Author's Note: Okay, I'm going to stop being lazy and count up the sponsor points. Soon. But hey, at least I finished a new chapter. The answer to the last sponsor questions was "1990s," but all of you practically got it right, so what's the point This next question is going to be harder, though.
New POV! Introducing Emily Mellark, created by EnvyIsMySin…
My sky-blue eyes dart back and forth, scanning the room in which the lights have just flashed on. I notice Uncle Irron, Aunt Pastier, and a few others, including dear old Dad and Mom. Streamers hang from the ceiling, the bare lights only partly brightening up the dark room. Glitter is on the floor.
"Happy birthday!" They shout, and I cringe, my head still hurting from the accident earlier. There's still a bit of caked blood on the hair behind my ear. I sigh, moving forward across the broken tile floor, and I see the meager pile of presents next to a small but hopeful birthday cake.
Today is my birthday, and I'm turning seventeen.
My father is Peeta Mellark, cake-maker extraordinaire and owner of the major bakery in town. My mother is Katniss Mellark, the real Mockingjay herself. I am the survivor of their two children.
You see, I had a little brother named Ryan. He was cute, and I loved him, but he ended up getting reaped for the Games last year. He made it to the ninth day, where he was struck down by a trap in the "Tour D'Endros." I don't know exactly what that name is supposed to mean, but it killed my brother and I hate the Capitol for it.
As my collective family chant 'Happy Birthday' I sit down in one of the dining table's wooden chairs, composing myself as everyone else grins widely. I can't help thinking of Ryan. I wring my hands under the table, and lean forwards to blow out the candles upon the cake. The words "Happy Birthday, Emily" stare back at me. I suck in a gust of air, and then proceed to blow out the candles. My family cheers.
The cake is okay, but the frosting is a bit too sugary and it tastes slightly acidy, as Dad has obviously used some chemical to make it stick, or stay stiff, or whatever.
I eat my cake glumly, sitting in the same wooden chair while Dad talks with his cousin, Irron, and my mother stares at the kitchen drawer. I know that's the drawer where the letter from the Capitol resides.
That letter was horrible to read. It talked about my brother doing 'heroic' acts and being absolutely magnificent in the Games, but I know that he died just for their entertainment. Sometimes, I still hear Mom crying in her room late at night, trying to just cry herself to sleep. I have my sleepless nights, too.
Wiping my dusty hands off on my jeans (I help out in the mines for a meager wage), I pull a hair band out of my pocket and pull my dark, almost black hair into a ponytail. Brushing aside a strand of stray hair, I walk over to the sink, dumping my plate and measly fork in. I turn on the sink, splashing a bit of water over the plate, not caring if the plate ended up clean or not. The din of the room is starting to hurt my ears, so I walk to the other side of the room towards my room. I climb the rickety stairs to my room, ignoring the squeaks of mice and the falling dust from the old wooden floor.
I pushed open the door to my room, literally falling unto the bed. I think this was the same bed that my mother and her sister, Prim, shared all those years ago, but I doubt it. Nothing lasts forever in District 12.
I stare up at the ceiling, which has a little bit of water stains and various marks from where something has hit the ceiling. It may not clean, but it's home. I stare up at the ceiling, thinking about Ryan. I loved my brother. Most siblings can say that, but it's not often true. In my case, I know it is.
At least if he had died defending someone, or if he had struck down a worthy opponent before he died, his death would have been slightly honorable. But no, he was struck down by a vicious trap suggested by some idiot in the Capitol. My eyes tear up.
"Why…" I mutter, hugging my pillow, biting my lip. I squinted my eyes closed, tears leaking from the small gaps between my eyelids and the bottom of my eyes.
I hug my legs close to my chest, pressing my breasts slightly back. I wring my hands again, huddled into a ball on top of my bed.
Later on, I wipe the tears away from my face and walk back down the corrugated metal stairs, this time ignoring the collected dust and spiderwebs.
When I get downstairs, practically every guest has left, leaving a small mess that won't take long to clean up. It's not like I have much else to do with my life.
My life consists of helping out at the mines, doing random chores, and taking long walks around the district. I have a lot of friends, but that's probably just because of my mother. She has a lot of influence.
The rest of the day consists of washing up various dishes and plates from around the house, and I have to go to the back where the old pasture used to be to hang up our dry cleaning. The grass back here is rather scruffy, and there's sand from some old sandbox or something near the back wall. There's an old chain rack where I know Aunt Prim's goat used to be.
Aunt Prim died when Mom was a teenager, killed during the short-lived rebellion, in the bombing of the Seam. Mom and Dad survived by hiding out in the basement, but Prim was with Grandma, and neither of them reached shelter in time.
Even though that didn't happen during my time, I still feel sad for Mom. She's had to witness her family falling apart over the years.
I hang up each piece of clothing I'm holding, one by one. I hang up various clothes from Dad, Mom, and I think some that are hand-me-downs from Aunt Prim's time. Once I've exhausted the supply of clothes, I head back inside, but I do not tug off my boots. I say farewell to my parents, intending to head over to the garage.
The garage that I am talking about is owned by Bolter Kallas. His dad was the mechanic for District 12, but after a certain accident Bolter took up the responsibilities of the garage. He's 20, I think. Just past the Reaping age.
Bolter has light brown shaggy hair, and a bit of a chin dusting. His eyes are bright blue, and he is sincerely one of the funniest guys I know. He's always getting jokes from some unknown source, and he always knows how to cheer me up. I haven't seen him that much since my brother died in the Games.
When I get to the garage, Bolter is hammering on a hubcap, I assume for some Capitol client. While our district is supposedly only coal mining, coal isn't the only mineral we find down in the mines. Copper, iron, and other materials are used for various Capitol needs.
There's a few other hubcaps lying next to the workbench he's standing at, and he stands there, a medium-sized hammer in his hand, smashing away at a piece of metal.
He's very focused on the job at hand, and at first I'm not sure if I should interrupt him or not. Eventually, I decide I want to talk to him, and walk through the open door into the garage.
He looks up as I walk into the garage, a small smile on his face. He stops the hammering.
"Hey, Emily." he sighs.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"Too big of an order. Stupid Peacekeepers. The Reapings coming up. What more could I ask for?"
"Why do you care about the Reapings?"
"Because it's stupid as hell and I hate the Capitol." As soon as he says this, I glance around, hoping nobody has heard him.
"Are you insane? They have spies everywhere!"
"I'm tired of it, though. All these damn orders."
"Come on, Bolter. Keep your hopes up."
"Pfft. Why do Capitolites need all these hubcaps anyways?"
"I don't know. I don't know practically anything about the Capitol."
"Hah, well you will if you get reaped."
"Don't even. Don't joke about that, Bolter."
"Sorry, Emily." Bolter bites his lip, and continues to hammer on the hubcap.
"Doing anything Saturday?" I yell over the din. Bolter smiles, lowering the hammer once again.
"Maybe. Why?"
"If you're trying to play the sexy angle, it's not working."
"Who said I was?" I smiled.
"See you at the Rose, if you want to come." The Rose was a clearing near the square, a small park where people would sometimes hang out. I used to play on the playground there with Ryan when we were little. Thinking about it brings up memories, so I stop. I guess I just won't go near the playground. It's too late to retract my offer.
"See you there, then." Bolter smiles, and then continues to hammer on the sheet of metal. I smile, but he's too distracted by the big order he has to fill. Silently wishing him goodbye, I walk back out of the garage and into the square.
I decide to just take a walk around the district. District 12's dilapidated town square has few people walking around it, so I just decide to ignore it today.
I walk around the town square, passing by the town hall, noticing the rather large pile of trash and broken plywood in the back. There's a few garbage men milling around, and I walk away before I get too distracted.
Eventually, I come to a large, burned lot. I know from my mother that this place used to be called The Hob, and it was a large marketplace, although it was known for being more of a black market.
There's old, blackened, rotting wood littered all over the place, and sooty snow covers the ruins of what seems to be an old warehouse. I walk over to the nearest pile of trash, and I pick up an old doll. Its face paint is chipped, and both of its arms are missing, and I feel kind of horrible just looking at it. It's a reminder of a broken age.
I feel sick, and I put down the doll. I look forward, and I realize there's mounds and mounds of trash, all broken DVDs, meat crates, broken machinery, and children's toys. I gulp, staring at the massive pain and sorrow of the past before me. This is why I hate the Capitol.
I walk through the remains of the Hub, staring at the various vendor's booths that have been hacked apart, scavenged for wood and burned because of hate. On one piece of broken word, the word "Sue" is inscribed, and I don't know who this board could have belonged to.
I kick around some ash, and I then sit down on what looks like an old car seat. I sit down and cry. Cry harder than I think I ever have before. My eyes are just releasing half a year's worth of terror and pain and sadness. For a good three minutes, I sit there sobbing into my hands. I wipe my nose, looking up at the darkening sky, my eyes reddened.
"Why world, why..." I mutter, biting my lip. I kick my foot forwards, sending a red basketball forwards. I cradle my head in my hands.
After a few more minutes, I manage to compose myself. I decide to visit the Rose before I go home.
The walk there is pretty short, as I know my way around the district. When I get to the Rose, I sit on the bench in the center of the park, looking at the assortment of roses around the bench. It's getting dim, and the sun is setting.
I don't care much, my parents aren't expecting me home for a while. I walk over to one of the flowers, picking a small rose that has minor thorns on it. I pinch them off, trying not to injure the tips of my fingers too much.
I end up putting the flower in my pocket. Pressing flowers has become a hobby of mine.
My glance keeps shifting to the playground, and I decide it's time for me to leave. I compose myself once more, wiping away the remains of the tears from my eyes, and then I make my way home, ignoring the square, the Hob, the garage, and everything else.
I walk in the door, hanging my jacket on the coat hook.
"Honey, everything all right?" Mom calls from the kitchen.
"Yeah. I think I may be better now."
Author's Note: Well, that was Emily Mellark, created for my last story, and I didn't end up using her. Yay, she gets to go in these Games! I'm sure she's very happy.
SPONSOR QUESTION: According to my canon, where does Gale live? (Haha, you're going to look forever).