63rd Reaping [D10]

”Tell me a story,” you order your mother, climbing onto her lap even though it’s already occupied by her knitting. You’re only five years old, too young to be considerate about such trivial things.

”A story?” she confirms, chuckling at your new-found ability to form complete sentences. You nod furiously, your messy brown hair flying freely about your head. After thinking for a moment, she begins, and you listen so hard that your little eyebrows knot into a frown.

”There once was a crow perched high in a tree. A fox saw it as he was walking by, and since he was hungry, he decided to try and catch it. But try as he might, he couldn’t reach the bird. So the crow cawed down to the hungry fox, ‘You’ll never jump high enough to catch me!’ But this fox was very stubborn, and so he kept trying.

Days went by, and at the same time every afternoon, the fox would come back and try to catch the bird. The crow didn’t even try to fly away; he knew the fox couldn’t reach him. And pretty soon, he had let his guard down. After a few days, he didn’t even pay attention to the fox when he came by. So one day, the fox decided to take a different path to the bird, which led right behind the tree that the crow was sitting it. When he didn’t come past on the regular path, the crow didn’t even notice. Then the fox snuck up behind him and launched himself off of a rock, catching the bird off guard and pinning him to the ground. And finally, he swallowed the crow whole.

”Is that the end? You whisper, after a long pause. She tells you that it is, and you frown again. ”That’s the worstest story I ever heard,” you huff as you cross your arms, and you mean it. Your mother laughs at the look on your face, at the way your tiny bottom lip protrudes in a pout that expresses both your disappointment and irritation. When she asks you why you didn’t like her story, you reply very matter-of-factly, ”’Cause the bird gets ate, and the bad fox wins, and it’s not happy. It’s sad.” It’s the only time she’s ever told you a story that ended badly, and you can’t see why anyone would want to write a story where the bad fox wins.

”Some stories don’t have happy endings, Lyric,” she tells you quietly, running her fingers like a comb through your hair. The knots come out easily; it’s still silky smooth, just like it was when you were a baby. You assume that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

”The good ones do,” you mutter stubbornly, but it doesn’t look like your mother heard.

♪ ♬♩♫ ~ ♪ ♬♩♫ ~ ♪ ♬♩♫ ~ ♪ ♬♩♫ ~ ♪ ♬♩♫

You haven’t thought about it in a while, but for some reason this early memory comes back to as you get dressed for your sixth Reaping day, and you can’t shake it fom your mind. After pulling a lavender sun dress over your head, you twist your arms awkwardly behind you to zip up the back. The article was borrowed from your sister, of course; you have no taste for frilly, loose things, as skinny jeans and flannel shirts are more your forte. This is a ”special occasion,” however, and apparently that means that you have to wear something completely different than the clothes you’re usually comfortable in. The light fabric is silky and soft against your bare legs, though, so you don’t complain too much.

The hundred-zilllion-year-old wooden stairs creak gently under your weight as you make your way downstairs to the kitchen. As always, your sister is there first, seated across from your parents and picking at a plate full of breakfast—Mom always went all out on Reaping Day each year, as if the eggs and extra bacon would help to banish the anxious aura that annually hung over the district. It never did. You grab a plate out of the cupboard and fill it anyway—you figure it’s never a good thing to go hungry—before sitting in the chair to Lily’s right. Before long, Mom begins her annual pre-Reaping speech, which is a lot shorter than usual:

”Girls,” she says, obviously trying pretty hard to seem cheerful, ”I know that you’re probably nervous, because we all are. But I want you two to find confidence in remembering that you have a much better chance than many of not getting chosen from that glass ball today. And if, by some chance, you do get chosen…” She pauses, but both of you know what comes next. ”Your father and I want you to know that we love you very much, and that we believe in you, and if it’s the last morning we see each other then I’m glad we got to spend it as a family, with a nice breakfast.” Her last few sentences sort of blur together into one. She smiles weakly at you, and you return it whole-heartedly, ever the optimist. ”Love you,” you tell your mother, giving her a kiss on the cheek before doing the same with your father.

Your sister doesn’t say much to you during your walk to the Square, but then again, she hardly ever speaks. You can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking, or how nervous she is about the Reaping. To tell the truth, you aren’t all that worried; your parents have always been able to make enough money to feed you, and neither you nor Lily has ever needed to buy tesserae. Occasionally you consider the possibility of the escort’s hand picking out one of the slips of paper with your or your sister’s name on it, but then you remember that there are others in District 10 whose names were entered more times, and that it’s more likely to be them than you. Such a cheerful thought.

As always, the Square is crowded with people, and the heat emanating from all those nervous bodies only makes the summer sun feel hotter. You give your sister a kiss on the cheek before joining the rest of the seventeen year-olds, and this time it doesn’t even cross your mind that it could be the last time you ever see her. The only thing you’re really thinking about at the moment is your outfit, and how it compares to those of the other seventeen-year-old girls. The girl beside you is wearing nice jeans and a cotton shirt, and you wonder if her mother had asked her to wear a dress, too.

You can feel the tension in the air when the escort’s hand plunges into the glass bowl—and maybe you’re imagining it, but you think you can even hear the little slips of paper rustling. For a split second, you feel those nervous jitters that you thought you wouldn’t feel this year, like a hundred butterflies fluttering around in your belly. An entire district holds its breath.

”Essence Nemad!”

You’re safe, and so is your sister. Looks like it’s a natural death for me. Only after that thought crosses your mind do you consider that you should probably be more upset for the poor girl making her way towards the stage. But you don’t know her, and even though it’s terrible, you find it hard to feel much more than the usual pity for this stranger. You glance towards Mace Emberstatt as the escort fishes around for the second name, wondering if he’ll be successful in doing his part to keep the District’s tributes alive this year.

”Axel Van de Grif!”

The name sounds familiar, but you’re not sure why until the boy climbs the steps to the stage. That’s when you realize—it’s the boy you’d hit in the back of the head with an apple at the market that day. You’re frozen in place for a moment, your jaw hanging lazily open—no one you know personally has ever been chosen in the Reaping. How many times was him name in that glass ball, you have to wonder. Was he at a greater risk than you? Or, like you, did he come into the Square confident that he wouldn’t be Reaped? You wonder what it would have been like if you had spoken to him longer at the market that day, if you would have become friends, or maybe more than that. And then it occurs to you that you will never find out. You watch silently as the boy is led out of sight by the Peacekeepers, knowing you have one more reason to root for your district this year.

You’re peculiarly quiet on the way home, and it’s probably because you’re too absorbed in your thoughts, in that childhood memory that keeps on playing in your head. And finally you realize how much you’re like the crow, sitting in the tree and thinking he was safe. Maybe Axel was like that too. Maybe this had been his last Reaping, or his second-last, just like you, or perhaps he hadn’t needed tesserae either. Then chill runs down your spine as you think to yourself:

What if the Games decide to sneak up on you next year?

thinking, doing, hearing, ”saying,” other

{ooc- este post es largo y apestoso – yeah I think that’s how you say that}