97th Reaping [District Two]

Dissatisfaction clings, boredom dancing a jig across my skin, digging its heels in and leaving me restless. The sticky heat of July beats down on the back of my shoulders as it lifts over the buildings. It makes me regret not fighting the thin strapped dress Mom laid out for me this morning; it’s left my back and shoulder exposed to the worst of the light, and it burns like a dead star. I can’t claim sobriety, but there’s no way I’m drunk enough for this whole fiasco. The few nips of lukewarm vodka from my flask before going downstairs are a force of habit these days. Hardly a morning goes by that I don’t lacquer my veins in liquor.

Mom noticed a couple weeks ago, but I spit cruelty at her until she looked at me like she wanted to drown. She knows it’s her fault I’ve decided goodness doesn’t exist in this world. She’s done well to steer clear since.

The feeling hasn’t dissipated since being shuffled into the district square. If anything, my apathy and anger are only going to find fuel here I think. What interest should I have in making small talk with people who spend their lives hiding sharpened canines behind demure smiles? Over and over, the world encourages me towards the poppy. Be quiet, sway prettily in the wind.

As if I don’t stand in a field of wolves.



My name in their mouth, ringing through every loud speaker, echoing across every television screen in Panem. I hope that the editors don’t cut out the way my face cracks into a smile, that everyone sees it for the loaded gun it is, before I burst out laughing. It’s an almost delicate, tinkling kind of laugh that doesn’t suit my mood in the slightest, a kind of falsity ringing in it that I do my best to squash. For just a second, I let myself consider where I have been all my life, and how after all of it, this is what I must choke on.

Each step up, I die a little, go insane, shiver as something wild and desperate begs chaos to settle in. It’s the first time I’ve felt awake in weeks.