the one before the storm [pierre] 85th

There is a relief this reaping, the terrorist attacks, the meeting with Vasco and a nice quell twist. Pierre was sure the entire twelve to eighteen-year olds in his family were to be purged. Nope. Just two unknowns.

It is the evening of the reaping; the two kids have been shipped off to the Capitol and the television is re-running the ceremonies again. Now they are on Eight. Pierre really does not know what to think of Campano and Konstantine. His hope has rested on many kids shoulders over the past ten years and over the past ten years, only two have come back alive and that is because it was the twist of the games. He doubts they will reuse that surprise this year.

Maybe a victor will help rejuvenate his campaign trail this year. Campaign trail…he has been in two minds for months. Especially with the ever-growing crater in his family and the fact the old man has been doing this for decade and for what? For sure his wife enjoys the lavish lifestyle but the now Grandad has an entire family tree to pass his heart onto. But then there is the fact that he is in the financial position to feed his family, provide for whatever each one comes begging for out of the woodwork. Abi says he is too generous. Too generous to put his mother into a care home. Too generous to not hand out pocket money to kids who are not even his.

At least he is alone this evening, tomorrow all the officials will come cramming into his little office, papers on who of the two kids is the most likely to survive after twenty-four hours in the Capitol. So, the games season begins, he will not be seeing much of his family for next three weeks. Being mayor is a real twenty-four/seven job. It is not even a job anymore; it is just his life. There have been many times where he has slept in his uncomfortable leather chair, head on his desk and the most excruciating pain in his neck when he wakes up the next morning. All for what? To experience that dreamily life the common tailor shop boy used to fantasise about.

Pierre pours the rum up to the rim of the small glass. There will be a lot of liquor and coffee consumed this month. He does not know whether he is a drunkard, or the alcohol has just become his prescription medicine. He has done so well to keep it quiet for the past five years, he at least has not gotten himself into such a state before. But there is always the time. Pierre does not know whose house he would likely rock up to if he got himself truly intoxicated, he does have nightmarish thoughts of waking up at Birdie’s doorstep. Now what an embarrassment that would be to the family.

Pierre flicks through some papers that the officials have left behind, a few possible quell twist. Some he shudders at the thought of. No victors. The arena is a District, or it may be linked to the recent terrorist attack. Not that Pierre can think of a way it will be. There is even tributes reaped from a pool of over 20s crossed out on the list. Each of his aching muscles groan at the possibility, he doubts anyone will volunteer for him if that were to ever happen so hopefully that one can be forever crossed out.

So, Pierre prepares himself for another crazy three weeks of The Hunger Games. Hopefully, they will fly by like the rest of them but now of course he has the election to look forwards too. Who is going to vote for old greying Pierre Hope again and again?