Wax On, Wax Off {Train!blitz | Klaus & Kia}

Each year it's the same. The brand new tributes board the train - they are fresh-faced and young, with wide eyes and a permanently awestruck expression. It's been seven years now, and still I watch over them like a war veteran, with wise, regretful eyes. They don't know what they're in for, and I do. Fortunately for them, I'm too kind to let them in on what they're about to face; instead they stumble forward through the days following their reaping with a weird mixture of fear and hope. I let them have that hope, even if that flicker of 'maybe' went out in my heart a long time ago.

Recently, it's been harder to look them in the eye. It's their youth that strikes me, I suppose. I was seventeen when they took me away and brought me back in a thousand broken pieces - and these children doesn't grasp the idea that winning the Games is the farthest thing from Victory in the world. As I feel the train lurch out of the station below me, I glance down at the two little girls sitting across from me in the carriage. Daisy has a thick red crayon clasped between her fingers - she is biting her lip in concentration, forming the letters of a word she almost definitely cannot spell. Beside her, Penelope is staring intently out of the window.

I can barely recall the names of the tributes. Because what do their names matter? They are nameless, we are all faceless and inhuman when we are reaped. Just blank, hollow pretenders. It is my biggest fear that Daisy and Penelope will one day be taking this train ride toward the Capitol, but instead of travelling in the Victor's carriage with me, be dragged down the hallway by the escort, about to follow in my footsteps, but perhaps not come out the other end. 

With this thought, and one final glance at my children, guilt strikes me. If it was them, seventeen years old and alone on a train, and I was a parent waiting at home, staring at a blank television screen and waiting with bated breath for the Capitol to reveal their fate - I would want somebody to do what they could to make sure they were okay. So I plant a kiss on each of their foreheads (Penelope continues to be transfixed by the window; I swear that child doesn't blink) and make my way down the hall toward the tributes. (For their parents, I tell myself.)

I've gotten used to the food that the rich indulge in (not so used to it as Mace, might I add) and with time it's lost its luxury. It seems this is not yet the case for the tribute boy. I chuckle at the look of sheer bliss on his face; the kind of joy I cannot really fathom coming from a plate of supper, but I suppose he needs to count his blessings while he can. "I do hope I'm not interrupting you," I say with a smile, "I'm Klaus Goravich, your mentor. I'm very sorry to be meeting you in this fashion. I hope you'll forgive me for not introducing myself earlier. How are you coping, my boy?"