CHAPTER 4 – LINGER / WARRIOR
Tackle Auger
My ghostly face stares back at me, hazy, distorted by the smooth marble ceiling and moonlight glow. An outline of white, filled with holes where features should be. I wonder what it would be like to be dead. Most people believe in something- heaven, and afterlife. There's been a nationwide spike in religion since last year's wretched Games, which took place in two arenas as part of the Quarter Quell Twist. Heaven and hell. It's a nice thought- even in hell, you don't lose your sense of self, your identity.
Personally, I think death is a long, dreamless sleep. No, worse than sleep. More like anesthesia- passing out and waking up sandwiched around no discernible amount of time. Except with death, you don't emerge from the primordial state, you sink further. Once the brain dies, everything we are ceases to exist. It's a pretty thought, never having to worry again. Far too tempting. It's not one I entertain often, though.
I wish I could go for a run, but I barely managed to eat anything at dinner, and couldn't even stomach another protein drink or smoothie when I got home. I went straight to bed, passed out for three hours, and now find myself aggravated and restless. My stomach hurts. I'm not in the right mood to eat, though.
Groaning, I shut my eyes and will myself to fall back asleep. I'll be dead on my feet tomorrow if I have to operate on three hours of sleep. I can't get comfortable, though. The pillow's lumpy, the sheets stick to my skin. I'm sweaty, filthy. Frustrated.
I settle for a happy medium between sedentary and exerted, deciding to go for a walk.
I prefer victor's village at night. Quiet. Never quite peaceful, as the location is a constant reminder of what we had to do to get here, but I find it easier to breathe with no one else around. As thoughts swirl around my brain, I let my face change, contort, express- things I usually suppress during regular interactions. If no one sees, no one will try to pry me open and steal my secrets.
What if the videos are still circulating?
The thought stops me dead in my tracks. It brings me to my knees. My chest seizes. I wouldn't survive the embarrassment.
Little showman, come out and play.
Riel's voice intrudes in my consciousness, and I spring to my feet. Damn the consequences, I start jogging. I focus on my controlled breath, pulsing heart, feet striking the pavement. Anything but the sense memory those words bring up. I'm not running hard enough, though. I can still smell his sweat. I can taste his salty, dirty skin. I can feel fear weighing on my limbs, as I try, and fail, to run away.
The fear takes my breath away. I sink to the ground for the second time this outing. Disgust rattles my teeth. As soon as I regain my ability to breathe, I take off sprinting.
I loop victor's village three times, before someone's living room light come on. It's three doors down from me- Jig's place. I slow to a walk and see him pacing, leafing through a book. I guess I'm not the only one losing sleep tonight.
I stare for longer than I should, but it's rare seeing Jig without his boisterous facade. He looks thoughtful, one hand under his chin, propping it up while he reads. He tilts his head down, and black, nose-length hair cascades around his face, obscuring his expression. His jawline is sharp in the lowlight. Through his thin t-shirt, I see swelling muscles in his chest, back, and arms. I don't know why I notice these things. I wish I still looked like that.
Jig drops the book on the ground and runs his hand through his hair. He looks to the ceiling, distraught. He's participated in Wyatt's training since his victory, and although he's not as close with him as I am with Mali, Wyatt's potential loss must be weighing on him. I almost want to tell him I know how he feels.
Suddenly, Jig looks out the window. I jump, and start jogging. He watches me pass by. We don't acknowledge each other.
My heart's pounding again, what an awkward interaction. I hope he doesn't run his mouth, I don't need Aelia worrying herself on my account.
Wind whistles by. I hear Riel's voice again. I sprint harder, looping victor's village again. Blackness encroaches on the edge of my vision, and I stumble home. I might be able to sleep now. But not until I'm clean.
The distraction of the pelting hot water puts my mind at ease. I deeply inhale the clean steam, and scrub my skin until it turns red. It's not enough. I find my bottle of bleach underneath the bathroom sink, and bring it into the shower.
Capfuls at a time, I pour the chemical over my skin, from head to toe, focusing on my torso and pelvis. I swish it around in my mouth. When I spit, I cough so hard I nearly throw up. I'm burning, everything is burning. My skin in slimy from the chemical. I sit on the shower floor, letting the water rain down on me for almost an hour.
I finally feel clean.
Mali Cypress
I stare at myself in my small dorm mirror, circular, slightly concave- just enough to distort my features. No matter the state of the mirror, I'm impressed with what I see. After the early conversation with Wyatt at the beach, I excused myself, snuck back into the dorm, and got to work.
I wove the crown of my hair into four interlocking braids which loosen and unfurl as they descend. Strands frame my face, curling. I applied makeup, enough to darken my eyes and the contours of my face. I dressed in canvas, form-fitting brown pants and teal shirt- the same colour as my eyes. Overtop, I layered leather accessories, traditional in D4: forearm plates to protect from underwater bites, a chest plate to protect from spears, a chainlink-woven leather cover for the pants- created as not to restrict movement, but still be bite-proof. A fisherman's armour.
I look fierce. I look like a strong contender.
I take final breath, I give my dorm room a final once-over. It's time to step into the next phase of my life, or die trying. The thought steels me, hardening my expression, bringing awareness to my body. The readiness in my muscles, the sharpness of my senses.
I will not die easily.
The short walk to the Reaping Ceremony feels like a runway. Younger students and adults alike stare. The chosen volunteer status is not a secret. Everyone knows who will raise their hand, after the name is drawn from the bowl. I'm met with appreciative smiles, intense stares, battle cries. I pay the distractions no mind, holding my chin high, entirely focused.
I join the pen of other eighteen year olds. Others are dressed up too in celebration, but all attention is on me. My cohort greets me and wishes me good fortune. Our District's escort, Lorelei Frost, steps onto stage wearing a teal gown- a sign of respect for D4. From what Tackle's told me, Lorelei is a good escort. Kind, considerate. For lack of a better term, I sounds like she knows her place. I don't mean to sound condescending, in fact I appreciate that she doesn't seem to overstep and try to take on mentor duties- like I've heard can happen with overambitious escorts. She's been with us for over a decade, now. The roar from the crowd makes tingles explode through my body, energy palpable.
"Welcome, District Four, to the 51st Annual Reaping Ceremony." Lorelei projects over the microphone.
Another cheer, another wave of energy. I can barely contain my excitement. Everything's coming together.
"Without further delay, let's draw names! Ladies first, as always! The female tribute for the 51st Hunger Games is..." Her talon-like fingernails leaf around the glass bowl, then she extracts a pice of paper and reads it aloud. "Mali Cypress!"
I hear gasps from the kids around me. I'm about to raise my hand to volunteer, but then I process what I just heard. It's cosmic! Fate is shining on me today. With an ear to ear smile, I step out of the eighteen year old's pen and bow before approaching the stage. I carry the same intent focus I approached the Ceremony with to the stage.
Roaring cheers surround me, academy students, trainers, and general public alike whooping. I take my place on stage and face the crowd. I smile again. The roar blots out all else. I can't wait to see the footage later.
I don't hear who Lorelei calls as male tribute, focused on the energy of the crowd. Wyatt volunteers, then joins me. We fiercely embrace. I look at Wyatt, and he mirrors my expression. We stare at each other for a moment, giving each other our best warrior-like expressions, then face our District. Never has the crowd been so loud- but maybe I'm biased, because these cheers are for me. Elation doesn't begin to describe what I'm feeling.
Too soon, we're escorted from the stage. I feel like I'm floating, walking to the holding area, light as a feather. Tackle's the only one to visit as "family" during the allotted time to say goodbye, there's no one else. Wyatt has a few siblings and his parents.
I told Tackle he didn't have to stay with me, but I secretly appreciate that he cares enough to check up. He shuts the door behind him, drowning out the commotion outside. Silence fils the room. My ears ring.
Not usually one to show affection, Tackle uncharacteristically crosses the room and pulls me into an embrace. I wrap my arms around his neck, just like I did when I was a little kid.
"You looked strong out there. I'm proud of you, Mali." Tackle says into my braids.
I hold him tight for a moment longer, feeling our hearts beat together. He feels skeletal. Now's not the time to think about that, though... But, maybe it is. I may die before I have another private moment to check in with him.
"Are you okay?" I whisper, muffled against his hair, too quiet for microphones to pick up.
Tackle sighs, and steps back. "I know we haven't really had a chance to speak, with everything that's been going on. Please be assured, you're my number one priority."
An evasive answer. I stare at him. He stares back at me. I decide to leave it for now, though it's obvious something's heavily weighing on him.
"After I win, you owe me a conversation." I say.
Tackle nods. "When you win, we'll talk all you want."
"You mean that?" I ask.
"Yeah." I can tell it's true, because he looks nervous as he answers. "But for now, we need to focus on you."
"Agreed." This earns me another chuckle. "I told Wyatt about my mother this morning." I say out of the blue. I don't know why. Maybe the fact his mother is in the next room brought the memory back.
"I thought of my mother as well on the morning of my Reaping." Tackle admits. I nod. "She'll be with you as much as I am, in the arena. We're in your corner, watching over you, rooting for you."
"I know." I nod again, taking his hand. "Thank you. I know I can trust you. I thought after my mother died I'd be alone forever. Thanks for not letting that happen." Perhaps my phrasing is awkward, but I've never been the best at talking about my feelings. "You know I love you, right?" I ask. My eyes drift to the scenery outside, and I sigh.
"This isn't goodbye. You're coming home again." Tackle says.
"You can bet on it." I say.
"I'm not allowed to, kid. But I would." He replies, cheeky.
Peacekeepers knock on the door, it's time to leave for the station, time to switch into mentor-tribute mode and out of sibling mode.
"Mali." Tackle says as I approach the door. I turn back. "I love you, too."
"I know." I say, smiling.
I shove the doors open, and they bang against the exterior wall. I surprise a clerk, and they drop several folders. I can't help but giggle.