Far Away
The words hit me with a sudden impact. May the odds be ever in your favor. Continually, they played over again in my mind, daring me to let them go. In this phrase, I found solace-a sort of pseudo-comfort that reminded me that luck was a luxury!-nay a privilege to my family and our position. We owned a coveted spot in the social hierarchy of Panem, so high that the odds would always be in my favor.
Thus began the reaping. Forty-eight children, slightly older than me at the time, were chosen to participate. District 1 tributes practically lunged forward at the opportunity. Two boys from District 2 almost had it out right there in front of the Justice Building! On went the reaping, the names indistinguishable amongst the uproar from the citizens. My father, ever attentive, jotted down all the tributes' names and respective district numbers. His friends made slight off-color comments about the female tributes from District 7.
I was awestruck. Children play in these games! In District 11, a small girl who couldn't have been older than 12 rose to the stage, much to the delight of my father's friends.
"Look at that one. She's ripe for the picking," they hooted and hollered.
I noticed a distinct difference in the appearance of the later tributes. What started as elegant specimens of soldiers, fine tuned with their blow-up muscles and smug confidence, slowly turned into skeletons. The living dead began to rise and come forward like a séance. To tell the truth, I was horrified.
"Mommy, why do they look so weird?" I questioned over the roaring that was my father's friends.
"Hush, dear. Do not be rude. They simply live a different lifestyle. Odd though, isn't it?" she stared at the television, as if she were possessed.
"Finally, District 12," sighed my father, "I'm running out of room."
"Shouldn't even bother taking their names," commented his friend, "District 12 tributes are the first to die."
Die…Die…Die…
"Die?"
At six years old, I knew very little about death. I once had a bird, a very elegant creature with a mixture of bright, colorful wings. Mother allowed me ten minutes with the bird ever day. When I began school, I would make time for this creature to enlighten me with its splendors. However, our time was fading. Upon my return, one rainy afternoon, I did not see the bird. I could not hear its chirping-the blessed sounds that filled my young heart so. I asked my mother, tears streaming down my face from withdrawal, where had it gone. Away, she told me. Far away.
"Ladies first," the television brings me back.
Tears threaten my eyes. These children are going away-far, far, far away. Just like my bird. But, surely, nothing bad would happen to children. It's all smoke and mirrors. Real life would never subject itself to these horrors.
"Maysilee Donner."
My eyes find her in the audience. Her name echoes on my lips as if I were the one calling her. I see that dull spark light, that sudden second of realization. The moment hangs in the air, suspended with the knowledge of a foreboding doom. She is a beautiful girl, blonde and brave in the way she ascends to the stage, leaving her companions behind. One of the girls, her former confidante, desperately clutches at the memory of her. The other girl holds her steady, a looking of knowing on her face.
The trio has struck an interesting chord. I compare myself to Maysilee Donner. I am not a tribute, and I never will be. Ever. I will never know what these districts look like in real life. I do not know where she will go now, what she will do, and if I will see her again. Or, if her friends will see her again. She is going to go far away. But, I need to know where she is going.
"She doesn't look like a District 12 tribute," sneered the purple afro.
"She doesn't look like she could kill a fly," scoffed off-white.
"She may be a person of interest," stated my father to his friends.
At his comment, they fell silent. Who were they to judge her? Father wrote the name of the next boy called, and then shot me a smile.
"Effie, would you like to help me bet on the tributes? I'm sure you could pick a winner," he smiled with confidence in his eyes.
"And out final District 12 tribute, Haymitch Abernathy."
Everyone turned their gaze back to the television to see the lucky boy take the stage. Oh, boy-what an understatement! The camera pans over to a young man with the ghost of a smirk on his lips. Dark, dangerous hair spurts forth in curls. He looks strong, very muscular-none of the artificiality displayed in the Capitol for looks. The camera focuses in on his face.
Those eyes.
Grey and bright, they symbolize confidence, power, wisdom, and courage. Everything to come can be seen here. This man knows all there is to know. I have such a hunger to know. A need to know. I will find out. The odds are in my favor.
The room has gone silent with the conclusion of the reaping. My father gathers his list with forty-eight names of tributes, forty-seven of which will soon be far, far, far away. Mother scowls at the mess my father's friends have made and with a huff that sounds an awful lot like "Bad manners!" she begins to frantically clean. Everything goes silent and I am still staring at the television.
Then, Alfie laughs from across the room, "I think Effie has a crush."