In the town square, the air carried a tang of salt and acidity, an odd scent that lingered and tangled with the humidity. Despite our efforts to appear stoic, terror gripped us—etched on the face of every child in the crowd, every parent watching from the seats above. If they don't breathe, pray, and watch too closely, maybe their children will return home at dusk.
Scanning the unfamiliar surroundings, I took in the spectacle. This space was rarely used, except for today's affair. It stands in stark contrast to the rest of our district. District Four embraces modesty, refusing to flaunt riches everywhere, instead taking pride in well-crafted materials. As a Career district, we're already struggling with consistent losses, and this year seems to be a display of force and wealth. Noble statues of revered deities flanked the stage—three men and three women—watching over the tributes we send. Above, intricate nets adorned with fragrant rosemary, daylilies, and regosa roses hung in the air.
My gaze fell on Amae, the Capitol's envoy to District Four. Her attire, a true ode to the Capitol's outlandish fashion, adored lavender this year. It's striking against her dark features—long, tight, dark brown curls framing her face. Styled to resemble the ocean, perhaps a clam? It's always difficult to tell with the Capitol. Amae once appeared with her skin dyed a pastel shade of blue. None of us understood. I rolled my eyes—we weren't born to understand anyway.
Upon closer inspection, more ostentatious elements caught my attention. A gaudy pearl necklace hung around her neck, its luminescence practically screaming for attention. Isn't that all the Capitol wants? The ends of her dress flared out in exaggerated waves, seemingly mimicking the ocean's waves. It confirmed my suspicion that she had been designed around a clam or an oyster. A rush of frustration burned inside, manifesting as a thick layer of crimson settling on my skin.
The image of her, deciding which overused representation of our district to emulate, swirled inside my head. Did she consider mermaids? The vast, undulating ocean itself? Instead, she caked herself with grey and green powder and bedazzled pearls to be a clam. She likely spent hours laughing and musing over which districts would do best with her stylists. Did she ever even consider that children actually will perish? No, of course not, because this is just a Game. A sick, twisted game consisting of people that she will never see again, never pass by the gravestones of parents who took their lives in on cue, my attention is broken by the prior victors funneling onto the makeshift stage. They take their place in assigned seats, seven total. The victors never leave the spotlight, as if their lives weren't traumatic enough from the games. Instead, they're paraded around like circus animals, their every move filmed for the Capitol's continued entertainment. Every moment that they slip, every moment that these psychotic lunatics smell blood in the water, they can't help but stare and cast stones. An ode to their superiority. Among them, Finnick Odair sits proud—the youngest winner of the Hunger Games at 14 years old and the Capitol's personal sweetheart. Unfortunately for us, nobody has stood a chance since his win. He is a living embodiment for the remainder of the Careers that District Four stands a chance.
The women's side is less entertaining. Mags Flannigan, the winner of the 11th Hunger Games. Her face is kind and warm, though it's obvious that the stylists from the Capitol are starting to struggle to hide her age. She always volunteers to help mentor, which is likely why I'm unable to identify the two women next to her. It's not like I need to; I have no intention of invading the small privacy they're granted.
Amae watches the large clock in the center of the square attentively, her dainty finger reaching out and tapping the mic at exactly 11 AM.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the 70th Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor!" The accent sends a shiver down my spine. We're all aware that we'd have a new representative next year if her voice displayed anything but pure joy, but it doesn't make her attitude any easier to swallow.
I look away as she approaches the male tribute's pool of names first. That's right, they pulled the girls last year.
"Oleander Flanagan. Oh, how exciting! It looks like we have a descendent of a victor this year!" Amae lets out a squeal and I think I hear my ears bleed in response.
I'm not sure where he is because my gaze only goes to Mags. She's doing her best to stand tall and proud, but her frail knees begin to shake. When he approaches the stage to shake her hand and accept his position, she turns her face further from the crowd.
Guilt creeps into me slowly, my own body beginning to falter. It would be a shock if there were other names in that crystal bowl other than his; it's unlikely - no - impossible that my theory was wrong. He's a perfect example for them. His built physique screamed Capitol manipulation, a move to make the Games more thrilling. Add in that he belonged to the victor of one of the early games, and it's a game that will cause them to foam at the mouths. I watched, heart pounding, as the odds seemed stacked from the very start.
And then, her tiny footsteps, undoubtedly indicating her struggle to move in her gown, moved towards the bowl for the female tribute. She dipped her thin hand in, pausing. The only sound in a mile radius was her jewelry clinking as she pretended to put thought into the draw.
Silence.
"Calypso Ranier. Calypso, where are you my dear?"
Horror clawed its way up my throat, paralyzing me. I felt my sister unraveling several rows back, but the only thing I could hear was the ringing in my ears. Callie is 12 years old and from our impoverished slum. She might weigh 80 lbs soaking wet and could hardly be 5'0. The embodiment of a banshee erupted in the crowd—one that can only be attributed to that of a mother. Where are the volunteers? Someone always volunteers when they're so young in the Career districts.
The Peacekeepers wrapped their arms around her waist, and something inside of me broke. She's so frail, beating tiny fists on their backs as she screamed for her mom. She's going to die, and the only thing that she wants is for her mom.
Silently, my arm raised into the air. I couldn't feel it or any part of my body. But I could feel the wind whipping through my fingertips.
"Is that a volunteer?"
I choked, but I couldn't stop staring at Callie's ribcage through her oversized gown. She stopped her parade, her breath beginning to even out.
"Yes, I volunteer as tribute."
It's odd; I can't feel the Peacekeepers pick me up, or the crunching sound that can only be my body being dragged. But the ringing is too loud - and I'm not sure. My gaze drifted to my sister, her face a mosaic of anguish and despair. Why did you do this? Her screams racked her body, but the ringing persisted. I wonder if Mag's boy can hear.
I stumbled onto the stage, feeling like a puppet in the Capitol's cruel charade. Isn't that what I am? Every ounce of emotion drained away, leaving behind a numbness that consumed me whole. Was I able to feel either? I reached to touch the hem of my dress, only verifying that it was a miracle to still be standing. The crowd wore solemn faces as Amae announced that District Four has a tribute. Someone shook me, and I think Amae asked for my name.
"Anne. Annie. Cresta," I managed out, hoping that this was the question asked of me. Amae seemed pleased, her whole body bouncing as she began the ending speech. Tonight, she will go home and brag to her friends that she has the most interesting tributes this year.
As they dragged me back into the Justice Building, the weight of history pressed upon my shoulders. How many farewells have the walls soaked in? Stories of shattered dreams, whispered promises that they'll be home soon (they rarely were), and the bitter taste of inevitable loss. It stood as a testament to the Capitol's dominance, a place where lives were gambled on purpose.
Lost in this grim reflection, I hardly noticed the door burst open, and my sister rushed in. Her eyes, brimming with desperation, met mine, and she wasted no time in expressing her anguish.
"Why did you do that? You were free, Annie. This was it, you had made it." Her screeches confirmed that my hearing was beginning to return, but the ringing still felt like it was vibrating my entire being.
"Callie is 12. Who else is going to stand up for a girl from the lower shacks? Did you see her calling for her mom? All she wanted was her mom," I paused. "I do too, really."
"Annie, you have to try. You have to win," she pleaded, her voice raw from screaming. "You can't give up. You can't let them take you without a fight."
Her words pierced through the numbness that enveloped me, and for a moment, I saw the pain etched in every line of her face. She always looked quite young, she's only a handful of years older than I am, but she looked twenty years older in this moment. Tears soaked her cheeks raw, her hair sticking in wet ringlets to each side.
"I'll do my best," my voice hollow and distant, I know that it belongs to me but it doesn't sound familiar. "But you know the odds. It's likely rigged for Mag's great-grandson to win. What a show that would be." I giggle. Kaia doesn't like that.
Kaia's eyes pleaded with me, her grip on my hands tight, as if trying to convey her urgency through touch alone. "You have to believe it's possible. What if you're right? What if it is rigged for Oleander - that means it's rigged for you. You can swim and you can weave just as well as he can. You have to try, just try."
Her words reverberated in the stark room, and for a fleeting moment, I felt a flicker of determination, a spark ignited by her unwavering faith. But reality crashed back in, which I welcome. Feeling nothing at all is consistently better than not.
"I'll try," I promised weakly, unsure if my voice even reached her.
Kaia's gaze held mine for a moment longer, filled with a mixture of desperation and unwavering belief. Then, with a heavy sigh, she released my hands and stepped back, her shoulders sagging with defeat.
"I'll be there, Annie. I'll be watching. Don't forget that," she said softly, a glimmer of determination flickering in her eyes before she turned and the Peacekeepers dragged her from the room. The door slammed, but her sobs and screams were evident from the other side. I listened until they faded.
As the door closed behind her, a sense of profound loneliness settled over me.
As the moments in the stark room ticked by, an unsettling silence enveloped me. I waited, almost anticipating the footsteps, the drunken rage of my father's voice, but they never came. His absence was conspicuous, a painful absence that screamed louder than any words could. Was he happy about this? Delighted to finally have every remainder of Mom out of his home, likely forever?
Without warning, a wave of nausea overwhelmed me to my core. This is it, this is going to be how I die. I can smell my own blood soaking into the soil of the arena, the question of whether the bugs would begin their duty before my body is taken dancing at the edge of my mind. A primal scream tore from the depths of my chest, reverberating against the stark walls. I lashed out, my fists pounding the unyielding marble of the Capitol building, each strike an embodiment of my seething rage and despair. I'll never have children of my own. I'll never dip their tiny toes in the waves of the ocean or teach them how to swim.
The echoes of my fury ricocheted through the room, the sound of my punches against the unforgiving stone a symphony of anguish. Crimson ran down my arms in streams, violet beginning to coat my hands in broken vessels. I laughed bitterly. Try to fix this in two days. The sight is only encouraging. You've ruined everything in my life, but I can ensure I ruin this for you.
But the marble remained steadfast, unyielding to my desperate assault. With each futile strike, tears streamed down my face, mingling with the blood from my battered fists. The agony of hopelessness clawed at my heart, driving me to lash out at the tangible symbol of my torment.
I collapsed to my knees, broken and defeated, my sobs reverberating off the cold walls. I searched around for something else to cause damage—it became increasingly evident that I was not the first to try this tactic.
I knew better.
The pain of his absence mingled with the bitter understanding that I wouldn't be returning, predetermined by the Capitol's ruthless machinations. I wish I could feel any part of my body, to prove that I'm still alive, but numbness surrounded me.
The door creaked open, and the Peacekeepers reappeared, their cold demeanor betraying no hint of empathy. They gestured for me to follow, and I complied, my steps robotic, devoid of any real purpose. What purpose do I have anymore? To die in some cruel, humiliating way on the television of people like Amae?
The first to notice my dress covered in blood nudged the other. Reaching out sharply, the man in white armor surveyed my hands. It would be a miracle if bones were not broken today; that's likely the cause of my inability to feel them.
Outside, the town square bustled with activity, oblivious to the turmoil brewing within me. Many were embracing, clutching each other, overwhelmed that their loved ones had another year, or maybe eternity, of not suffering from my current predicament. Calypso's mother waved from the sea, tears in her eyes as she clawed at her daughter. I lifted one bloody hand in response, a silent you're welcome. Please take care of her. This cannot be for nothing.
And there I was, standing on the stage, covered in liquid scarlet, sweat and tears, blending into the background already.
Just another gentle thank you.