A/N: I know it's been a little while since my last post, but I've been busy with many other things, traveling over Spring Break and the start of a new story. Go check out The Mario Apprentice, it's my profile and new episodes are every weekend! So without further ado here is the District Five Reaping!
Caramen Fliess
District Five- Male
Courtesy of FlyingTantagella
Bright white lights dance in my head as I teeter backwards and crash to the ground. Stars envelop my view, disguising the rushing blur coming towards me as a beam of messy light. The impact knocks the wind out of me as if someone had dropped a brick on my stomach and blood jumps out of my lips like a cat on its perch. I am thrown like a ragdoll into a tree and the sickening sound of my snapping spine can be heard for miles. The tree cradles me, and softly deposits me to the ground, but not helping to ease the sting of my bones as I make contact. The blur, now slowly taking the shape of a human, towers over me.
"Get up," it hisses.
I can't. I try to awaken any muscle in my body but all of them fail me.
"Pity," the voice snickers.
A heavy foot crashes down on my lungs like iron. I am drowning in my own blood and the pain is indescribable. Black seeps into the edges of vision and I fight to stay alive, clutching to memories of home. I can see my mother's face, warm and comforting. My father's calloused hands and his graceful smile. My sister, Vanitia, calling my name and crying tears laced with sorrow as she stares into my grave. These are the thoughts and faces that replay in my mind like a broken record as the life pours out of my body. One last time my mother's face paints itself in my mental sky and then like that, the pressure is released off of my chest and I fade into black.
I awaken with a start and choke on my tears. Crying out for my mother, I clutch the pillow with a frightened grip. My mother, Lenore, rushes into the room and places a cold towel on my brow. Her reassuring smile and soft pat on my shoulder reminds me that the horror I have just experienced was only a nightmare.
"Another bad dream?" she asks innocently.
"Yeah," I stammer as I gulp down the chilled glass of water she brought along with the towel.
"You know Caramen, all this dreaming is representative of your fears. This is your first year; there are plenty of other names in that bowl. The odds are ever in your favor." She coos.
Twisting the sickening words of the capitol into a calming offering is a specialty of my mother. You could spit on her shoe and she could find a way to thank you for it. Not harboring a grudge or ever casting a mean glance, Lenore Fliess is a woman of benevolence and sincerity. The greatest blessing in my life, I guess alongside going into the Hunger Games, losing my mother is my worst fear.
"I've drawn a bath; the water's a bit colder than normal but do your best to wash up. There'll be a clean shirt for you and some pants when you're done. Your father is down at the Power Plant, and he'll be there until the reaping."
Her words are more like wishes than orders, she never really tells me to do anything. I always listen though; there is nothing to gain by resistance and my mother isn't someone I would want to defy. I carry myself to the washroom, sweat dripping down the sides of my nightshirt from the frenetic contents of my dream. Today is plagued with fear, and I dread the impending walk to the district square with every fiber in my being. I plop down in the wash bucket and hastily scrub the dirt and grime of the soles of my feet and the nooks of my elbow. Although district five's industry is power and electricity, we are very poor. No working lights are in our house and our wash water is drawn from a well out back. My mother doesn't work, her body is too frail, and so the only income we get is from my dad's taxing job shoveling coal at the power plant.
It's a curious process. My father shovels coal, which is the industry of District Twelve. However, twelve only mines the coal, and then they ship it here to District Five. The black bundles of the tiny rock pour into my dad's coat sometimes and when he comes home his face is smudged with the residue. My father is a strong man, incongruous to the delicate stature of my mother. He loves her though; I can see it in his eyes. The way he looks at her, a tender affection, something so beautiful, like a rose in the wind. After my bath I dry myself off with a dingy cloth towel and make my way back to my room with the periwinkle textile wrapped around my waist. My mother, holding true to her word, has laid out a crisp white shirt, ironed. Shirts are only ironed for funerals, and adding a new occasion to the steaming board seems ill-fitting. I slip it on, working it across my pale arms and shrugging out the sides so it fits better. It is not new, it belonged to my father.
I slip on the black pants my mother prepared and fasten the simple ensemble with a black belt. The buckle is a bronzed silver, a unique color that is more akin to the silvery ore than it is to the refined metal. I am complete, to the fullest I can be. My hands start to shake, because when I look in the mirror at my Reaping Day attire, the full effect of the possibility of having my life whisked away from me and sent to day in the bloodiest pageant ever scares me to the edges of death. My curly red hair hangs over my eyebrows, which are thin and arched. My eyes are mismatched, the left one being a pale blue and the right one being a cool slate. The flicker up and down as I study my imperfections. The disarray of freckles, the crook in my thin nose, the cleft in my tiny chin, the emaciated frame of my wiry and small boy figure. I look like a malnourished cat.
"Caramen! We need to go!"
That is not the sweet tone of my mother; it is riddled with shrieking demands and out of place superiority. The ghostlike presence I possess to my older sister Vanitia is brought into light this morning, my pallor and phantasmagoric tendencies illuminated by her forceful drive. I am meek where she is proud. I am humble where she is aloof. I am small, she, in figure, is big. Vanitia was born into the wrong family, and she always has been. She is beautiful, stunning, with her wavy auburn hair and her electric blue eyes. Her nose rests high on her curled and plump lips. Her cheeks are a shade of rose, unaffected by the dank atmosphere of our house. She knows nothing of poverty, although she is surrounded by it. Vanitia is not my sister, she is our tenant.
"Caramen! Are you deaf?"
I succumb to her yells, what will I gain by resistance? I come down the stairs, but slowly, pushing the needles that my sister sits on. Her look is raging with a testy fire, one that I am dancing over on bare feet.
"Mom, tell him to stop his little game and get down here," Vanitia demands.
"Caramen," my mother pleads.
I listen to my mother, and soon we are out the door and into the town square. My mother reassures me that the deposition of my blood into the record books of the capitol will not hurt…too bad. The pinprick is sharp, like getting a splinter, but the pain subsides as a new wave of anxiety crashes into my mind. I know my name isn't in there, and my mother won't let us take tesserae. I count my steps, something to make my mind off of the games, and file into the twelve-year old boy section.
I don't have any friends; I spend my days at home, really doing nothing when I'm not at school. I am alone as I stand amongst the throng of people. All nervous, all so young, waiting to receive the news on which one of them will be the district's next unlucky victim swept away to the Hunger Games.
Our District Mayor, Barnabas Billuxium, is draped in a blue and gold cloak that looks like something a capitol citizen would wear. His attire is always gaudy, and stands out against the colors of District Five. His wispy grey hair hangs loosely from the top and sides of his head and a large and billowy beard drifts in the morning breeze on his chin. After his introductory speech, I am clinging on to every word like they are life preservers and I am lost at sea.
If I believed that Mayor Billuxium was showy, then I don't know how to describe our new district escort. For as long as I can remember, Pauly Klappenmire has been our district escort, but this year a new escort has replaced her. Coated in an olive green dress with what looks like a curtain rod speared through it, our new escort saunters to the podium. Her sharp heels make her feet look perpendicular with the ground and eye lashes as wide as her head extend from her eyes. Her make-up is an aqua blue and he chin is thin and elongated. Long black gloves run up her arms and a hideous saffron umbrella is opened above her. It is not raining.
She taps the microphone with a gloved hand and extends her neck cautiously, like a feeding turtle.
"Welcome District Five," she nearly inaudibly whispers.
"It is time to select a boy and a girl," she speaks with a raspy tone, it sounds as if her voice had been plucked out of her and replaced with someone else's.
Her hand dives into the girls bowl and she removes a simple sheet of white paper, powerful enough to splice a family into pieces.
"Amerilia Hesterfield!" she calls out in her hushed tone.
The girl is pushed onto the stage and tears are running down her face. I can tell that the girl is petrified, but not as petrified as my mother when the unthinkable happens.
"Caramen Fliess!" the escort says.
"No! No! My child, my child! Oh…Caramen!" My mother is screaming. Her pain shoots ripples of emotion throughout the District Five community and my father grabs my mother as she tumbles to the ground in a fit of heartbreak.
"Where are you child," the escort asks, completely unfazed by the breaking down of my sweet, sweet mother.
I slowly make my way up the stairs of the stage and the escort extends a hand.
"Come with me child," her words sound like a snake hissing.
Amerilia and I are whisked into the Justice Building by our escort's long hands and as we are followed by our scarce amount of previous victors, my vision of District Five is clouded in the wasteland of my mind.
My family comes to see me, and I notice peculiar changes in my mother and sister. My father, Ghujar, pats my back reassuringly and tells me that I will prevail, but he knows the lie before it leaves his mouth. He is the first to leave, desperation claiming his heart as he struggles to bear with the fact that his only son has been sent to die. My mother and sister fight for my attention like crows pecking at a calf.
"Caramen!" My mother shrieks, "Be strong my son, be strong and remember I love you," her words are powerful, they are not true to the delicacy of her normal nature. It is Vanitia who stuns me though.
"I just, need you to know that I love you," she mumbles. Tears sting her eyes and they begin to fall like the start of the April rain. The constant trickle becomes a waterfall and I am comforting my sister instead of her comforting me. Vanitia leaves and only I and my mother are left alone.
"We both know you're weak," she spits out.
Her words strike me like a slap, and I look up at her, hurt.
"No my child, the words are not in jest. Look at me, and know, I will help you win this game."
I don't follow her words.
"You're Uncle Romulus works as a game maker," she smiles gently.
I am stunned, for about the fifth or sixth time today. My mother's brother, Romulus Tiabath, is one of the game makers for this year's Hunger Games. The connection spells out the word sponsors and I suddenly feel the first kindling of a spark of hope.
"Just ask, and you will receive," my mother instructs with finality as the Peacekeepers come and wrench her away from me. Her screams are deafening, piercing the drums of my ears and I let loose the most agonizing scream I have ever mustered. My mother has been stolen from me, I need her, I love her. I cannot function without my family, what am I but a simple leaf in the wind? Blowing across a field of grass, hapless and confused, unaware of what lie ahead.
My thoughts are with my Uncle Romulus as I board the train, my head pounds from the crying I've been doing. I can't stop thinking about how I'll never see my family again; I can't possibly have the slightest chance. But I remember, what my mother said, all I have to do is ask.
And ask I will.
Amerilia Hesterfield
District Five- Female
Courtesy of atlaluver
District Five is a nook in a bookshelf between the bordering districts of seven and ten. There is a long a narrow swath between the mountain valleys that eventually tumble out into endless falls of rock and brittle pass. Five seems like a second-thought, engineered for the purpose of providing power to the nation of Panem. However, industry allows for buying and Colyrion Hesterfield didn't hesitate in swooping in on the investments. Pumping out factories like clockwork, the infrastructure of five boomed. Shares of District Ten were requested of the capitol for lavish prices. Hesterfield met the demand, a man born of steel and might; he never backed down on a business venture. Money grew on trees; the era was ripe and fruitful. Five became an empire, for without it, the other districts would plunge into the perpetual darkness. Hesterfield's monopoly was built on electricity, and as Ghujar Fliess shoveled coal into the furnaces that generated the seemingly unending supply of power, Colyrion Hesterfield comfortably sat on his fat stack of cash. Ghujar and Colyrion didn't know one another, nor did the either care for the echelons of the workplace. What mattered to both men, so different in their approach to the metaphysics of life was the constant demand for money. Money beat the skin off of a man's back and money put the glasses on the face of the scrutinizing industrial man. His handkerchief was sewed for money and his brow was wiped in the prospect of money. Ghujar Fliess and Colyrion Hesterfield were no different at all, which is why when they both became fathers, they reaffirmed their sights on what they had worked for in the first place.
Sitting in a room devoted entirely to sitting, Colyrion Hesterfield sat smoking his pipe while he read the District Journal. Viewing the monthly reports on the power stocks with a keen eye, Hesterfield didn't miss a beat. A stack of envelops rested on the dark chestnut table that was situated next to the plush seat and each was labeled with a name. The top one was written with delicate handwriting, intended to spoil and melt the heart. Amerilia. It read.
I don't why I bother, because in the first place I don't care. But I drag my feet, no matter how hard they protest, up the gilded stairs to my father's dainty little sitting room. I want to vomit, I really do. My father is obsessed with money, as if he doesn't have enough. Today is my birthday though, and I know he would never buy it for me, but there is the most dazzling sword situated in the window of the local blacksmith and I just have to have it. I have to.
"Daddy," I put my hands behind my back, swing my hips back and forth and pout my bottom lip.
He folds the editorial down, and looks at me through his spectacles. Taking note of my pleading posture and pouting expression his tone fills with concern.
"Yes dear," he whispers in concern.
"It's my birthday, and I was hoping…" before I finish I already know the answer.
"I'm ahead of you," he smiles as he extends the crisp envelope in my direction. I open it slowly, pretending like I'm saving every moment of his birthday present. I see the fat wad of bills and inside I smile, but on the outside I return the teary eyed pouty face and slowly wash away the whine.
'Thank you so much Daddy," I express my gratitude and plant a firm kiss on his cheek. He smiles and kisses me back, placing a tender hand on my shoulder. I skip down the steps, but slowly, letting my hips express my glee instead of my face. He doesn't notice it when I do that, the fakeness, the façade. I reach the front door, at quietly slipping it open I duck out into the morning air.
I am wearing my running shoes, white sneakers with a lime green stripe. They are clouded with the dirt and dust from my training sessions, but I don't mind, I don't have the material mind my father does. My black training shorts blow in the morning breeze, the narrow streets are cobblestoned and they break loose and weather down in the breezes. No one pays attention to what I do, I'm perceptive, and I notice the small things. My father's community is blind. My tight black tank top hugs my body, and my lithe figure is clearly presented like a black leopard's muscular frame. I know exactly where I'm going, to pick up a little birthday present for myself.
I reach the blacksmith's shop and I am horrified when the words CLOSED FOR REAPING are present on the door and windows. There, right there in the middle of the window display sits my sword. It glimmers in the sunlight that penetrates the glass frame and I am stunned that it will not be mine. It was my birthday present, why does the stupid reaping have to be today of all days? On my birthday, seriously?
"Is Daddy's money upset that it has nothing to buy?" a voice calls from behind me.
If anyone else had mentioned how my dad spoils me so, I would lay them out. I'm tough; I train whenever my dad isn't home, which is quite a lot. I always have the possibility of being reaped in the back of my mind and now that I'm sixteen I fully realize the horrors of these games. I have to be prepared, which is why when the voice calls out, I whirl around and directly find my best friend Redrik.
"Why do you sneak up on me like that, you know that I hate that," I chide as Redrik laughs and slinks up to my side.
"Happy Birthday loser," he giggles and messes my hair up. I swat away his hands, but he pulls them back fast, so I lunge forward and catch him off balance. He sweeps his other arm to intercept mine, but swiftly and with precision I dance my arm around his and bring it to his throat.
"I win," I smile with triumph.
"Whatever," he looks dejected, I always beat him, but he never changes the look of disappointment on his face. Suggesting we go train, I follow him to complex. It's not really a complex, because we built it. No one in five really trains, but we know better than to be caught off guard. Redrik removes the bundle of swords from under the grassy hatch that covers them behind a branch and tosses one my way. I catch it at the hilt and the rusting blade has lost its luster. Redrik flashes me a toothy grin and with a quick jump forward he strikes. I raise my blade I cut a block across the path of his weapon. He goes for a speedy sideswipe but I dance out of the way, bringing my sword across his cheek while both his hands are distracted with the heavy parry. The cut isn't deep, but Redrik's adrenaline flares. In a berserk flurry of hacks and slashes, Redrik knocks the sword out of my hand and with a forceful shove I fall back into the dust. I cry out, his power dominating me and within moments I'm flat against the ground with Redrik breathing over my body. We are face to face, inches apart and his hands are on my waist.
"Get off," I order.
"I win," he spits.
He lets me up and I can see the glee in his eyes. I am completely taken aback by the change in his attitude; I've never seen such a rage in him before. I've cut him plenty of times and he's never lashed out like that. Putting that intimate touch on the ending made me nervous too, I mean I know that Redrik likes me, a lot of boys do, but it just seemed odd.
"I guess we should head to the reaping," I mutter.
"Hey, Amerilia, I'm sorry if, that was uncalled for," he apologizes, rubbing the back of his neck.
"It's ok, you won, fair and square," I level my tone.
"I don't know what came over me, it's just, I've never felt that way before, in a fight," he continued.
"Don't sweat it Red, let's just go," I end the conversation and together we walk to the district square. Passing by my friend Hannah's house, she comes out of the front door and waves her arms.
"Hey guys," she breathes hard after catching up to us, "Allison is already there so I thought we could just walk together," Hannah says as we walk. Hannah and Allison are Redrik and I's other friends, but they're mainly my friends. I love Hannah to death but I tolerate Allison. She's just sort of annoying and she moved here from district eight. Hannah befriended her at the school and I've just never really clicked with her.
Reaching the square, Redrik and I go our separate ways and Hannah and I make our way to the sixteen-year old girls. The mayor begins his normal boring speech and I nearly fall asleep. Hannah and I start talking about girl things, and I notice that a boy over in the sixteen-year old section is looking my way. I blow him a kiss and I can see the lust in his eyes. I am sure the morning sun rays make my golden hair radiant and my hazel eyes pierce his dark blue ones. I think his name is Chris, and after he winks I let him know that we can meet up after the reaping. I don't have a boyfriend; I prefer to play the field. When I'm done with Chris, I notice out of the corners of my right eye that Redrik was watching our conversation from across the way and it slightly disturbs me. His eyes are lusty, but not in the way that Chris's were. I don't look his way or let him know I was looking. Redrik is making things between us awkward and I just things to go back to the way where a few hours ago.
Our district escort is new, and her ensemble is ludicrous. She says her name is Rochelle or something. I don't pay attention to her hushed speech, I don't really care. I'm more concerned with getting that sword tomorrow and hooking up with Chris later. I just want this whole Redrik thing to blow over so we can go back to being friends. Hannah screams something in my ear, which brings me out of my little daydream.
"Is there a- Amerilia Hesterfield?"
Oh crap. Really? Any other time would be great, but I just want to satisfy Chris's hunger, talk to Redrik and let him know he will eternally be subjected to the friend zone. When the Peacekeepers start moving towards me, the plan hatches in my head. I already know what I'm going to do.
I break down, I sob and collapse. The anxiety of going into the Games courses through my delicate and sensitive veins and my petite frame can't handle the heavy stress on my shoulders. I make my helpless way to the stage and stand with Rochelle until some little boy is called up. The crying never stops, my face is blood red and I'm just so stunned by the whole ordeal.
The Justice Building swallows us whole and we make our way down the tight corridors into the secluded rooms that will serve as a holding room until the train is prepared. Hazel, one of our mentors, pats my back like it will do me some good and the boy, Caramen, and I are thrown our separate ways. Once inside my room, I hear the door lock and I dry up the tears and cynosure my thoughts. A million thoughts are racing through my mind. I had to react quickly, and I focused on my histrionics and the actual idea that I've been selected for the Hunger Games begins to form in my mind. I am stunned in reality, but it's in a different way. I've been preparing for this, I know what to do, I know how to react. But it was a fallback, readiness for something that would never come. It came.
My father opens the door and in another split second decision I slam it shut with my foot. I scream and pound on the door and shout obscenities so lewd that my father breaks down on the other side of the door. His spoiled little daughter has lost her marbles and he can't bear the thought. The Peacekeepers tell him he must leave and when I hear Redrik and Hannah approaching the Peacekeepers relay the same message.
"Let them in," I demand as I throw open the door. The Peacekeepers in the hallway recognize my apparent sanity after a few moments and they shrug as Redrik and Hannah enter the room.
"God, I never thought…" Redrik is crying. Hannah grabs my hand and squeezes it. She whispers a few encouraging words in my ear but knows that this is a meeting for Redrik and I. She departs with a blown kiss and I can hear her hushed sniffles as she glides down the hall.
"Redrik, I'll be fine, I've got this," I laugh as he wipes his eyes on my shoulder.
"You're good with your sword," he chuckles.
"Yeah, that's it, I'll get a sword," I assure him.
"The cornucopia is dangerous," he reminds.
"I'll get a sword," I repeat with insistence, growing impatient with Redrik's doubt.
I run my fingers up and down the chain that hangs around my neck. My mother's pendant. Redrik knows that annoyance is building in my mind when I do this and he releases his hug on my waist. He kisses my forehead, and before I can say goodbye he is gone.
I study the jade that hangs from the end of the silver chain and I whisper a silent prayer to my mother. She died during my childbirth, and my father gave me the pendant once I became old enough to understand. She's my guardian angel and I know she would want me to do what I'm about to. Confidence is with me, but so is the reminder that these Games never go as they seem. So I, Amerilia Hesterfield, the girl from five, will lose these Hunger Games.
Or so they think.
These tributes were so much fun to write! The first twelve year old, so sad when those are reaped, and the deceptive beauty Amerilia. Sorry again for the really long wait, but I've just been busy lately. District Six will come much faster than District Five did. Please review, it keeps me going. Happy Hunger Games!