[8th] The Reaping - District 7

says hears

Luja finally makes it outside. She seems to want to take the entire morning to stay at home, which she sure never is home to start. Too busy out in the forest and stuff. Sometimes I feel bad skirting out of the house so quickly, but dad knows I love him. After spending so much time caring for him, listening him yearn for the youth that I possess, I can't not love him. He makes me feel bad about myself whenever he mentions that I'm always home. I don't know where to go, even if Mom is home to fulfill the nurselike duty.

I should feel more upset about this entire situation. The event that needs to take place to offer freedom from the home. But, somehow, I can't be mad. We face the consequences of our rebellion. At this point, we're simply the products of our parents' failure to protect us. I've never felt protected by my parents anyway. Not to say that Mom doesn't work her ass off to keep us from losing the house. They do - they work so goddamn hard. But when I'm stuck watching my dad die. I don't feel safe. I can't do anything except sit by his bed and let my youth disappear.

Lu's chipper. ”C’mon brother dearest, shall we go see who is going to be slaughtered this year?” Her attitude, all the snark for fun, is annoying. People are dying, Lu. Like our father. The young boyhood that the tributes of District 7 hold in their hands and knees disappears quicker than dads. She's always been a joker, not caring for the suffering of others. She must only care about her own, whatever those must be. The world is quiet this morning as we walk. A hush, silencing everyone from speaking nightmares into the world. I'm shocked she hasn't turned our own potential fates into a joke yet given her mindset. My shirt is a soft mint green, matched with darker brown pants. It's softer, quieter, something that helps me blend in.

Shoes scuffing against gravel start getting louder and louder as more children begin to condense. Outside of our movements, we're all quiet, and I give a side eye to Luja in attempts to catch her vibe. Her face is blank.

They take our fingerprints, like every year. Pressing split thumb against parchment, we're separated from our uncle before we separate from each other. Boys, girls. Young to old. It's like we're sheep - we are, the dead skin of our classmates acting as a wool coat for the Capitol. It warms the Capitol's citizens, reminding them that their children don't face the same fate. The air smells like mud and sanitized water. They spray the buildings down to make us look better and clean for the capitol. The sterile smell only reminds me of Dad once more. Every once in a while I take glance to Lu, she's talking to some girls that also work in the forest. I get jealous because I don't have that same commodity with the boys.

Soon enough, the Head Peacekeeper steps on stage. The Treaty of Treason is read aloud for us. It's short, really, but I don't expect much. He's just doing it because he has to be. Once he's done doing such he announces that the girls, as always, go first. He dips his hand in the bowl, rustling it a bit. The man doesn't do it too heavily to ensure the bowl doesn't tip. A small white slip is pulled out, encapsulated by the white gloves. He has the normal getup for PeaceKeepers, wearing all white. Except for a helmet. I guess they want to make sure there's no confusion. It's one of the few times his helmet is removed, which reveals grey hair and more wrinkles than the last year.

"Luja Mahdavi."

Wait, that's her. That's my fucking sister. A wave of protective disobedience arises in my throat, dances on my cheeks as they fill with blood. We make eye contact. Her eyes, wide like a doe, a fear that I only last saw when dad had his first seizure. In that moment we were kids again. But we weren't scared for our fathers life, no, we were scared for her. I watch her body shake momentarily as she swallows her fear, and then steps into the middle aisleway to go to the stage. I wonder how our mother will react to her favorite kid being reaped. She would probably shit herself with half of our income gone. I feel the piercing eyes of several boys nearby me. They must know I'm her brother. But they can't feel bad, no, they don't owe anything to me. This fucking sucks. I turn my head to the back of the crowd where our uncle would be. His face is written with pain because he knows someone must tell our parents the news. Luja stands up on the stage and her face is blank. I don't blame her; what's there to feel?

The head peacekeeper reaches into the bowl for the men. He has nothing else to say besides the names and get on with his day. There's likely a meeting he's required to hold back at the station. Something about unrest, there's going to be families angry about what just happened. It happens every year. His movements are stoic as his arm retracts from the glass bowl of male names. My world feels empty, right now, seeing that my twin sister is up on that stage. The Peacekeeper's eyes light up for a second, and then reads the name.

"Kaiden Mahdavi."

The square, once filled with silence, is now buzzing with murmurs. People are talking. And people never talk during the Reaping. My head immediately whips to face my sister. Our eyes meet again. Now we wish we were little kids again. But we aren't. We're destined to die.

I feel the squeeze of a hand on my arm, a boy near me that must know whispers that "I'm sorry, dude," but I know damn well he's not. I see my uncle, and the pain that was only written is now replaced with anguish and an open mouth. A lady nearby him offers condolences in his hear, but he shoves her off and I read the words "fuck off" come off of his lips.

The world is slow as I move to the aisle. The world is slow as my eyes meet hers again, we both fear for the moment one of us die in this moment. I want to say I'm glad. There's a part of me that should burn to prove who the real breadwinner of the family is. If we're lucky, one of us will be. But based on the state of the last five minutes of our lives, our mother is about to be both the moneymaker and the caretaker.