Family Ties: The 35th Games

When I wake the next morning, it is far too early. I shake off my grogginess to find Alex jumping up and down at the foot of my bed-- for a boy so frail, he certainly had plenty of energy. Trying to reign him in slightly and give myself a moment to fully wake up, I sigh deeply, taking in my surroundings. Louisia's bed is empty-- if I had to guess, I'd wager she's probably making breakfast. Knowing I have no chance at a few extra minutes of sleep, I gather Alex with me, and make my way to the kitchen.

Louisia, as I suspected, is already up and at it, wet hair braided back out of her face-- she must have been the first to use the bath water this morning, a benefit to being up the earliest. I eat quickly, trying to keep myself out of her way. Her side glances let me know that while she probably won't come right out and say it, she's still a little cross about having to pick up my slack the night before. I can't blame her-- I still feel guilty about it myself.

The food sinks in my stomach like a rock, and I know precisely why. Today will be an awful day, just as awful as every year before it, but I try to take after my father and think positively. The Reaping will be around eleven. They try to stagger the Reapings in all 12 districts, one after the other, so that the viewers in the Capitol can watch them all in real time. Heavy implications of that, of the despair of my people being used as entertainment for those living in luxury, all of that misfortune aside, there is one benefit-- it'll be over soon. And by the afternoon, while there will be sorrow for the families of those who will be surely losing children, our shoulders will still be lighter.

When I'm done eating, I take my turn with the bathwater after David. It's still lukewarm, which is nice-- I've waited too long in the past and been met with a room-temperature washing up, and I can't say I'm fond of it. After I'm done scrubbing myself clean, I wrap myself in a thin, worn towel, and walk quietly to my room. In my absence, Mama had taken out my Reaping clothes, and set them on my bed with my token. All of my siblings have tokens too, except for Louisia. My mother made them from dried wheat and ribbon, and gifted them to us on our twelfth birthdays-- On the day of our final Reaping, when we're eighteen, we get to burn them. We get to burn away the fear and anxiety with it too. I remember when Louisia burned hers five years ago, and I remember the change in her face. It was like she had been reborn. I couldn't wait for it to be my turn.

Though, it may never be. God forbid, If I get chosen for the Games, I bring it in as my token, my bond to my home, and then burn it after I win. If I win. If I die, it comes home with my body.

It's a tradition; all families (or all the ones I know, anyway) in our district do the same. I like it-- it must be so cathartic to finally come of age and get to burn it, and burn all the feelings with it too. But almost every year, two tokens come back to District Nine without the tribute they went in with. It's a stark reminder-- the situation is grim, and the probability of a District Nine victor is always slim. In all 34 years of the games, only two people from my district have won.

Chewing on my bottom lip, using that as a way to try to deal with at least some of my overwhelming anxiety, I look down at my token-- a pretty circlet of braided wheat and silver ribbon, worn on my head like a halo or a tiara. It's very pretty.

I can't wait to burn it.

Placing my token carefully to the side, I get dressed in this year's Reaping attired-- a light and airy yellow blouse and a long black skirt. Louisia comes in quietly, dressed in her own formal attire, to do my hair. I can see plainly that I had misread what emotion she'd been sending my way in the kitchen. She wasn't upset with me; she was afraid. 

I was too. It was my first Reaping.

My hair wasn't that damp-- I hadn't fully washed it-- so Louisia made quick work of it, shaky hands delicately picking out locks of hair and weaving them around the circlet, securing it all with pins. She's good at what she does, and she's done quick, going back to the kitchen without a word, and leaving me alone with the slowly-suffocating sense of anxiety creeping through my body.

After a few deep breaths, I go back to the kitchen do, where Nathan and David are already sitting at the table. Both have their tokens on; matching bracelets. Both of them, as well as my father, are picking at the meagre breakfast spreads in front of them, no one having much of an appetite. My dad especially looks miles away, though, staring blankly at the table, still as a statue. His usually optimism disappears on Reaping Day, almost like the anxiety he keeps at bay year round finally has the strength to overtake him while he's at his weakest. It's like this every year. I don't know what he'd do if one of us were chosen for the Games.

The rest of the morning before the Reaping is spent in eerie silence, and it doesn't take a mind reader to discern why. We're all scared; for ourselves, for our family, for our friends... Two people-- children-- would be leaving our community today, and odds were, they would never be coming back.

At ten-thirty, Dad breaks the silence, not by speaking but by standing up. He makes a strangled sound, and motions to the door with his head-- it's all he has to do, though. We all know what's happening next. All eight of us load up into our old wagon, and Dad takes the reins, marching us closer to what feels to me like certain doom. Our land is one of the properties closest to the village, and it only takes about twenty minutes to get there, though I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. On one hand, it would be nice to delay the inevitable, but on the other, I just want to get things over with. 

Once we arrive at the village, Dad ties up the horses, while Nathan and David help the rest of us get out. We make our way into the square as a unit, though that unit is quickly broken up; The Peacekeeprs herd Nathan, David and I away. We're not spectators today-- we are fresh meat. Offerings, up on the chopping block. All of us have a chance of being called. We don't even get to stick together, either, but instead are corralled into areas by age-group. I stand without them, alone, near the stage with the other twelve-year-olds, all of us shaking and scared.

We all know. If any of us get Reaped, it's certain death. District Nine rarely wins, but the best chance we have is an older kid-- one with more experience under the belt, and more size, frankly. A twelve year old doesn't stand a chance.

I look up at the stage, which is set up directly in front of the Justice Building. It's fairly large, with a single lonely microphone set up center stage. On either side of the microphone is a glass bowl full of paper slips. I know my name is in there nine times. My parents had me take tesserae, but not much. I know one boy from the Community Home whose name is in the bowl thirty-four times, and he's only thirteen.

It's quiet, eerily so, quieter than it had been at home. The tension built up the longer we all stood, and I feel like I will going to buckle under its weight. But finally, Palama Savandi, the official Capitol Escort for District Nine makes her way onstage. It typical Captiol fashion, she looks ridiculous, the bright colors of her outfit clashing violently with the modest and subdued palette of everyone else's attire. She is a caricature of opulence and privilege. She is a clown.

Palane taps delicately on the microphone, and the speakers screech, cutting through the silence and tension like a knife. I flinch, my hands flying over my ears. "Well, well, well! Welcome to yet another Hunger Games!" Her voice feels like nails on a chalkboard, though it's nothing to do with her voice specifically. It's the tone. She is chipper and elated. Excited. She's been looking forward to this, while everyone else present has been praying this day would never come. 

The Capitol woman begins her monologue-- talks about how we came to be here, about the rebellion, the Dark Days, and the obliteration of District 13. Then the mayor, an old woman with a worn, weather-beaten face, takes the stage and explains about the Capitols mercy, and other gibberish none of us believe, but are all wise enough to nod along with. I hardly pay attention; it's the same every year, but this year there's a new gnawing anxiety and sense of dread that is holding my focus. Finally, she's done, and Palana steals back the microphone, "Now that that's over, let me just say: May the odds be ever in your favor!"

I almost felt the crowd take a collective breath in and hold it, though maybe it was just me. My eyes stay fixed on the vivid woman in front of me, the ever-growing sense of dread now screaming, but not loud enough to drown out the microphone. "Here we go, now for the fun part! Ladies first!" 

Palana reaches into one of the glass bowls, chooses a slip, and when she comes back to the microphone, she announces the name drawn in a clear voice.

"Zania Roberts."

The dread I felt explodes, my ears ringing and my heart skipping a beat, and then beating faster, as though it's making up for lost time. I try to rationalize, try to tell myself I heard Palana wrong, but I'm not fooling anyone. It's me. I know it's me, and everyone else does too, because the moment my name is called, the entire crowd shifts my way to stare. Muffled sobs can be heard throughout the crowd now, and though I'm sure some of them belong to my family, not all of them. District Nine was a community, after all. And this community was now sending a twelve year old girl to her execution on live television.

Though an existential crisis did not make for good TV. When I didn't immediately move to take my place onstage, the Peacekeepers closed in, and I now had two large ones pulling me up and onto the stage next to Palana, who I vaguely register, is asking me how old I am.

"Twelve." I swallow hard. The voice in the microphone barely sounds like my own, no fire or mischief or personality. It's hoarse and quiet, barely a whisper, wavering. My eyes are stinging-- I know the tears will come soon, but I try to keep them at bay. I don't want the whole world to see me cry.

"Wonderful!" gushes Palana. "And do we have any volunteers?" I don't look up. I know none are coming. Sentencing a twelve year old to death was unthinkable, and the whole village would be grieving, but it was the way of the world we lived in. My sacrifice meant the other children got to live another day. Those children would not put themselves to death on my accord.

"Ahh, no takers! Seems as though fate has made it's final pick, congratulations Zania!" My face hardens at her statement-- if my grief and fear wasn't so all consuming, I'd feel the rage and hate building up in my stomach. "Let us keep this show moving, and choose our second tribute, no? Now for the boys!" Palana fishes out a name from the boys' bowl, with the same flourish as the first time, uncurling the slip, and announcing the second tribute's name. The other child damned to the same fate as me.

"Nathan Roberts."

The gasp that ripples through the crowd is immediate, and though I had resolved to not cry, I can't help it now. In no time at all, I'm weeping silently, tears soaking my face and falling on my shirt. I look up and try to find my family in the audience, and find them immediately, as though my gaze is a magnet. Mama is sobbing uncontrollably into my father's chest, and Dad looks dead behind the eyes, his vacant stare looking through me instead of at me. Louisia is clutching Katie, frozen in shock. Alex seems oblivious. I wish I could be too.

I'm sure this is unheard of; siblings being reaped at the same Hunger Games can't be something that happens very often. Really, it should be something that is never allowed to happen at all, but what am I thinking? The whole spectacle shouldn't be happening at all-- what's one more atrocity stacked on a pile of thousands.

When Nathan reaches the stage, I finally break free of whatever fear has been holding me as still as a statue, and throw myself into his arms, refusing to let go. Out of all my siblings, Nathan and I are closest-- David and I have our moments too, but Nathan has always been my confidant. I can't believe this is happening; him being Reaped alongside me feels like a sick joke.

He awkwardly tells Palana his age, trying his best to placate and comfort me while fighting down his own emotions as well. Palana asks for volunteers, but none step up. 

Palana smiles into the crowd. "This Hunger Games is bound to be exciting! Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"