64th Reaping [D8]

The fat on Sam's body seemed to have expanded after breakfast. The blind apothecary could not see his hairy stomach spilling out from under his shirt nor the thick, wobbly neck supporting a round face and that's what suited both of them best. Though thoroughly bloated after the third hard-boiled egg and second slice of bread, Sam had served himself yet another egg and a fifth after that until his chest felt thick and his stomach ached, so he doused himself in milk and orange juice and hobbled heavily to the stovetop to serve the blind man called Elfric.

"Samuel, just some scrambled eggs, please," the man asked him, "it'll be another busy day today, yes?"

"No, sir."

Sam turned and placed a dish of scrambled eggs before Elfric with a soft clatter and the man abruptly turned his ear away from Sam's sonorous footfalls and towards the dish. "Thank you," he said after a bite, egg dribbling out through those wrinkled lips and into his lap. He dabbed himself too late with his napkin, but didn't seem to mind as he asked thoughtfully, ear to Sam, "But why, boy? Is it a holiday?"

It was the question Sam was dreading. He was standing in the center of the kitchen in bare feet, so that he could feel the grain of dropped salt pressing up against his skin, a momentarily sting that was soothed by the few cool petals of begonia that he'd accidently left behind earlier that morning when he'd dropped the basket he was carrying. The dropping of the basket was the result of the answer to that question. Just like any other morning, Sam had risen before the sun had even cracked open an eye and stumbled out into the garden to gather what herbs Elfric would need that day. It was the only physically demanding job Sam did in the entire day. The rest would be devoted to waiting until Elfric woke up, serving him his breakfast and then reading. Elfric had an entire library in both his head and his house, but he still wasn't sure of every single remedy that can be made, so when faced with a new challenge, Sam became his eyes, reading him formulas and making sure everything was measures correctly (it nearly always was). Sam also manned the ledgers and handled customers into the apothecary. And for all of this, Elfric granted Sam a place to eat and sleep (a pallet in the kitchen above the store), a place away from home…where this conversation would be going much differently.

With a swallow, Sam arched his thick toes against the wooden floorboards and spoke in a quivering voice, “Today is the Reaping, sir.”

If it weren’t for that pallet in the corner, sunken in the memory of his weight, if it weren’t for the eggs now churning inside of him, he would not be watching Elfric’s ear turn from him so fluidly, so gently, nor would he be seeing the blind man raise those sightless eyes to the ceiling and even manage a faint smile that could only be one of pity. “Ah, the Reaping…you’re nineteen though, right, boy?”

“E-eighteen…” And the ear was turned right towards him again, absorbing the word. Eighteen. It was not an age, but rather a state. A state of danger that Sam was still hovering in, just inches from the finish line-I’m nineteen in just four months, just four-but not quite there. He could see it, flashing lights and neon signs, taste it, the sweetness of peaches that Elfric had Sam harvest on Reaping day each year, peaches he could finally enjoy if…if…

“Is it time yet, Samuel?”

“Soon…”

Elfric’s ear turned to the ceiling as if he could hear it, hearing its whispers and nodded in understanding. “It’ll be over soon, boy.”

Over came soon.

Looking back, Sam would say that the time between speaking to his master and his name actually being called was a blur of button-down shirts, sour peaches and the usual giggles at his back when he thundered into the District Square.

No one giggled or even whispered when they heard his name. Sam didn’t move for a moment, a silly grin spreading across his saggy cheeks. Samuel Tulius. Who was that unfortunate soul? Surely not…surely not…the grin began to crack and peel and landed with a heavy thud at his feet. Surely not…surely not…there were hands, a plethora of them, pressing at his wide back. “That’s you, Sam. That’s you.” Him? Was he receiving some kind of award? The sun was warm on his back and sweat poured down his sides. A moment ago, he’d been trembling and crossing his fingers and now…now he was being pushed up to a stage and the stairs creaked as he staggered up them. There was a girl there too, a little one, and her hand in his sweaty one later one would surprise him. She was so small, too small to be shaking his hand in this way.

Samuel Tulius.

It was only when Sam turned to survey the sea of blank faces and he picked one out like a beacon did he realize. A sharp, gray one, frowning. Father. He was shaking his head and he sang like bells ringing loudly into Sam’s ears. “You’re a disappointment to this family. A fat disappointment. I hope you get Reaped, you useless oaf.”

Reaped.

And the next thing he knew, Sam was kneeling on that wooden stage in a pool of his own vomit.

{Sam Tulius has accepted}