II

The Mayor starts to recite the Treaty of Treason as he does every year. I let the words jumble into nothingness, and take the time instead to let my predicament sink in. I haven't ever spoken to Katniss in person, haven't ever held her hand or felt her embrace, and yet I know my heart of hearts that mine is hers.
His speech finished, the Mayor steps back and Effie motions for Katniss and me to shake hands. My heart jumps as I take her hand in mine; her skin is cool to the touch, her slim fingers are juxtaposed against the calluses earned in this tough life in 12. I give her hand a reassuring squeeze, and her grey eyes catch mine, confused, working through a memory. Then she's lost, resigning to her own world of hurt.
Peacekeepers push in making it blindingly obvious that there is no escape, and usher us into the Justice building. We are lifted by the building's failing elevator – the only one in the District – to the area where we will say our final goodbyes to our friends and loved ones.
I vaguely wonder what's going on inside her head. I steal a sideways glance and see her staring straight ahead, jaw clenched tight. My eyes find the floor again, and I realize I'm grinding my teeth. I am having trouble swallowing past the lump in my throat and the room seems to be swimming in the tears I have refused to shed.
I think back to all of the Hunger Games that I have been forced to watch over the years. Tributes pretending to be this or that to gain favor with the crowd or to trick their newfound enemies. Just one more way the Capitol breaks you before sending you to your death. I don't want to be a pawn in their games; I will not change who I am to fit into some preconceived idea of what I should be. I am not their game piece. Somehow working through this emotion has brought me a sense of peace amongst the overwhelming dread. I will die as myself, while the Capitol cheers on my murderer.
My family is the first in to see me. My mother's face has taken on a hard look; it's hard to see past her mask of indifference. My father looks like all the wind has been taken from his sails; his shoulders slump forwards in defeat. My father and I have always been close, sharing inside jokes and talking about things past, present and in the future… a future I've been robbed of, now. I have to force it a little, but my eyes well up and I allow myself to succumb to the sentiment. If I want to show emotion, if I want to be anything but a statue, why can't I? True to myself. Something the Capitol cannot take from me. My thoughts are coming in a rush, I have to cast them aside for now and focus on the task at hand – the final moments I will ever have with my family.
My mother pulls me into a rigid embrace, which seems awkward for both of us. We have never been on terribly pleasant terms. She tolerates me, as her son I guess she has to, and that's about as close as we have ever gotten. I feel something of a pang of guilt that she and I have never had a relationship, and now never will. Her thin hand grazes a bruise that is in the yellowing stages along my shoulder, one she gave me a few days ago for mishandling this or that. It seems unimportant now and I don't shy away from her touch. Now is a time to set aside differences and say our final goodbyes – goodbyes that must last a lifetime.
My father takes me in a rough, yet warm embrace, though I can feel that even though I'm his son, it makes him feel awkward. He's not the talkative type, never has been. The twinkle in his eye that is usually ever-present has been extinguished by grief. He doesn't cry, but I notice that he seems to be having trouble swallowing a knot in his throat, and his breathing is short and shallow.
There are warm embraces from both of my brothers, and before Raff can speak, I start in. "Raff, hey," I start gently. I know what he's thinking, can feel the guilt. But what Katniss did is unprecedented in our District. "Hey. I know what you're thinking. Nobody volunteers in District 12. I would have murdered you myself if you had tried. You're a smart kid, I expect you'll make something of yourself one day. You have to be strong."
I turn to Blyne. "I expect that you will tell my niece or nephew all about me when they finally decide to make an appearance, okay? You take care of your new family."
"You could win," he says back, but we all know that I stand next to no chance. Unless the arena is booby trapped for every other Tribute but myself, we have all accepted that my journey home will be in a box.
"District 12 might actually have a winner this year," my Mother says, distractedly. She's staring out the window and her eyes have taken on a far-off look. I'm about to argue when her next words slap me hard across the face. "She's a fighter, that one." She seems to realize what she's said at about the same time as the rest of us do, and she at least puts in a half-hearted effort to undo the damage, but I let her words slide off my back, like water off of glass. I know the truth, we all do; she's just been callous enough to utter those words aloud.
My father tries to right the damage done, but he's never been good with words, other than when he's telling a tale. When he's storytelling, you lose yourself in his words and he paints a picture so vivid in your head that you would swear that you're living in that moment. It's amazing, really, a gift. But he has never been one for dialogue. Flustered, he sits heavily down on one of the elaborate chairs.
He told me, years ago, that he had fallen for Katniss' mother, and that she had run off with a boy from the Seam. His heart was never quite right after that; one's heart never is when someone steals a part of it. I've confided in him from time to time, so as he looks up at me now, we share a look and he knows. Emotions play across those blue eyes as I hold his gaze, finally he gives me a shallow nod. It's as close to an approval as I will ever get from him.
The Peacekeepers come back into the room, announcing our time is over. Quick embraces, heartfelt I Love Yous find each other and just like that, they are gone. Friends come next, many too distraught to speak coherently. I offer them humor and a good word instead – it strikes me that I should be the one being comforted, not the other way around, but realize that it's never been that way..
We're whisked away to the train station where I will begin my one-way journey to the Capitol. We're forced to stand in front of the crowds at the station like prize hogs on display before the butcher. Katniss stands stoically beside me, her face devoid of any emotion. Finally, Effie herds us onto the train and we're on our way.
The train is, simply put, amazing. Katniss and I both stand at the opening to the first car with our eyes bugged out and mouths open. I trail my finger along a heavily varnished hardwood counter, and think back to the lop-sided table we have at home. At one point I had wedged a piece of wood under one of the legs to try and even it out, but it insisted on listing to one side no matter what. Home. My heart grows heavy at the thought of everything I love being left behind. Almost everything I love, that is. I feel heat growing in my cheeks and quickly duck my head and move into the compartment. Effie tells us to do whatever we want, but be in the dining car for dinner in an hour. She and Katniss immediately retreat to their respective chambers.
She has always reminded me of a bird. Stoic, beautiful, strong, and perpetually out of reach. Of course it would never do to catch a bird; grounding them for life has always seemed cruel to me.
I'm drawn in by row upon row of delicate pastries lined up on a sideboard in the car. I'm amazed and immediately jealous by everything the bakers in the Capitol have at their disposal. Cookies, tiny cakes, puff pastries, chocolates and candies that I couldn't even begin to imagine the complexities of. The amount of food on this one sideboard is astounding. I wonder what will happen if – when – these delicacies aren't eaten; there's no way that our small group will be able to manage eating all of this, even if we ate our way to the Capitol. The amount of sugar, butter, starches and flour starts to come to mind; in District 12, sugar is a rarity, and the price brings it out of the question for all but the richest families. I've only tasted it on occasion. Though my family runs a bakery, we eat mostly stale bread that we can't sell, and what little meat we can afford.
Suddenly revolted, I push back and turn on my heel to go find my room. Instead, I run smack dab into Haymitch's back, almost spilling him on the floor. He turns, furious, his face contorting. A bloom of brandy forms on the front of his shirt.
"You made me spill my drink," he slurs, slamming the heel of his hand against my chest. Really, if he were sober, it would have hurt. I release back away from the contact instead and let the blow glance off of me. He stumbles forwards and barely catches himself in time.
I wonder just how drunk he is, and – having never had a drop of liquor in my life – just how much his muddled brain will retain if I talk to him right now. I sigh inwardly and decide that now is probably not the most opportune time. Great mentor we have. I sidestep him even as he's lashing out for me, and continue onwards to my compartment.
I have never seen or even imagined such luxuries in my life. Glossy varnished hardwood furniture, automatic knick knacks everywhere – for someone whose most complex toy as a boy was a Yo-Yo, it's very overwhelming. I find layer upon layer of fine fabric clothes in the drawers, and once again feel anger welling up inside of me. I look down at the drab clothes I have on, the finest I own, and compared to the Capitol regalia I may as well be dressed in a burlap sack. The Capitol has all these luxuries at their disposal – luxuries that the Districts provide them – while we suffer with not enough to eat and clothes that have been handed down until they're too threadbare to decently cover yourself with anymore. I run my hand through my dusty blond hair, frustrated.
The shower has a million buttons and I'm forced to guess at which means what. At home we have running water – a luxury for District 12 – but it is not reliable and the temperature reflects the weather outside; and if we want hot water, it must be boiled. I've never had a shower before, though I welcome the sensation of water on my body. Just as I'm beginning to relax the water heats up suddenly, almost scalding my skin. I yelp and punch buttons on the panel arbitrarily. There is momentary relief as the water cools down, then another yelp as it turns freezing cold. Foam of some sort jets out at me from all angles, even the floor, and the room fills with the scent of roses. I gasp, quickly washing myself off before the scent clings to me – too late, I realize – and hasten out of the evil bathroom.
Well, my ego's a bit bruised, but what else is new?
After dressing in what I admit are probably the most comfortable clothes I will ever get to wear, I wander back to the dining car in time for dinner. Effie greets me brightly and says that she'll go get Katniss, and for me to make myself comfortable.
I sit down in an ornate chair and find myself presented with fine china and real silverware. I heft the fork in my hand and muse at the weight. The table is adorned with glasses and goblets and decorations – since when did anyone need decorations to eat, I wonder. It constantly amazes me, the disparity between the Capitol and its Districts. Things could be so different, if they trusted one another and worked together… I stop that thought immediately, glancing around to make sure that the words stayed inside my head. The mute servants across the room don't register any sign of me saying anything, so I duck my head and concentrate on memorizing the pattern inlaid in the spoon.
"Where's Haymitch?" Effie asks, her chirpy tone a bit too forced. She tip-taps into the room with Katniss in tow and they take their places at the table.
"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," I say, though I don't know why I'm lying. Truth is, I have no idea where he went and I don't much care either.
"Well, it's been an exhausting day," she replies, her tone suggests that she's quite happy to have a Haymitch-free meal.
The meal is served, course by course. When the majority of your diet is stale bread, almost anything is a delicacy, but this is truly a delight. I stuff as much food into me as I can hold, and then some. Partway through the meal, Effie makes a remark commenting on our manners. Katniss looks up, perplexed, and proceeds to eat the rest of her meal with her hands. She's too busy and Effie's too repulsed to notice, but I grin. My stomach starts complaining around the third course, and I notice Katniss is slowing down as well. By the time dessert is served, I'm worried I might not be able to get up out of the chair.
We make our way to another compartment to watch recaps of the Reaping, which is mandatory viewing anyways. It's odd sitting on a fancy couch instead of watching with my family crouched around our old worn out TV, relieved that we've made it another year, but this is my new reality. I lean back in the plush cushioning to assess my new mortal enemies.
The Tributes from 1, 2 and 4 are naturally imposing. They're known as the Careers; though training for the Games is strictly forbidden, the children in the districts more favored by the Capitol get opportunities to train. Becoming a Victor is so revered in those districts that almost always the position is filled by a volunteer, usually in the older age bracket. Trained killers who are eager to prove themselves in the arena. I can't help but wonder if this is another Capitol-infused scare tactic to prove to us that they can play favorites and there's not a thing we can do. At the same time it achieves a sense of distrust between the Districts. Two birds with one stone, as it were.
We watch as one by one, fledgling Tributes are called and take their place at the front of various crowds. Volunteers spring up from the Career Districts, as anticipated, and the usual mix is flushed out from the other Districts. District 12 is featured last, of course, and instead of paying attention to the screen, I watch Katniss out of the corner of my eye. I wonder if she notices that she stops breathing. I'm vaguely aware of myself mounting the steps and Haymitch's now famous head-dive.
"Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation," Effie remarks coolly. "A lot about televised behavior."
Leave it to a Capitol resident to bring that up. Television appearances are the last thing anyone worries about in 12, I think to myself. A laugh bursts forth from my mouth, startling even me. "He was drunk. He's drunk every year," I spit out.
"Every day," Katniss says, smirking. It's the closest thing that we've ever had to a conversation.
"Yes," Effie mocks, venom in her voice. "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"
As if on cue, Haymitch appears in the car doorway, leaning on it for support. I can smell toxic liquor fumes from my spot on the couch. He staggers a few feet into the compartment, trying to focus his eyes.
"I miss supper?" he asks, wobbling on fawn-like legs. He then proceeds to vomit all over himself and the carpet. He tries to take a step forwards, but trips and lands face-first in the puddle.
"So laugh away!" Effie hisses on her way past us. Making a face at the stench, she skirts the mess and disappears from view.