[76th] The Reaping - District 10

Dawn comes but I'm not ready. Time has flown over our heads like torrents of wind ripping through the sky, but it feels just like yesterday that Myara's name was called at the Reaping. Two years later but it feels like she should still be here, laughing, smiling, playing in the field with Clementa, Kiara, and I. Dad says she's up there — and he'll point to the starry skies above our heads — watching us like a guardian angel.

But I don't believe in angels anymore.

When the four of us were younger, we would always be running around our ranch, hopping over the fences If we had cut ourselves on the barbed wire fence, Mom would stitch our skin right back up with a needle and thread. But this was a wound that nothing could fix — the death of a sister was an eternal affliction. Dad says he knows what it's like to lose a sibling; his brother died long ago. He says that the pain will never truly go away, but over time it will ebb.

"Time can't heal all your wounds. But once you've accepted what has happened and you grow to love new people, you won't feel so horrible anymore. You won't be so heavy."

Heavy. Yes, Dad knows the feeling exactly; death is a weight in my chest and I am sinking on the inside.

Sitting in the field with Clementa and Kiara doesn't feel the same without Myara there. We take turns braiding flowers into each other's hair — Kiara weaves pink primroses into mine as I forge a crown of white daisies for Clementa. We are arranged in a little train, Clementa first in the line, myself second, and Kiara last. Myara should be behind her with Kiara's favorite flowers, violets — the ones with the biggest petals we could find — in her hands.

But she isn't, I remind myself. And she never will be.

"Guys?" I say. "Do you think — do you think we'll be safe this time?"

"Saffron said she doesn't think that any of us are safe," chirped Kiara in a small, half-hearted voice. Her tiny words send a great shudder through my body, an icy chill down my spine. But she's right — Saffron is right. None of us are truly safe now that the connection between our families has been confirmed to President Snow. Saffron has found us and the Lowes are whole again — and yet we are so broken, because we never know who is getting out of this alive.

(And because Myara is gone Myara is gone and she's not coming back she's not coming back she's not coming back because she's dead —)

An ominous cloud, a dark mist of death, wraps itself around us as the realization sinks in that within the span of a few years, most, or all of us, may be lying in coffins beneath gravestones next to Myara's. And why? Because Snow hates our district, because he wants to show Saffron the power he holds in his hands — that he may not be able to kill her, but that he can take away almost everything she loves.

"Don't say that, Kiara," Clementa snaps. "We'll be fine. They already — they already got one of us."

"But what if Snow is angry? You know people say that he wasn't pleased with another District Ten winning," I theorize. "Maybe he'll want to punish the district — punish Saffron for being able to bring Ansgar home."

"But Saffron isn't the reason Ansgar Todd got home, really, is she?" Kiara asks, placing another primrose into a new braid.

"No," I tell her, "but I don't think Snow cares."

"Don't overthink it," Ment demands. "You always overthink. Nothing is certain until the Reaping, so just — just shut your mouth, Ember, okay?"

Shut your mouth — and I smile. She says those words to me the same way she says, "I love you."

Morning comes but I'm not ready. I am not ready but the sun rises anyway, because time will always press on despite any wishful thinking of mine. When the sun peeks its head over the horizon, it begins to bleed. Streaks of scarlet, threads of blood slowly trickle onto a lavender and daffodil-yellow canvas. It is the whisper of an omen faded by the low howl of the wind against the tall golden grass, but a whisper is just enough.

"Emberly," it calls. "Emberly Lowe."

I look up from Clementa's hair and the sun catches in my eyes.

"You're next."

For a moment, there is eerie silence as my sanity begins to rupture.

"Giiiirls!" our mother calls, shattering me in the middle of my thoughts and forcing me back to reality. But here and in my mind, I stare Death in the face, only it is less apparent, shrouded my the shadows of the trees. "It's time to get dressed!"

We get up and I take my sisters' hands, holding them so tightly like I'm hanging on for dear life — and what if I really am and just don't know it? We walk towards the open door, and I hold it for Ment and Kiara. Before heading inside, I take another look at the sky. It has become a bloodbath of scarlet, a chaotic gradient of daffodil-yellow, flame-orange, and blood-red. Myara's death breaks into my mind — all of the blood, bright just like the scarlet sky. It was pooling all over the ground and soaking her clothes, spattered on Jenoah Rasoio's blade and speckled on his hands.

"Emberly?" my mother calls once more. "Aren't you coming in?"

Deep breaths — in and out, in and out. The memory becomes fainter but it follows me, a ghost mimicking my shadow. "Yes," I say. "I'm coming." I close the door behind me, but as I walk up the stairs I feel the glare of the sun burning into my flank through the window.

Mom has already laid out a sundress for me on my bed. It is light mauve and decorated with lavender and white flowers that have little dark green leaves around their edges. I unzip the dress and step into it, careful with my movements so I don't disrupt Kiara's perfect, flower-dotted braids in my hair.

For shoes I wear little white flats with bows at their ends. They click lightly against the wooden floor as I cross over to my dresser where a Polaroid photo of my family is propped up against the mirror. A smiling Saffron and a reluctant Paige stare into the camera beside myself, my father, my mother, my aunt, Clementa, Kiara, and Myara. The photo was taken when I was fourteen — when the two sides of our family had just found each other. For a moment there, for just one moment frozen in time within the frame of a Polaroid, our family was truly whole.

In that photo, in that singular, beautiful moment, Kiara is eight years old and does not know death or suffering; Myara is alive and has never been stained by blood; Ment is full of a flame that can be seen blazing in her exuberant eyes; our parents have never known a day without their children; Saffron smiles so lightheartedly because she is free from the heavy guilt of sentencing us to a grave fate; Paige is moody with slightly narrowed eyes, slowly getting used to the idea of having another family; and I . . .

I hardly recognize myself. My freckles are darker than they are now and my hair is shorter, blonder, and the way I smile is almost unsettling, like I've never been happier in my entire life. My smile is wide and my dimples are deep; it's almost unnatural to me now to see my past self this way.

In sadness, I have forgotten a piece of myself. But as I close my fingers around the photo, I remember the fourteen-year-old Emberly Lowe once again.

I turn the photo over to see another picture, painted by Kiara and I, of a sun encircled by an assortment of different flowers — a pink primrose, a violet, a white daisy, an Indian blanket, a sunflower, and a red rose.

Dad has always told us to bring a token to the Reaping just in case, and I suppose that his photo would be the perfect fit — it represents what I lost and everything that I want to be again.

I take the photo and place it in the pocket of my sundress. Things will never be like that again — but it doesn't hurt to remember.

When I walk downstairs, what is left of my family is gathered around the door, waiting for me. My parents' faces are grave but Clementa has steeled herself, and Kiara stares up at me with huge worried blue eyes. As I reach the exit, Kiara holds out her hand for me to take it, probably for reassurance — and maybe all Kiara needs to feel content is a loving touch, but I know better than a ten-year-old. I know that the warm touch of family, while comforting, will not change what we face today.

The tiny hand of Kiara closes around mine, and before we walk out the door, Ment and I silently exchange a glance. It'll be alright, she seems to tell me.

On the walk to the District Square, Kiara's bracelet jingles like Ratmas bells, a small and hopeful tune in the midst of a rising disaster. Reaping Day has always been grim, but now it just serves as a reminder that Snow can take one of us, any of us, any year now. And if it's not us, maybe it will be Paige.

My gaze casts down to the top of Kiara's vibrant curls of red hair, strewn about her shoulders and back and spotted with purple flowers. They are nestled along the pair of braids Ment made on either side of her head that join together into one at the center of the back of her head. She still has two years until the Reaping; maybe by that time, Snow will have put the Lowes to the back of his mind.

No one hardly says anything as we trek the familiar path to the District Square. Mom has this look in her eye, the same one she's had every year since Myara was Reaped. She stares at the dirt path, only looking up every once in a while to check how far we have left to go.

Mom finally speaks when we reach the Square. After our blood is drawn at the check-in point, she says to Ment and I, "Go find Paige. She'll be in your age group's area." And with that, she takes Kiara's hand from mine and she and my father walk away to the unreapable section. My little sister and I look at each other one last time before she vanishes into the crowd.

We do as we are told and weave through the crowd to find our cousin. It isn't difficult to spot her bright red hair among the row of dark or fair-haired children. Once we have settled into place beside Paige, it doesn't take long for the Reaping to begin. As the escort steps onto the stage, my eye catches Saffron, who has taken her place as a mentor alongside Mace.

It begins slow, with the same old introduction by the escort. I nearly mouth the words with them, knowing every single one by now, but I hardly realize when the escort sashays over to the bowl of female names and dips his hand in, deep down into the center and pulls out a slip of paper.

The moment the escort begins to unfold the paper and draws in a breath to speak the name on the slip is the moment when time starts to slow down. I become caught up in air that quickly thickens until it has the same consistency as tar. Ment's hands are curled into fists, probably to steady herself. But there is nothing to steady me — in this moment I am completely vulnerable to a free fall.

"Emberly Lowe!"

My knees nearly buckle beneath the crushing weight of my new death sentence. It is like a wall of stone has come down on me, slamming my body against the floor and slowly crushing my bones. Snap snap snap, they begin to crackle and all I can do is let it happen. Beads of tears gather in my eyes and they sting as they stare into the face of Death, a face I have seen before. Dark nostalgia fills my body and pools in my chest, leaving a piercingly cold spot.

Gasps follow, and then silence, and then a desolate sob that I know can only belong to my mother. Ment's fists unravel, Kiara pokes her head out from the crowd to see me — and it's her face that truly breaks me. Her chubby little cheeks are dotted with a pair of dimples from her deep frown, and her saucer-like blue eyes are filled with tears.

I can barely hear her voice, a whisper, among the crowd — but a whisper is enough. "Wait! Wait, Mom! She's not really going, is she? Emberlyyyy! Emberrrr!"

My foot moves one-half of a step, and Ment's hand catches mine and pulls me back. "No!" she protests. "You're not going anywhere!" We are one half of a whole — I could never leave her, could I? No, not at my will. But I have to; there is no other choice.

Paige opens her mouth like she is going to say something, but I am quickly yanked away from her and Ment by a pair of Peacekeepers. My twin sister holds onto me for as long as she can, until our fingers are forced to unlace, ripped apart by the pull of a Peacekeeper. Her hand remains there for a moment longer, her fingers open and palms empty, a feeling of defeat clouding her face.

I catch Paige and Ment's gazes one more time before the Peacekeepers turn me around towards the stage and force me to march to the stairs. A crestfallen Saffron waits for me, brows furrowed in disbelief and copper eyes filled with despair and — and guilt. It's those eyes that make me break — those eyes that reveal a suffering woman who has just known happiness again for the first time in two years, only to have it ripped away once again and feeling as if it is her fault, because perhaps she should never had sought out her missing family.

Tears drip down my face like rain in a summer shower, and I know that they are knives in Saffron's heart, but I just can't help it because — because I don't want to die like Myara.

They march me all the way to the stairs and leave me there. I pause, looking at Saffron again — everything in my gaze screams a plea. Please help me, they beg. Please don't let me die. (But Saffron does not hold my fate in her hands; President Snow and the Gamemakers do, now.)

I am torn and shattered but I wipe away my tears before stepping onto the stage. I can feel the redness brimming my eyes as I stare at the crowd. My gaze darts from Kiara, who now sits on my father's shoulders with reddened eyes and wet cheeks that glisten in the light, to Ment and to Paige, whose faces are distorted in anger and sorrow and astonishment. Ment's eyes speak and they say, This isn't happening. But it is — it is happening and there's nothing anyone can do to stop that.

The red has vanished from the sky, the warning dissipated into solid blue, because this — this is the hidden promise that fate whispered into my ear this morning. A bright sun seems to smile at me and whisper, "I told you so."

I told you so — it is the resolution to the omen whispered by the wind.

Perhaps Lowes are simply not destined to live, and that is why Snow must take us one by one —because in the eyes of our president, Saffron was not meant to win. And now she must pay her debt with the blood of her family.