59th Reaping [D11]

Maybe it means there’s something wrong with me, but I always seem to see everything through the lens of a camera.

Reaping day is no exception to my odd view of the world. If anything, the day only makes me feel even more separate from the rest of the world as all of the kids from the community home gather on the front lawn all dressed in our Sunday best, shuffling into hastily formed lines so I can snap a group picture where all of us are dressed up for once – trying to get the angle right means that I won’t have to think that this might be the last picture of one of them alive. I’m not supposed to play favorites in things like this because art is objective and beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but still, I can’t help but notice how striking Trogon looks when she’s all dressed up (even though looking at her any time usually manages to make me forget what I was going to say or do or think), and the picture finds a way to center itself on her as I make a soft request for her to step a little to the left – trying to fix the focus so the sun glints off her hair just right means that I won’t have to think about the fear that’s slowly tightening into a knot in my stomach.

I get a really nice shot of everyone’s feet as we shuffle in unison up the dirt path to the square, the dust disturbed by our miniature stampede rising in brown clouds and settling back behind us in a continuing dance, another good capture of Lauren up front like the grand marshal of a ragtag parade, shepherding the littlest ones like the endearingly overbearing mothering hen that she is. I shouldn’t be uneasy. I shouldn’t. This is my last Reaping, Trogon’s last, Jessa’s last, after today everyone in my life will be safe from a gruesome televised death, but ever since that terrifying day last year when Jessalyn Colbier rang out over the heads of the crowd I can’t help but feel like my entire world can be ripped away in a split second (thinking back to the ragged scars that paint my torso like a macabre work of art, I’m reminded that it can. Mom and Lydia… my mother, my sister, my whole life was erased in a single blaze of flame). Zoom in on Trogon’s profile as she walks beside me. Click. Click. Adjust the focus a bit. Click. I’m about to scoot over to get a different angle, but the look in the deep darkness of her eyes makes me pause, finger hovering over the shutter button. That look says a million things but I’ve learned to decipher her glances and smiles and every little nuance that is Trogon Lane, and it’s disturbingly easy to translate it. Denver, please. Not now. Just…

Faltering at the gravity of just that one look, I slowly lower the camera until its familiar weight settles against the strap around my neck, the worn leather resting against the fabric of my threadbare suit and dress shirt, both a little short in the arms and sporting tattered hems that have seen far better days. But finding clothes that will fit my six-foot-six beanpole of a body is a miracle in and of itself, and I can only wonder where Lauren managed to get her hands on this one, so I’m not going to complain even though the collar is uncomfortably tight and the edges of my pants legs hover a good half-inch above the fabric of my battered gray high tops that I adamantly refused to abandon in favor of nicer shoes. No longer occupied with taking pictures, my left hand reaches across the space between the two of us and knits long, spindly fingers up with Trogon’s in a grip so familiar that it feels older than time itself, older than Panem or the Capitol or the Games, and for the most fleeting of moments, I allow the icy chill that thrums through my veins to percolate and warm into something far more pleasant. As hard as it’s been, as much as we’ve had to fight for it, the privilege of holding her hand here in front of the whole wide world was worth every drop of blood, every bead of sweat, every last tear, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. We promised each other that we were going to chase down our happiness together, and as soon as this hellish day I fully intend to make good on that promise in the best way I know how. I think of the shiny little heirloom that once adorned my mother’s finger sitting in my dresser drawer back at the community home, think of how tonight will be perfect with a walk under the stars and the words that say just how much she means to me and bended knees and – the most contented sort of smile works its way across my face, and I give Trogon’s hand a soft squeeze as the brightly-adorned buildings of the square and the ominous shape of the reaping stage come gradually into view.

They separate the group then, Lauren and the youngest kids that aren’t of Reaping age yet being herded off to stand with the spectators while the rest of us are sent to the sections marked off with our age groups. Trogon clings to my hand as we’re pushed into a large crowd of other eighteen-year-olds, a thin sheen of nervous sweat slicking the grip of our fingers and making it slippery-slick and uncertain in a way that sets my teeth on age. Somewhere in the hubbub we run into Jessa and her girl, her special person, that girl from my Science class I never bothered talking to as they stand with the others, and I force a small smile for Jess’ sake, wrapping her hand up in my free one as the mayor takes the stage and the knot in my stomach solidifies and swells and rises until it’s in my throat and I can’t breathe.

It’s all so unbearably slow, the droning introductory speech, the overly-chipper greetings of the Capitol escort, and then it’s happening. The mayor’s hand disappears in slow-motion into the glass ball of girls’ names, fingers searching blindly for someone’s death sentence as he rifles around through the sea of names attached to the fearful faces around me, finally pulling one forth. My hands tighten around Trogon’s and Jessa’s, remembering my paralysis when the empty-eyed blonde on my right almost went to her demise last year, would have gone if it weren’t for August Millory’s ill-fated bravery, begging every force in the universe that no more of my precious people will be lost to the Capitol’s grip.

“Elise Wheaton!”

An unfamiliar name. I sigh in relief, my grip on both of their hands slackening as an immensely tall girl with a nasty burn scar that makes me cringe in empathy takes the stage. There are cries of salvation from those who are safe and wails of despair from her friends and family, and even though it makes me feel terrible I can’t stop a smile from blooming on my mouth as I lean over and press my lips to the top of Trogon’s head, inhaling the calming scent of her hair. “See? I told you everything would be fine. You worry too much, babe, and it was all for noth-“

“Denver Samuels!”

The world falls away, shrinking down, down, down to the place where Trogon’s fingers tangle with mine, and all I can think of is how fairytale endings were never meant for us but we didn’t care, we were willing to fight Fate and the universe and everything to go hunt down our happiness, and now despite all that fight, there’s nothing we can do to stop the Capitol from ripping up apart. Her grip tightens around my arm painfully, and I know exactly what she’s thinking, know through that silent language we’ve both learned as our wide, panicked eyes meet each other. I’m going with you.

Something like determination settles in my chest alongside the dizzying fear as I pry my fingers away from her viselike hold, bringing my hands up to grip both sides of her face, leaning down until our foreheads meet and terrified slate blue orbs meet their chocolate-colored counterparts. “Stay here. I mean it. Don’t you dare get on that stage, you hear me? If you do, I will never forgive you, Trogon, never.”

A none-too-gentle hand belonging to a stern-faced Peacekeeper locks around my arm and tugs me sharply, the crowd parting from me like I’m infected with a deadly disease (does death hang on me so heavy already?) as I’m tugged toward the stage, throwing a last desperate glance in Trogon’s direction. “I love you. I love you so much.”

It all seems eerily quiet from the stage, the sea of faces blurring together into a singular mass as the opportunity for volunteers to step forward for the male tribute position is announced. More silence, and still more, it suffocates me as I realize that there will be no August Millory for me, that I’m not going to be saved. That I am going to die. And that is a fact, I won’t even begin to kid myself about the foolish idea that I might emerge from the Arena unscathed. I couldn’t even hold off a sloppy drunk half my size in the only fight I’ve ever been in, what would I possibly be capable of against a whole pack of armed Careers? No one is coming to save me and I certainly can’t save myself, and that knowledge scoops something out of my chest and leaves a terrifying hollow place as I search out Trogon and Jessa, try to find their faces and memorize them so they will be with me up to the end.

”No!”

A ragged scream splits the crowd, and my head jerks to the side, away from Trogon and Jessa, searching for the source. No one else knows or cares about me enough to let such anguish out, so who could possibly – And then I see her, lithe frame and wheat-colored hair flailing in a wild struggle against the strong grip of a taller, dark-haired male figure as she attempts to claw her way to the stage. “No! Denver! Denver!”

Her eyes meet mine, and they are a startling slate color, the same shade and shape of my own. Something in my blood sings even though it’s cold and distant, and the whisper that scrapes over my vocal cords is hushed and heavy with disbelief. “…Lydia?”

And it can’t be, it can’t, because my sister is dead and has been dead for three years and she’s cold underground in the cemetery down the street, but she’s right here in front of me just like she never left, fighting to get to the stage but continually held back by the arms of that taller boy. Through the numb haze of my shock I almost manage to feel worried for her well-being as the mayor drones on and on in my other ear, reading the Treaty of Treason over the sounds of mourning that continue in the crowd, but then something happens and I see the boy’s mouth form around words that look like Lyd, don’t, there’s nothing you can do and all of a sudden the fight goes out of her and she slumps into his arms, sobbing into his neck in a way that suggests the two of them are intimate in some shape or form. She cries, but she’s alive, alive, alive somehow, and the irony isn’t lost on me that my sister has risen from her grave as I’m preparing to step into mine.

Lydia and the boy disappear into the crowd although I try my best to search for them, and somewhere a million miles away the anthem of Panem blares. Something compels my puppet limbs to cross the stage and shake hands with the female tribute as tradition dictates, but I’m not here, I’ve retreated to some distant, muffled place in my head that screams in protest as it tries to process that Jessa is standing there looking like she’s on the verge of a breakdown and my sister is alive and Trogon’s ring will never leave my dresser drawer and that I am Denver Samuels and I am the District 11 male tribute for the 59th Hunger Games, and death is coming for me whether I’m ready or not.