A Copy of a Casualty

I sat opposite them, watching curiously, as they spoke casually amongst themselves. We ordered a light meal, including a dietary option that I would not have remembered even with my unaffected mind. Truly, some odd force had to be at hand to force father into ordering something of that nature.

Mother spread her napkin over her lap in a proper manner, encouraging father and I to do the same. Almost like magic, I could hear her voice in my head, reminding me to mind my manners in public. Little by little, I began to remember trite details about my former life.

"Do you remember the picnics we used to go on?" mother asked chewing politely with another napkin plastered to her lips.

"Oh yes," I chimed in, "They were absolutely darling things. You, father, and I always had so much fun."

"You know what's strange?" mother asked glancing around the room to make sure that no one paid us any unwanted attention.

"No," I leaned in closer to set her mind at ease.

"I could have sworn that someone else used to come with us on those picnics. Some young man. Perhaps, he was a suitor?"

I closed my eyes instinctively, trying to picture one of those alleged picnics in more details. Before mother had said anything, I could almost clearly see the three of us sitting in a park, cheering and laughing. Now, blurry edges dominated the memory and shadows surfaced in places where they should not have been.

"Um," I responded, "There may have been. Unfortunately, I can't seem to remember."

"Right," mother seemed to shake.

The mysterious lad was not brought up again for the duration of the meal. I enjoyed catching up with my parents. I discovered that they had sought residency on the opposite side of the City Circle. For some strange reason, not one of us could remember my childhood home. I gave them the address to my new penthouse and bid them goodnight.

I returned to the penthouse, eager to look once more at the contents of the envelope. That disc had sat calmly on my coffee table, awaiting my return with a metallic shine. I picked it up, deciding that I should watch it sooner than later. The television in the room seemed to have an appropriate slot for the disc.

I changed my clothes before turning the television on, finding a lovely lavender garment hanging in my closet. It was tight, a form-fitting piece that showed off my legs. The city had become quite dark by this time, its wondrous lights illuminating the Capitol. I returned to the couch and took at seat in front of the television.

The disc loaded and a menu appeared with numbers on them. One through Seventy. The main screen read: Please pick the Hunger Games that you wish to view.

Seventy Hunger Games to watch. I made the correlation between Games School and Hunger Games. I wondered if this was some sort of game after all, then dismissed my idea with a nervous laugh. I chose one at random, marked Second Quarter Quell: 50th Hunger Games.

The video began with a rundown of a process later called the Reaping. Four children were picked from each district. There were twelve districts altogether. I almost wrinkled my nose in disgust when the last district was shown. It was a disgusting, miserable place full of dark, grimy people.

The Reaping turned into what was known as the Opening Ceremonies, which changed into the interviews. Finally, the actual Games begun.

I had no idea what to expect. The whole concept of the Hunger Games sounded vaguely familiar, but anytime that I tried to conjure a picture of what they represented my mind fell short. Those children looked terrified, at least the later ones did. These Games must be very difficult. My screen followed a girl from the first district up and out of a tube that she stood in. The group of children stood in a circle, facing a golden structure. Then, a terrible shot rang out.

My heart rate escalated. The children spread like wildfire, some darting far away to parts unknown, others racing toward the structure. I spied one young man from the seventh or eighth district pick up a deadly looking object. Without so much as a word, he impaled a woman on his right.

My lost awaited emotions took hold of my whole conscious. I underwent a physical reaction to the violence and destruction that was playing out in front of me. It felt so good. The rush, the speed, the danger. It was overwhelming. I sighed with pleasure watching the Games, while internally having no idea why this reaction was going on. Eventually, I had to bite down on my hand to keep from crying out.

Disgusted and feeling guilty, I shut off the disc. I stood mortified between absolute terror and uncontrollable ecstasy. I was going to school to learn more about this sport. This exhilarating, daring sport. My part in the whole thing was unknown at this point. I had not seen many adults in the Hunger Games.

I decided that going to bed was a smart option. After all, Games School was to begin shortly. In my dreams, the Hunger Games replayed over and over. I woke up excited, feeling rested and strangely fulfilled.

My next few days were spent with exploring in the daylight and watching Hunger Games by night. I still had not finished watching the Second Quarter Quell. After every death, I paused the disc, opting to replay it multiple times, each time from a different angle.

Eventually, the night before Games School, I neared the end of the video. My camera had followed one of the girls from the first district, the one who had decapitated and maimed so many other competitors. Now, the camera found a handsome, dark-haired boy from the twelfth district. I had observed him casually before, but decided against viewing him due to his lack of action. He just kept walking away from a mountain that had a ton of action going on.

"Why?" the blonde girl from twelve speaks to the boy.

She has been following him for quite some time. It would be fair to say that she is fed up with his evasiveness. He spins around to face her, and I finally get a good look at him.

"Because it has to end somewhere, right? The arena can't go on forever."

Everything goes dark for a moment. I hear his words and automatically complete the sentence without having heard the rest. Names flash through my mind. Haymitch Abernathy. Maysilee Donner. I gasp reflexively, emitting a rather unpleasant noise. For a split second, a piece of my former self comes back.

I watch Haymitch Abernathy with curiosity and a sense of disbelief. Emotions flood out of me, growing out of control. I become angry for some strange reason, then transform into sadness for a life ended short. This life, however, is not a tribute. It is my life; was my former life, taken prematurely from something tangible and transformed into a clouded existence.

I want it back. My former life. This is not who I am. I was Effie Trinket. Now, I am just some imitation of my old self. A copy of a casualty.