8m lamon malee | interview

L A M O N.

My steps lead me onto the sound stage with a surreal detachment from my own body, as if I'm a distant observer of my own existence. In the few days I've been staying at the Capitol, it's become increasingly difficult to recall a time when I truly felt in control of my own body. Each night, I send silent prayers to anyone in the sky that will listen, yearning for a reality where I wake up back in District 8; wrapped in the comforting arms of my sister, my best friend, and my mother. I'd willingly embrace their disappointment and find content in my own, as long as it means escaping this emptiness that consumes every facet of my senses.

Reality crashes back into me as the blinding lights flare to life, searing my skin with their intensity. My instinctual response is to shield my eyes with a trembling hand, but even with this makeshift barrier, I squint to make sense of my surroundings. Amidst the disorienting glare, my gaze locks onto him—Harlan Godfrey. Though he wears a smile, his piercing scrutiny feels as though he's peeling away the layers of my soul, exposing the fragile tapestry of my existence. The crimson coat draped over his shoulders briefly evokes memories of home, a fleeting connection to a world slipping further from my grasp. I can't help but wonder if my own labor contributed to the creation of this outfit, an ironic symbol that the Capitol had been siphoning my life away long before my name was drawn from that fateful slip of paper. The hopes and dreams I'd stitched into the shimmering fabric serve as a painful reminder of all I may never achieve.

Gesturing toward a chair opposite him, Harlan wordlessly beckons me forward, and I stumble my way across the wooden floor to settle into the seat. My trembling hands find refuge between my locked knees, a feeble attempt to quell their restlessness. My gaze flits away from Harlan, only to meet the unrelenting gaze of the spotlights looming overhead. Two radiant orbs of scrutiny that feel like accusing eyes, casting their judgment upon me. Beyond those piercing lights, a collection of shadowy figures sit, the outline of their eccentric outfits creating a stark contrast to the simplicity of my world in District 8. It's another harsh reminder of my alienation from this foreign place, accentuated by the hushed laughter that trickles into the room from the faceless audience. I glance back to Harlan, seeking a semblance of comfort, only to find his amused smirk mirroring the crowd's mockery.

"Welcome back to us, Lamon," Harlan addresses me, his words carrying a tone of intrigue for the sad details of my existence that I’d never heard before. "I'll ask you again... It says here that your family runs their own business—would you tell us all what that business is? Do you also work there?"

My voice catches in my throat, and for a fleeting moment, I struggle to breathe. My gaze drops, shame washing over me as I fixate on the knuckles of my clenched fists. They bear witness to the tension coursing through my nerves, the skin turning pale from the force of my anxious grip. "Sorry, I..." The words tumble out before I'm ready, a torrent of thoughts I try to swallow back, but they escape nonetheless. Much like my journey into the Hunger Games, there's no turning back now, only moving forward. "I do work with my family," I continue, the words steadier now. "We run a luxury clothing house, alongside a family friend who produces fabrics for us. My days are spent sewing together pieces that, well, most likely end up here in the Capitol. Much like what you're wearing today."

My fingers fidget, aching for the familiarity of home. It's as if they yearn to stitch a hole beneath me, a portal to disappear into, sparing me from this stranger's probing. These same thoughts have been my constant companions since my arrival here. Yet, escape is not an option. I must press on, in the hope that my journey here can someday benefit my family, especially my sister. "My whole family works there," I continue, a tinge of resignation in my voice. "We have for generations. It's what we've always known, and I can only imagine it's what our family will continue to do long after I'm gone."

Harlan's next question momentarily softens the atmosphere. "It sounds like you're quite the tight-knit group," he remarks with a warm smile. In hindsight, perhaps he's right, and there's a certain sweetness in that realization, albeit seen from a considerable distance. "Would you say you're close to your sister as well?"

"My sister was... is," I correct myself, a chill running down my spine at my unintended choice of words. How am I going to survive these games if I am already talking about myself like I’m dead? "My sister is the person I'm closest to in the world. Growing up in a family like ours, it's hard not to be close to your siblings; we're all each other has sometimes. We used to stay up at night, dreaming together about what our lives would be like when we grew up. It was a comforting fantasy." I purse my lips briefly, recalling the warmth of those shared dreams. Yet, I can't afford to speak of them now; the pain would be too much, and I couldn't bear the thought of my mother watching, her last memory of me stained by my resentment. "We always imagined carrying on our mother's legacy, crafting the most eloquent outfits the Malee House had ever seen. Beautiful enough to secure us a life here in the Capitol," I continue, my voice tinged with a melancholic yearning. "In a strange way, I feel like I'm living that fantasy out, if only for a few more days." The weight in my chest returns, knowing that I'll likely perish with an endless trove of half-truths locked inside me.

"Is it them you'll be fighting for in there?"

The question hits me like a sledgehammer in the gut. Have I been selfish, thinking only of myself in the arena? A wave of doubt washes over me as I contemplate my motivations. Maybe I've been living these half-truths for so long that I've lost sight of where my truth ends and the lies begin. My life has been a ceaseless pursuit of my family's approval, and perhaps that's the core of who I am. If my existence is distilled to these questions, perhaps it's best to embody the role of the golden child one final time—a memory for my mother to cherish rather than resent when all that's left of me are fleeting moments on screen. "I can't imagine a world where I don't return to them," I answer, conviction filling my words. "From the moment I was reaped, there was no doubt in my mind that I have to come back for them. At first, I thought it was because they needed me, but over the last few days, I've realized that maybe it's me who needs them. The thought of them is what gives me strength, and they'll be at the forefront of my mind the moment I step into the arena."

"Pardon my forwardness, but I wonder: Are you willing to do anything it takes to survive?" The question is delivered with a smile, but its weight is palpable; like a sword hanging over my head, an impending judgment I can't escape.

“As much as I want to tell you yes.. I really can’t be sure.” A sense of relief washes over me as I speak my unfiltered truth for the first time during this whole interview. I hadn’t really considered the reality of my situation and what I would be willing to do when push came to shove. How could anyone really be sure they would have what it takes to do what needs to be done in the arena? “I want to be able to do whatever it takes to get back home, but I guess I have a fear that.. Certain things will change who I am as a person. And I’m not sure survival is worth losing the essence of who I am. I still want to be Lamon when I walk out of the arena.” My truth comes with a whole new flurry of thoughts as I speak them. Because in that moment, I once again grapple with the reality of not even knowing who I am. What does my name even mean at the end of the day? If anything, perhaps the arena could give me those answers I have been desperately seeking for years. Even if it leads to death, perhaps the knowledge of what I would do at my most desperate would glean me even a fraction of who I am in my spirit.

"Any parting words?"

Harlan's final question echoes in my ears, a poignant reminder of what's at stake. What can I say that will leave a lasting impression on my family, my best friend, and everyone watching? The answer comes naturally, a family mantra that's kept us going through the hardships of life. Words that had been reiterated to me through the dreary years of my existence as a way to explain away the struggles as an insurmountable hill that I would never be able to climb over. “I’ve always been told that life is never about getting what you want, but it is about making the best of what you have. I think those words ring true to me more than ever in this situation.. I intend to make the best of my situation in the arena to become the victor. For my family. And for myself.”

I’m not sure if the words are my truth or my mother’s truth, but in this moment, I’m not truly sure that it even matters. Harlan nods his head politely in my direction after my words and I take that as a sign that I’m free to leave. Pushing myself up out of my chair, I hear a light spattering of applause like I had given the small crowd a show for their sick entertainment. An eerie retelling of my life so they know what is being taken away from me when my last breath is broadcast to them in the arena in a mere matter of days. As I listen to the echo of my footsteps reverberating through the soundstage, the last question Harlan had for me rings in my ears. What would I be willing to do in the arena to survive? The reality of finding out sends a fear into my being that I’ve never experienced before as the lights fade back to black, and I am thrust back into the prison of remembering my existence before everything was stripped away from me.