Alice Kimminger (D12 Female)

I was small for my age, and on the outside, it looked as if I didn't even belong in the grimy place of Twelve. A bright star among the endless black sky..that sounded about right. Or maybe a piece of gold among countless silver.

I was in the merchant class of Twelve, living with my parents who knitted clothes for a living. They owned a small clothing store in the sprawling center of town, where it was pretty well known and we earned a decent amount of money. Our family was small and peaceful, everything I every wanted or needed. With them, it seemed that I could do anything; I loved them very, very much. Even the Reaping could not puncture that everlasting bond.

The store where my parents worked at, and which I would take over once I was old enough, was very tidy, due to my mother's strict rules about keeping the place clean. On one wall, a whole shelf made of wood was crammed with spools of thread, knots of yarn, and any material we could work with. I learned embroidery to make up for my parents' lack of knowledge in that subject, teaching myself and practicing again and again.

I was okay in school, though it couldn't be called a hobby. It was nice to get to know everyone, and it could be relaxing to just talk with them every once in a while, but I preferred the calmness of embroidery better. The result in the end always seemed more worth it than gossiping with friends.

It was on the day of the Reaping that things changed. My life was no longer the easy, day-to-day knitting with my family. Somehow, I had a feeling I would be chosen. I didn't know why, and it was my first Reaping where I could be chosen, so I had zero experience whatsoever. But the feeling itched at me, and it refused to go no matter what.

I was working on a specific embroidery for a customer, one who I disliked with all my heart but tried not to show. It was Wade Jenkins, the loud, obnoxious thirteen-year-old who went to my school and who had a massive crush on me. He had dropped by every day this summer, just to chat, but it made me feel really awkward and self-conscious, plus he wasn't exactly someone I liked...

My fingers were steady from years of practice, whether or not the person standing beside me was a favorite or not. The needle wove in and out of the dull-colored fabric. Wade had wanted me to stitch a rose onto the pocket of his shirt, to which I had retorted that flowers weren't commonly seen on boys' clothing. He had quailed and sputtered that he wanted to be "different", and I had obliged grudgingly.

I hoped he didn't tell anybody at school that I had stitched it, however much I wanted to push away the unwelcome thought. I tried to remain optimistic for the sake of my family, but it was sometimes hard when problems of their own just unraveled before me.

The needle pierced the fabric of the shirt, continuing in tiny stitches until it made up a whole rose twisting across the front pocket. It looked extremely girlish, but I was proud of my work nonetheless. A smile pasted on my face, I handed the shirt over to Wade, who gushed how beautiful it was.

"Oh, thank you so much!" Wade exclaimed, fawning over his shirt. He blushed a bright crimson that clashed horribly with his pale, freckled face, so that it was completely obvious in so many ways. "I like it a lot."

I grinned sheepishly back, glad that he liked it. However much he annoyed me, anybody who appreciated my work was somebody I tried to be nice to. "Thank you," I said, the simplicity of the words irritating me and thinking that surely it would irritate him too.

But Wade beamed instead, lighting up all his features in a way that nothing else could. It brought out his dark green eyes, which, in a neutral expression, would not seem anything important, just there. However, in him smiling, you could see the lime-colored glow, the blacks of his eyes getting darker, the whites getting lighter. His hair, in reality dull sandy brown, was now incredibly glossier, because the light was strong and capturing everything, even the smallest of details, the pale freckles on his nose, the dimples when he grinned.

My heart was basically torn apart with that smile. How could I hate him, interesting, thoughtful, stuttering Wade, when these moments caught at me like a knife? How could I think him annoying when he was so patient, even as I expressed clear dislike of him?

I stammered through a goodbye, anxious to have him leave so that I could gather my thoughts. Wade wasn't really the kind of person I liked, was he? He was annoying, he was irritating—I couldn't believe I was letting these negative thoughts comfort me.

But I hated to think that there was actually something within my heart that had a thing for Wade.

After he had left, I tried to smooth my dress, to no avail. The fabric was wrinkled through and through, and nothing would cause it to flatten except maybe one of the Capitol's instruments. The dress was a color green, one I had had for a long time and we had dug out of the very back of the closet. It was kind of small on me, probably something I had worn when I was ten, though not too bad.

I resumed my stitching, working on anything I could get my hands on. A snowflake had been embroidered into some pale blue fabric, the colors resembling the ice and snow. I decided I wanted it to have symmetrical sides and, the needle puncturing the fabric, stitches began to appear.

I was just finishing up the snowflake as my parents called for me to go to the Reaping. However much I didn't want to go, we all knew it was required of us, with a cost of our lives. The Peacekeepers weren't exactly merciful, being a creation of the Capitol.

We headed out in one group, me skipping along, a spring in my feet. That odd feeling tugged at me, and I tried to push back my anxiety as it came in, swift as a needle. I couldn't feel this way. I would be back home in no time, and we would be finishing the knitting and crocheting...

Those thoughts raced in my head all the way up until the District escort, thin, tall Vera Plosorm, called out in her sweet, lullaby-of-sorts voice, "Alice Kimminger!"

Jackson (Jax) Winters (D12 Male)

Pain riddled my face.

A shattering scream roared through my ears. Who was screaming? Then I realized- was it me?

I was being beat, again and again, as my mother shoved me into the table. I tried to stop myself but I skidded right into the wooden structure and folded over, clutching my stomach and crumpling right then and there. They advanced on me, two soldiers fighting for their own cause, a cause that involved me...

"Why do you take out your pain on me?" I wailed. "Why do you do it?"

There was no answer, just the smug grins on their faces as they slapped me, marks all over my face. Then a sudden ghostly murmur rang in my ears, "We do it for your own protection. We do it to toughen you up, little boy." Something like a memory flared in Mother's eyes. "We do it because she did it."

Who was she? I would think every night. Who was she and how did she have anything to do with Mother and Father beating me? I would always come back with no answer, nothing but loneliness around me, the feeling of heartbreak. She must be very important, if they kept hitting me like this.

And one night, I had had enough. I told myself I would stand up against them. The next day passed in a whirl of images and I was swung to the ground, Mother clawing her long fingers across my arm. Angry white marks appeared there, barely visible on my already pale skin.

She smiled sickeningly, lower lip curling with contempt. "Oh, Jackson," she crooned. Then her soft voice turned into a sneer and she shoved me into the wall. The impact sent my whole body spiraling into a whirlpool of pain, my head spinning with dizziness. I just wanted to lie down, for my head to stop ringing..

No. I wanted to fight back.

As the next hit came, I pushed myself out of the way. An incredulous look blazed on Father's face, and he hissed, "Little boy," then, with the full force of a bull, rammed into me, throwing me onto the ground. I fell to the floor, helpless, my head throbbing uncontrollably. I began crawling away, legs dragging across the ground, wanting to get away from this place as fast as I could...

Mother snarled. "You're not going anywhere." She walked into the kitchen. Curious, I twisted around, to see her emerge with a large knife. Wait...was she going to cut me with it? Fear drove into my veins. I would be sawed in half if that happened! I would die... I began to sniffle, sobs wracking my body. I whimpered, "Please don't hurt me!" but they paid no heed to me.

Mother held up the knife so that all its sides flashed cruelly in the light. It was our most prized possession, and now, now it was going to devour me whole..

I began backing away, stumbling across the floor. I tripped over my own feet and turned around just in time to see Mother bring down the knife...

I screeched with pain, tears rolling down my face. A thick sheet of blood lay over my cheek, a burning, searing feeling coming through my entire being. The skin was dripping blood, every cut she made stinging like venom. My eyes watered and red, my face nearly swollen and blood still gushing out, I crawled away, crying for help, sobs dying in my throat.

Mother and Father left me, pushing me out into the night, and I touched my face gingerly. My fingers came away crimson, and just the sight of it made me scream once more. Finally, on the strength running out of my muscles, I let myself slump to the floor. Surely death would be better than this endless torment, I thought miserably. Surely...

The next day, I woke up, outside again, my stomach rumbling with hunger. Nobody was there, nobody had helped me, this innocent little boy who was bleeding to death. I clenched my fists, anger poisoning the dried blood on my cheek. I had to go back inside, I had to go clean my face..

Father swung open the door so hard it almost smacked me into the wall before I leaped back in time, chest heaving even with the smallest effort. Father's eyes were lit up with amusement at watching me bleed, and he let me in roughly.

"Wash your ugly face," he spat, and I obeyed instantly. I padded over to the bathroom like a wounded kitten, mewling, and slid a small chunk of cheap soap into my hands. The smell was disgusting, but if it would make me feel better, than I would accept anything.

Then I realized what had just happened last night. Nobody had helped me, nobody had cared about me, almost bleeding to death from a knife-cut. There was no one in the world who cared... Well then, I thought. I would show them all. When they had their own troubles, I would not help them, I would help nobody but my friends.

For my friends were the only ones who cared, and everybody else did not deserve help, if they had not even bothered before. A rage scorched my skin. They would all pay, someday. They would all see, when I stood there, no help coming into me for them, as they were bleeding as well, because they had not tried caring when the same thing had happened to me.

I emerged from the daydream, my best friend Smoke, who was the only thing that kept me sane in the world, shaking me. "Whoa, dude," he exclaimed. "Another daydream?"

I stared at him for a moment, simply blinking, before nodding as the words comprehended in my brain. I was having these daydreams more often now, I didn't know why.. "It's nothing," I added, trying to dispel the curiosity in his gaze. "Just, don't worry about it."

Smoke narrowed his eyes. "What are these daydreams about, exactly?" I groaned; he was onto me.

"It doesn't matter," I said evasively, trying to change the subject. It wasn't exactly something I walked to talk about...and frankly, my friend didn't understand at all. Smoke seemed to see the glaring of my eyes and he quieted, though he looked to be trembling of curiosity.

"Ah, okay," Smoke sighed, coming to a brief silence. Our gazes were directed up to the District escort, who cleared his throat for attention.

Vera Plosorm was a very thin woman, dressed in a brilliant gemstone-blue dress, and in close-fitting black boots that shined with shoe polish. Her eyes were wide and round in almost an expression of curiosity, her dark brows slanting up, lashes thick and bristly over mauve-colored eyes. Her hair was knotted in a tight bun, showing the large gold earrings dangling from her ears, with lips painted rose-red. Her skin was a dark midnight shade, making her dress seem to shine.

"I think Vera's lost a few pounds," muttered Smoke, eyes sliding over to me. He always made this same remark every year, indicating her stick-straight figure, never seeming to plump however more she aged.

I nodded fervently. "She must go on diets every day."

"We can't even afford to go on diets," Smoke observed through a hidden smile. Our voices blended together in the same hushed whispers: "We're kind of starving right now..."

Our friendship went that far.

Vera smiled widely and went to draw out a girl tribute, her fingers reaching through the swirling papers. She chose one and unfolded it in a sweep, declaring the doomed Twelve girl to be, "Alice Kimminger!"

A small, or more like petite, girl stepped forward, biting her lower lip so hard it turned white. She had blonde hair and brown eyes, and a sort of angelic look about her. I felt a small twinge of pity, but I refused to let it bloom. She was one of the people who deserted me when I most needed help. She is not a friend.

Vera then proceeded to draw out the boy tribute. In a flash, a slip of paper was in her hands, and she was reading the tribute aloud. I barely had time to ready myself before she called, "Smoke Aldernight!"

A deep silence rocked through the crowd. I stared at my friend, eyes wide, both of us frozen. Then Smoke's mouth was open and he was screaming for his mother.

"MOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYY!"

Imagine that: a seventeen-year-old boy screaming for his mom. I barely held back my tears and my whole body was numb to the bone. I swallowed the lump in my throat, my breaths coming fast, my pulse quickening.

This couldn't be possible, this couldn't be real...

Then I realized something. I could do it. To get away from the District? Easy.

So as Smoke was beginning to weave through the crowd, I shoved to the front and yelled in a sort of anguished tone, "I volunteer as tribute!"

I wondered what my "parents" would think.

8/10/17