You're Not a Hero {Ember}

As soon as my eyes shut the slide show begins
Yesterday is gone now and panic sets in
With a weight upon my chest
and a ghost upon my back.

I’m tired of waking up with the same old fucking fight song in my head. I’m supposed to be happy because I wasn’t Reaped, or some shit like that, but I’ve spent the last fourteen years being taught that my life was leading up to some sort of climax – at seventeen, I had this silly idea of glory. I was going to volunteer, head into the Games, and of course I’d win and bring glory to my district, my home, my parents…But here’s the truth: There can only be so many winners in life, and I am not one of them. My small chances at glory passed me by with little fanfare, and as a result, I spend every morning lying in bed a little longer than necessary, wishing for some sort of magic to reverse the clock and bring me back to eighteen.

I’ve spent the last year training Careers, since I’m now too old to be one myself. I wish I could say I hate it. That would justify how much I hate my life now, wouldn’t it? I’m useless and worthless and I should fucking act like it, but I don’t. Instead, I go to the job I love, and spend all day training innocent little children. At the end of the day, I go home to parents who are secretly glad I never ended up in the Games, and I stumble into bed too early. I should be happy, but instead, I wake up every morning dreading the moment when I finally have to get out of bed. It’s the same thing every morning; I lie in bed for as long as humanly possible, giving myself a pep talk, and listing off the reasons why I should get out of bed and keep moving. 1) Mom and Dad love you and if you don’t get out of bed, they’ll worry. 2) You have a job at the training center, and while Mr. Zakros will definitely cut you a little slack now and then, he wouldn’t hesitate to fire your sorry ass if you stopped showing up. 3) There are plenty of Careers who never get Reaped, and are they complaining? No.

With a groan, I roll out of bed, letting my body flop to the ground. My shoulder hits the floor hard, the impact only somewhat dulled by the blankets tangled around my body. I’m really not in the mood to put in an effort today, so I stumble downstairs to the kitchen, still wearing my blankets. Dad give me a strange look over the rim of his coffee mug, but doesn’t say anything. Mom plops a plate of pancakes down in front of me. “Don’t you have work today?” she asks. She turns back to the stove, and I take the opportunity to roll my eyes at Dad, who returns it with a shrug and shake of the head. Mom and Dad were both Careers when they were young, and like me, Dad was really disappointed when he didn’t get Reaped. He knows what I’m going through, while Mom is disgustingly oblivious.

“Yeah,” I tell Mom. “Just haven’t decided what to wear yet.” I’ll probably end up throwing on sweatpants and a t-shirt, but I don’t want to try to explain to Mom, yet again, why I’m drowning in this supposed fairy-tale of a life I’ve stumbled into. I should be happy that I didn’t get Reaped. People are usually happy, aren’t they? And if they’re not, they don’t take this long to get over it, right? It’s nearly been a year, and I’m still waltzing down to breakfast dressed as a blanket burrito. I wasn’t even this upset when Roland broke up with me.

I eat breakfast quickly, desperate to avoid conversation and confrontation with Mom. She doesn’t get it. She may have been a Career in her youth, but she never really cared about the Games. She has exactly what she always wanted: a happy little family. I’ve spent fourteen years with the same dream, and now that it’s gone, I don’t know what to do with the rest of my life. Much as I enjoy training Careers, I don’t think I can do it the rest of my life. It’s going to kill me eventually, seeing all those bright and eager faces as they stare down disappointment on the Reaping day. After I’ve finished eating, I hurry up to my room, reluctantly abandoning my blankets in favor of actual clothing. I run a brush through my hair, then pull it into a tight bun so it’s out of the way. Even though I don’t really have the time for it, I waste a few moments staring at my reflection in the mirror. Who the hell is that girl? I didn’t used to have these dark circles under my eyes. I feel so directionless. Pointless. Maybe moving out, gaining some small measure of independence, would help m figure out what I want. But I don’t really want to leave Mom and Dad. If nothing else, they make food for me, and I’d probably forget to eat if I wasn’t reminded. Moving out is an idea I’ve toyed with a lot over the past few months, but it always comes back to the same thing. Even though I could afford to live alone, I know it isn’t a good idea. I wouldn’t take care of myself. I’d throw myself into work, and I’d exercise too much even though there’s no point in being good at fighting anymore. I’d stop eating, and sleeping too, probably. No, it’s better that I stay here, at least until I’m a little more stable.

The walk to the training center is a quick one. I enjoy the feel of the cool air on my face. It’s a gentle reminder that there’s a world outside myself, and however shitty I feel, the world is still spinning. I’m not the only person who exists in the world. I am very small, in the grand scheme of things, and while that’s terrifying, there’s also a kind of comfort in that. Sometimes I need to be reminded that while I’m important to myself, I’m not necessarily important to other people. Roland used to say that my self-importance was one of my greatest flaws; I was so self-assured, that when the fall came, I was going to fall hard. Unfortunately, he’d been right.

I have a few regular students, most of them under the age of ten, but none are scheduled to train with me today. On days like this, I usually just mill around, looking for people who need some help. First, I head over to Mr. Zakros, who is sitting in his tiny office, shoved behind a miniscule desk. “Got anyone for me?” I ask.

He looks up when I enter, and I hate to say that a measure of dread fills his eyes. “Actually, there’s a girl that showed up who needs a trainer.” He gives me her name, and I start to turn from his office, ready to seek her out, but Zakros’ words stop me. “Pettissa, try not to scare this one away, okay? It’s bad for business.” I wince and slowly turn around to face him again. Lately, I’ve gotten into a bad habit of being unusually harsh towards the Reapable trainees. I always warn them that training with me is very rigorous, that I will push them to their limits – these are the people who are old enough to get thrown into the Games, and in there, no one is going to show them any mercy. Despite my warnings, they always complain that it’s too hard, and stop coming to the training center in favor of finding one elsewhere that will be a little easier on them. I’ve always been tough, but Zakros has a point – maybe I should lighten up a little. “No problem,” I tell him, plastering a fake smile on my face as I leave his office.

Out in the main room, I scan the small crowd of students for my target. All these kids think they’re going to be something someday; they think they’re going to have glory, and a crown of laurels, and whatever else the capitol decides to give them. But life doesn’t work like that. Only a small fraction of these Careers will ever be Reaped, and I have no interest in training anyone who isn’t truly devoted. This isn’t a game; this is my life, and I have no intention of squandering my talents and passing on my skills to someone who isn’t going to use them, given the chance. I plant my hands on my hips and draw myself up to my full height. I want this girl, whoever she is, to be terrified of me from the first glance. It’s best she know what she’s getting herself into. “Catalina!” I shout, my voice carrying loud and clear through the room. “Get your ass over here! We’ve got a lot of work to do.”