A/N: Hello, my dears! Sorry for being late on this!
D3- 14- (Calypso Oswald)
Shadows cascade around my room as the first hints at sunlight sprinkle across the house. I smile, watching the wood on my floor turn from grayish-brown in the darkness to its regular brownness in the light. But upon further inspection, what I assumed was sunrise spreading across my room, I find out is actually just clouds parting from the midmorning sun, and the sun's rays lazily crawling across my floor. But, nonetheless, it is pretty, despite the lateness and the dark clouds milling around the gray-blue sky.
I sit up, yawning, and then sprawl back across my bed, fatigue spreading through me. I was an imbecile last night and stayed up very late, only to come back from my trance of science in the search of getting a better, more permanent, and much better paying job at my mother and father's workplace: the electronics factory/company/thingumabob. I groan and wish I could curl up, back in bed, close my eyes, and go back to a land of dreamless sleep, resting nicely.
But I know I can't. On most Sundays—as it's the day the factory closes down and all the workers have a nice, relaxing day off, the day where I get my last weekend homework done in the final drops of daylight, the day where I sleep to noon, the day where all the shipments are sent to District Six by mailmen of sorts, where they are then shipped to the Capitol—I can sleep as long as my heart desires and can relax in the noontime sun when I awaken. If I am up by noon, that is.
I allow myself to sit and rest there for a few more seconds, eyes closed, and then bounce up, forcing a tight smile onto my face and making sure I will myself not to jump right back in bed, get under the covers, dose off in a hazy, half-sleep…
No, I can't—not today. I will after the reaping that is in an hour. For I woke up late, at 8:25, and it's now eight-thirty.
For most, this is a perfect time to awaken. For me, it's late.
I like to explore, and make, and strive. And though, since I am considered "odd" and have no friends besides my eleven-year-old sister Astra, I always like to keep myself busy, from seven o'clock a.m. to ten o'clock p.m. Some days, when I am overly tired and haven't given myself a time to settle down and be calm for a little during the day—I read during these times—I even limit myself to nine, because it's all I can manage without collapsing from exhaustion.
Safe to say, when I mean I keep busy, I keep not only busy, but also kind of active. But not too active, for if I burned off every little ounce of food I obtain, I'd be stick-thin and dead by now.
I also like to study. And read. I read anything I can get my hands on, from old things called "Encyclopedias"—which are very interesting, but hard to find; I, in fact, got mine from a bush in the back, somewhat abandoned area of Three on a day where I couldn't help but explore the greenery back there; I also found a "Dictionary," or something, there, once—and old books which can be found in black markets, which are dark, frightening places I'd never step foot in. They can also be found in school libraries, but that is very expensive, and even more expensive to buy.
Let's just say, my father knows a person. Because that's all I know.
"Calypso," I hear a voice say softly. "Calypso, may I come in?"
I swallow at the sound of my little sister's voice, as any older, protective sister might. Especially one who will be setting their younger sister off to the world of no-longer-innocent next year. The reaping rips away a little bit of innocence, every year we have to go to it, and I know this from experience, as this is my third reaping. I cannot fathom my baby sister, the little Astra I've watched grow from an annoying six-year-old who wouldn't leave me alone while I still had a few friends, to the lighthearted eight-year-old who bounced around and smiled, until the day when she learned that the Games weren't sick, fake television acts, the day she was finally taught to understand them. I watched her transform after that, and develop more fear than she ever had had, and grew to understand. Grew to understand that she was sheltered and grew to understand her friends weren't playing sick games went they spoke so vividly of the Games as if they were real. Our parents shelter us from those things until they absolutely have to tell us, and that is at age eight.
I've watched her mature until she's this serious, pleasant, kindhearted eleven-year-old who's inching her way into the real world where she'll encounter many downfalls. I can only hope she knows that I, her big sister, her protector, her guide since our parents are constantly working to provide for us, will always be there to catch her in case she spirals downhill and can't stop until she hits rock bottom.
"Yeah," I call back, keeping my voice down just as she did in case Mother and Dad are still asleep.
Astra steps into the room and beams at me as I stand there, in my pajamas, only half-awake.
"How do you get up so early every single day?" she asks, her eyes glittering with delight. Astra and I are very close, and she gets really sentimental on reaping day ever since her friend Tabitha's fourteen-year-old-and-would-now-be-eighteen-year-old brother died in the Hunger Games four years ago, and rather tragically; Astra said she wept for days. "It's, like, impossible for me, no matter what."
"The same way you manage to be cooler than your awesome big sister, As." I ruffle her long, curly, messy strawberry-blonde hair and yawn. "Pure luck and a whole lotta magic."
"But magic—"
I mock-frown. "Nah, don't finish that. If there is no magic, then there is no explanation for my lack in pure fame and fortune for just being me, and, well, that would just break my little heart, Sister," I muse with a smile, and she sticks out her tongue, rolling her eyes. I shake my head. "Don't stick out your tongue. You know Mother doesn't like that."
"Oh, please," Astra blabs defiantly. "What does this"—she sticks out her tongue—"hurt?"
"Everything," I say.
Astra rolls her eyes. "Oh, ha-ha."
"So, what'd you come in here for?"
"Huh? Oh, no reason, really. Can't I just say hi to my sister, Sister?"
"No, you can't." I poke her shoulder. "It's too suspicious, little one."
"I am not little!" Astra blurts out loudly and determinedly, as soon as I say "little one."
"Oh, yes, you are. Now, get outta here."
…
Slowly, one step at a time, wearing a formal sky-blue dress that Mother bought for me, matched with a pair of black flats, I approach the square. Holding Astra's hand and using her youth as an excuse to hold it, even though it is I who truly needs someone to hold onto, I inch closer. Astra's tiny steps allow me to be able to go slower. I would love it is I could dilly-dally forever, but I have to get there, or I am dead anyway, and so is my family.
The reaping is harsh.
"Ow," mutters Astra. I loosen my grip on her hand. "You can go now."
I know she understands that this is scary and awful, but she doesn't understand the fear, having never experienced a reaping before. She will next year, and I am mortified for her—who wouldn't be?
"Alright," I say, letting go of her hand. "Okay."
I linger.
"Calypso," she says.
I nod. "Yeah, I better get signed in," I say, and turn to my parents as they come up to escort Astra to the group of watchers. "See ya."
"Smile," commands Mother with a light, airy, breathy voice. "Don't cross your arms. Be ladylike, please, Daughter."
"Yes, Mother," I say, and trudge—hopefully with "elegance"—over to the sign-in booth, where other eligible children are lined up, and Peacekeepers are behind the booth, zapping people's fingers. The line I am in is long; hopefully it will take a moment before it is, dreadfully, my turn. I look at those in line next to me. A little twelve-year-old with a pale, skinny face and a raggedy pink dress, her hair matted, stands near me, shaking furiously. If I didn't know better, if I didn't know she'd jump out of her little shoes and scream with terror, I'd rest a hand on her shoulder and tell her it's alright. Because she looks so much like Astra. Because she's so young. Because I feel her pain.
"Next," says the Peacekeeper in charge of my line. I swallow and step forward. "Your finger."
"Oh," I say stupidly, and shove my finger forward.
She zaps it. I clench my teeth, allowing her to put my fingerprint on the paper and wait until she drops my finger. I pull away as she scans my blood, sending the report that Calypso Oswald is, in fact, at the reaping. Who'd be stupid enough not to be here? Peacekeepers scour the district for people trying to get away from the reaping, hiding in their homes, as if they could get away with it. But no one does that.
I cross my arms and dab my bloody finger on a cotton ball. Then I throw it away and head to my section, my feet moving so reluctantly that I almost stop and form a ball with each step. With each breath, I hear another's breath, through the microphone, cheery and pleasant and high-pitched, and yet so ominous and terrifying at the same time: Fawna Dolo. Her purplish-tinted skin and bluish highlights give away that she's a Capitolite, and so does her colorful, rainbow clothing. Just the sound of her breath in the microphone scares me.
In a crowd of fourteen-year-olds, I wait for the reaping to begin, my fingers trembling. I am not scared, nor am I fearful. I am petrified.
"Quiet, now, citizens of District Three," the mayor's deep, crackly voice says. "Let us begin. I will start with reading the Treaty of Treason. 'Rebellion. Treason. Evil. Badness. It's all what started the war that tore us apart—both of them…'"
I stand in the world of others, as helpless as every other person in Three, unable to stop what will happen soon. I swallow a lump in my throat and cough, one of the only noises besides the mayor's voice and the wind whipping around in the entire square. Five or ten minutes later, the mayor concludes with, "'And in penance for our wrongdoings, this pageant shall be forevermore rehashed, and once again known as 'the Hunger Games.'
"Now," the mayor goes on, "I am pleased to introduce to you, our representative from the Capitol—Fawna Dolo."
A clap or two comes from the cameramen from the Capitol surrounding the area.
Fawna steps up to the microphone with a smile, and to my relief, she doesn't breath, but simply says, "Welcome to the One Hundred Fifty-second Annual Hunger Games reaping, District Three. I shall now draw the names."
She sticks her hand in the bowl. My breath comes in short gasps everyone once in a while over the period of what seems like months as I try in a weird and unsuccessful my to hold my breath.
"Rylan Ashmore," Fawna announces.
The boy right next to me takes a shaky step, and his quick, almost hyperventilation-like breaths stop altogether for a moment before he regains his composure and pushes through people, muttering, "Pardon me," "Excuse me," "Sorry," "Please let me through," and other things all the way to the front of the eighteen-year-olds' section. It's so quiet that I can hear him all the way up.
He was right next to me, I think numbly.
He was right there.
Now he's not.
Rylan Ashmore, with his brown hair, blue eyes, and his pale, skin-and-bones figure, stood right next to me. The place where he stood was empty. I paid no mind to him. He was right there.
He's up on the stage, looking at his feet, shaking his head to questions I'm not aware of that Fawna is asking. And He was right next to me! keeps running through my head.
"Okay. Well, now onto the next of three names," says Fawna. She sticks in her hand, drawing out a name. "Forrest Montgomery."
A boy, thankfully from much farther up then Rylan Ashmore was, steps up to the stage, looking around, seeming as though he is a lost little puppy. He mounts the steps and looks at the crowd. He almost seems…confused, maybe? I don't know, but suddenly he smiles, his eyes warm and kind and he looks at his feet, away from the crowd.
"Congratulations," says Fawna.
Forrest does nothing, but he looks back up at everyone gathered in the square.
"Now, on to our next tribute," Fawna continues, drawing the third and last name.
"Calypso Oswald," Fawna declares. "Oh, dear, I hope I said that right…"
Her last words are empty and far away. The world fades and I run out of my skin, miles from here. The eyes looking at me, the few murmurs of "Hurry" from people around me, the betters rumbling from the edge of the square—it's all so distant I barely notice it. It's a faint echo in a dim, shadowy world I stepped into. But then someone shoves me forward. I look back and see that it's no one I know, and I would glare, but I am too scared to do even that.
And then—as if it could get any worse, but it does—I am hyperventilating as I edge up to the stage.
Huff…huff…huff…
No, breathe normal! I command myself silently, but it doesn't work.
Huff…huff…huff…
With each step, a growing sense of horror washes through me, and my hyperventilation's huffs turn into the same short gasps that I breathed when Rylan was reaped as I think of the prospect of going into the Games, and what it actually means when you go into the Games, and the fact that I'll be leaving Astra behind when I go into the Games, and I cannot stop thinking, I'm going into the Games.
There's a saying that works really well with the Games, and I think people relate it to them. Kill or be killed, it says. And it's true. Not only is it unlikely that I survive on my own out there, but it's also highly unlikely that I get one kill, for I'm not strong—I'm small. And I can't kill someone younger than me; I just couldn't. I would feel too unbearably bad. I'd feel bad if I killed anyone!
Eventually, I realize, I have pushed past the eligible people—and the front row of newly-made non-eligible people who are surely jumping up and down with joy on the inside—and I need to go faster. So I do, and then mount the steps and take my place next to Rylan and Forrest. Both of them are off in their own little worlds, Rylan staring at his feet, Forrest struggling to maintain a smile.
"Now, shake hands," says the escort.
Rylan shakes my hand and then Forrest's. Forrest shakes my hand. We turn back to Fawna.
She leads us into the Justice Building. We ride in a cramped, smelly elevator with words scratched all over it. If you're in here, you're dead… Ha-ha, go die… Sherry hearts Darren… lozer… And several profanities.
When the elevator opens, Fawna ushers us out and then dives right back in it. Peacekeepers swarm us and take us to three rooms. Mine comes last, and, after peeking into Rylan's and Forrest's, is honestly the worst. Theirs were filled with plush and red velvet and windows that let the foggy light from outside spill in. Mine has a torn up, white, patched couch; badly-woven wool quilts draped over falling-apart recliners; wooden, moldy chairs for a desk or two; and a center table with a torn, faded cloth folded over it; and everything, including the window which has a wooden board over it, pushing away the sun, is dust-coated. The only light comes from smelly candles scattered here and there.
My first visitor comes in with sad eyes, and her nose scrunches up immediately.
"They say these rooms are supposed to be glorious," she complains. "They could at least give you luxury before the stupid Games!" My mother looks around the disheveled room and shakes her head, but then snaps her eyes over to me. "Oh, pardon my manners! Oh, dear, never complain like this, Calypso; it's just not proper."
I smile weakly. "It is fine, Mother. Where are Astra and Dad?"
"They're coming," she tells me. "They were held up when Astra's little friend Tabitha went crazy because—I don't know—Forrest Montgomery looks like her brother, and she started to cling onto Astra… I'm not really sure what happened."
"Oh, poor girl," I say sympathetically, and though I do feel awful for her, I can't help but also feeling angry. Causing such a scene for everyone to get sad about, when three people—one of them being me—are being sent off, to die. And such selfishness coming from me makes me feel sick, but I can't help it; I want everyone to cry for me, not some poor insane girl who lost her brother and thinks she lost him again.
The more I think about it, the worse I feel.
Mother walks over to me and lets a light hand fall over my cheek with a small smile. "Oh, honey, you're beautiful," she says suddenly. "You're so, so beautiful. More so than anyone, Calypso."
"Mom?" I ask, and this weight drops down on me, like a thousand pounds of air suffocating me and beating down on me, crushing me, pushing me in... It hurts, and the world crashes around me with every growing second. I can't help but dread my future.
"Yes, dear?" Mother asks, and I collapse into her arms, letting her encase me in her motherly warmth as I sob into her shoulder. "Oh, Calypso, I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I should've worked harder so you didn't have to take tesserae, and - oh, Calypso, I love you."
"I..." I get out, but then I have to bury my face in her shoulder again so she doesn't see the tears starting to toll down my cheeks again. I breathe in and out until I stop crying and then pull back from my mother, wiping tears out of my eyes. "I love you too."
"Time's up," says a Peacekeeper outside of the room. "Your have more visitors, Miss Oswald."
I nod. "Bye, Mother."
"Goodbye," she says, and doesn't look back to walk out, but instead marches straigh away, her head down.
"I-" I get out when she has gone, before my sister and father have entered the room. "I'm not 'Miss Oswald'... I'm Calypso."
A/N: Rylan and Forrest's goodbyes will be in D3 train rides. I have caught a horrible case of Writer's Block, so I cannot write them if my life depended on it. -_-