The world around me feels as if I've been plunged underwater. In the shock of the moment, everything seems delayed, yet too fast at the same time. I turn to look past the shocked faces of those beside me, and catch a glimpse of Prim. Small, pale Prim, who cries when she even injures a bug. She's putting on a brave face, I can tell from here, as she walks towards the stage. Her chin is lifted, and she tries to tuck the back of her shirt back into her skirt, since it must have come undone.
How could this happen?
The thought screams its way through my mind. Under the scorching heat of the summer afternoon, on what otherwise might have been a perfectly nice day, tragedy has struck. I look to Katniss, trying to see what she's thinking. Her eyes are locked on the screen above the Justice Building, and her face has suddenly drained of all color. She looks how I feel, shocked, like all the breath has been sucked out of her lungs.
Prim won't make it, I think to myself. I can't find the will to be optimistic in a situation like this. It's extremely rare for someone as slight, and as young as Prim to win. The youngest winner we know of was fourteen when he won, and he had the advantage of being from a career district. Prim is going to die. I know it's inevitable, yet my brain can't seem to process it still. How could her name be called? It was only in the bowl one time, once, that's it. If anyone's speaking, I cannot hear them. The world seems almost fuzzy and far away, and I can feel my heartbeat so strongly in my chest that I fear it's about to burst out. I squeeze Katniss's hand, and before I can register what's happening, she's in action.
"Prim!"
Her scream cuts through the haze and startles me back to reality. Katniss has shoved her way through the row, and has begun to make her way towards the stage. She has that same look of determination on her face as she did when she brought that bread back during the rain, and I fear for what's about to happen.
"Prim!" She calls again, this time closer to the bottom of the stairs.
Everyone is frozen. The peacekeepers, Prim, Effie. Nobody quite knows what's about to happen, and I see one of the peacekeepers place a hand on his baton, ready just in case she tries to attack. Somehow, my eyes find Gale's among the crowd, and for once, he looks scared. Gale who spouts his wishes for a revolt against the Capitol, and talks about how unjust things are, is scared when something might finally happen to challenge it all. I would be lying if I said I wasn't scared too. It's almost like we can't move, we're transfixed by the horror of it all and locked in place where we stand.
"I volunteer!" Katniss's panicked voice rings out through the square. "I volunteer as tribute!"
And like that, Gale and I are moving towards the stage, snapped out of whatever spell we'd been under. Prim, who's begun to be escorted down the steps, is crying for her sister. Her screams create a chilling echo among the stunned silence that's befallen the square. Katniss tells her to find their mother, and Gale and I pull Prim away from her so that she can ascend the steps to the stage. The cameras have transfixed themselves onto her as she slowly makes her way up the stairs, and faces the crowd with determination.
"Go back to your row. I'll get her to Mrs. Everdeen faster if it's just me." Gale instructs, and I nod numbly.
I can see Katniss staring out at the scene before her, scanning the crowd. She did the one thing someone can do to reverse the decision of the reaping. One boy, or one girl can volunteer, and they then go in the place of that tribute, saving them from the reaping that year. It's honorable, and foolish. My mind almost cannot seem to wrap itself around this, and I start thinking of what I'll say when we say our goodbyes. What the most useful bit of advice I can give her would be, what would aid her. How can I help her? She's a survivor, I know that much. And if she can keep the same determination she's had since she was just a frail little whisp of a girl with two loaves of scorched bread that she brought back from the rain, I know she'll make it. She's a wildfire, she just needs to keep the flames lit.
"Let's give a big round of applause for our first Volunteer!" Effie calls out.
But she's the only one clapping. The mood around me has shifted from a stunned silence into a somber one. There's sadness in the eyes of all those around me, and a heaviness that's fallen over the crowd. In some districts - even though it's illegal to do so - some train secretly up until they're 18, at which point, they volunteer. It's seen as a sign of glory in those districts, of bravery and fearless courage. But not in twelve. In district twelve, we don't have volunteers, in fact I don't think there's been one for as long as I've been alive. In twelve, we know that being chosen is a death sentence, and that volunteering isn't offering yourself up for glory. It's a sacrifice, and in this case it's one born of love.
Looking around me, I can see everyone surrounding the square begin to press three fingers to their lips, and then raise them in the air. A salute. There's a somber sort of electricity about it, the gesture. It's commonly used as a final good-bye, one you'd see at funerals. It's a way to mourn, and it feels proportionate to the weight of the moment. It's not the ugly kind of jovial energy that buzzes around districts like one or two when someone volunteers. It's uniquely twelve, something to commemorate the loss of a brave soul. We're united in our loss, and in this moment, it feels almost dangerous. It's like our own form of protest, a denial of the hand we were dealt. I want to shun the thought.
Before anyone can really react, Haymitch jumps up out of his seat. The moment of shocking agility dissipates quickly however, as he staggers over towards where Katniss is standing and wraps her in a sluggish embrace. He's half leaning on her as he looks up into the distance, towards the cameras that are no doubt locked onto the scene. "I like her!" He yells to nobody in particular. "She's got spunk! More than you!" He points into the distance halfheartedly -I wonder how this scene is playing out from his drunken perspective. Maybe he's shaming us for our inability to think of anyone other than ourselves, commenting on the lack of volunteers from our district. But I don't have the time to even fully register what he's said when he staggers forward and practically throws himself off of the stage.
The peacekeepers hesitate before they run forward, and I can see that Katniss is visibly shaken as they check on him. When they reach him, they check his pulse -probably trying to make sure District 12 has at least one mentor left. The commotion has created a dizzying swirl of anxious excitement that bristles through the air.
But Effie Trinket doesn't seem so swayed by the events -in fact, she seems almost annoyed by it. She watches on from behind the microphone, and taps her feet impatiently as she does so. Ever punctual, always complaining about how long things take. She's likely annoyed that things will become too far behind schedule for her liking. You'd think she'd be happy though, with all her complaining about how boring and uninteresting it is to be the Capitol escort for District 12. Finally something truly intriguing happens and all she can muster is light enthusiasm and heaps of annoyance.
"Now," she clears her throat as the peacekeepers haul Haymitch away from the square, "for the boys."
She waltzes back towards the other side of the stage, where the boys bowl is, and rifles around for what feels like considerably less time than for the girls. She plucks a name out of the bowl hastily, and makes her way back to the microphone, reading the name and looking directly up towards the camera as she does so. I hold my breath.
"Peeta Mellark."
Gasps can be heard from around me, and I turn in their direction. My gaze lands on a fair, blonde haired boy from town, his parentage evident from his build. He looks well fed, or better fed than most of us from the seam anyway. I know him, surprisingly enough. Peeta is the son of the baker, and he and I have a similar group of friends in school. He's softer than they are though. Maybe not physically, but mentally for sure. He's a peaceful boy with a secret love of art, and a soft spot for particularly broken things. In his own way, he's incredibly smart. Though he doesn't really let on much, his skills of perception are unmatched. His mind always seems to be working to decipher the inner musings of others, a habit I can often relate to.
It looks like he's fighting back tears as he walks onto the stage, pushing through the row of his friends as they reach out for him. Some have begun to cry, but it's evident that he's trying to stay strong. Once he turns to face the crowd the cameras zoom into his face, beaming it back out to the rest of us from the large screen. I can't help but wonder what it must be like to view everything from the other side of the screen, to look out into the crowd and see the cameras and the hundreds of faces staring back at you. It looks like it's daunting for Peeta to face, and I watch as he tries to shield his face with a similar expression to the one worn by Katniss. But what looks natural on her, looks like a mask on him, like a facade he's putting on to make it through the moment.
"Do we have any volunteers for Mr. Mellark?" Effie asks with a smile so large it threatens to escape her face.
It seems like she's realized now the folly of her ways earlier, and wants to bask in the glory of another volunteer. But all she's met with in response is a resolute silence. There is no gesture for Peeta, no three-finger salute. I can see that it shakes him a little, knowing that no-one stood up to take his place. But I see him harden in resolve, trying to cover up any pain he feels from this by refreshing his mask of determination. He's scared though, I can tell.
Mayor Undersee stands as Effie instructs Peeta and Katniss to face each other and shake hands. He begins to recite the treaty of treason, the laws that allow for such a cruel and unjust 'game' to take place to begin with, and I catch Peeta and Katniss share a look. She looks away quickly - back to the floor - but Peeta's gaze lingers for a little while longer, almost like he's studying her. He stays that way almost the entire time that the treaty is being spoken. He seems almost entranced by her in a way.
But once it's finished, confused murmurs begin to drift around the square. Effie has not left the stage, hasn't given her final little speech, and the tributes haven't been ushered away to be shut inside the Justice Building and away from the prying eyes of the public. She looks suddenly devoid of all her previous contempt, and for once I think she's actually excited. Gale and I lock eyes from where he's re-positioned himself in his row, and I can bet his puzzled reaction is mirrored on my own face. People in the rows begin whispering to one another, as confusion fully engulfs the square. This must be why she was so annoyedly impatient earlier. There's something that we haven't been told yet. Effie's face is alight with the most genuine positive expression I think I've ever seen her have. Her eyes gleam excitedly, and she wears a beaming smile so real, that I realize she's truly very pretty under all the layers of the Capitol glamor she shrouds herself in. She's just itching to share whatever secret she's been let in on.
"Ladies, and gentlemen." She coos, her eyes scanning the crowd, basking in the intrigue. "I have a very special announcement."
Her eyes dart back and forth, like she's soaking up all of the attention that has to be on her. All the cameras have fixed onto her location, and her face is the only one on the screen above the Justice Building. This must be important.
"A new addendum to the Hunger Games has been added, by the Gamemakers, and by our very own President Snow. In this addendum, a new tribute pool has been created."
Shocked gasps ripple through the crowd, and I fear that I'm about to receive the answer to the question that had been bothering me earlier this morning.
"To signify that the Capitol too, lost children during the dark days, and that we are unified as one nation in our losses, it has been decided that two tributes will additionally be reaped, to represent us in the games. They will be known as Capitol tributes, and this year, the female Capitol tribute is to be reaped from This. Very. District!"
She speaks excitedly, like she's letting us in on some new gossip, or a school dance that's choosing two people to be its king and queen. It's like she expects us to be just as excited as she is. But all I can feel is an overwhelming sense of dread. I turn to look for Prim, and my gaze catches the frightened faces of the other girls around me as I do so. Then I remember, Prim's name has already been called, and I'm certain she didn't take out Tessarae. No, Katniss would never let her do that, in fact she'll likely tell Prim not to take any out when she visits her to say goodbye in a matter of minutes. Prim, for now at least, is safe.
The sun beats down around us as we watch Effie walk back over to the bowl with the girls's names, and dance her hand delightedly around the edge. She takes her sweet time, and I feel like I'm standing in a puddle of sweat by now. I look to where Madge is standing frozen in front of me, and quietly try to make my way to stand beside her without being noticed. I've always been rather feather-footed, and despite looking like the ghost that haunts the woodlands, I'm proud to say I wouldn't scare off a deer even if I was standing within two feet of it. Once I'm beside her, I take her hand and squeeze it within my own, trying to reassure her. It's rare that a Mayor's child is chosen, but the chances are never zero. And we all witnessed Prim, whose name was in the bowl six times less than Madge, get reaped.
"Willow Fairchild!"
My mind feels fuzzy as I register what she's said. That's my name. Madge squeezes my hand, and the other girls in the row turn towards me, their faces a mix of sympathy and shock. This cannot be happening. Who am I kidding, of course it can be happening. My name's in the bowl a fair enough amount, certainly more than Madge or the other girls from town. It's entirely possible and logical that this is happening, so why doesn't it feel real? I feel almost like I'm dreaming. The world has a not-all-there quality about it, everything seems far away. It's like I'm not even in control of myself. I'm a passenger to my body as it begins to make its way out of the row completely against my will.
There's a ringing in my ears as I make my way up the steps, locking eyes briefly with the startled expressions of Katniss and Peeta. My feet feel like they're being weighted down, and I struggle to lift them as I walk towards the expectantly outstretched arm of Effie Trinket. She's beaming with what I presume is an excited encouragement, and I struggle with myself to not look disgusted by the delight she's taking in such a horrific event. She doesn't see it that way, I try to tell myself. For her, this is a moment of genuine joy, of being a part of something truly groundbreaking and new. For me it feels like curiosity killing the cat. I've wondered long enough about the institution of new rules or prizes into the games. And fate - the cruel mistress who likes to twist things in a rather morbid sort of way - has given me a front row seat to my answer.
I try to look determined as I survey the crowd. Effie asks for any volunteers, but I know that there will be none. The only ones who would volunteer for me have been chosen already. It's a fate we'll have to suffer together it seems. A grim silence spreads, and Effie - who has now taken to wrapping one of her green-sleeved arms around me and clutching me to her side - nods, as if this is exactly what she expected.
"Happy Hunger Games," Her voice booms into the microphone, it's somehow louder from the stage. "and may the odds be ever in your favor."
With that, we're ushered into the Justice Building, and away from all the crowds and cameras. I steal glances at Katniss and Peeta, both of whom seem completely immersed in their inner thoughts. Katniss's mind is probably working a million miles a minute in order to try and make sense of this all, and figure out a plan. She's always got a plan. We're ushered down an incredibly long hallway, until we're finally separated into different rooms, and I find myself alone in a rather lush room.
There's a few bookshelves littered here and there. The wood is decorated beautifully with ornate carvings of winding flowers and vines. It must have been imported from District Seven, I think. In the far edge of the room, close to a large window that spans almost entirely to the ceiling, sits a wooden desk with similarly ornate carvings accented by a soft looking red chair.
Looking around, I notice a solemn white rose that rests ever so gently alongside the rim of the clear glass of the vase it finds itself in. I feel kind of like the rose, encased in a glass cage of which I cannot escape. Doomed to be gazed upon and admired by all those who come across me as they watch me wither away prettily.
Right now would usually be the time when family and friends would come to say goodbye. But without a family, I know that likely no one will come through that door to see me off. The only friends who are truly close enough to me are probably using their time to visit Katniss and Peeta. And since the two of them can't come to say goodbye to me either given their current circumstances, I wonder how long it will be until visiting time is over and we're taken to the train.
Before I can wonder any further, a holographic light begins to emit from the center of the desk, startling me. When I jump up, I notice that there's a face in the light, which has since expanded into what looks like a broadcast. But I can't quite make it out, the afternoon light from the window seems to be disrupting the image somehow, and it's difficult to see. I close the velvety curtains that sit tied up on either side of the window, which allows for an easier time seeing the screen being emitted before me.
What I see freezes me on the spot. The face on the other side of the screen is the unmistakable one of President Snow. He's nearly identical to the way we've seen him on TV in the past. Something about him looks awfully fake, like he's been modified to be somehow prettier. But I get the sense that whatever beautification he underwent must have gone horribly wrong, since I can't imagine anyone would want to look like that. But behind the grotesquely beautiful mask he's donned, and the small smile I'm sure he presumes is comforting, his eyes seem alive. He's smart, and analytical, with a penchant for sniffing out truth. They say as much on TV, when they shower him with praise after praise. I wouldn't assume any differently, how else could he rise to lead the nation? It's intimidating to say the least and I feel almost like a deer, frozen for an instant in fear, unable to move but wishing to bolt at any moment.
"Hello My Dear," The familiar drawl I've heard on TV so many times drifts through the room - there must be a speaker somewhere. I wonder if this is a broadcast recording, and shudder at the frightening thought that perhaps it's not. "I know this must all seem, surprising to say the least."
He pauses for a moment, watching me, and I realize that he's waiting for a reply. This must be a transmission, not a broadcast, and the realization sends a chill down my spine.
"Yes-I mean, it is, sir." I try to respond as formally as I can. My words feel like they're turning to sand in my mouth.
But I try to snap out of it, to keep my clarity of mind and not allow my nerves to consume me. I'm best at thinking, and I know enough about the games to know that a sharp mind is all it takes to win sometimes. This conversation could make things easier or harder for me, as long as I play my cards right. The power balance is clear, one of us is predator and the other, prey.
"I'm sure you have many questions for me."
"I don't, not really." I respond, trying for a small smile. I realize though that it's the truth, that I don't truly have any questions.
In a moment of almost stunning clarity, I realize that there must be some rhyme or reason to this new addition, just like all the additions before it. They must have their reasons, and I doubt that they'd share them with me. President Snow was a gamemaker once, after all, and he knows how to keep things interesting. He's a planner, like Katniss, like me. Always two steps ahead, with an almost clairvoyant quality. However, despite all this, my response seems to catch the President off-guard. For a moment his mask of self-assured confidence slips, and he seems almost taken aback - maybe he was shocked by my truthfulness? He composes himself again quickly, and clears his throat, but I can see his eyes are still alight with a scrutinizing curiosity.
I decide at this moment that truth and logic is what will aid me in my interactions with such a dangerous man. Nothing outright false - I'm sure he'd see through a lie in an instant - but the truth molded in a way that suits my narrative. The Capitol can spin the truth of the games to fit their own narrative, and so too can I.
"So you know why Capitol tributes are being selected?" He asks, a deeper curiosity than it seems he intended seeping through his tone.
"Of course, it's like we were told outside. The Capitol too shares in the grief and loss of the old days, and as such, it's time that it too pays tribute to the errors of the past. We are all united as a country, and as such, our tributes should reflect all of us, not just the districts who rebelled."
I wait in an anxious silence, trying to study President Snow's face through the screen. He seems to be absorbing my words, his eyes flickering here and there every now and again like he's analysing what to make of me. Like he's crafting the perfect response.
After what feels like an eternity, he glances back to me with a gleam in his eye. "You seem to have quite the sense of these things."
"Thank you, sir."
"What is it that you do?" He asks, a tone of genuine curiosity scattered throughout his voice. "Your profession, that is."
I think for a moment before answering him. "I'm a historian, sir. I collect the spoken and witnessed histories and transcribe them for future generations."
"Including The Hunger Games, I presume."
"Yes, sir, including the games."
He nods, and chuckles to himself, like there's pieces of a puzzle that he's finally putting into their proper places. It's thrilling, the idea of talking to President Snow. There's something about it that's almost electric. Like each of us is planning our next words out in calculated moves, finding what makes the opponent tick. It's like a game, this conversation, and we're both trying to win.
"You had no visitors." He remarks, more a comment than a question, but I can read between the lines. He's wondering why.
"Yes, sir. I have no family to visit me."
Again, he resumes an analytical silence, nodding periodically to himself as he does so, like he'd forgotten about my unfortunate last name. I find my mind roaming however, and I begin to wonder about the surroundings behind him. Wherever he is, it's lavish, more lavish than anything I could ever imagine from the Capitol. It's more lavish than anything I've ever seen on TV either. There are pillars which seem to be encased with gold, which are built from some almost white, glossy material. There are sofas and cushions and more decorations than I've ever seen in my life. It's overwhelming enough to be seeing it through a screen, I can hardly imagine the magnitude of being there in person.
"But you have friends, no?" His voice brings me back to the present, and I nod.
"Yes sir, I do. But most of them have been reaped today."
There's silence, and then: "I see. You're a very honest young woman, and smart."
"I would hope so, sir," I begin, trying to choose my words carefully, and maybe gain some favor from the man. "I often find myself striving to embody those qualities, among others, as I feel they are those which define the Capitol. Purity, Mercy, Intelligence, and Honesty."
I pause, partly to take a breath, and partly to glance at the reaction to my words.
"I find these are qualities we all should strive to live with."
Another silence looms in the room, and I allow myself to glance up at the screen once more. President Snow is sat looking at me now, as if he's sizing me up finally, truly taking into account what I'm made of. After a while, he nods, and smiles what one could almost mistake for a real smile.
"A very promising young woman indeed. I wish you luck, Miss Fairchild."
And with that final note, before I can even thank him or say anything at all, the transmission ends, and he's gone. But the silence that fills the air in his wake is no longer heavy and tense, it's lighter, and I smile to myself briefly. In that little game, our carefully calculated conversation, I can't help but get the sense that I've just won.