My mother once told me that everything in the world speaks to one another. If you listen with enough care, you can even hear the sound of sunlight falling on the beach. Back then, I was a child—bruised by heartbreak, sharp with bitterness, restless, foolish, and lacking any true spirit. With a dismissive air, I tore that scrap of paper and, beneath her elegant handwriting, scrawled: "Or maybe it's because you can't speak yourself!"

If I could trade anything to turn back time—to return to the day I was nine or ten, to reclaim that pen and take back the cruel, hideous words I once wrote to my mother—I would pay any price. But at that time I was heartbroken, foolish, and jagged, and though I remain so to this day, at least I've learned not to transform my wounds into arrows aimed at those who love me. However, the only person in this world who ever loved me is now gone.

My mother was an Avox. She had committed an unforgivable crime against the Capitol—at least, that's what the book History of the Glorious Nation in the bookstore claimed. For her transgression, her tongue was cut out, her identity stripped away, and for the rest of her life, she was condemned to be a slave to the upper echelon of Capitol society. Naturally, no one wishes to live as a slave, so she fled the Capitol and came to District Four. When she first saw the ocean, she surely never imagined that the endless stretch of sand and the unbroken blue of sea and sky would fail to bring her the freedom she craved. Not long after, she became a slave to my father. She was used and discarded like a secondhand trinket—and then I arrived, painful and inevitable. Thus, the young Avox girl from the Capitol willingly stepped into another cage, cradling that tiny, oyster-like bundle, and became my slave—or, in other words, a slave to motherhood.

The people of District Four make their living through fishing. My mother, being a Capitol native, naturally did not know how to fish. I don't know what her status was before she escaped the Capitol, but those days there had afforded her a good education and a refined, distinctive elegance. She found work at a bookstore on the commercial street between the upper and lower blocks, where she meticulously arranged books. The sunlight, softened and purified as it passed through the glass display windows, mingled with drifting dust and the scent of ink; row upon row of silent bookshelves overlooked intruders, and that little shop almost defined my entire childhood.

I never played on the beach like the other children do. In truth, no child ever wanted to play with me—I was the daughter of an Avox, half a Capitol, a bastard of the Beaumont family. Every drop of blood in me seemed to be steeped in venom, and so I was naturally regarded as a plague. The difference in bloodlines might have been hidden, but even my appearance set me apart from the children of District Four—my mother was of Asian descent. I inherited her deep brown eyes, jet-black hair, and gentle, unremarkable features, and having spent most of my time indoors, my skin grew unnaturally pale. All of this made me seem even more vulnerable and easy prey.

Even fish in the deep sea are social creatures; to maintain camouflage or simply to recognize their own kind, many fish will cast aside those who look different. Those unlucky "misfits" are abandoned, driven away, and attacked. Ever since I could understand, I knew I was a fish born with the wrong pattern. When I was young, I tried to exchange sincerity for sincerity—I felt confused, wronged, angry, and I would fight back when bullied. Now, I simply swim away to places unseen, smiling faintly at the sneers and cold words before turning away in silence. In time, my tormentors discovered there was little pleasure in targeting me. After I turned fourteen, my body slimmed down and my features began to mirror my mother's more closely, and that's when the malice gradually subsided—sometimes even replaced by inexplicable acts of kindness. And that was when I realized that I was becoming beautiful. No one can help but adore beauty, and I was no exception. Likewise, no beautiful person fails to learn how to use their beauty to their advantage—and neither do I.

District Four abounds with beauty: the golden beaches strewn with shells, the horizon of the sea sprinkled with the light of dawn, the pearl bracelets sold in the night market, coconut lamps, wind chimes, and sails dyed by the wind. Yet for me, the most beautiful things were not these fleeting vistas or exquisite handicrafts.

I stood in the center of the square, where the sea breeze whistled, flanked by rows of restless sixteen-year-olds. It was the annual Reaping Day, and the entire District Four had gathered here to await Serena Devereaux—the District Four affairs coordinator from the Capitol—to draw two names from the two large glass balls. The two chosen children would become tributes of District Four, sent to the Capitol to participate in a nationally televised competition. In the arena, twenty-four boys and girls from the twelve districts would fight to their deaths, and the last tribute standing would be crowned victor, bringing untold glory to their district. The Hunger Games. For the Capitol's residents, these two words meant an annual spectacle of entertainment, but for countless families in the twelve districts, they were an ever-present curse, steeped in death and foreboding.

Standing on the stage, Serena Devereaux's piercing voice buzzed through the microphone, resonating over the entire square. A row of peacekeepers in white uniforms encircled the area, forming an impenetrable white barrier. The drawing ceremony was broadcast live, with dozens of cameras aimed at us like dark, gaping gun barrels. I did not look at the peacekeepers, nor at the cameras, nor at Serena Devereaux, nor at my father and brother on the far side of the square. My eyes were fixed on only one person—standing beside Serena, the youngest victor of the Games three years ago, the Capitol's darling and District Four's pride, one of this year's Hunger Games mentors: Finnick Odair.

I can hardly put into words just how beautiful he is. Perfect deep-golden curls, flawless bronze skin, immaculate musculature, exquisitely chiseled features, and those perfect sea-green eyes. His beauty was already breathtaking, and after being tempered by death, merely standing there he shone like a deity. From the moment he stepped onto the stage, I no longer had time to feel nervous or afraid of the draw—I was simply staring at him, almost forgetting to breathe. Three years ago, before his name was adorned with countless dazzling honors and titles, when he was still that Finnick who went to sea every weekend and appeared both at school and at the training center in rotation, I had watched him in this silent awe. In all these years, I never once dared approach him, knowing full well how far away he was from me. And today, as he stood on that lofty platform as victor and mentor, I could clearly see that the distance between us was as vast as a chasm.

Then, all at once, he turned his head and our eyes locked. I startled, my heart pounding as if struck by a bullet, and I quickly looked away—not out of shyness, but because I did not want him to discover my hidden feelings, for in the end, they meant nothing.

By that time, Serena Devereaux had finished her sweeping opening speech. Clad in bizarre high heels—at least twenty centimeters tall—she strode to the glass ball on the left, filled with slips of paper bearing the names of the girls.

"Now, let us witness together—the birth of the lucky girl who will represent District Four in this year's competition!" she exclaimed with contagious enthusiasm, her cobalt-blue wig comically quivering as she spoke.

I watched as her hands, painted with the same bright blue nail polish, reached into the glass ball and grasped a slip of paper, and once again I held my breath. Please, not me. I was not a true Career tribute, nor did I possess the resolve or passion to fight bloodily for District Four's glory. I lacked even the desire or energy to win. If that dazzling Capitol woman in her bright blue ensemble were to call my name right then, I feared I would silently rise to greet my demise. And yet, I did not truly wish to die.

In a suffocating hush, Serena Devereaux slowly unfolded the slip, then read aloud: "Juniper Jade Beaumont!"

I felt as though I'd been struck mute. All the air seemed to be drawn out of my skull. I stared wide-eyed at the moving cobalt-blue of Serena's lips, feeling a daze of disbelief and wonder. Out of thousands of slips, the odds of drawing my name were almost negligible. I had never registered multiple times for food vouchers or been eager enough to boost my chances, so my name should have appeared far less often than those of other girls. Every lottery, every raffle, every one-in-a-hundred—or even one-in-ten—chance had never fallen to me, while misfortune always managed to land on my head with unerring precision among thousands of candidates. I suddenly felt a wry smile tug at the corners of my lips. Perhaps this was fate. I had been a fish born with the wrong pattern—a chronically unlucky fish—from the moment I existed, so what was I expecting?

"Do we have any volunteers?" Serena Devereaux asked from the stage, "The next three seconds are your final chance—"

Below, the crowd was utterly silent. Of course, there were no volunteers. Even the girls who had undergone years of Career training and excelled in the training center wouldn't step forward at this moment, because they were all convinced that I would never win. What could be more gratifying than witnessing the misfortune of that damned Beaumont? The maritime titan Beaumont—the bloodsucking capitalist who monopolized District Four's fishing industry to line his pockets, causing countless fishermen and laborers to perish in the waves. He had raised boat rental fees, slashed export prices, forcing fishermen into debt, burdening them with fishing liabilities; their children, unable to afford a meal, grew gaunt and even perished prematurely. And I was the bastard daughter of Everett Beaumont. If I were to die in the arena, no one would mourn me, not even Everett would truly feel regret, for I was nothing more than a bastard born of an Avox, and the man who was nominally my father would only pity that my death would shatter the commercial marriage he had arranged.

"Alright then, let us welcome this year's female tribute—Juniper Jade Beaumont!" Serena Devereaux declared passionately, extending her hand on stage as if fishing for squid, "Come on, darling!"

I moved mechanically toward the stage, as the crowd around me parted to form a path. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught fleeting expressions of relief or schadenfreude, and I realized I felt neither the terror nor the sorrow I had imagined. I saw my own face on the screens flanking the stage—expressionless, pale to the point of otherworldliness, hidden amid thick black hair, like a lifeless marionette or a porcelain plate.

Serena affectionately grabbed my arm and pulled me between herself and Finnick Odair. The dense crowd below dazzled more than the sunlight, like a single, sprawling, misprinted, grimy page from a book. I could feel the exposed skin of my dress brushing against Finnick's arm. My body was cool, so his warmth was enough to set me ablaze. Yet I did not recoil. This was the fourth time since I was twelve that I had been so close to him, and I thought wryly that just a minute ago I would never have imagined that the coming days would allow me such a chance—to truly approach him, to speak with him, until the day I die in the arena.

"Next, we have our male tribute—well, let's see!" Serena theatrically announced, clearly intent on stirring a fervent, alluring atmosphere, though I couldn't feel any of it, "Caspian Reef!"

I followed the cameras sweeping the crowd to see a boy roughly my age—tall, good-looking, and athletically built—stepped forward. He possessed the hallmark beauty of District Four locals: sun-kissed, metallic skin, deep, soulful green eyes, and wavy black hair cascading over his shoulders. He waved and smiled at the camera, exuding a relaxed confidence reminiscent of rolling ocean waves.

I was convinced he was a Career tribute. I hadn't truly noticed him before, though it was highly likely I had seen him in passing without remembering. Perhaps he often brushed past me on the commercial street or near the seaside markets, maybe even attended the same school or trained at the center with me. But I cared little for most people; those fleeting faces had long been discarded from my memory. I had even forgotten many of the cruel visages that had tormented me in childhood. I only recalled those who had treated me kindly, which was far easier since in all my sixteen years, my list of resentments was uncountable, while genuine helpers were few.

I turned and shook hands with Caspian, wearing the sweetest, most charming smile I had rehearsed countless times in front of the mirror. I wasn't sure whether Caspian had ever torn up my homework, cut my braids, called me a bastard, or even hurled my school bag into the sea when we were young—but even if he had, it no longer mattered. Our meeting today was destined for mutual slaughter; any past grievances were inconsequential. Still, I doubted I'd fare well in an actual duel with him, so I resolved to be as endearing as possible—if he eventually chose to kill me, perhaps I would at least die with some measure of satisfaction.

Next, Serena started another speech into the microphone—though I didn't really pay attention. It was probably more flowery rhetoric praising the Capitol and wishing that Caspian and I would bring pride to District Four. I wasn't in the mood to listen, nor did I have the energy to think of anything else; my thoughts swirled like a fish turning belly-up, drifting at the center of my skull. The drawing ceremony ended swiftly, and I straightened up as a team of peacekeepers escorted me toward the municipal hall. Only then did I realize that from the moment I stepped onto the stage, Finnick's arm had been supporting my weight—I was already tottering—and he, with an unassailable smile, stood by my side like the keel of a ship.

-tbc-

Author's Note:

I originally wrote this story in Chinese. Since The Hunger Games doesn't have a large fanfiction community in Chinese, and because I love how it sounds in its original English context, I decided to translate it.

English isn't my first language, so I used some translation software to help. I did my best to keep the meaning and style intact, but I'm sure there are still some awkward or clumsy parts. I really appreciate your patience with that! If you spot any obvious mistakes, please don't hesitate to let me know—I'd be so grateful for your help.

Thank you so much for reading!