Willa Jaciak | District One [fin.]

The reporter from the Capitol and her crew... I hear the shuffle of their footsteps outside before the knock on the door even comes, twice. The first is soft and delicate, but the second is hard, as if two different people knocked, one after the other. It reminds me of my father's limp, the soft pat of his foot with the mangled toes against the tiled floor followed immediately by a grand stomp of his working, in-order appendage that was not ruined during his training. One of his only appendages not ruined by his training. I walk over to the door and lift the balls of my feet to peer through the peep-hole, confirming that I had been very correct in my guess as to who could possibly be paying us a visit today. A middle-aged woman stands directly in front of the door, her flamboyantly yellow hair and deep-set violet eyes blocking my view from all sides. I shouldn't be calling her middle-aged. I honestly can't tell; the skin on her round face (which is practically pressed up against the closed door) is smooth in every way possible, almost like porcelain, with rosy red cheeks and a button nose. If anything, she resembles a prepubescent child, albeit a tall one seeing as her eyes are aligned with the peep-hole. "Hello?" The call is muffled by the wood between you, but I catch the menace in her voice, the smile faltering on her face as my hand hovers over the door knob. "For heaven's sake, Willa, open the door." I turn to see my mother standing in the hallway, her own hair pulled into an elaborate updo, a bun encircled by winding braids, adorned with jewels and polished glass that break up the light into different colors. It is much like the hairstyle she had conjured up for the reaping a few hours ago. She's blonde, like me. I look back towards the door, my hand obediently turning the handle and pulling inwards. Light filters through the gaping hole, into our dark house. I had covered the windows as soon as we returned home, without Kellan, as was custom when mourning. Even if Kellan was ready to go... even though he wanted to go... I will still mourn for him. He just left, that fucking bastard! I want to hate him for it, but I know that would be senseless.

"Welcome to our home!" My mother is right beside me now, ushering the reporter into the house, perking up with a "Thank you," to the polite compliments uttered by the camera crew. "We try to keep up with the place," she adds, patting her hair to make sure it is still in place. "It is very lovely," the old (young?) reporter concludes before clearing her throat, giving the place one last scan with her beautiful eyes. "I think we'd like to interview you in your dining room? Or, if not, a kitchen? Somewhere with a table, to show that Kellan's family is as down-to-business as he is." She winks at this statement, and as much as I want to throw my hands around her neck and drain the life from her body, I know that it makes sense. It guess it can be reinforcing when the family backs up the tribute, it seems plausible... If the kid is optimistic and airy and their family has flowers dotting their hair, and flowing, shimmery skirts... that's memorable, right? It could remind the Capitolites just how much they like this cheerful family and their cheerful offspring who happens to be in the games. And then they might be triggered to sponsor said offspring... I can see the tactic, not quite propaganda, but persuasive in it's own subliminal right. It makes sense. And maybe, just maybe, that's what this reporter is thinking too. Maybe her smile really is genuine, and maybe she really does want to help my brother. Maybe she actually sympathizes. So I point down the hall, "It's on the left."

"Splendid," the woman claps her hands, and I wonder if she really is just a six year old with a fast growing rate and a lot of plastic surgery. It's possible, seeing as she's from the Capitol. I'd comment, but I hold my tongue. You don't insult the Capitol or its citizens. If they were from the district, I would have already. "I'll talk to everyone in the order of their age, oldest to youngest. Understand?" She asks, and again she seems old, almost like a school teacher. I shake my head and close my eyes, my mind swirling. "Of course," my mother replies, and turns down the hall, probably to find my father. As soon as she's gone the reporter turns to me. "Alright, let's get this started," she declares, walking down the hall herself and making a left. Her camera crew follows, and I watch them go. The last one of them turns to me, his face contorted into a scowl. "Are you coming or not?" He disappears after the others. I stand there for a moment, dumbfounded. Hadn't she made it clear we were going in order, by age? But he had just said... "Willa?!" I hear my name bouncing down the corridor with a thunderous roar, like a lion. It's very loud, and it's yelled by the same guy, the same cameraman. I run down the hallway blindly, my name ringing in my ears. I must have been mistaken somehow... I must have misheard them... because they obviously want to interview me first. Stepping into the kitchen, I see that they are already set up, the reporter sitting at the large brown table which takes up most of our kitchen, the camera pointed across from her at an empty chair.

I quickly walk over and take a seat, hating myself as soon as I do so for being so damn obedient lately. I'm always just doing what other people say, I'm not my own person anymore. I don't know when the fuck this all started, me just doing what others say, as soon as they say it, but I feel like it's been going on a long time now, too long. It's probably just a phase... that word has been thrown my way so many times that I almost believe it now. That maybe someday I'll wake up, and I'll be a better person than I am now. That's when my scratching starts, another "phase" I've had to deal with for a while. Comforted slightly by the way my nails scrape across my skin, I raise my blue eyes to the Capitolite's shimmery purple ones. Their resilience still holds, and even from my distance across the table, her eyes twinkle like a million little diamonds. Wickedly beautiful. Feral almost. She catches me staring. "Do you like them?" Her voice lazily lulls around me, tugging at me, prodding me to reply, yet again I am at a loss for words. She smiles, yet it does nothing to help calm my nerves, make me feel better. Instead, it makes her appear even more animal-esque. Like a tiger, smiling at it's prey before slitting their throat, and I shiver. "Do. You. Like them." She is sharper now, and it is a statement rather than a question, but she wants a reply, I know. I focus closer on her eyes. I do like them, the way I can't look away from them. They are radiant, exquisite, every detail perfectly crafted. Captivating. They shine brighter than anything in District One. "They're beautiful," I reply.

I've ceased my scratching now, hypnotized by her stare. Her smile widens, revealing her pearly teeth, all the way back to her molars. They're nothing short of impressive either, glistening under the two bulbs lighting the room. "That's good. They're much better than your eyes," the Capitolite tears her gaze away from mine, signaling to the man handling the camera. "My name is Ganelle, by the way. We're rolling in three..." My hands fly up to my face, rubbing against my eyes. I always knew they weren't spectacular. An off shade of blue, wrong against my pale skin, like unwanted pools of water after rainfall. Murky and polluted. Sentenced to be stepped on, scattered. Dull, lifeless, wide-set, like an alien... "Two." Suddenly, I just want to bolt. People like me shouldn't be broadcasted. I'll screw up, I'll fucking screw up. Kellan won't get any sponsers after this, and he'll die. I'll screw up so much the gamemakers will send all their mutts after him to tear him apart, limb by limb. "One." Ganelle and the cameraman signal to each other, and she dives right in.

"I'm here with Willa Jaciak, Kellan Jaciak's baby sister. They are separated by two years," she pauses long enough to smile in the camera and put a hand over her heart. "Must be fun having an older brother of Kellan's stature and strength. Have you seen those arm muscles?" Another pause. I'm scratching at my skin under the table now, just scratching away. Something liquid trickles over my middle fingernail, down to my knuckle. I brush away a small chunk of skin, continue to scrape... Kellan always was strong. As strong as any other career, and tough too. He and father would make trips to the gym, father, being a former career although he never made it to the games... father would watch him, train him. After they would come home, Kellan would still be in the career mindset, all fueled up, yet tired as hell. You wanted to avoid him during that time and let him cool down, otherwise he'd snap at you, or worse. The difference between here and the arena is that he actually does snap, kills the tributes with one swipe of his hunting knife... He's murderous, ruthless. Part of the career pack, prowling the winter wonderland that is the arena, blood thirst in his eyes. His clothes teared, his clumped brunette hair full of sweat and dirt. He's the perfect tribute, what everyone loves. I remember watching him just a few minutes ago, watching the way he stalked his prey, glided through the snow so beautifully. Just like he had practiced a thousand times over, and he was doing great. And yet... he hasn't won over any sponsors. I know that for a fact! That's why the capitol is here, interviewing our family. Giving us one last chance to get him food and supplies. Things that he needs to get out of the arena alive. And I am just fucking it up from the get-go. If my stupidity isn't causing the Capitolites to hate me, it's my low, raspy voice. It's my scrawny body, my sickly complexion. I imagine I must look like death itself... I try to eat, but I've never eaten well. Not while my three brothers need the food more often, need the energy from our meals to train. I could never train like them for the hunger games. I tried, when I was younger. I'd throw the spear over and over, and eat plants I thought were non-poisonous. But the spear would always fly by the dummy, hit the ground with a mocking thud. I'd eat the wrong plants, and my father would proclaim me "dead" on the spot, tell me if I had done that in the arena, I would die a meaningless, moronic bitch. He'd throw the spear back my way, and I'd have to dodge. And maybe, if I was lucky, someone else exercising at the training center would have to doge the spear too, just missing the sharp end of the weapon. After the initial shock, as expected they would turn to see where the spear came from, and find me standing there, head hung. We'd go out into the alley behind the training center, and sort things out, and when I was finally told to get lost, after receiving a black eye and a fractured wrist, I would walk back into the center and look for my dad. Of course, he had already gone home, long ago...

I stopped taking care of myself completely, after I was certain my father hated me. Now I reside on the dangerous side of my weight, my skin pulled tightly around my bones, separated only by paper thin strips of muscle that serve to keep my body mobile. I'm gaunt everywhere, hollow in my face, around my ugly eyes. My cheeks are sunken under my protruding cheekbones and my jawbone can cut skin. A walking skeleton, a stand out next to my fairly healthy family. Even Kellan looks healthier than I, miles away in the arena where a dozen have frozen to death. All that covers my rolling ribcage is a white t-shirt, torn around the edges. I changed into it as soon as I got home, after pulling down the curtains. I hate my reaping dress... it was once my grandmother's, than my mother's, a disgusting pea green. "So, tell us then," the reporter has spoken up again, her fingers clasped and fluttering against each other, portraying excitement. "What do you think of Kellan's progress in the games so far?" She tilts her head, portraying interest. "I... I..." I pause, and suddenly the sound of my scratching is audible, nails dragging against scabbed skin. I speak up quickly to cover the noise, "I think he is doing well. He trained for snowy terrains. I'm sure he knows how to handle the arena." Ganelle nods, smiles. "He sure does. He has six kills under his belt, two of which were both his own doing. He really does know how to handle a rapier." The camera man adjusts his angle. "Yah," I mumble to fill the silence, but she's already onto the next question: "I hear you and your other siblings used to train with him, a year ago."

I swallow. Of course we did. We were all siblings, all training to become careers, to go into the games strong. When dad was busy with work, Kellan would take us all down to the center himself, train with us like dad would have. Yet he was much more patient with my lack of talent than father, and he would even go so far as to stay with me long after many had left for the night to improve on the things I simply couldn't improve on, even after Zaine and Jack had gone home to wash up and sleep. He would work with me on my aim, and my memory, my camouflage paintings. He'd beat down the bullies for me, and we'd go home, even more sweaty and tired than either Jack or Zaine. He would do all of that for me and more; talk to me about school, play ball outside on sunny days... until he got tired of me, like all the rest of them. I knew it was coming, I was a burden. I couldn't fight, I didn't think right, and besides, he had to focus on his own training. He was eighteen after all, and he'd be volunteering these next games. So he spent more time with father, getting ready, and less with the rest of us. We'd all go down with him to the center, but he and dad would leave us to our own devices as soon as we got there so he and Kellan could go train privately. Without dad as a trainer, we'd work by ourselves, although Zaine and Jack would occasionally work together. Like usual, I would come home with cuts and bruises (probably more than usual, with the lack of supervision I had received) after dropping clubs on my feet, getting paint in my eyes. I'd walk in through the door, and Kellan would be sitting there, tired from the day's training, motionless, his eyes unfocused and blurry. And suddenly he'd see me, and notice my bruises, looked at them almost as if he'd never truly seen them before, and that's when he finally realized just how weak of a fighter I was, and am. That, really, lack of luck had nothing to do with my self-battering during all those years he had attempted to train me. I know this because I saw the recognition of it all in those bleary eyes of his, recognition that I would always bring my family shame. That I had been doing it since I was four. Just like that, the only real friend I had ever had was gone. And if that sparkle in his eyes didn't tip me off, it was the fact that he told me what he had identified, cracked his hand across my swollen shoulder blade. Told me how he finally saw me for who I truly was, that I was the one that had always brought father embarrassment. A weak link in the family. And I didn't blame him. How could I, after all he'd done for me before this discovery? I couldn't blame him for finally seeing things straight, even if it was long after father had, long past due.

And now he is off in the games. Putting his training to good use, fighting, really fighting. My father has been happier lately. I've never seen him smile so much before. And that's just another reason Kellan has to win. All I can do is hope that the time he took off to tutor me doesn't hurt his chances anymore than what I'm doing right now. This miserable interview. His chances slashed even more so, all because of me and my miserable interview. Me and my ugly eyes and my miserable interview. He is such a good son, bringing a smile to my father's face... he's always been so good, even after he found me out.

I realize I haven't answered Ganelle, and she's staring at me, but her eyes don't seem to shimmer much anymore. It's such a difference from before, as if she's turned off the sparkle manually somehow. Her clasped fingers are gripped together and turning white as I slowly nod. "Yes, obviously. We all used to train together. My brother is a career... the rest of us want to follow in his footsteps." I leave out the fact that I really don't train to follow in his shit footsteps. That I only train now because I have to at least attempt to uphold my family's reputation. Or maybe I really do train to go into the games... maybe deep down I really do feel the need to prove myself to others, to my family. But I'm not going to soul search right now. Besides, the idea makes me laugh, that I might feel all those things. What a mystery my subconscious would be. I have a hard time believing I'm that deep of a person. "That's sweet," she thumbs her her yellow ringlets. "He's dead now, though," she adds. I feel my stomach drop, then I go numb. She must be lying, because he just went into the arena. He was just called at the reaping, I remember it from a few minutes ago. Just called and shipped off, then he killed so many in the arena already. Just a few minutes ago. There hasn't been enough time for him to die, he wouldn't just die so soon. She's lying, and I say, "You're lying." My voice sounds lower than before now, raspier than before, and it quivers. I notice my whole body shakes now, in uneven heaves, my hand quivering so much I'm finding it harder and harder to scratch. "You're lying--" "I'm not. He died by the hand of Ronald Pervere." The name flies over my head, and I jump out of the chair and try to back up. The chair topples, I half stumble, half jump to avoid it as it does, and sound escapes me, an almost inhuman shriek. "You're lying, you stupid ugly whore. You're a fucking bitch!" My arms are flailing, as are my feet, and I'm toppling side to side, blood droplet swelling from knuckles and littering the wooden floor around me. "You're fucking lying! Go to fucking hell!" For all of the movement I'm making, the Capitolites are sitting stalk still. Their eyes are wide with confusion, surprise, pure fear. Their big beautiful eyes, their perfect bodies glued in place. I sputter more insults, but more words are slowly turning into guttural cries and gurgles, as I look around myself wildly, unsure of what to do next. Kellan... Kellan... his name rattles around my skull as I scratch at my blonde hairline, loose thin strands falling into my face. It's washed and cleaned, for once, prepped for this interview-turned- rampage. My gaze finally set on the Capitolites. They seem as unsure what to do next as I am, the camera pointed down as the man handling it hugs his body, his eyes squeezed shut, waiting for it all to end.

I look at Ganelle. She's staring at me, just staring... and our eyes meet again, for what seems like the millionth time. But this time, I don't see the beauty in them, no beauty at all. They look like dark, open circles, deep menacing caves. The eyes of a monster with no feelings, and she sits there and does nothing about my brother's slaughter. Sits there, like a monster waiting to strike. Bloodthirsty, even though she just killed Kellan. My mouth goes dry as I continue to stare at her, my body's shivers slowly lessening until it's just my hands moving back and forth, back and forth. That's when I step forward and bridge the gap between us, my hands reaching for her throat. It take a split-second, and yet it feels like a millennium, a journey. As if I am put into slow motion, like they use as they do action-replays of the murders in the arena. But I continue to reach, reach for her tanned neck peeking out of her cheetah-print dress, and finally my fingers clasp around their goal. I squeeze, and sudden;y it's fast paced again, and I squeeze harder, my muscles tightening and flexing, my rage burning and sloshing, and bubbling over the side, and she still does nothing, just sits there in front of me as I tighten my hands around her vocal chords and esophagus. Just sits there, and my fury levels out enough the I loosen my grip, and look at her again, wondering why she is not screaming, or even reacting. Why she isn't dying. But it's not Ganelle anymore that sits in front of me... it's myself. Her yellow hair replaced by my blonde, her eyes replaced with mine, her healthy form replaced with my sickly figure. I stare at myself, my hands slipping off from around her neck for a moment as surprise washes over me. Then she speaks, "Why won't you just die?" I'm already lunging at her again, screaming at the topic of my lungs, but now she's vanished too, and I'm left sitting up in my bed, surrounded by the heaviness of night. So it was all a dream. I should have noticed how the time between the reaping, the interview, and Kellan's death was screwed up. How the Capitolite talked to me... it wasn't much of an interview. How I tried to strangle Ganelle, and she... she... It was a figment of my imagination. Besides the scratching, of course. That was real, and there's a small pool of blood next to my pillow. Scratching in my sleep wasn't isn't anything new, so it doesn't bother me. But the dreams, those are new... and they always revolve around one of my siblings dying in the arena, a different reporter everytime. This is the first night I've tried to strangle the reporter. This is the first time they have transformed into me.

I glance around at the four bare walls that make up my room, the desk in the corner cluttered with school papers that were due months ago. In the other corner lays my smashed lamp, the one I threw blindly yesterday. It had been my only source of light, and now even that is gone, so I get out of bed, crawl into my closet, and sit in the dark.

56406e - Default
46294F - Willa's Speech
67418e - Other's speech

a183c1 - Personality
8a62b3 - Appearance
4f2976 - History

My name is Wilhelmina Jade Jaciak. I'm a sixteen year old female and I'm from District One. Call me Willa.