66th Reaping [D11]

Walking alone to the reaping is something I thought I'd never have to do.

It makes me feel far more vulnerable than I've felt in a long time. The fact that no one is left to walk beside me is so blatantly obvious that I know there will be no escaping the pitiful looks. As I make my way down the dirt path that leads to the District Square, the same road I've walked down for nearly 5 years now, it's inevitable that other people will notice me. Even in a giant crowd of others, I must be easy to spot. Maybe it's the more animal instincts we have, the ones that able us to sniff out weakness. I must reek of desperation. Like a wounded member of the herd, I'm impossible to ignore. No longer am I filled with the determination of protecting my brother, for I have failed to stop fate from plucking everyone away from me one by one. It makes me a target for empathetic looks and sometimes, if the stranger is too bold for their own good, they even squeeze my shoulder or whisper things like "Keep your head up". I don't know where they get off thinking they have the right. They aren't the only person left in their family besides a set of ruined parents and a cousin that doesn't understand.

When I finally get to the square, where all the roped off kids wait anxiously, I make my way to the 17-year-old section. The whispering around me makes my head heavy, so I distract myself by looking towards my shoes. They're nice leather, reserved for special occasions. Even so, they're caked with dirt and look pretty rough. I think back to the last time I wore them—the funeral. The snow and mud had been the perfect mixture to bring ruin upon my only pair of good shoes. Really, I was an idiot for wearing them.

"Izar," I hear the name whispered beside me and my head snaps up in response. It's out of some kind of protective instinct that I narrow my eyes as I search for the speaker. Among the many people my age, no one is looking at me. They are all suddenly distracted by the trees in the orchards far beyond the District Square or have just realized how interesting the dirt beneath their feet looks. Pathetic. Now they suddenly don't have the guts to own up to their gossip. Just minutes ago, they were brave enough to watch me with pity, but now that they've been caught red-handed talking about me with possibly something other than sympathy, they're afraid. They know my temper is not something to take lightly, but I doubt they'd be so quiet if they knew how tired and vulnerable I feel. I'm in no mood to start a fight. My eyebrows release their tension as I stop glaring and searching; no matter how hard I look, I'm not going to find anyone I really want. I can't help but look towards the 14-year-old section, the place where Sampson would be this year. The crowd looks so sparse, like it's missing far more people than just my younger brother. The 15-year-old group looks changed in the same kind of way. My eyes hop from head to head, but Iago remains unseen.

"Moss Rose!" the speaker suddenly crackles and I shift my head with the rest of my district. She doesn't look familiar and I'm sure, by the way she looks, she'll be one of the first dead in the Games. Her body holds little definition, like she's never worked a good day in her life. Have I ever seen her in the fields? Nothing comes to mind. I nod slowly to bid her farewell even though she'll never notice me in the crowd.

Tasmain, our district's escort, moves towards the bowl of boy names. He looks the same as he did when he called Benat's name, Sampson's name, and hasn't changed since last year, when he took Iago off to die. When he grabs a slip out of the bowl, I expect him to say my name. I'm the only one left so it has to be me. They've taken everyone else or driven them away. He will say my name.

"Quentin Mentiras!" the name fills the air, but I don't even recognize it. My heart falls in my chest. Isn't it my turn? Don't I get to die like the rest of my family? I'm not suicidal, so don't think that. I'm just an Izar and this is what Izars do. Just like the Ripleys, Libertines, Shores, and all the other cursed families of the other districts. It's expected of me.
Everyone is looking at the boy named Quentin. I can't see him or his reaction to being called. There is just too many people to see through and I refuse to look to the screens hung around the square to see his face. I want to see him in person, in the flesh. The television screens can never truly capture the horror of the real thing. I know that from experience.

My hand curls into a fist beside me as I wait. I want to go home, back to my empty house and lifeless parents. Maybe I'll visit Sampson, Benat, and Iago's graves on the way back. I want that, don't I? To remain stuck in the nothingness that I've been left behind to rot in is what I want, right? Wrong. There is only emptiness left for me to return to and maybe that's why I'm so disappointed by the fact that my name wasn't called. Anything is better than staying in District 11. Even death, where I'll find my both my brothers again because I'm fairly certain Sampson died out there all alone in the winter storms. We will finally be the Izar Three again and I can't wait for the reunion. I can't wait.

I still can't see Quentin and I wonder if maybe he's panicking, terrified about the fate he's going to face. It's not a Mentiras's job to face the arena. Isn't it an Izar's? I'm the perfect candidate, hands down. With no strings left that keep me bound to District 11, it's almost too perfect that I can potentially do exactly what Iago did and volunteer to save a life. If I have the guts.

"I'll go," I say, not necessarily yelling. Everyone in hearing distance looks towards me, but they aren't sure if I'm entirely serious. My words were too quiet; I could keep my mouth shut and only a handful of people will know I said anything at all. It's not too late to let myself live. My mouth opens again. "I volunteer!" rings through the air, but it's before I've said anything. My eyes fall to see a scrawny boy, maybe a little bit older than Sampson or Iago would be. He looks far too young to be miserable enough to volunteer. But he climbs to the stage and I can't bring myself to stop him. He reminds me of Iago. "A-ari Newton," he stutters into the microphone and I bid him a quick, painless death.

Turning around, away from the two deceased souls on the stage and the stunned crowd before them, I head towards the graveyard. I need to have a talk with my brothers.

Maybe next year.