I wake to the sound of bacon sizzling, the delicious smell filling the house.
I crack open one eye and see that the sun is high above the horizon. Groaning, I try to cover my head with my blanket and go back to sleep. I would have too if my stomach hadn't twinged and woke me up completely. I wince and slowly pull the blanket off, revealing the big greenish purple bruise splashed across my midriff. It's ugly, but the pain should go away in a few days.
Unfortunately, Ian picks that exact moment to walk in with a plate of bacon and a glass of apple juice. His eyes flicker to my stomach and frowns. He doesn't say anything, just puts the bacon and juice on the bedside table and walks into the bathroom to get some salve. I know he hates that I fight, but he understands that I have to; Hersh pays too well to complain.
He emerges with a tube of the cream that's supposed to help with sore muscles. Angus told me about it and now I use it on bruises as well. It doesn't actually heal the bruise, but it numbs the pain.
"Thanks," I grunt, taking the cream from him.
"It's gonna suck big time standing in those heels you bought." Ian notes.
"Then I'll wear my boots, they go better with the dress anyway." I reply, gently rubbing the cream into my stomach. I sigh as it starts working.
"Rough night?''Ian asks, concerned.
"Not bad, just one fight, Double tap, Angus just caught me unaware." I reply. Ian nods, then shakes his head.
"You shouldn't have to fight." He sighs.
I suppress the urge to groan, we've had this exact conversation a million times. Instead of answering, I take a big bite of bacon, chewing slowly. It's crispy and cooked to perfection. "How did you ever learn to cook so good?" I ask, relishing the food.
"Certainly not from you!" Ian chuckles.
"Obviously." I say. I think back to my first pitiful attempts at cooking. I had been 12 and Ian had only been 8, but he still had more natural skill than me. That had been when mom started drinking; shortly after dad died.
"I guess I'm just that good." He says. He flinches as a clatter and a string of swear words sound from the kitchen. Mom must be up.
"Damn it, the momster's arisen from the dead." Ian mutters. He sounds more tired than upset. It's the same old story, every morning. Mother drinks herself to sleep, then wakes up madder than a tracker jacker.
I finish the bacon while Ian takes a shower. I slip into the shower after him. The water is freezing but it helps me move fast because I saw the clock in the hall, and the Reaping's in less than an hour. When I return to the bedroom, Ian has laid out my new dress and is trying to tie his new tie in the mirror.
I change into my clothes quickly. Ian averts his eyes while I change, not that I care, we've shared a bedroom our entire lives so I'm used to changing in front of him. The dress fits like a second skin, and despite being tight, my stomach doesn't hurt too bad.
Ian's still having trouble with his tie. "Here, let me." I say. He turns to me and I crouch down to tie it for him, my dress riding up dangerously.
Ian wrinkles his nose as he looks me over. "I still think you look like a cheap stripper in that dress." He says.
"I know, but it was the only halfway stylish thing I could afford." I say. I don't tell him that's why I bought the dress, in case I ever lose my current job. If he hates my job now, he'd never approve of me being a call girl.
"But it shows so much skin! I know it's hot out, but still…" Ian continues.
"Well I bought it so I have to wear it, it's not like any stores are open now." I say, standing and pulling down my skirt. The rough leather feels as tough as my boots. If I'm totally honest with myself, this dress makes me feel tough, dangerous, like I could take on the world.
I run a hand through my dark hair. I had it cut short, like a boy, so it wouldn't get in the way when I fought. The barber had called it a pixie cut, whatever a pixie is. Mom had nearly strangled me when she found out, her face went purple with rage and she screamed herself hoarse. That had been one of our worse fights. In the end, there was nothing mom could do, I pulled the "at least I'm still alive" card, and that shut her up real quick.
"Where the hell do you think you're going dressed like that?" Mom shrieks as I slip into my black leather boots.
"The Reaping's in twenty minutes!" I shout. I take a moment to admire the fact that my boots and dress appear to be made out of identical leather, as if they had been cut from the same hide.
"You're not leaving this house in that dress!" she screeches. She starts to lunge toward me from the kitchen doorway where she had been standing.
"Yes I am and you can't stop me!" I yell, pushing her onto the couch. She's so hung over that she collapses onto the cushions with no effort on my part.
"I own this house! You can't boss me around!" she cries.
"Or what? You'll kick me out? I pay all the bills! I file the taxes! I'm the one who has a job! Go ahead and try to kick me out, but who's gonna pay for your booze when you do?" I scream. Mom doesn't respond, though I can tell she's fuming. She knows I'm right, and there's nothing she can say.
I turn on my heel and stalk out the door without glancing back. Ian's waiting for me at the end of the path, staring down at his new shoes. I know he must have heard us, and I feel terrible that he has to live with us. He's a good kid, he deserves to have a mom that isn't a drunk and has a job and takes care of him, and he deserves to have family that gets along and a sister who doesn't have to get hurt all the time. He doesn't deserve to worry about me or to try and avoid mom when she's around.
"I'd apologize, but what's the use?" I say, giving him a tired smile.
"Maybe you should just do it." Ian says.
"huh?" I ask. For a moment, I have no idea what he's talking about.
"You know. Leave, instead of just threatening it. Me and you, alone and safe." He clarifies.
"I'm not old enough to have my own house." I reply.
"You're sixteen now, you have to be old enough!" Ian whines.
"Maybe I can rent an apartment, but I can't own land. Besides, I'd have to be eighteen to have legal custody over you." I say.
"Why? You already take care of me!" Ian asks.
"It's the law." I say.
"Screw the law! Screw the Capitol!" He shouts.
"Ian! Sssh! Someone might hear you!" I say, glancing up at the houses we're passing, but nothing stirs. They get closer and closer together the closer you get to town. Pretty soon the houses give way to apartment complexes. The business district with all the factories and packaging plants are on the other side of town.
We pass the road I normally take to get to one of the shopping areas, the path that Ian takes to get to work at the packaging plant. I shiver as we pass the turn. The only time I walk this way, the only time I go to the main square, is for Reaping day. I try to avoid it otherwise. It holds nothing but bad memories for me.
The square is surrounded by The Justice building, a law firm, and a few business offices. The hospital is in that area as well. All in all, not a very cheery place unless you work there, since everyone who works there has a fair amount of money and power.
Despite the heat of the day, I start to shiver, goose bumps running up my arms as we pass the hospital. The last time I was there was when dad got gored by a bull, nearly four years ago. I remember he had an open stomach wound. He was conscious when we arrived, but so badly in shock he might as well not have been. I remember saying our goodbyes because the doctor told us that he probably wouldn't survive surgery; the doctor was right.
Ian takes my calloused hand in his and gives it a tight squeeze. I can see he's thinking the same things I am. I return the squeeze as we walk into the already crowded square. We check in quickly and race to our sections as the ceremony starts.
I can see Mayoress Picket sitting next to Verdandi Ganash, District 9's escort. Verdandi has always scared me. The woman we had before, had been very odd and laughable, but Verdandi started when I was twelve, and he scared me almost as bad as the clips of President Snow. He has contacts that make his green eyes glow and green glowing tattoos of arcane symbols all over his body, including his shaved and waxed head. He was wearing all black leather with silver studs the first year I met him, which added to the fear. This year he's wearing a black suit with green borders and patterns. His boots are the same though, black leather with silver spikes, the ones that used to be at eye level when I stood in front as a twelve year old.
Mayoress Picket seems almost relieved to step away from Verdandi to the podium. She starts by giving her boring speech that she has to give every year. As if making us wait to hear the verdict is part of the torture of Reaping day. I used to spend this time praying for everyone I knew to not be chosen, but I found out two years ago that praying does nothing for me or them.
Mayoress Picket goes on to congratulate our two previous winners, Gorath Shade and Belinda Johannesburg. Belinda is getting on in her years, having won one of the first Hunger Games mostly by wits and luck, yet she seems nice enough, sane enough. Gorath is a whole different flock of sheep though, he won through pure brutality. I know that it was necessary, but he got a very bad reception at home because of it. It's public knowledge that he goes out 'camping' for weeks on end with no supplies in the backcountry of District 10. The most circulated rumor involves a farmer finding a sacrificed sheep and seeing him running away, painted in blood, wearing nothing but his birthday suit. Personally, I think he's done a better job of coping with the effects of the Hunger Games and mentoring a lot better than most of the winners.
Memories of Jonathon's games threaten to start pouring in, despite my best effort to dam them up. Luckily, I'm distracted at that moment my Verdandi, who has finally stood up to his very impressive height, and stepped forward. "Welcome to the 65th reaping!" He says. His voice is soft and velvety, as if there is some veiled meaning to his words. His lips curl into a wild grin that sends chills down my back. It's a predatory grin, something I would expect from a coyote, not a human, especially not a soft Capitolite.
Suddenly I realize what's so scary about him. He looks like this psychotic clown I saw in a horror film on T.V. once. I suddenly realize that while the high pitched accent should be funny, and the grin should be misplaced, they make him seem psycho. No, not psycho, Sadistic. I correct myself. I realize with a cold certainty that Verdandi understands how twisted the games are, and that he enjoys that.
"As is customary, ladies first." Verdandi says, clasping his hands together and rubbing them in anticipation. Sadistic bastard! I think with disgust. But that's all I have time to think before he reaches deep within the reaping bowl and pulls out a little white slip. He walks back to the podium and reads out the name on the slip. You guessed it; mine.
I shiver as I hear him say "Diana Hex" but not for the reason people would think. I shivered because I hated the way his slick voice sounded as he mangled my beautiful name with his horrid accent. My father had picked that name 'because you're a fighter' he'd told me, and now some sadistic, Capitol bastard was ruining the sound of it.
"Diana Hex?" Verdandi repeats.
"I heard you the first time!" I shout, pissed. Some people laugh at that. Verdandi frowns a bit, but I don't care, I just want him to stop saying my name.
The isle down the middle seems much different now, heading toward the stage. Or maybe it's just because all the girls are giving me half-relieved looks of sympathy. I want to scowl at them, but I'm in shock. Is this what Jonathon felt? I wonder. I know I feel like the world can't stop beating this horse till it's dead and buried. "When the shit rolls, it just keeps on coming." Jonathon muttered. Thanks, memory.
"Glad you could join us. Let's give a round of applause to Miss Hex!" Verdandi says, as I climb up on stage. I scowl, as do a few other people, but no one claps. "And now on to the gentlemen!"
As Verdandi walks over to the boys reaping bowl, I do something I haven't done since Jonathon, I prayed for Ian, Miko, Austin and Justin. This time it worked. "Leo Capalducci" Verdandi called. A gasp comes from more than a few people so this Leo kid must be popular.
"Leo Capalducci, if you don't mind me repeating myself?" Verdandi calls out. I know that will have earned a few chuckles in the Capitol, but it just seems cruel to me.
"Leo Capalducci!" Verdandi repeats. In the distance, I can see the peacekeepers checking the attendance, trying to find Leo, but there's no need. A thin figure totters out of the 14 year old section, pushed by supporting hands. Leo has his head down, but I can tell that the boy is in shock. By the time he reaches the stage, big fat tears are rolling down his cheeks. His long, dusty brown mop of hair falls into his face, shielding his features from view.
"Finally! Let's hear it for Leo!" Verdandi says, but his voice seems to have taken a condescending tone. Again, no one claps, but I see a smattering of middle fingers and even more people with their left fists on their right shoulders in a traditional District 10 salute.
Mayoress Picket steps forth then and reads the Treaty of Treason like she's supposed to, and tells us to shake hands. Leo extends his right hand weakly, not meeting my gaze. I take his hand gently and give it a light squeeze before letting go. His hands are clammy, and he had the grip of a noodle. Good luck kid. I think, you're gonna need it.
I've seen so many stories with silly escorts like Effie that I thought I'd focus on the more sadistic side of Capitolites. For the record, because District 10 is ranching, they also make all of the Capitol's leather imports, so leather is the cheapest material in District 10.