There was a smudge on the glass. I was watching my home, my family being ripped away from me as I sped down a twin pair of gleaming tracks to what was most likely my death, and all I could really think of was the smudge. It was there, almost mocking me, the rolling exhale if my breath highlighting it in sharp detail as I fogged up the glass. I wanted nothing more than to find a rag and wipe it clear from existence but something was stopping me, something I didn't even have a name for but was powerful enough to keep me firmly rooted in place. It was strange, not just being here on the train which was a marvel beyond anything I could have ever dreamed into being, but the deep gutted sense of betrayal that had burrowed its way inside.
Having been Reaped shouldn't have come as the terrible, earth shattering blow that it had, but it did. It was a uniquely vague and empty feeling. I never really valued my life all that much, up until now that is, not with how I'd been raised. My mother had never truly liked me and I believe that loving me was an impossibility for her, and made me feel similarly about myself. Still, I found that I couldn't exactly blame her for the spiteful nature of her heart. I was the reason for her pains, her indignity, and for nearly costing her, her life.
Trapped in her birthcanal I'd almost killed us both, but eventually I came into the world blue faced and scarcely breathing, the damage though, it was already done. My head bearing down on her pelvic bones for so long had caused and blockage in blood flow, and as a result the tissue to die and a fistula to form. This meant that she lost nearly all bladder control. It wasn't a common condition among women in my town, but my mother was far from being the only sufferer. Yet in her shame and self imposed isolation she found a renewal in her faith, and comfort in the old tome called the Bible she kept hidden under the floorboards passed down her line from one family member to the other from a time before reckoning.
Becoming closer to God during my formative years helped her come to the conclusion that I was a trial placed in her life by The Lord to test her, and she treated me as just that. For years I strove to overcome her expectations, her hatred of me, and the punishments she would devise for seemingly everything, anything. Eventually I gave up not unlike my father who drank away his life as a result of his wife's impropriety, and accepted my role as the cause of all my mother's pain and sorrow. It gave me little self worth, and at times I began to wish that I'd never even been born. If it hadn't been for my older brothers however, I might not have even lived so long as to be Reaped, funny how these sorts of things work out considering all this was their fault.
Mark and Luke who had been six and three, respectively, the time of my birth and our mother's revival in "the faith" had received first hand education directly from the book and were taught to despise the sister they had so eagerly awaited. Thankfully that lesson didn't take. The combination of one parent's strict but secretive religious adherence, the other's messy and public decent into alcoholism and the devastating struggles of surviving the Mockingjay rebellion had culminated into making them rather defiant if not open minded young men who loved their sister and wanted what they believed was best for her. Their defiance is what caused a lot of the grief faced by our family.
Because truth be told, it wasn't any sort of accident that I was Reaped. Chance, fate, luck, the "odds" never had any part in what happened today and unfortunately I knew it. My devoid Christian of a mother had wept for joy and called it the hand of God releasing her from her bonds and trials after seeing the purity of her heart when we were gathered for voting. My drunkard of a father tried to gather himself together enough to make a functional response as he sat slumped on the ground. And my brothers, my strong handsome brothers who did more of my raising than either of them stood in a deep abiding silence.
Mark and Luke had been trying to form not quite a second rebellion though they would gladly have joined up to any there was, regardless of the frailty of such schemes. Rather, they were making plans to leave. An exodus, they called it for irony's sake, and already had two other families making plans to go with us at the time of my Reaping. Though not everyone in our family was going to come with us. No, we had plans to leave our parents behind. As terrible as that made us we, or my brothers, really as I was often left out of such plan making for my own safety, didn't feel like the risk of bringing them with us could be afforded.
When Mark insisted that I leave our family home and move in with the pair of them a few months ago, I hadn't any idea that it was because our escape was planned and scheduled to take place relatively soon. Wallowing in my sorrows and self despair, I wondered if I had been aware of the precarious position my family was in would I have been more responsible in my duties with an axe? Would I not have shirked the clearing away of forest to run off as frequently as I had?
I was a constant thorn in Forman's side, taking advantage of the deep, wide woods in which fellers like myself worked and slipped away while the overworked and thinly scattered Peacers were busy or negligent. And why would I risk lashings or limitations placed on my rations? What was more important to me than all this? Reading. Of everything in life, reading had become my secret and all consuming passion.
I was rather bitter thinking about it now watching my breath fog up the glass, staring at the smudge which mocked me. Like a book ever did anyone good, ever brought them happiness or put food in their family's bellies. Books were perhaps the least useful and most frivolous inventions of man! I berated myself. Besides, hadn't it been a book that drove my mother to hate me?
Yet, regardless of how I might feel now, I know I still love them. Love and cherish the quiet moments tucked away hidden from the world in a leafy bough if oak, or pressed in a cozy nook of cedar, or elm. The boys, my brothers, were always on the look out, stealing or bartering to obtain my secret treasures, the ones that would whisk me fast and far from the woods, and set me at once somewhere else where there was no pain or suffering, or if their was it was merely a small complication, a stepping stone in a journey of a thousand strides. Reading was my only true form of escape, and knowledge, and it meant everything to me. Would it have though, if I'd realized that actual freedom was obtainable if only I'd kept my head down? I'm not sure.
Closing my eyes all I could see was their faces. My mother, her bright and victorious eyes quickly clouding with sorrow, grief and fear when she realized the price at which she was finally ridding herself of me. My father, confused, dull minded and slow to react, then on his feet in and instant bellowing, roaring as he fought forward only to be quickly grounded by the butt of a rifle to his head. Mark, the Peacers wanting us to be sure we knew why this was happening exposed his name written upon the crisp white paper for all to see, he stood dead eyed and sunken shouldered as our double death sentence was declared. Luke was pale, wild eyed and incredibly small looking as the guards held him. All of it going impossibly slow, as the pain embedded itself into my soul like an arrow, or a bullet.
"Should have been more careful, shouldn't you Pevensies?" the captain of the Peacers asked smiling cockily before patting Luke, who was struggling with shock, on the cheek.
The brief contact brought the younger of my brothers back to life and caused him to curse and fight against the men restraining him. In the end he settled for spitting in the brute's face as a good alternative to a blow. The captain took out his baton and with a few decisive strikes Luke was on his knees.
"Now, Miss Eve's pretty much all well and taken care of, and so are you Mark." the captain declared as his speech continued. "Unfortunately if she does happen win we can't just kill a Victor or her brothers, because it would cause a bit of a scene, but I hear about trees crushing people or unexpected falls that break necks occurring all the time."
He was spelling it out for us, each word a cruel reminder of the Capitol's power and ruthlessness. I was practically marked for death by going into the Games, not like anyone who does is exempt, and through me Mark's fate was equally sealed. If I were to win however one or more of us would inevitably face an "accident," while the rest of the family had to figure out how to live with the truth, my Reaping was just a reminder of their complete control and authority.
As I was being pulled away and marched towards the train I wondered briefly about the fates of the other families, before childhood memories of feet dangling inches from the ground swinging in the air their owners so desperately needed but would never get. Of discolored faces, bulging eyes, tight rope, and an insurmountable fear that I would be next. No, it was better not to think about them at all.
Opening my eyes I felt determination coursing through me. I had to win. If I won it not only meant that Mark and I would both live, but it also meant that we would have time together the three of us and it didn't matter how much precious little time it was. The only thing that mattered was that we would all be together before the inevitable falling tree, or axe swung wide ending someone. And this time, I vowed using my sleeve to wipe clean the window, this time I wouldn't waste a single moment with them, not one.