The mornings are always cold, no matter what the season, in this little shack we called home. Yet the sharp sting of the early hours of winter's dawn always manage to chill the bone in such a way that it lasts the entire day, until once more you can curl your frozen toes under the blanket for the night. It's way too early to be up on a normal day. But today doesn't exactly qualify under those terms.
I slip my legs from the warm covers, painfully resisting the temptation to crawl back into bed and accepting the crisp, dry air as my morning wake up call, I get up. I force my muscles to comply against the aching cold and dart about my room dressing into my work clothes of a pair of old brown trousers that my legs are easily too long for and a white shirt that has turned grey from use.
I don't know how many times my name has been in the bowl. The old man's oblivious trust means that I take extra rationing and put my name in more times than he knows. He also thinks we get by on what he brings. I glance back into my room as I shut the door, wondering if I'll sleep here tonight. I tiptoe across the hall to Butterman's room where the door is open ajar as it always is and peek my head around the corner. The old man lies flat on his back, mouth wide open and one hand resting on his concave torso.
I've lived with Butterman for five years, since I was twelve, sort of like his adopted son, but I don't remember filling in any paperwork or anything. So we just live together. He's a kind enough old man though some avoid him because they think him too odd and they could do without that kind of trouble. It's not really his oddities that put people off, if anything they're some entertainment to make you forget you're starving. What makes them leave a little sooner than politeness allows, is this hopelessly dazed look he gets, as if his mind is so empty that it allows the constant fog that lingers in the streets to seep into his own head.
I slowly back out of the room and make for the kitchen, well what's supposed to be a kitchen. It's the same with every room in this house. None are ever quite what they were designed for. Even the bedrooms are really only two halves of the same room. Despite my protesting, mine is the one with the bigger bed. Butterman wouldn't have it any other way.
I shove on my muddy boots that sit at the door and wiggle my toes back to life. I reach for my working jacket that's had its pockets torn off and small holes are forming in the armpits. Something in my peripheral vision makes me stop and I know what it is before I even move my head. The one good coat hanging on the rack that Butterman bought me for my birthday. It's thick and smooth material is coloured a deep brown and it flows lusciously down to my knees. I know it had to have cost a heavy price but the fact that Butterman didn't tell me what he had traded for it made me worry. He would always tell me anything if I asked him. Well, almost anything.
I glance back at the door leading upstairs just in case he was there, before quickly snatching it off of its hook and cocooning myself in its fuzzy warmth. It weighs heavily on my shoulders but I don't mind.
Tucking the collar up over my ears and pulling my hands up further into the safety of the sleeves, I creep out of the house.
As I walk down the streets, the sun has become higher and its shadowy warmth has started to filter through, though I can still feel my body ripping through the cool veil of winter air, my coat the last source of heat left in this little district and I smile a little.
The streets are empty aside from one or two individuals sitting on a porch step or hanging out the washing to get it all done before the reaping at two.
I walk further into the district, past the main mine worker's houses and right down to the cinder streets near the black market where the inhabitants don't have to walk far from their home to their latest addictions.
Slowly I reach the house I'm looking for and follow my old footprints inside. There are only two things you can rely on of this house; it's never locked and it's always dark.
Laid out for me already is the usual scattering of empty bottles followed by the shameless sprawl of a figure passed out in their own vomit bringing with it the thick smell of human waste. I glance at the coat hook by the door but resolutely decide to keep my coat moulded onto my body before going to kneel down to the figure and pull them up out of their spew.
"Come on, mum." I tell her as she groans against my help.
"Come on," I lean her against the wall and her head just lolls from side to side as she continues to groan.
I go in search of the cloth I know I cleaned yesterday and wet it in the sink. By the time I get to her again she's reached for another bottle and slurping loudly at the contents.
"Would you just stop that? Ten minutes is all I need!" I yell at her but she's gone, deep in the intoxication of her own making.
I try to pull the bottle from her hand but she clings to it like a feverish wolf to the last quivering sheep. I can feel the heat rise in my cheeks and all the patience I had prepared myself with dropped in an instant. I fling my arms at her and yank the damned thing from her vice-like grip.
"I said enough!"
For a second I thought I'd gotten through to her, past the drunken slur of her mind and tapped into the conscience she buried long ago. I was wrong. She'd simply paused to gather a good enough swing to slap her bony hand across my cheek – hard. The shock and sheer force of her action means I hit the ground, spilling the contents of the bottle all around me until it looks like a pool of my own blood. For a minute my mind stops. Focussing just on the pool, only to be brought back by the sound of my mother sobbing behind me. I wish I could say I didn't know whether she was crying for me or the bottle. But it was the bottle. It will always be the bottle.
"I'll clean that up." I say and get to my feet in search of an old towel that I know she must have.
By the time I've mopped up the liquid, she's stopped crying so I move on to wiping her face of vomit and slowly help her to the sofa in the living room. I was going to dress her today but, it would seem she has other plans and I didn't have time. I lay her down and place a blanket over her body before going back to the kitchen and clearing away the bottles.
I get a few funny looks from her neighbours as I take armfuls of bottles out into the bin. I'm pretty sure they think I'm a burglar or something.
I doubt anyone will recognise me though as I was so small and puny when I lived here. I've bulked out a lot since my malnourished days and actually look borderline healthy thanks to Butterman's close relations to some of the peacekeepers. I'm pretty sure my face has changed quite a lot since then too. I used to have prominent cheek bones and shading over some part of my features but now my cheeks are plump with just a strong jaw to outline my face. Though this is testament to Butterman sacrificing his own portions so that I can have plenty.
And of course there's my glasses. Butterman found that I needed glasses when I was thirteen, although I had always just presumed I couldn't see right because of some lasting brain damage. He found a Peacekeeper getting rid of his old glasses for scrap and gave them to Butterman. With a few adjustments here and there they came to belong to me. This is also why people look at me around here. It was seen as quite the privilege to own something as good as glasses.
Which is why when I snuck out once, years before I'd developed any stealth, and came strolling down this way to my duties I was mugged of them. It was when I was younger and still had my skinny features and the darkness under my eyes. A man ripped them straight off of my face and took off without a backward glance. I don't really remember what the man looked like, the only distinctive feature was the nauseating smell that came with him. But my eyesight is that bad everything was completely blurred, I couldn't see anything in front of my face and before I knew it I felt searing pain in my head and was sprawled out on the floor before I blacked out.
The next time I woke up I was back in Butterman's place with a bandage around my head and glasses on my face. I don't know how I got back or how my glasses were returned but I put it all down to Butterman even though he's never spoken of it. At first I thought it would hurt him to find out I had gone back to see my mother but if it did, it never showed. And he never spoke of it. He saw to it that I was alright and no questions were asked from either of us, as neither of us really needed an answer.
I go back inside and make up the fire in the living room, which takes a while but the effect of having just that little fire on in this cold house is instant. I can feel my mum watching me as I fix the fire but she must have grown tired at some point as when I turn around, she's asleep. Visiting time was up.
I decide to make my way slowly back to Butterman's as the district starts to come to life. Like a switch has been pressed and now all of the little cogs in a big machine have begun to turn, weighing down the air with ominous intentions.
By the time I get back, Butterman is up and preparing us both some soup. I come in and take off my coat which I instantly regret as the cold air slams hard into my lungs. I go and sit down at the table knowing that he won't ask me about it, or where I've been, or the red mark I can feel tingling on my skin. He's stopped asking me that now because he knows I don't like lying to anyone let alone him. We've never said it out loud but I think he knows I go to her house. Ever since that time my glasses were stolen, he knew. Neither of us says it though, not wanting to hurt the other and yet we both know that we both know where I go. Butterman sits down opposite me with two bowls of soup and two small rolls or bread that have just started to burn at the edges.
I look at him amazed as he pushes one to me.
"Where did you get those from?" I exclaim.
"The baker. Who else am I going to get bread from?" he jokes and all uneasiness of the morning passes just like it always does.
"How can you afford them?" I look back at my coat and feel the guilt rise in my throat like bile.
"Peacekeeper sold me some of his scrap the other day, good scrap it was. An old watch that's hand had stopped and face was smashed. I sold it to the baker who, in payment, gave me these."
"Thank you, sir" I tell him and he frowns a little at me. He's told me on many occasions I shouldn't call him sir but he knows I won't stop. I made a joke of it once and called him 'ma'am' instead which had us both laughing. But even after that I didn't stop calling him sir. He seems worthy enough of the title for me. Besides, I have nothing else to call him.
I smile at him and he smiles back and we both go on to tucking into our soup.
I've finished mine before him but I sit and wait and watch him as he takes careful spoons of soup, blowing on each one before sipping it between his old and cracked lips. Compared to him I practically inhaled mine and immediately regret taking it for advantage, the soup. I didn't savour it. The thought has my head turning to my coat that I also didn't savour for him. I vow from then on to take better care of it. I would only wear it when he said I could like the original deal.
"I have something for you." He looks at me with eager eyes before pulling a small box from under the table and pushing it towards me.
Butterman's always doing this. He always gives me odd little presents that are really just bits of scrap from his yard. But he picks the bits that he thinks I'll find interesting or bits that seem to fit together so that I can make something out of them. I never really enjoyed doing it much but I could never tell Butterman. He always has this half-fogged up goofy smile on his face when he gives me each dose. So I always accept them gratefully and try with all my might to be interested in them.
I look down at the box and open it with a fake smile. There are some lose bits and bobs; odd cogs and some rods, a few rubber bands, a nail and something that I don't know what it is. Altogether quite a good collection that might get you something on the black market. Of course Butterman would never permit me to go to the black market never mind sell the gift he thinks I love. I have been once though, to the black market. When I was living with Mum. It wasn't a good place. The most I can remember of it was the smell of sweat and decay from the people inside, and it was too warm from some of the broths being sold that stayed in your senses for days.
"Thank you. Sir." I say and turn a few of the pieces over in my hand and try to be interested.
"So?" he asks eagerly. I look at him blankly.
"What are you going to make?" he presses me, and he's practically sweating with excitement. He's perhaps having one of his turns and I want to control it before the reaping in case he dazes off and forgets himself in front of a Peacekeeper.
"Let me make you some tea, sir."
"Later boy, later. Now, what are you going to make?" he says in a gentle tone as if his whispers could smoothly delve out my thoughts and he'll know exactly what is going through my mind, what world I'm creating.
I stare at the contents again and try to think of something clever you can make, in fact anything you can make out of scraps.
"I suppose I could make a sort of catapult." Was my answer. That had been my answer to the first box of scrap he ever gave me when all I really wanted to do was fling stuff. He didn't look very pleased and sort of deflated in his chair as if my lack of imagination had physically beaten him. I try to rekindle our morning, with something.
"Then I can do this." And I grabbed his spoon and flicked a pea that remained in his bowl straight onto his face. I wasn't much of a shot so I surprised myself when it hit him square in the nose, splattering little drops of soup on his cheeks. He explodes into this roar of a laugh and I join in before we both agree that that will be the last laugh until we both returned to this little shack.
We take it in turns to bathe in the small metal tub in front of the fire in the living room. Washing our hair, scrubbing our nails and hands and feet, then getting changed into our best clothes. For me that is a pair of good, brown trousers that go right down to my shoes, and a white shirt, well close enough to white as it's going to get. The red mark on my face isn't as noticeable anymore and if I tilt my head in certain directions you can't see it all.
After a while Butterman hands me my coat and I can't help but brush down a little of the dirt that flew onto it when I was in the house. I put it on again and feel its immediate warmth envelope me. Butterman seems pleased with my reaction to the coat and smiles as we both head out of the door. It's not far to square but people have already started to file in smoothly while the finishing touches are just being put on the stage. I wait in line to have my finger pricked before standing with the boys in my age group.
It's not long before the square is packed full of people. I spot Butterman standing at the side with the other parents, staring at the stage and waiting.
There's a quiet hum of noise across the square with people whispering to each other.
"Jesus Christ its cold. Couldn't they have done it in the summer like the last ones?"
I smile before turning to my left to see Jed standing next to me, his winter coat barely still whole. I don't know if you can call me and Jed friends. We sit near each other in lessons and only really talk to gibe at the other one or at the school or anything. Once when my glasses fell off my face, he stopped someone from standing on them. To this day I still don't know whether that was out of kindness or from not wanting to see something of good value get crushed. From then on we sort of just got stuck with each other. We both keep our eyes ahead as we continue with our usual jeering.
"Not as cold as your heart." I whisper back.
"Oh you hurt me Ethan, genuinely hurt me." He says in mock surprise and an exaggerated hand on his chest.
"It could have been worse. I could have commented on that hair."
"What's wrong with my hair?"
"Nothing if you're trying to look like that dog over there." I nod towards an old ragged dog lying down next to an old man's feet at the side. Its fur is matted and black with small curls lifting off its back. An exact replica of Jed's hair.
"Point taken."
We're all hushed as Effie Trinket walks on stage wearing one of her infamous wigs with a garish dress to match. Today's theme: purple and puffy.
"Welcome, welcome." She begins in a sickly sweet voice that dances on through the air until its ringing in your ears. She talks for a while about her excitement then we watch the same clip as we have done every reaping but I'm not really listening. My mind has wandered back to the dog and I contemplate whether I'd be so cruel as to wish our roles were reversed. I don't really listen until she's thrust her hand in the bowl and has already produced a name out for the girls.
"Georgina Fairweather." A tense silence follows, before the shuffling of shoes and a girl, no older than fifteen slowly makes her way out through the crowd of people. I'm quite far away but even through the thicket of people I can see her shaking with fear. She walks slowly to the stage, wearing an outfit that she probably wore to the last reaping as it barely fit her still and long dark hair that reached the base of her back.
"Poor sod." I hear Jed remark but I don't say anything back. Jed wasn't afraid of the wrath of the Peacekeepers but I was and I didn't want to be caught talking to someone that may or may not have value in my life.
I try and concentrate on Georgina. She stares back at the crowd once on stage and her lip begins to tremble so Effie quickly moves onto the boys, not wanting her district to seem weaker than it already is. She thrusts her hand down into the second bowl and makes a grand show of undoing the fastener and reading the name carefully. Just one name.
And it's mine.
"Ethan Hardy."
I hear Jed curse next to me, under his breath and place a comforting hand on my shoulder. But then he has to pull it away and let me go. He doesn't volunteer as I know no one will. Sure you feel sorry for who gets picked, and even worse if you like them, but better them than you. You have your own problems to deal with, like what you're going to feed your family in a few hours time.
Slowly I make my way through the crowd and to the stage. Once I'm up though, I don't want to turn around. I don't want to have to face them on a shallow promise that I will fight to win for our district. Everyone knows I'm a goner. I can't fight. I'm probably the worst person for this actually. Maybe my bruise will help me to look tougher though, maybe get some more sponsors. But when I turn around all I see is their pity. That's even worse because it makes me want to scream and I know now is not the time to start acting out of turn. Instead I focus on not looking in Butterman's direction. I don't know if I should look at Jed or not but when my eyes glance his way, I see his focus shifts from Georgina to the floor in regular intervals telling me he doesn't want to look either. I sift through the crowd but none are able to hold my gaze. So I'm back with the dog. The dog understands, and he doesn't look away.
I didn't even know Effie was talking until she was finished and some Peacekeepers were trying to usher me into the justice building.
They shove me into a small room and I sit down on the sofa. Waiting. I don't know what to think, what to know and not know, what to do and not do. I know this part is where they fetch my family so that they can say goodbye. I sit there, numb, waiting. I should be thinking all kinds of things, I should be in a state of total shock and despair. But I'm not. I just sort of sit there. I sit there and wait. I subconsciously wrap my arms around my coat as if waiting for someone to rip it from my back.
I'm not waiting for much longer before the door opens and Butterman bursts through, out of breath as if he's been running. He probably spaced out again and has only just realised what to do. I've barely stood up before the old man has his arms swung around me and clutching me in his own grief. I know then, in that embrace what I was thinking; what had my mind so preoccupied. I couldn't think of anything else.
"I thought she'd come. I thought she'd care." I whisper into his shoulder and he lets out a sigh, holding me until I felt safe enough there to give in and lean my whole body on his.
"Everything will be alright." He tells me and suddenly I'm glad it's him. I'm glad he's the last one I have to say goodbye to.
He reluctantly pulls back from the embrace and digs his hand into his pocket, fetching out the box of scrap he'd given to me this morning and shoves it into my hands.
"For the train ride." He says and then Peacekeepers come and take him out of my life before I can even say the one thing that I've wanted to say to him since I was twelve and first rolled off of his sofa. So instead, I stand alone in the odd smelling office, clutching the box, and tell it to no one.
"Thank you."