from around my neck, and kiss her head a last time. She instinctively winds her fingers in our mother's dress.
I move towards the female section, but I end up crashing into Gale. He pulls me in for a hug, which I accept. He's something to lean into, something strong. He brings his finger towards my eye to wipe away a tear, and offers me a small smile. "For Prim. And me," he whispers, before he walks away.
I press my lips into a thin line and move into the fifteen year old section. They arrange us into age groups, separating each year by thin, frayed ropes like we're cattle. As I watch Effie Trinket, our ridiculous and over the top Capitol escort make her away across the stage, I wonder what she sees, when she looks into this sea of dying children. With her rich and vibrant colors, elaborate outfits, intricate make up, all reeking of luxury, fine goods, health. What does she see, when she looks into the washed out ocean, of starving children, eyes fogged by tears, their helpless mothers and fathers roped off behind them? Does she feel maybe the tiniest pit of pity, sympathy? Or is this all nothing but a … game to her?
"Welcome, welcome," she pipes, raising her hands into the air as if she's in the most wonderful place she could ever dream of. "Welcome to the 73rd Hunger Games reaping!"
A hush comes over the audience, as Effie steps aside, teetering on sky high heels, giving us full view of the screen. Every year, they play a short movie that tells about the Dark Days of Panem, when the citizens separated from those who led them, leading to a time of war and disparity.
"To remind us of these times, and to honor those who fought in those battles, each district will offer up one young woman and one young man to fight to the death," I find myself mouthing every word along with the track of President Snow's voice.
"Happy Hunger Games," Effie repeats, when the movie comes to an end. She loudly draws her hands together in a clap, and taps the microphone before she speaks again. "Ladies first! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
I raise my eyes as she lowers her hand into the bowl of female tributes, from which The 73rd Hunger Games' tribute will be called. She turns her head and shoots a ludicrous smile across the audience, grazing her fingertips across each slip, dancing across the edges of the paper as if she actually enjoys the suspense. Her blue nails — in fact, her whole ensemble is blue, with some swirls of yellow and splotches of green — tap against the glass when she finally grabs a slip.
I start to frantically try to count how many times my name is in there. Thirty? No, no, that will be next year . . . Twenty … twenty three? No, what about tesserae?
"Althea Baxwoll," Effie announces. "Althea Baxwoll! Come on up, love, come on up!"
Everyone's heads crane to see from which age group the poor girl will stumble out of. Stumble, she does, as she's shoved out of the mass of people, falling to her knees. She's a stocky thing, though she has the distinct Seam look with her dark hair and gray eyes. When she pries herself from the ground, I watch the bones in her leg move. She might be stocky, but she's just as hungry as the rest of us.
Althea is sheet white, too. When she makes it up to the stage, she's trembling. Effie looks down for a moment at Althea's shaking legs, disapprovingly (after all, she's still waiting for a tribute that will win the Games and move her up to a different districts' escort) , but then quickly looks up and smiles sharply before moving over to the boys' bowl. Gale's bowl.
I turn to look at Gale, in the very far left of the town square. It's his second to last year, now that he's seventeen. He's taller than the rest of the boys in his age group, and more well fed, considering he can hunt. But, he's still pitifully bony.
He catches my glance and mouths 'Don't worry about me.' across the square.
I shrug in response, and shake my head. 'I can't not,' I mouth back.
He smiles again, and turns back to face the front, I mimic him, nervously clasping my hands together, digging my short nails into my wrist, like it's the only thing holding me to the ground.
"Tug Hollow," Effie proclaims with a smile. I feel my eyes roll back in my head a little in relief when it's not Gale that stumbles up to the stage. Tug might as well be Gale from the back, with thick, dark brown hair, that has the same lackluster quality as everyone who's not sure where their next meal is coming from.
His eyes aren't half as alive as Gale's though, from what I can tell. The two children — really, that's what they are — stand halfheartedly before us, upon the stage, as the cameras zoom close into their faces and give everyone in Panem a personal invitation to scrutinize them.
"There you have it!" Effie shrieks, and her voice rings through everyone's ears. "Althea Boxwoll and Tug Hollow! The tributes of the 73rd Hunger Games!"
Stiffly, children unlock their elbows from their sides and clap a thumping, soft clap for the terrified tributes. The adults join in, and the only noise above the dull thumps of hands slapping together is the cries of Althea's mother.
When Effie finally teeters off stage, us children standing in the roped off areas are left to our own devices. I arm through some starstruck people around me, those still left in the stiff, half dead daze that Reaping Day brings along every year.
I push my way through the rest of the people until I spot Prim, clutching to Gale's pant legs. The biggest breath I've let out all day presses itself out of my chest, and I break into a smile.
"It wasn't you!" Prim whimpers, throwing her arms around my legs now.
"No, little duck, it wasn't me," I answer, bringing her close for yet another hug. When she finally wipes her wet face, I reach for Gale.
"It wasn't you," I breath, but he pulls me in for a hug before I can do the same. His arms lock me in his grasp, but I find myself collapsing into him. He's strong, he can hold me, and it's the first time someone has held me since my father.
Gale moves his lips beside my ear. "It wasn't you," he repeats, and the little hairs of his scruffy chin skim my neck.
I move my arms down to his hand. "Let's go," I say. He pulls his arm from around me, and nods, wordlessly.