The Bloodbath

Stay quiet.

A mantra, a list of three rules you set for yourself. A code, something to follow in the darkest of days, passed down from Mama to Papa to Khaled to Amira to Fatima to you. Stay quiet, don't make a noise, keep out of sight. For those that do not have the strength to keep themselves alive, this was the plan. Why only two of your siblings had ever been called up to the fight, one to succeed each parent. And then, later, one to replace them.

And when that wasn't enough, when the four fighting al-Amins had been cut down in a crimson spray, then came the butchering. Fatima first, a distraction while you took Ahmed and huddled beneath the exposed guts of what you had once called home. And now you, a sacrificial lamb, a boy who had done no wrong except carry the name and lifeblood of heroes painted as traitors. Sacrifice may as well be in the family name, for you are hardly the first - but maybe, with some luck, you will be the last.

Stay out of trouble until you rose into the ashes of the arena, stay out of the limelight, play the part of the obedient lapdog, ignore the fact that you have a mentor who was once a rebel themselves, who likely knew at least one member of your family, and play the game. But words are easier to say than actions are to follow through - the shout of a girl had started a riot, sparked defiance amongst children who, by all means, should have stayed quiet and played the game themselves.

An older, wiser, braver you might have joined in. Hell, an older, wiser, braver you would have started the damn thing. But as it was, you cannot escape the icy cage encasing your chest, cannot break free from the paralysis trapping your limbs. In the end, you watch, wide-eyed and silent, as the braver of the kids around you show signs of rebellion - and henceforth pay for their defiance.

The second part of your mantra is stay brave, but you've already broken that promise. Oh, you'd tried, kept the bravado on your face from when your name was called all the way until you stepped on the train. For those precious few moments, you would not let the Capitol break you.

But you are a boy of merely fifteen, forced to grow up far before his time. And it is laughably easy to break what has already been cracked, laughably easy to crush the small spark of hope that maybe, maybe you'd heal from losing two parents and three older siblings to achieve some semblance of a normal life, maybe guide your younger brother and gift him as good a life as you could.

In some twisted way, you suppose you are. You still could. But that selfish part of you you've never quite been able to expel from within had hoped it'd be at his side.

But five members of your family had already sacrificed themselves to protect the rest. You were a damned fool to believe that your fate would be any different.

The third is stay alive. And that one, while nigh impossible, has not been broken yet. You still draw breath, you still stand on your own two feet - well, at least for however long it takes for someone to take a sword and run you through.

You know it's a long shot. You never learned how to fight, only how to survive. And surviving meant running and hiding from the enemy, not standing around holding sharp weaponry while dressed in some mock-up of a warrior's armor.

You don't feel like a warrior. You feel like a damned fool - a fifteen year old kid playing at being a strong protector for his brother.

So you make a fourth promise, one to die on your feet. Because if your brother has to watch you fall, then you'll put on the same act that you've out on for the last three years - a kid forced to be strong, not for himself, but for those he loved.

But that does little to stop your hammering heart as each and every one of you stands around. Does nothing. Part of you wishes that someone, anyone, would correctly mark you as a weak link and swing their blade at you, giving you the mercy of a quick death.

But the other part, the part that has allowed selfishness to grow and fester instead of exterminating it at its source, is grateful for the extra few minutes of air to enter and depart from your lungs.

The minutes tick. And slowly, ever so slowly, your fear turns into a cautious curiosity.