Starlight, Starbright. (Open)

Violet Blackthorne


The light is just starting to disappear, but it's later than it seems. The Hob has already cleared out for the day, and I'm the only one left, clearing away the bits and bobbles my mother left behind with me. I'm a good salesperson, but we always have too much at the end of the day, and I always have trouble carrying it. My thin arms tense as I heft up the old metal pail, the earrings and necklaces and candy mixing together with a rustle and jingle, and I'm ready to leave for the day. Not before looking around, taking stock.

You see, today is my birthday. I was lucky enough to have a late birthday, so that I couldn't get reaped for nearly a year after I turned 12, but I know that this might be my last year alive. Then again, given the fact that we never have any food and sell jewelry on the black market, this might very well be my last day alive for no good reason at all. The scratchy fabric of my old linen tunic catches on the rubble of my back. It's too loose - everything is - so I've belted it at the waist with a bit old rope, but it still moves around too easily for my liking. It's been two years, but the scars still seem new and unfamiliar. I'll never get used to them.

Time to go home.

As I step out into the waning sun, I realized that it's not just time to go, it's actually late. The streets are nearly empty - this always takes me by surprise, though I'm not sure why. It happens every year like this - the days start to get longer, just in time for everyone to gather in the square to watch the Games in the evening after scrambling together a quick and unsatisfying dinner between work and watching.

Which reminds me - time to sign up for tesserae. And really now, time to get home. The last thing I need is to get caught by a Peacekeeper - one in particular - not watching the Games tonight. I really don't need to give him another reason to hate me. I better speed up.

Too fast - with the bucket full of goods for sale on one twig of an arm, my school bag over my shoulder, and a bag of change hanging from my rope-belt, I'm weighed down, and I'm light-headed. All I've eaten today is a handful of berries, and the light starts to dim in my eyes as the world spins slightly. I try to slow down, but it's too late - I've lost track of my feet, catch the toe of my boot in a divet in the road, and the next thing I know, I'm on the ground, with homemade jewelry splayed all around me. The bucket is as overturned as I am, and our precious stuff - our livelihood - is everywhere.

"Oh no," I grunt, my breath catching in my throat as a sick feeling seeps through my stomach. It's a feeling of cold, pure panic and guilt, and for a moment, it replaces the hunger. Only for a moment though - as I try to lift my head, I realize how weak I am. My vision is still a little blurry, but another wave of panic rushes through me as I realize also that I am not alone. The anxiety is painful. Please don't steal anything, I beg the figure silently, hoping against hope that it isn't a Peacekeeper coming to catch me leaving the Hob with my wares. My cracked fingers grope out on the street for the little wrapped candies and metal pieces that have fallen away from me, and the words run like a mantra in my mind:

Please don't steal anything. Please don't report me.