atonement [open]
Dec 3, 2013 3:58:56 GMT -5
Post by Kyubey on Dec 3, 2013 3:58:56 GMT -5
Maisy Kenner
It’s my least favorite day of the year: the day my annual sponsorship drive turns into my annual funeral drive. And today, I walk the streets with a heavier heart than usual.
I’ve been a wreck ever since they announced the Quell – that horrible, horrible twist that made my stomach turn. At the time, I was afraid because it effectively tripled my chances at being Reaped. But now, three-quarters of the way through the actual Games, I can see how selfish that was. I cared more about the possibility of becoming a tribute than the actual tributes themselves. When I saw Sticky and Ivana up there, both fourteen like me, I could have died from shame. I was worried all that time over nothing, and they were the ones who would have to be sacrificed. Not me.
I should have volunteered. But I didn’t. I’m far too cowardly for that. So I did what I always did instead. I ran a sponsorship fundraiser.
It’s hard not to get discouraged when my donation boxes are empty and when my arm gets tired from pulling the wagon of brownies around all weekend, offering to sell them for money. The people in my district are good, caring people, but not many are as lucky as my family is. Most simply don’t have any money to give, and while I don’t blame them, it still makes me sad. I try so hard to help our brave tributes and I just can’t. It’s enough to make me cry.
Mom doesn’t let me watch the Games for more than an hour at a time because she’s afraid I’ll dehydrate myself from crying. Actually, a lot of people notice that I can barely hold it together during Games week. The gore alone is usually enough to upset me, but this year, there’s also the guilt. Guilt for my fear. Guilt for not volunteering, for not saving Ivana. Guilt for failing to raise any money.
Guilt for being alive when two of my classmates are dead.
I sniffle a bit as I pull my wagon along, my gloved fingers aching from holding onto the freezing handle for so long. The brownies my dad made are no doubt cold by now, and the mason jar I brought along for money is still empty, save for the snowflakes that have landed inside. I want to stop. I want to go home, snuggle in a blanket, and have Mom bring me hot cocoa. But I won’t, not until I’ve made some money for their families. It’s my apology – my payment to them for being weak.
“B-Brownies! Fresh brownies!” I call out, my voice wavering as I shiver. My pink jacket is old and wearing thin, but I haven’t grown enough to justify getting a new one. “One coin as payment. All of it goes towards the families of the tributes!”
I’m in a park near the College, so I know there are people around. But as the biting wind swirls around me and echoes inside my empty jar, I feel like I’m yelling into a void.
Ivana. Sticky. I am so sorry.
