The day of the reaping is hot. Hotter than I can remember a reaping ever being. A slightly nauseous feeling gnaws at my stomach. Today I say goodbye. Forever.
I spent all last night thinking about it. I can't stumble over my words this time. The final, precious minutes I'm allowed to have with my son will be the ones he will take with him when he dies. They are the last memories I'll ever have of him until - well, until I die, and maybe not even then. Death is final. There's no reversing it, no rewinding the life of the lost. Today, I'm losing Peeta forever.
Forever is a word that I'm not quite sure what it means. Sure, I know what it means, but truly, how long is forever? Does forever end? In theory, no. But that's living. Does death terminate forever? Do the laws of eternity still apply after your soul departs? I hope so because the thought of never seeing Peeta again, even if it's just our souls brushing somewhere in the heavens, is unbearable. If I can hold on to the hope that our souls will someday reunite, maybe it won't be so hard to live the rest of my life without him.
Once everyone is in place in the square, Peacekeepers escort Katniss, Haymitch and Peeta down the aisle towards the stage. I feel as if people are moving through molasses. The victors faces are set in hard lines of finality. As he passes, ever so briefly, Peeta catches my eye. Unlike the past months, when his blue eyes would flit away upon locking with mine, he holds them there. They're a thousand years old, belonging to someone much older than seventeen. He's come to terms with his fate, accepted it even. The thought that he could get Katniss home is fueling him. In fact, I see a glimmer of the boy who'd never been touched by the Games. The same boy who came running home every day, telling me a new bit about Katniss. What she did. What she sang. What she wore.
I'm struck by just how much Peeta's grown up, even in these past few months alone. You don't see it while it's happening - only in hindsight. He doesn't look scared today. Those eyes that were so frightened, so shocked at his previous reaping and even at the announcement of the Quell, are just sad now. They've seen so much. Ironically, today they're calmer than I've seen them in a while. Just like the ones I'd look into as I would hold him, marveling at the tiny, vulnerable little boy who trusted me completely. There was an innocence then that has long been gone, but his characteristic steadiness is still there. Peeta's always been a rock, a safe harbor for people like me. He deserved so much more. The world deserved him for so much longer.
Effie Trinket opens the reaping, but she doesn't seem to be as Effie as she usually is. "Welcome, welcome, as we celebrate the seventy-fifth anniversary and third Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games," she says slowly and without the spastic inflection that usually distinguishes her voice. "As always," she pauses, her eyes drifting to Katniss, "ladies first."
Her hand gropes around inside the large ball, so unusually empty of names. It's strange for the reaping to be so absent of fear. Usually, everyone's sick with anxiety, but today, there's just a despondency that shows up even in Effie's words. There's no element of surprise, no fear of the unknown. Every single one of us knows whose name is coming out of that ball.
"The female tribute," Effie says in a very falsely bright voice. She looks almost as if she's trying not to cry. "Katniss Everdeen."
Katniss keeps her head held high as she takes her place beside Effie, but the sunlight catches a single tear rolling down her cheek.
"Wonderful," Effie chokes out. "And now, for the men."
For the men. She didn't say boys. Because neither Peeta nor Haymitch can be classified as that now. They've both been robbed of the wholesome nature that a boy contains. Only two, fragile slips of paper rest at the bottom of the ball.
Effie slowly, painstakingly selects one and opens it. "The male tribute from District Twelve..." She reads the name, her wig quivering, and lets out an audible sigh. This is it. The moment of truth. "Haymitch Abernathy."
"I volunteer as tribute." Peeta's voice rings out across the silent square. Not tremulous, not scared, just strong. Haymitch grabs Peeta's arm and they have a brief exchange. My son shakes his head once and I hear him telling his mentor to let go. His future has been tossed up into the air and now it's come down. He will be going to the Quell, just like I'd predicted. But it still leaves me with a closed throat and a hurting jaw from trying to hold back the tears.
Effie looks in serious danger of crying herself now as Peeta stands beside her. "Very well. The tributes from District Twelve. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark," she says softly, laying a hand on my son's shoulder. Maybe I was wrong about her. It seems that people really cared about him, and Katniss, too. They're suddenly more precious than ever before.
There's a long moment of silence as we all get one last look at our victors. Katniss and Peeta. Peeta and Katniss. The tributes, victors, and now tributes again of District Twelve. In the front, someone raises their fingers in our three finger salute. How fitting. A district goodbye. The rest of the crowd follows without hesitation. I press my own three middle fingers to my lips and gently raise them out towards our tributes.
There's a beat and then - Katniss and Peeta simultaneously return the gesture. It's our tributes saluting the crowd who is saluting them. I see Katniss is crying, but Peeta just lets his eyes roam the crowd until he finds my face. His eyes say everything he can't. Goodbye. Don't worry. I love you. It's his way of reassuring me that he's okay.
All around me, I hear the sniffles of my friends and neighbors. We don't want to lose our victors. Why? Why do they have to go?
And then, the beautiful, poignant goodbye is broken, like glass shattering. The Peacekeepers take action. Thread latches on to Katniss and Peeta, pulling them into the Justice Building. Where I'll say my final goodbyes. I plan on saying goodbye to both of them. Last time, I did so only because Peeta asked me. But I need to thank Katniss for allowing my son to have the comfort that she gave him.
The doors close and Twelve is left in the square, our fingers still half raised. The Peacekeepers are ushering us away, telling us to go home.
"Wait," my wife tries to push against the wave of people. I'd almost forgotten that she and my other sons were beside me. "We get to say goodbye. We're his family!"
The Peacekeeper nearest us shoves us forward with his gun. "New procedure," he grunts. "The tributes are to be loaded directly onto the train."
The world slows down, moving at a pace a slug could challenge. What does he mean? Loaded directly onto the train?
"Keep moving!" he orders.
"That's not fair!" my wife shrieks at him. "You can't take away my son and -" Her words end in a cry as the Peacekeeper hits her with the butt of his gun.
"Talk back again and it'll be harder."
It's that little exchange that sets the world right side up again. I pull my wife behind me. They can't take Peeta and try kill him for entertainment twice, then hit the only family I have left. My sons had the same idea.
The Peacekeeper doesn't seem fazed. "Tell your mother not to defy authority," he tells my son who's holding onto his gun to keep it from coming towards us.
"So we really don't get to say goodbye? He's my little brother! Surely we can say one little thing?"
"You heard me, boy," the Peacekeeper continued to shove us forward. "They're on the train already. Now take your family and go home."
My wife's still muttering a string of profanity under her breath. At any second, she could snap and then where would we be? At the whipping post?
"Come on," I pull my family away from the square and into the bakery. The heavy emotion will come later. Right now, my blood has been replaced by burning oil.
"How dare they," my wife fumes. "How -"
"He's gone," my son interrupts her hollowly. "He's really gone."
"Did you ever go see him?" I ask, my anger seeping away in the quiet of our home.
"Once," my oldest says. "He didn't really want to talk, but he told me that he wasn't coming home."
"Me too," his brother nods.
It seems that Peeta prepared everyone in some way or another. That boy was the best gift we ever had. And then I realize why my wife is so furious. "You never went to say goodbye, did you? You waited for today?"
She just turns and leaves the room, absentmindedly rubbing the place where the Peacekeeper's gun smacked her arm.
I don't feel like doing anything. I didn't get to say goodbye. I'd planned it all out, really chosen what I'd wanted to say. Truly, what is a father without a son? Can you still consider yourself a father when one of your sons dies? Every wrong I've ever done Peeta comes back to haunt me, playing all the things I shouldn't have said (or more often, what I should have). Does he forgive me? His eyes said yes, but does his heart?
Sleep is unwelcome. I rest my head against the bedpost, purposefully choosing an uncomfortable position, and yet it manages to still find me. My dream starts out unassuming.
Peeta and I are under the apple tree out back. He's toddling around the trunk, laughing. He picks up a small blossom and comes over, placing it in my hand.
"For you," he giggles.
"Thank you, Peeta."
In my palm, the blossom suddenly dissolves into a drop of blood. The tree begins to shower us in crimson droplets. Peeta's laughter turns to screaming as the blood keeps coming, drowning him in scarlet. His cries echo around and around until the blood rises high enough to cover his mouth. Then he begins choking. I'm frozen, unable to reach him. And suddenly, he goes under. I search for him, mobility returning. My hands dig through the thick, warm ooze but I can't find him. He's gone. The blood doesn't stop rising, though. It keeps coming. To my neck. To my nose. My lungs are bursting and I finally have to suck in. I wake myself up gagging.
It was just a dream. Peeta's okay. I'm okay. The blood's not real. It takes a moment for me to realize why I feel so empty. Everything sort of drops on me at once, like a bucket of ice water. The reaping. The Quell. Peeta's not okay. He's gone. I won't ever see him again.
My son is gone and I didn't get to say goodbye.