freida venegas : d5 : fin

This year is my child's first reaping.

I wanted to keep the morning as normal as possible, despite the looming cloud of despair over the District. I cooked oatmeal for breakfast, putting apple slices on top of Layla's bowl and sprinkling brown sugar over mine. She bounded downstairs in the pink dress I'd laid out for her the night before. We chatted while we ate about mundane things like her schoolwork and the weather. She explained a difficult math problem she'd been assigned for homework. I was never good at math when I was in school, but Layla is a genius.

We both knew what was approaching, but neither one of us said anything. She asked me to do her hair after we finished eating. I retrieved a hairbrush from my bedroom and began to brush out her long hair. It's very easy to tell she's my daughter. We have the same dark brown hair that looks almost red in the sunlight. Our eyes are wide, guarded by thin eyelashes that constantly fall out and litter our cheeks. Underneath straight noses are lips that house yellowing teeth behind them. High cheekbones cut a line into our square faces, making us both look older than we actually are.

I finish wrapping her hair into a knot. She goes off to get her shoes. I take this opportunity to sneak off to the bathroom and make sure I look presentable. Typically, I wear larger clothes that hide my frame. I never filled out as a teenager, going into adulthood as curvy as a wooden board. Today, however, I put on a nice outfit. I haven't dressed up for a reaping since I was eighteen, but my daughter is eligible now. If something, anything happens, God forbid, I don't want to look like I just rolled out of bed. I smooth the wrinkles out of my pants, running my calloused hands down thin legs.

"Mom?" She asks, lingering in the doorway.

I turn to look at her. She looks like an animal trying to hide an injury. "It's time," she says, almost a whisper.

She links her arm with mine as we walk to the District Square. We pass other children on the way. Layla recognizes some of them and waves. The children wave back. The parents glare at me. I am not looked fondly upon by many people, but I don't mind. I've never been somebody who cares about negative opinions of her. I am living my life for myself, and for my daughter. Her opinion of me is the only one that matters. I wouldn't care if the entire population of Panem hated me, so long as my daughter still found light in me.

We reach the point where the children separate from the crowd. My daughter glances up at me, then to the tables manned by Peacekeepers. If her nervousness were physical, it could fill the entire District. "I don't want to go," she says.

"You have to," I reply. "I'm sorry."

She tightens her grip around my arm. I want nothing more than to scoop her into my arms and bring her home, but I can't. I gently remove my arm from hers. "Come on, sweetheart. I'll see you after. I promise."

I have a lot of compassion inside of me. I suppose it was born out of the lack of love given to me by my own mother. I decided very early on that I wasn't going to be like her. I don't want the people around me (the ones who deserve it, anyway) to feel like they aren't wanted and appreciated. I tend to be very generous with things like hugs and gifts. Flowers are one of my favorite things to give. My daughter keeps a vase on her windowsill that's always filled with a different bouquet.

I watch Layla take her place with the other twelve year olds. She seems so small, despite standing among other people her age. I make my way to the general crowd. Everybody chatters nervously. I feel nervous as well, but I'm trying to keep it under control. When I was younger, I was an overemotional mess. I allowed small things to completely consume me. I thought I'd worked through it, but it turns out I do the exact opposite now. Repression. I don't let my true worries shine through, for fear they will consume me again.

The crowd goes silent. The escort from the Capitol takes the stage. He goes through his required spiel before heading for the glass bowl of female names.

I hold my breath.

I was born to a woman whose husband had recently left her. I never knew my father, and I never wished I did. My mother did not recover from his exit. She was cold, emotionally distant, and I constantly took the brunt of her cruel comments. I spent my entire childhood feeling alone. When the Reapings came, there was a part of me that prayed they would call my name. I knew my mother would not care.

As I got older, I fell in with the wrong sort of people. There were late nights, alcohol, and a long stream of bad boyfriends. Nobody was there to stop me, so the spiral continued. I can't remember the name of the last boyfriend I had. How horrible, to have been so caught up in my mental collapse that I forgot the name of Layla's father. It was right after my last Reaping when I discovered I was pregnant. I never told him, deciding to break up with him instead, but I'm sure he figured it out.

When Layla was born, I knew right away I would do anything for her. People looked down on me for keeping her, and they still do, but their opinions couldn't mean less to me. They were the ones missing out. It was difficult to raise her alone, as a young single parent fresh out of her mother's house, but I managed. I got a job as a doctor's assistant, a job that paid well and didn't involve any oil rigs. I taught Layla to walk and talk and read. She excelled in school right away. My daughter is the sole reason I got my life together. I have never felt prouder than when I look at her.

The escort calls a name.

It is not Layla's.

The reaping ends soon after. There is no time to feel bad for the families currently being torn apart. Mine is intact, and in this very moment, that's all that matters. I will bring them something to express my sympathies later.

Layla finds me. I notice tear tracks on her cheeks, and she knows I see them, but neither one of us say anything. She hugs me as tight as she can, and then we walk home together, hand in hand. Safe. For now.