[85th] The Reaping - District 12

“Stop fidgeting.”

“I’m not fidgeting.”

“Yeah, you are. Fuckin’ sit still Cal.”

Callum straightens his body reluctantly as his older brothers hands press and slide against against his dress shirt, working to smooth out the wrinkles the top had gathered after Callum had hastily folded and stored the shirt in his dresser the year prior. He follows his brothers hands as they press and pull against the wrinkles that adorn the garment. Coal from the mines is embedded underneath each of his brothers fingernails and stains his skin with a dark hue, a constant reminder of who and what he was. Callum scans each spot his brothers fingertips touch, wary of any lasting fingerprints his brother could leave on the already faded shirt.

“Thought I asked you to make sure this wasn’t wrinkled yesterday.”

Elijah says groggily, and Callum wrinkles his nose at the heavy stench of whiskey laced within his brothers voice. It was a remnant of his pre-reaping ritual, characterized by a bottle of whatever he could get his hands on and a song he could easily forget the world with, stumbling through their house and off-tune singing. At half past ten Elijah had offered him a glass of the liquid, swaying in the doorway and slurred words dripping from his lips. At eleven, he had finally been able to process the increased annoyance laced within Callum’s words and had relented, promising to leave it in the kitchen for his younger brother if he wanted to join him. By the time Callum had woken up, the glass (and bottle) had been drank and left on the table, a sitting monument to the desire to forget.

Callum had spent the night prior pressed in-between the pages of his books, tracing the same lines of the fairytales he’d read so many times before. He’d collected them throughout the years as generous thank-you’s from the teachers that he’d come to know, his tradition of reading to the children providing him a notable reputation amongst the educators in the district. It was from the ashes in the eyes of those he read to that he’d come to find his purpose, a kingdom built from the pages of a fairytale. Mrs. Anders had even offered to help him find a place of his very own, an offer of gratitude and repayment for the work he’d done in her classroom. This final reaping was the moat around the castle, and he can feel in his bones the anticipation of starting a new life. Without fear, without reapings, without Elijah.

Elijah’s hands move to straighten the collar of his shirt, thumbs pressed against the fold and flattening them down. Callum finally revolts when a coal-stained memento is left on the collar, swatting his brothers hands and stepping away from the mirror.

“Ripred Elijah, you’re just getting it dirty. I can fix it myself.”

While he clumsily fusses with the buttons on his collar, Elijah collapses onto the bed, rubbing his temples. Even with his head down he can feel his brothers eyes begin to bore into him, bracing himself for the same conversation Elijah tried to start each reaping morning, a tradition shared between the two of them that he would never subscribe to.

“Shit Cal, your last reaping huh?”

Callum merely grunts, moving in front of the mirror and placing his thumb to his tongue before trying to wipe the fingerprint Elijah left from his collar.

“…Mom and Dad would be really prou-“

“They aren’t here.”

Elijah doesn’t give him the satisfaction of finishing whatever heartfelt speech he wanted, and a sigh charges from his lips as he gives up on removing the fingerprint turned smudge stain. When his brother speaks he can hear a twinge of frustration embedded in his words.

“I know they aren’t Cal, but-"

“But what? Every year you try this heartfelt shit as if what Mom and Dad would say should matter to me.”

His words are venom and Elijah stands up from the bed, tall frame towering over him.

“Stop this shit Cal, I’m just trying to say that you’re a great-"

“I’m leaving once this reaping is done and shit goes back to normal.”

It’s a verbal punch in the gut and Callum Leare knows it, holding his breath as he turns to face his brother. Elijah’s mouth hangs slightly open as he searches for an answer, but Callum doesn’t give it to him.

“It just doesn’t work, me staying here. I wanna be on my own Elijah.”

He can sense Elijah struggling to string words together, but Callum can’t find it in himself to give his brother the liberty of a response, instead he breaks for the door, crumbled kingdom fresh on his heels and fire in his throat. Reaping mornings always gave way to new heights of emotions, but even with eighteen years under his belt he can still feel the weight of the silence between them. It presses down on his shoulders and squeezes the ribs poking out from his flesh, a constant reminder of the world he exists in. He’s a full heart and half a footstep out the door when Elijah cuts through the silence, bleeding sorrow in his voice.

“Wait, Cal! Just wait a second.”

Elijah’s voice rings from the hallway and Callum stops in his tracks, turning to face his brother as he descends the short staircase from living room to front door. The staircase groans under his weight, embedding the wails of the beasts and burdens they carry into the walls. Elijah grabs his hand and peels back his fingers, dropping a rusted silver ring into his palm. Hands holding a heart with a crown placed on top of it, Callum studies the simple band before turning his attention back to his brother.

“I don’t really know how old it is, but if the rust is any indication I bet it’s older than both of us, ha.”

A weak smile flashes across his lips before continuing. “It’s supposed to be lucky. Dad gave it to me the morning of my last reaping. I think you should take it.”

“I don’t want anything from him.”

Callum states plainly, turning the ring over in his hand as frustration bubbles up in the pit of his stomach. It’s a casualty of years of malice towards their own parents, the hatred for them clashing against Elijah’s lack of any of the sort. His gaze travels from the ring up to meet his brothers eyes and he’s taken aback at the tears that sit in the corners of his brothers eyes. They dance and glisten with the sunlight, before one slides down the side of his cheek. Through all the years he had never seen his brother cry, but then again he had never really looked.

“Then it’s from me.”

Elijah quickly responds, curling his brothers fingers around the ring. His hand is shaking as he wipes the tears from his eyes, gulping as he swallows words left unsaid before Callum is pulled into his older brothers arms. Through a still wrinkled shirt he can hear his brother’s voice as clear as day.

“I’m sorry if it was me, if I did something. I love you, Cal.”

“…Thanks, Elijah. 

...But I don’t want this, I don’t want it on me during this Reaping.”

The ring scratches against the table next to him as Callum pulls away from the hug, a metallic hiss slicing through the awkward interaction as the ring slides into silence. Callum turns his back to his brother before the latter can respond, feeling the weight of a crumbling kingdom press against his back.

“I’ll be back later.”

---

Together they stand, laced into unity for their final reaping. In a crowd of eighteen year olds Callum cannot help but become nameless, a single pawn to the Game. The air hangs heavy against his skin, a mixture of the reaping and the sudden curfew and electrical shortages that had swept through the district months prior. The younger children break their hugs and tear wiping with their parents and shuffle to the front of the crowd, and Callum can see the fear that rests in their eyes. He feels it too, deep in his stomach and rising into his throat as he counts his breaths.

1..

2..

On the back of every eighteen year old at the reaping is a kingdom waiting to be built, that he is sure of. His eyes dart around the crowd as the Capitol Escort speaks into the microphone, pristine and rehearsed. Every single one of the kids around him was ready to build their own world, lace it in their blood and let it grow from their bones, and he himself shares the same desires.

3…

4…

Stories written in blood and forged in fear, the crowd ripples as the female name is called. He does not recognize her, but he recognizes the torment the crowd feels as they react silently and obediently. Another voice calls to her rescue, and Callum cannot tell if she is some sort of knight or some sort of jester. At least she wrote her own story, he thinks.

5…

6…

“Callum Leare!”

Floods of thoughts and a tremor from his heart, his lungs shrivel as a breath clings to his lips.

Was it me? It can’t be me. It’s me.
.
In the distance he hears his brother shout, the crowd rippling as heads turns and hearts break.

“NO!”
Shit. Fuck.

He can hear murmurs and gasps as a scuffle breaks out from his brother, throwing his body into those in front of him to try and get to his brother. But every castle had its moat, and Elijah would never make it to him.

“Please no!”
I’m going to die.

Knights in white break through the crowd and grab against his wrists, gloves burning into his skin and Callum can’t focus anymore, his vision blurring and heart thumping. Behind him, his brothers voice cracks and so does something else. His skull? A gunshot? He doesn’t know, but the silence takes over again and Callum’s body is pulled forward, legs on autopilot and mind numb.

I should’ve kept the ring.

With every breath he takes whatever kingdom he thought he had begins to crumble, its dust settling against his skin, etching a new chapter into his being. The steps bend and creak as he climbs to the stage, the Capitol Escort’s vivacious outfit nearly blinding as his world begins to blur and darken. She greets him with a smile made of blood and tears, before letting out a small scoff at the fingerprint against his collar, licking her finger and pressing it against the stain.

“Okay dears, turn towards the crowd and the cameras.”

Callum Leare was a boy who told stories ripped from fairytales.
Callum Leare is a dead man.

“Oh, and stop fidgeting dear.”

No one would remember his own.

OOC:  Callum Leare accepts his position in the 85th Hunger Games [Trib wall]