62nd Reaping [D9]

Another dreary morning of strained birdsong and the persistent yelling of my witch mother. Tired gray light reaches through the gaps in the curtains, poking and prodding at my eyelids. I fight it off by turning away, wanting not to get up, but to return to my own little world of atrocities. There I am king, there I am not judged or pushed or placed. My mother shrieks my name again, over and over like a crow. I take my pillow and cover both sides of my head with it, her wails become a muffled white noise. I push the reality away again and again, but there it is, inevitable reality. Yet I have to get up, because it’s the one day of the year that I dread, and as much as I hate Reaping Day, it’s law.

It’s not the mounting tension that builds before a name is announced, I usually love watching some snotty kid be taken kicking and screaming to the podium, where they sob their name. It’s hilarious. I just hate dressing smartly, getting up early, actually having to wash… Oh and there’s standing in a crowd of judgmental children for an hour or two, that usually gets to me. I could be doing something constructive, like pulling legs off of insects, or burning a squirrel alive. Instead, I’m forced to wear a crappy dull shirt and pushed into a crowd of juveniles. I hate it.

My face is buried into the covers, but I hear my mother enter the room, and so I roll over to look at her through squinted eyes. She is dressed in smarter clothes than the rags she usually wears, her hair is still the usual straw-colored frizz that I’m used to, but at least the flecks of dirt have gone. I stare at her still, my tired eyes fighting away the sleep with little success, I slump back down into the covers and her fuse blows.
“Christoph Carlisle, you get of out that bed, right now!!” She stamps her heel on the already fragile floorboards, sending a thud and a creak through the room. Her look changes briefly to concern for her house before the anger consumes her again.
“Ugh…” I groan, rolling over onto my back and covering my face with my hands. My chest is bared and the hairs stand on end in the cold morning air, whilst hills of goosebumps bubble on the surface of my pale skin.

“Don’t make me get your father…” She threatens in a much quieter voice, and more or less immediately I sit up, my bare feet touch the soft wooden floor. She shakes her head, a look of pity in her eyes, before she walks out again and leaves me be. The concept of my father giving me a beating whilst I’m naked in my bed is less appealing than getting up for Reaping Day, the lesser of two evils. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to get me out of bed, but I’d like it to not happen again, so I stretch out of the covers and search the mountain of creased clothes for some underwear. I search for a good half-minute, having little success. I find some socks, non-matching but warm nonetheless, which I slip on in good time. My toe pokes out of a hole in the darker of the two socks, making me look stupid, but I don’t care as shoes will just cover that. After a while, I fish out some not too pleasant smelling underwear, which I jump into and pull some dark trousers over the top of. I grab a pale blue shirt and head down the makeshift staircase that I stopped being concerned about a while back.

Long shadows are cast over the breakfast table, orange-pink light is cast on the face of my father, who sits with a bowl of slop, not even chewing the stuff as much as straight out swallowing it. The pulp-mess of a breakfast is offered to me, and even though I hate it, I don’t refuse a meal. The sludge is cold and vile, but I force myself to swallow it knowing that we may not have another breakfast for a few weeks - We usually don’t eat ‘till evening, as even lunch is a rarity. We pass the one bowl around the table, from me to Ma’, from Ma’ to Pa’, and then back to me until it’s empty. Even then we use our fingers to scoop up any stray blobs of gray pulp.

“Where’d you get this stuff, Pa’?” I ask, pushing the bowl to my mother to finish off any last smudges of mushed pulp. He stares at me with his scarred eye, his stomach growls in the quiet, unsatisfied and ready for a meal that is hours away. He pops a leftover piece of grimy fat into his mouth from the scrappy meat meal of last night, chewing on it knowing that it will only give him the sensation of eating, but not the reward. He looks to mother with a glint in his eye, she returns a concerned glare that makes her put the bowl down and look to her feet. Pa’ sighs, and my eyebrows crease.
“We gots a bag o’ tessera for this month…” He says, almost ashamed. What follows is probably the biggest tantrum I have ever thrown.

I stand up, kicking my frail wooden chair over, banging my fists onto the kitchen table. Mother gasps as I lean in at my father, my eyes flickering with an inner fire that has gone from a spark into a raging inferno at the thought of him putting my name in more times.
“You did WHAT?”

The nerve of that idiot. I can’t believe he thinks that setting a forest on fire is a joke, he burned three trees down and put local houses in danger. I have a sense of responsibility because I was the one who taught Christoph how to light a fire, in hope that he could help me around the forge… Little did I know that he was an unpredictable sadist who thrives on the suffering of others. I wouldn’t have bother had I know what he was like, but I was desperate for the help around the forge. I regret it now, but there’s nothing I can do except move on - Find someone else to be my apprentice. Someone more talented.

No one will ever be as talented as me, they lack that habit of perfection, that cutting edge that pushes me to complete purity. Still, I can’t do a lot of my forging alone, I need another pair of hands to help me push large orders. I think my pedantic nature is going to make searching for someone capable difficult, not to mention my habits. Maybe I’ll have to learn to be a little more accepting if I’m going to make progress on this front, even if that is going to be incredibly hard for me.

Christoph turns back and winks at me cruelly, like he knows something I don’t. I just stare at him like he’s pathetic, because he is. I hope he’s Reaped, because I’m sick of seeing his mug everywhere and feeling responsible for the monster that I created. He doesn’t even look smart - His clothes are scruffy and tattered, his trousers have mud stains on the knee caps, whilst his shoes seem the only clean thing. His hair is confettied with dirt and his face needs a scrub too. I on the other hand have groomed myself to the best of my abilities. I washed last night and this morning, combing my hair into it’s perfect side-swipe. My clothes have been cleaned and pressed, and worn as they should be - Tucked in shirt and buttoned up. I am the polar opposite of that impurity, Carlisle.

We move forward, the line of the dead, waiting our turn to be cataloged like we are nothing more than stock. These are the Captiol’s Games, not ours, and we are merely their tiny playthings, pawns on a chessboard. I wonder back to who the District Nine Male could be, my odds are low, because my name is only in there a few times, as I’ve never had to deal with tessera or the sort. I look at the scruffy kids in the registration line and know more or less who is malnourished, who has to sign up for tessera and who, like me, is more well fed. Odds are a funny thing though, and nothing is guaranteed. We push forwards still, stopping again. I have to stop walking on my right foot, otherwise I’ll have a meltdown. I take another step onto my right foot, to avoid landing on my left and push into the kid in front of me.
“Watch it!!” He yells, pushing me back. I don’t lash out, because it’s my fault entirely. It’s just one of those things that I can’t help. It’s part of my programming.

I think back to this morning, where I had another emotional goodbye from my parents. It happens every year - My mother is very protective of me, her only child, and is convinced that every time I leave for the Reaping, it’s the last time she’ll see me. My father is more controlled, but he always get a little emotional. I suppose if in their situation, I’d be upset to see my kid go too, but they know me, they know that I’ve never been scared of the Reaping. More times than not I’ve expected to be Reaped, and it hasn’t come off… I just get this overwhelming sense of destiny and duty, like some of the kids who stand crying on that stage aren’t worthy. They aren’t perfect. Not like me.

My finger is pricked and I still think of my family. My mind wanders to Christoph and I wonder if her had the same goodbye, or if his was less emotional. I can’t imagine that weasel feeling anything but malice. My hand twitches as it’s pressed into firm paper, my finger print is so perfectly done that I smile, liking the official feel of the Capitol. They push me firmly into the pen of Sixteen year old's, and I glance around whilst we wait for the Reaping to happen. I can’t see my rival, so instead I focus on the lottery on stage, that bowl of names, destiny’s gambit. The lights turn on and blind me momentarily, I shift to my right foot for balance and raise a hand to shield my eyes. The Capitol representative is here.

He looks ridiculous, his smile taped onto his mouth by whatever surgery he’s had done. Some people don’t need their faces editing, people like me are born perfect. I guess in the Capitol, perfection is purchased, but what is beauty if not natural? I know of beauty in crafting, the delicate nature of a blade that is forged oh-so perfectly… But there’s something natural about metal that I love, it’s glow, it’s shine… This man’s plastic face is not natural, and not perfect. My face scrunches up. He begins to mumble the official declaration that he does every year, then he picks a name, stares at it for a few seconds, and then reads it out.

“Christoph Carlisle!”

“Hah!” The laugh escapes me and one or two people around me glance, thinking I’m Christoph, but then they see the real chosen one, and so do I. He lets out a scream, pushing people away, rejecting the nomination. He turns and runs, breaking through the masses to get away. To where? Anywhere, it would seem, people part and let him do so, but he’s only met by a wall of Peacekeepers.
“NO! NO YOU CAN’T TAKE ME!” He yells, the smile grows on my face. I see tears form in his eyes as he struggles with the superior strength of the men in white, his legs kick out from beneath him as they drag his corpse to the front, all the while he wriggles and refuses. My smile turns into a laugh, some around me still look at me like I’m the sadist, not him.

He is thrown up into the stage, where the Capitol man stares at him like he’s from another world, which to him, he is. No pity resides in the eyes of the plastic, because what can a man made from artificial body parts do except for smile and read lines? I’m so glad I live in a hell-hole, I’m glad I’m not that impure. Tears stream down Carlisle’s face, showing his true colors, the pathetic vermin that he is. He’s not sadistic, nor cruel, deep down he’s just a baby, crying and whining over being awarded such a privilege to represent the best of the best.

He’s not worthy. He’s impure.

Impurity must be cleansed, and I am the one who is to do it. No one else steps up, no one shines as a deity, not one person. I realize at this moment that I am going into the Hunger Games, I have incredible power in my hands, as I have the power to choose Christoph Carlisle’s fate - I can change the lives of not just mine, but his too. I have the rat right where I want him, and I know what his destiny is. It’s not to die in an arena.

“I volunteer…” It’s a mumble at first, no one really hears it, but then I push through with more confidence, “I volunteer in place of Christoph Carlisle!” There are a few gasps, and I hear a woman scream - My mother? Carlisle’s? I can’t tell, but adrenaline fills me as the Peacekeepers lead me up onto the stage. I am famous now, the world watches the boy who volunteered, much younger than the whimpering mess that Christoph has become. He wanted to watch children kick and scream their way up onto stage, instead he got to live that vision. Pathetic.

“Th.. Th-Thank you…” He whimpers as I pass him, he is still restrained. I give a sarcastic smile to him, still being guided.
“I didn’t do this for you,” I say, because I care not for what happens to this waste of skin, this blemish that sits on existence, “I did this for me…” Because now I have a chance to be great, like I know I can. I feel so confident, so damn confident. The spotlight shines on me, I feel it’s heat from here, the plastic man melts in my head, over and over, his grin is creepy and dirty.

“So, tell us your name, young man!” He says, holding the microphone to my face. I smile, taking it from him. I stare at the sea of faces, most relieved or confused or just plain awed by my act of volunteering. I saved this boy’s life, because look at him - He’s pathetic, he wouldn’t last the bloodbath. I stare at them, my eyes flicker with fame. I address the masses.
“I am Wednesdae Drummond, I am District Nine!”