Chapter 1 - Reaping
Green stems wove through the white lattice work, delicate flowers adorning the ends of the stems, all woven together to reinforce one another; a living, thriving hedge grown through arches over walkways, a community of foliage encircling Bliss and Ambrosia in Ambrosia's modest backyard.
Bliss absentmindedly stared at the lush variety of plants before her, letting her thoughts drift away from this afternoon's inevitable tragedy, the 42nd Hunger Games Reaping Ceremony. The muscles in her forehead scrunched together as she tried to drive away thoughts of the yearly death sentence for two children from the district.
The mosaic of colours in front of her eyes did well to ground her, as did the sensation of Ambrosia's soft skin under her pointer finger, as she wrote love letters into her skin. The girl beside her sighed under her touch, and turned her rich brown eyes towards Bliss to admire her. Ambrosia drank in the sight of Bliss, unruly, curly, waist length red hair catching a halo of morning light.
Bliss' aura was fire and benevolence, entranced by the garden in front of her but on edge about the ceremony later on. Bliss turned to face Ambrosia. Their eye contact lingered, then Ambrosia pulled Bliss in for a kiss.
Their lips met, soft, gentle, rose scented and comforting. Bliss' fingers wove through Ambrosia's hair and pulled her closer.
"I love you." Bliss whispered while Ambrosia trailed kisses down her neck. "I love you so much."
"I love you too." Ambrosia whispered in Bliss' ear.
The girls sprung apart at the sound of a car door slamming shut out in the front driveway. Ambrosia ran her hands through her hair and tried to wipe the blush rising in her face. Bliss settled back into her chair, reluctantly.
Bliss didn't want to harp on it, on this day of all days, but she wished Ambrosia would tell her parents she wasn't interested in any of the suitors they lined up for her. Ambrosia wasn't expected to officially begin courting for another year, but her father always said, "familiarity is key" for these things. Whatever that means. Seems like they want to wear her down until she won't try to say no anymore, so she'll take the path of least resistance and whatnot.
The birthrate in D7 has been weak of late, and the culture seemed to expect citizens to do their part to rectify the situation. Even if that meant marrying someone for the sole purpose of growing a litter. It's hard not to get lost in the hopelessness, to see who you are beyond a cog in the machine.
Ambrosia's not weak, though. She loves her parents and doesn't want to let them down, she wants to be good for them. Which Bliss understands abstractly, because she wants to be there for her girlfriend in the ways that matter, but Bliss gave up on trying to please her own family unit long ago. An impossible task.
It's rumoured that before the Dark Days, before Panem, there was a scholar who defined insanity as doing the same things over and over and expecting different results. So Bliss abstained, at the expense of her image as a "good" daughter and a "good" sister. Before the thoughts could depress her too much, she pulled herself from them.
With a quick smack of her thighs, Bliss rose to her feet. Their time together was over, for now, and Bliss thought the walk home might calm her racing, tangential thoughts.
"Bye, sweet girl." Bliss said in a low voice. Ambrosia followed her to the back gate and kissed her goodbye.
"We're going to be okay… Okay? Bye, hun… " Ambrosia said, running a finger over her cheek, unable to tear her eyes away until a bang came from within the kitchen, wrenching her back to reality. Bliss merely nodded.
"Bye, Bliss." Ambrosia said as Bliss retreated down the cobblestone alley.
Luckily, when Bliss arrived home, her brother and parents were elsewhere. She retreated to the single bathroom in the apartment and took a shower and changed before departing for the Reaping Ceremony.
Stifling heat beat down on the corral of children, the fabric of Bliss' clothing chafed against her skin. The only thing preventing tachycardia was the presence of Ambrosia sitting beside her in the fifteen year old's pen. The bones of her pelvis dug into the hard wooden bench. Panem, why are these speeches so long?
Finally, the D7 escort trotted onstage. Beautiful, but out of place amongst the earthy background and dirty residents. The presence of the three living victors on stage balanced out the tableau; an aesthetic somewhere in between capitol and district. The gleaming material the escort wore was an eyesore, though, and Bliss didn't care to examine the sparkling menace further; it hurt her retinas to look at the Capitolite for too long.
Sharp nails swirled around the bowl of paper containing the female tribute's names. An airy, eccentric voice read out, "The District Seven Female Tribute of the 42nd Hunger Games is…Burgundy Bliss Beaudrie." A long title Bliss would do anything to rescind.
One of Ambrosia's hand tightened around Bliss', the other clamped around her mouth to suffocate the anguished cry clawing its way through her lips. On autopilot, Bliss dropped Ambrosia's hand and her shaking legs started carrying her towards the stage.
Blankness saturated her brain, a distance from the present situation. The vulnerability and exposure reacted to form an explosion of embarrassment. Thousands of eyes, and hundreds of thousands through screens, fixated on her as she stumbled towards the stage. Peacekeepers helped her along when she moved too slowly. Bliss struggled to peel her eyes off the ground. It was too bright. Her eyes hurt. She was so, dreadfully, confused.
The ringing in her ears prevented her from hearing the male tribute's name, and another bomb of embarrassment blew through her as she envisioned having to ask him. Gold sparkles danced across her vision, black borders closing between them. Bliss forced air into her lungs before she passed out, unaware she'd stopped breathing. The victors on the sidelines averted their eyes.
Bliss' eyes found a pair of tattered blue shoes, and her eyes worked up to their owner's face: a boy from her grade, Chase Rukysiak. Seventeen years old. Tall, stocky. Cold. Formidable. His expression betrayed no distress, just a sullen resolve. He all but sneered at her as her passed her on stage. The victors looked towards him, interested. Bliss tried not to let it bother her. In a way, the distraction helped her pull herself together. She would not look foolish in front of these people, no, they would not see her break.
With the initial wave of shock passing, Bliss stood up straight as the escort grabbed on to one of each of the tribute's hands, raised them in the air, and presented them to the world. The crowd cheered, noncommittally. Bliss snatched her hand back as soon as it was appropriate. The escort didn't seem to notice.
As she walked towards the justice building, she brushed strands of copper hair out of her face. Her hands came back damp, residual tears lingering on her skin, though she no longer cried. Great. She'd always thought crying during Reapings was tacky, but realized, with a jolt, the emotional response was completely involuntary. More like throwing up or sneezing, than anything. Everyone else would judge her, so she decided not to judge herself.
Bliss painted a neutral expression on her face as she waited to say goodbye to her loved ones (one).
Ambrosia was the first to burst through the doors, unsurprisingly. She launched herself at Bliss, burying her face in Bliss' chest, trying to contain the sobs escaping against her will.
"I'm sorry, Bliss, I'm trying to be strong." Ambrosia cried.
"It's okay, love." Bliss said, petting her hair. A little ironic Bliss was comforting Ambrosia and not the other way around, but the girl would have to live with Bliss' demise and the fallout afterwards, not the other way around.
"Come back, please. I need you." Ambrosia said, intensity in her gaze. "I… I'm going to tell my parents about us. Even if you don't win. You can't be expected to be the only brave one around here." Ambrosia tucked a lock of hair behind Bliss' ear.
Bliss didn't know what to say. Instead, she pulled her girlfriend back into an embrace. There were times Bliss doubted Ambrosia's loyalty, but this exchange made the depth of the girl's love clear.
All too soon, the peacekeepers rapped on the door, signalling a one-minute warning. The girls reminded each other of their love and adoration, and once again Ambrosia was sobbing as she left. Tears sprung into Bliss' eyes, but she held them back, knowing who would be visiting next.
Councilman Beaudrie and his wife and son stalked into the room. If one didn't know better, it would appear they were walking in to check into a hotel or something of the like; their expressions betrayed no sadness, no pain, no distress. Although their reaction was expected, Bliss' stomach still knotted painfully. Just because she no longer expected any emotional reactions from her parents didn't mean it hurt any less. She felt like a piece of furniture.
Bliss' carefully practiced poker face slid over her features as her parents awkwardly tried to say goodbye. After just a few minutes they left, giving her "time" and "space" to say goodbye to her brother. They didn't look at her as they left. Love you guys too, Bliss thought, mind dripping with sarcasm.
As soon as the doors closed behind them, Bliss' brother closed in her on her like a hawk. He peered down at her, face inches from hers. She didn't flinch, though, nor stumble backwards at his sudden threatening presence. After a few moments sizing his younger sister up, as fast as he appeared, he stepped away.
A shit-eating grin replaced the one of malice that contorted his features moments before. Bliss barely refrained from rolling her eyes. But, she thought, he can't hurt me here, not really. He has no play. Why should she play nice if she'd never seen him again?
"Bryce…" Bliss started, inching closer towards him with mock innocence in her voice and eyes. He clocked it immediately, of course, but said nothing, as Bliss usually did nothing to aggravate him, lest it provoke him. She didn't pick fights she couldn't win, and judged situations carefully. Bryce let her speak, out of curiosity if nothing else.
"When I win, I'm not letting you move into my mansion. You can rot in the apartment with those vampires." Bliss delivered her words sweetly.
A hand cracked against her cheek, but she didn't move away, didn't flinch. She smiled back at him.
"I won't be sad when you die." Bryce snarled before stalking back through the doors.
Bliss was satisfied she'd rattled him. Warmth seeped though her skin at the site of the slap, but the lingering ache didn't bother her. Despite not speaking in the end, in a sense, Bliss felt like she got the last word in. A smile creeped across her face as she followed the Peacekeepers to the train.
The tributes had been shown to their rooms to shower and settle, left with instructions to return to the communal car within the hour. Bliss used up as much time as possible, losing herself in the steam of the shower, a- dare she think it- nearly blissful getaway from her circumstances.
Unable to procrastinate any longer, she checked her appearance over one last time in the mirror, ensuring she looked clean and put-together. Bliss took a deep breath and breached the door.
The escort and three victors sat on the couch with Chase, chatting about nothing too serious. They all looked towards her as she settled into the plush couch. She didn't take any extra time to ponder the extravagance of the car, the riches didn't matter. It was a layer of spray-paint gold over a pile of shit.
Bliss stared Chase down, then met the eyes of the victors. She pointedly didn't look at the escort, the Virgil to her Dante, about to lead her through the nine circles of hell.
"Hello, Burgundy." One of the victors said. Chase snickered at the use of her first name.
"I go by Bliss, actually." Bliss stated evenly. The victor nodded.
"Well, now that Bliss is done crying in the shower, can we get this mentoring business started?" Chase asked the room. One of the victors looked ready to chastise him, but Bliss interjected before he could.
"Better in the shower on my own time than drunk and crying to anybody who will listen, 'Mr. Mysterious.' Kinda kills the mood at parties." Bliss said, cuttingly. From the anger that swelled in Chase's face, Bliss knew the comment hit home. Around school, he tried to act aloof, but he was a fool, and the moment he became intoxicated he couldn't shut up. Bliss didn't know him well, but she knew of his reputation. Apparently he didn't appreciate it aired out.
Chase sprung from his seat and grabbed her forearm, squeezing viciously, trying to get a reaction. Bliss remained stone-faced as the victors pulled Chase off her. The escort dragged Chase into another, surely for a stern talking-to. Bliss adjusted the sleeves on her top then calmly sat down. The victors stared openly at her.
"What?" Bliss asked. They snapped their attention away, respectfully. Moments passed, then one of the victors picked up the conversation again.
"Bliss, I will be mentoring you this year." The youngest one said, a victor by the name of Harlem Budd. She nodded.
"Do we begin now?" Bliss asked, holding the gaze of the victor.
"We will have a preliminary meeting, then break for lunch, then get back to it before you may retire to rest for the evening." Harlem spoke carefully, still sizing Bliss up.
"Alright." Bliss responded.
"I assume you'll want to be mentored separately?" Harlem asked.
Bliss merely cocked an eyebrow and looked back towards the direction Chase had been dragged off. She met Harlem's eyes and nodded.
"Alright, let's begin." Harlem said, standing. His body unfurled, revealing his full height. Well over six and a half feet, but lean. Sneaky, if his games revealed anything of the way he used his stature to his advantage. He'd won well over a decade ago, but Bliss remembered the showing of his games from her elementary school classroom.
One of the adjacent doors banged open as Chase and the escort filed back in the room. Chase looked furious, but had enough control over himself not to lash out verbally or physically again. Chase stared Bliss down. The escort cleared her throat.
"I'm sorry." Chase grunted in Bliss' direction.
"Touching." Bliss said.
Harlem guided Bliss out of the room after that, away from the stream of profanities Chase hollered behind her. She didn't get to see who chose to mentor Chase.
"Guess we won't be allies. I'm heartbroken." Bliss said as they settled into the private mentoring room. Harlem shook his head, chuckling.
"What? I don't like bullies." Bliss said.
"I think my first impression of you was… wrong." Harlem admitted, after a moment.
"What, the impression I gave moments after being sentenced to death?" Bliss retorted, unable to quell her annoyance.
"When you put it that way…" Harlem acquiesced. "Usually tributes don't pull themselves together so fast, I suppose." He added.
"Just because I cried doesn't mean I'm weak." Bliss said, unsure if she was attempting to convince herself or her mentor.
Harlem considered her, and nodded. "I apologize for judging." He said.
With the tension taken out of the room, Bliss felt herself deflating a little as well. Harlem seemed to notice her discomfort.
"I won't lie to you, Bliss, the odds aren't in your favour." Harlem spoke slowly, as to not overwhelm his tribute. He seemed too young to speak in such a wise manner.
"There's something about you though, something that refuses to be intimidated, and I think we can work with that." Harlem said.
"I'm not delusional." Bliss started softly. "I know I'm going to die. But you're right, I don't want anyone get the best of me. I wish I could say it's because I'm smart, but I think it's because I'm angry." She said honestly.
"I think we can work with that." Harlem said again.
The evasive distance in his eyes from when he sat on the stage at the Reaping was completely gone. For better or worse, he was committed to helping Bliss. She wouldn't go down without a fight, and he saw that and respected it.
Bliss may not have a fighting chance, but she had a hell of a lot of anger towards anybody that tried to fuck with her. The determination and other energetic emotions coalesced in her gut. No, she wouldn't go down without a fight.