64th Reaping [D5]

pay my respects to grace and virtue
send my condolences to good
hear my regards to soul and romance
they always did the best they could

T H E . A R G U M E N T is still ringing in my ears as I make my way through the crowd of anxious teenagers, stomach knotting itself not because of the threat of nearly certain death that rots behind the brave faces we put on but because of the screaming contest that is sure to continue the moment I walk through that elegant front door again. (Maybe I won't. Maybe I won't go home after the reaping. Maybe I'll run away. The thought is tempting, but as always, I have nowhere to go. Wonderland, The Dark Forest, Neverland... they only ever exist in fairytales.) In my mind I turn over every word that echoed through the grand halls of that house in an almost strategic way, searching for weakness or hesitation between the syllables. As usual, there is none. My eyebrows draw together slightly, fingers curling in agitation. There has to be something, some kind of ammunition fired at me that I can somehow manage to turn in my favor. The mental search is in vain, though, and I give a small huff of frustration.

The hem of my skirt, in all its poofy and floral glory (Mother's revenge) catching on someone's belt buckle is what jerks me back into reality. The fabric tears slightly and my face immediately heats up in embarrassment as I mutter a quick apology and work to free myself, trying not to look at the face and see the knowing smirk there. It seems I can't escape the way rumors spread like wildfire through District Five - everyone knows what I did that night, and what the exact consequences were. I can feel gazes coming from everywhere I am not looking until I finally grunt impatiently and tug the skirt away, tearing a small hole. At this point, as I squirm the rest of the way through the crowd and into the section of seventeen year old girls (awaiting either the slaughter or another year of slow-lived torture), I am beyond caring.

("Growing up doesn't mean losing all your common sense, Wendy! You embarrassed us in front of the entire district. You're lucky we don't throw you to the streets!"

"Why do you think everything I do is centered around you? Why can't I ever just do something for myself?"

"You're always doing something for yourself. You're a selfish, ignorant child, and it's time for you to grow up!"

"Maybe I don't want to grow up!")

They don't have to try to tell me what growing up means. I already know. Growing up means putting on your big girl shoes and facing your mistakes. Growing up means admitting to your parents that you made a mistake, that you're sorry, that you don't know how to fix things and you need help. Growing up means giving up the baby, no matter how horrible it makes you feel, because you know you could never care properly for it otherwise. Growing up means living the rest of your life haunted by the fact that any one of the younger children running around could very well be yours, and you'll never know it.

I know what growing up means. I was forced to grow up by Fate, not my parents, even if they don't realize it. Now I'm just a mother with a lost boy child trying desperately to remember how to be young again.

A loud screech of the sound system is the traditional way to start the District Five reaping, so routine that instead of jumping in surprise most of the citizens simple cringe. Mayor Somerset gives her usual speech and introduction, a bright smile plastered across her face though her eyes look slightly troubled. The district escort, a man named Salazar who's been the escort for ages now but somehow hasn't aged a day, then steps forward, the usual spring in his step. My fingers find the hole in my skirt, playing with it nervously even though I have long since learned to numb myself to avoid the harmful effects of spontaneous adrenaline bursts and butterflies in my stomach. It's silly to be worried because I am the heroine in my fairytale and the heroine never dies.

Salazar pauses for dramatic effect, his breathing against the microphone projected as static over the stillness of the audience. He flashes a winning smile, squinting at the small slip of paper in his hands as if having trouble reading it even though we all know the letters are printed neatly and legibly on every entry, as is required. Another pause. And then -

"Wendy Darling!"

(That's it, then. I have to admit that my life isn't a fairytale anymore.)

And that, that is what growing up means.

and so long to devotion
you taught me everything I know
wave goodbye, wish me well
you've gotta let me go

(OOC: Wendy Darling does not accept her place as District Five female tribute in the 64th Annual Hunger Games.)

are we human or are we dancer?
my sign is vital, my hands are cold
and I'm on my knees looking for the answer
are we human or are we dancer?

I . A W A K E N long before the sun on the morning of the reaping, and I know that I am going to die.

It isn't because of some sort of sixth sense thrumming in my subconscious, nor is it the normal dread that sets into my bones every reaping day. No, this year, it is a dead certainty lingering like a bitter taste in my mouth, a decision made weeks ago that didn't quite seem real until now. My eyes, glassy and distant, flutter open and closed until I am convinced that yes, I'm awake, this isn't just another twisted dream, and then I swing my legs over the side of the bed and begin to prepare myself for the nightmare that has become my reality.

As I pull on my hiking boots and a thin sweatshirt a quiet part of me whispers that nothing is set in stone yet, I still have a choice, I don't have to go through with this, but whatever fragile sanity that has lasted through the years reminds me that changing my mind now will only result in another year of torture. Somewhere between these two voices, one of reason and one of hope, leaden fear settles. But then again, I'm used to fear, aren't I? I'm used to fear and I'm used to pain and today should be like any other, except for now it starts a countdown. The end is within view, both a relief and a mystery.

Perhaps it would be simpler to just grab a kitchen knife and get it over with, but each time I consider it my mother's voice wails within my mind. Her pitiful cry always stays my hand and forces me to avert my eyes, to the point where the only reason I'm still clinging to my own pathetic life is because she would never forgive me if I gave it up so willingly. (I found a loophole, Mama. I found a loophole and you can't scream anymore, because I don't like it when you scream. Okay? I'm going to be okay.)

Only someone as tortured as I am can see volunteering as anything other than suicide.

The change in the district industry years ago caused poverty to strike our family. When I slip out the side door around to the back of the house, the birds in their cages flutter their wings hopefully. Some of them haven't been truly free in months. The need for meat is low these days. People are getting rich off of the oil they are drilling for, and they can get food much cheaper shipped from the Capitol. No one needs my birds anymore. Perhaps that's part of what spurred this foreign depression in me. The birds were always my purpose. Papa hit me and people scared me but at least among the falcons I felt something other than fear. That feeling hasn't gone away, but seeing them as trapped as I am in this world makes me realize how truly awful it is of me to hold onto them when they were born to do bigger and better things. Papa hits me harder and people scare me more and now the birds, too, hate me. I don't want to be hated. Not by them.

When I whistle, high pitched and demanding, only one calls back. I whistle again, and there is no reply. Closing my eyes, I suck in a deep breath, chest expanding painfully. My hand darts out, feeling for the lock on the cage, and my fingers close around it and wrench it off before repeating the process for a second cage, and then a third and a fourth. The birds coo and call anxiously, sensing freedom. I open my eyes, pressing my lips tightly together, and swing the doors open with all the force my skeletal limbs can manage. There is a pause, dead silence, and a glimmer of hope. But then they are shrieking, bursting through the doors, and I'm forced to duck down with my hands held over my head as they escape and take flight, not bother to look back. I stay there on the ground, watching their retreating silhouettes for a long time, before slowly rising and gazing hollowly at the empty cages. At the bottom of one, resting between the bars, there is single feather. Nothing else.

I pocket the feather, brush away the mutinous tears on my cheeks, and drift back into the house to prepare for the end of my life.

I've always hated the reapings. There are just so many people and they're all so close and they hate me, they want to hurt me, they need to get away get away getawaygetawaygetawayget - stop. A deep breath. I can do this. There's no reason I can't do this. (I'll be okay.) I grit my teeth and suffer through the mayor's routine speech, trembling from head to toe. Perhaps, if I were normal, my heart rate would spike when the escort steps forward. I'm not normal, though, and my heart is already pounding so fast and hard that it threatens to actually cause me physical harm should I become any more anxious. I can feel the adrenaline painfully searing through my veins, humming in my weakening legs and causing my muscles to clench. The beginning of a panic attack. I grip my hands into fists and focus on my breathing as the female name is called out.

"Wendy Darling!"

My body begins trembling violently as my mind suddenly scrambles, eyes widening, and I forget my entire purpose, my whole plan. What do I do? Do I say it now? She isn't on stage yet... but I can't miss it. I'm going to miss it. I've got to do something, I've got to say it, now?, now -

"I volunteer!"

It's not so much a call as it is a shriek, like the cries of one of my the birds, and I launch myself forward before the other girl, the Wendy Darling, can even take a step. Perhaps, under different circumstances, I would have needed her permission. But glancing to my side (she's the same age as I am, I realize), I see her slump to the ground, shoulders shaking as she blubbers something about an apology and her baby. Another voice manages to cut through the blood roaring in my ears as I pull my arms close to myself and shoulder my way through the crowd, cringing every time I feel a hand on my shoulder or a gaze on my back. My father, roaring his drunken protest, shouting that that's his daughter, that's his baby girl.

I'm not yours, though, Papa. I'm theirs now and you can't break me anymore and I'm going to be okay.

I scramble onto the stage, unassisted, chest heaving and eyes wild. Papa is fighting against a group of people holding him back while the rest of the audience eyes me warily, wondering just how crazy I really am, and then suddenly a microphone is being pressed up to my mouth asking for my name.

"What? Oh. I... I - I'm..."

I'm going to be okay.

will your system be alright
when you dream of home tonight?
there is no message we're receiving
let me know, is your heart still beating?

(OOC: Luciana Trevers volunteers as District Five female tribute in the 64th Annual Hunger Games.)