Okay, so I realize that I probably chose the most unpopular type of fanfiction, so I don't excpect many reviews. But if you read it, I'd love constructive critism on my writing. I want to get better. Thanks!
~C.K.
Hiram's consists of one lone room, which is nearly always crowded, dank, and dark; even at ten in the morning. It is full of sleeping men who had stayed there the night after some heavy drinking. They lay across bar stools and the dirty table, nearly all of them snoring.
We grab a little table near the window, which Rome cleans off a bit to let in more sunlight. Ronare Hiram, the owner and sole operator of Hiram's, waddles over to take our orders. His eyebrows are so bushy that I can barely see his glittering black eyes, and he has a substantial amount of ear hair. His wrinkled face looking especially worn out today.
"What kin I git you?" he asks in a rumbling voice, pen poised on his notebook.
I don't even need to consult the menu to know what I want. "A bowl of stew please." I remember what I said to Rome. "And a milk shake."
He nods and turns to Rome, who is grinning and rubbing the stone between his fingers. "Most expensive item on the menu, please." He winks at me as Hiram walks away.
I roll my eyes. "Must you act like that?"
He looks genuinely confused - the smug mask drops from his face. "Like what?"
"Like you're the most important person in the world." I roll my eyes and drum my fingers on the table. Rome often acted like this in front of others he didn't know well. Like his true self wasn't good enough.
He laughs bitterly. "I know I'm not. My tesserae is enough to tell anyone that."
Fifty three slips of his were swishing around in the glass ball. I will them all to go to the corners, far away from the groping hands that would steal one person's future away.
I only had twenty four, since my parents got by well enough. I didn't need as much tesserae as Rome's family.
"It'll be okay," I say. I am greeted with silence.
Rome glares at the rotting wooden table for a minute, cursing his own misfortune. The drinks and food are brought out, and he asks, "What are you wearing for The Reaping?"
I'm not surprised. Rome often changes the subject when he feels things get too tense. "I don't know," I admitted. I had never been one to think about what I wear, seeing as I don't have a wide selection of clothes to choose from. "My mother was making a dress a while back, but I doubt she ever finished it."
My mother had been a seamstress before she fell ill, and a good one too. She had made all of my Reaping dresses, each one more beautiful then the last, despite the fact that we did not have money for fine materials.
He nods. "The one you wore last year was pretty. You don't need a new one."
I smile a bit and spoon some soup into my mouth to keep from talking.
We finish are food and part our ways to get ready for the Reaping.
"And may the odds," I said, using an old phrase coined in District Twelve.
"Be ever in your favor," Rome says, grinning. He turns down a dusty street toward his house.
I go to my own house, passing several people as I walk by. I knew most from The Seam, seeing as we relied on each other for many things. The only person I didn't say hello to was the only one I didn't know from The Seam.
Our very own Mockingjay. The Girl on Fire. Katniss Everdeen.
She could usually be seen stomping through the streets in The Seam, a stern expression on her face, her gray hair pulled back into a tight braid. Despite her age, she had only a few wrinkles. Her skin was stretched taut across her face.
She had gone a bit cross the older she got. I assumed that was The Games fault. I had seen the terrible things they had done to the victors. She had gotten away unscathed, more or less.
Though I would never admit this to anyone, I admired her. So much, in fact, that most of my carvings were Mockinjays. Whenever I burned them, I thought about her, The Girl on Fire. Her rebellion. I wished she had succeeded for more than three years, kept The Games from returning. My life would be so much more different, I was sure of it.
Despite my awe, my hello always gets stuck in my throat. I just stare, though she never really meets my eyes. She's always looking ahead, making her seem like she has much more important things to attend to.
I turn away from her and enter my house, a low-lying little building painted a lemon yellow that had dulled considerably over the years. I loved it anyways.
"Mom," I call, peering into the kitchen. "The Reaping's in an hour."
My mother is sitting at the counter, slicing a tomato from our garden. She takes out a loaf of bread and cuts it into slices, putting a sliver of tomato on each. She nods at my remark, but I doubt she heard me.
"We need to get Koma ready," I say. "And I need my Reaping clothes."
Her face lights up at the mention of Reaping clothes. "I have a surprise," she says, shuffling into the bedroom. She reaches under the bed and pulls out a beat-up box.
"I finished it while you were out. All it needed was a hem." She pushes the box into my hands.
Could it really be? I lift the lid carefully and peer inside. A dress the color of fresh cream is nestled in wrappings, dark maroon bow glinting in the dim lighting. I pull in out of the box. It is even more beautiful then I had remembered.
"I can't believe you finished it," I breathe, brushing a mothball of the color. "Can I put it on now?"
She smiles, looking a teeny bit sad. "Take a bath first. Then you can put it on."
I run to the tub and scrub myself free of the dirt, grime, and ash that had collected over the day until I'm clean. Then I slip into my new dress.
Mother smiles and runs her finger through my hair, massaging my scalp until it's dry. Then she pulls back the front pieces and wraps them into a bow that matches the color of the one on the dress.
"Philla," she says, at a loss for words.
I look at my reflection in the cracked and dusty mirror, not really believing it was me. The girl that stares back at me is clean and rose cheeked, hair glowing blond in its ribbon and dress hugging her slim curves.
I certainly feel beautiful, but it doesn't really feel like me. I would much rather be in my work clothes, carving away at a block of wood, impossibly dirty. The girl in the mirror looked like a Town girl, impeccably perfect.
Perfect for being Reaped.
My stomach plummets, but I try to keep myself calm. Be strong, I voice whispers in the back of my mind. I had to be, for my whole family, but especially for my mother.
"Thanks, Mom," I say, turning away from the mirror. I was still me. I was okay. Everything's okay.
I help her squeeze a struggling Kona into his best pair of clothes, then wake lay out my father's clothes before he gets back from his work at the mines. Everything is ready. In thirty minutes, we all head out the door and into the square.
Rome and his family meets us there. He is carrying his struggling little brother, who is screaming, "I don't wanna, I don't wanna!" and punching Rome with his little fist. Rome rolls his eyes, and I give a knowing smile. His sisters hug me and wish me luck. It is Girdy's first reaping, and she is pale and white in her ragged red dress. I cling to her and tell her it'll all be okay.
Rome, Girdy, and I break off from the rest of the family and go to our assigned circles. Girdy clings tight to my hand until we get to her circle. "You'll be fine," I tell her. She smiles weakly.
I leave her and go to my own circle, where I stand with about ten other girls. One from my class smiles at me, but I can't manage one back. I feel like I am going to throw up, just like I do before every Reaping.
I am strong. I am brave. I can do this.
I repeat this to myself over and over, till the words lose meaning and become a jumble of strange noises. The Mayor and representative take their places on the stage, and the cameras train on them.
The Reaping has begun.