Clementine scrubbed at her skin until it felt raw, the rough cloth scratching away layers of grime and soot that clung to her from the mines. Her hands were red from the effort, and her skin stung under the cool water, but the fear of the Peacekeepers seeing any imperfection drove her on. She knew what happened to those who weren't deemed "presentable." You were ether hosed down, beaten, or worse. In District 12, you didn't make mistakes, not on Reaping day.
At least her hair was already black, she thought with some small relief, dark enough to hide the soot that still lingered in her scalp. No matter how hard she tried, there was always some left, but at least it wouldn't show in her hair like it did on her skin. The dress she pulled over her head was the same one she always wore on this day—faded grey and a bit too tight now, the fabric pulling against her shoulders. There had been no one to help her make or buy new clothes, not since her father had died in the last mine collapse. Her mother had followed soon after, withering away from grief. Clementine had been left alone to fend for herself in a world that didn't care if you lived or died, so long as you kept working.
She hated how love had ruined her parents. How it had dragged her mother down into the pit of despair, leaving Clementine to pick up the pieces. She had promised herself that love would never destroy her like that, would never leave her vulnerable. It was better to be alone.
The sharp tone of the whistle pierced the air, summoning them all to the square for the Reaping. The noise startled her, pulling her from the dull ache of memory and back to the present. The square was already filling with people—silent, grim faces lined up in neat rows. Each one of them waiting for the same terrible fate. As she made her way into the crowd, one of her friends leaned in close, whispering, "You missed a spot." Clementine's heart dropped, panic rising in her chest. She quickly swore under her breath and rubbed furiously at the soot smudge on her arm. If the Peacekeepers saw... she didn't want to think about it.
The line moved forward, and she winced as the prick of the needle registered her blood, marking her once again in the Capitol's system. Six times before, her name had gone into that bowl. This was the last time. Eighteen years old, her final Reaping. She stood at the back, grouped with others who were on the edge of freedom, if you could call it that. The older teens, those like her who had survived this long, huddled together in quiet, shared desperation. Each of them hoping they wouldn't be chosen, that they could escape this nightmare after today.
Not that it mattered to Clementine. Her name was in so many times that she'd long since lost count. Not because she was reckless, but because it didn't matter. What did she have to live for? She used her name to get extra food, medicine, supplies for others who needed it more. It was a small way to help, to make something of this life. But now, standing there, she wondered if she'd gambled away too much.
Effie Trinket appeared on stage, bright and colourful as ever. Clementine's breath caught, her eyes drawn to her, as they always were. The Capitol escort was everything their world was not—vibrant, dazzling, full of life. Her makeup was flawless, her clothes outrageously extravagant. She was like a painting come to life in a world of ash and dust. Every time in the last three years, despite herself, Clementine had found herself captivated by Effie. Her effervescent personality stood in such stark contrast to the grim reality of the Games, to the hopelessness of District 12. For a few brief moments, when Effie spoke in her bright Capitol accent, the world seemed a little less cruel. No matter how ridiculous that was considering the words that left her mouth would condemn two more souls to ruin.
And yet, it was confusing. Clementine knew how absurd it was to feel anything toward someone from the Capitol. The same people who turned their suffering into entertainment, who orchestrated the Games that claimed so many of their own. Her friends couldn't understand how Clementine could feel anything other than hatred for someone like Effie. And Clementine didn't have an answer for them. She didn't understand it either. But it wasn't like Effie was directly responsible for the Hunger Games. She was just a part of the machine, a cog in the Capitol's well-oiled engine of destruction. And despite that, Clementine was drawn to her, fascinated by the way Effie brought colour and energy into a world of grey. Not just with her clothes, but the woman's very energy lit up the stage.
Maybe it was because the attraction felt safe. Effie was so far removed from her reality that nothing could come of it, and that was the point. No risk. No heartbreak. It was a love that couldn't hurt her, unlike the kind her parents had shared. And in a world like this, wasn't it better to feel something, even if it was impossible, rather than nothing at all?
As Effie began to speak, Clementine found herself mesmerized, unable to look away from the vibrant woman standing on the stage. She barely registered the first name called, it wasn't hers after all. Her focus was entirely on the large, rose-shaped adornment in Effie's hair, the way the sunlight made her lips shimmer, the flutter of her long lashes. It wasn't until the shout of "I volunteer as tribute!" rang through the air that Clementine snapped out of it.
Her heart lurched in her chest. Not from fear, but because of the way Effie's face lit up, her expression breaking into something far more animated than usual. She looked almost... excited. For a moment, Clementine forgot about the madness of the volunteer, forgot about the grim reality of the Reaping. All she could think about was how Effie's eyes seemed to sparkle with life, how her smile widened in genuine surprise. It was like Effie was feeling something real for the first time, something that had pierced through her Capitol-trained façade.
Clementine couldn't even bring herself to look at the person who had volunteered. It didn't matter. All that mattered was the way her heart beat faster, the way her thoughts spun around the woman in red standing on the stage. She had it bad, and she knew it. But what did it matter? She knew nothing could ever come of it, but that didn't stop the way her thoughts lingered on Effie Trinket, even as the days melted into one another. What did time matter when nothing ever changed? When that burning ache stayed constant, no matter how long had passed?