nieve villanova de angelis, d7 — fin

On your first Reaping, they call your name. Your veins turn to ice when you hear the escort say your name into the microphone — mispronounced, but it is unmistakably you. You are standing in the crowd with the other girls in your age group, and they all turn to look at you with pity.

You blink, your violet eyes filling with tears. Your heart turns to lead, cold and heavy in your chest.

You begin to walk to the stage, and your legs feel like twigs holding you up as you tremble. Your hands drift down to the hem of your ruffled skirt, balling the cornflower-blue cotton fabric in your tiny fists. The crowd parts for you as you begin to make your way to the stage, but you don't get very far before your mother picks you up and keep you from the Peacekeepers who approach you. She tries to run, but is quickly cornered by a Peacekeeper.

You are lifted into your mother's arms, your legs resting on her hips, arms wrapped around her neck. You don't want to let her go, you don't want them to take you to the Capitol, but the Peacekeepers begin to yank you away. Your mother fights back, battling them in a tug-of-war as she screams that they can't take you away, that you're just a child. But she loses, and you are ripped from her arms. Frantic tears spring from your eyes as you scream and shriek, flailing in the grasp of the Peacekeeper. Your arms stretch your for your mother, who is being restrained by another Peacekeeper.

Once again, she fights back, elbowing him and then turning to punch him in the helmet. You watch, helpless and crying as the Peacekeeper carries you away. All you can do is watch as your mother is beaten to the ground by three Peacekeepers with batons, two more joining the first one.

"Momma!" you scream, kicking at the Peacekeeper's armor with all your might. "Momma!" Your mother's blood spatters onto the gravel as a baton smashes into her head. She tries to get up, but then they hit her again. You see more blood spurt from the blow — so much blood, pooling on the ground around her head — and this time, she doesn't get up.

More tears spill down your cheeks as you scream and scream and scream, until your throat begins to feel like sandpaper. The Peacekeeper barks at you to shut up, but you can hardly even hear him over your cries. You call for your mother over and over again, but she doesn't move. She lies still and bloody on the ground, the Peacekeepers standing over her.

The Peacekeeper holding you sets you down on the stage, and grips your shoulders so you won't run. You would struggle, but you don't have the heart in you anymore as you watch your mother's body be dragged away, leaving a blood trail in its wake.

You have always been a brave, bold child, but right now you are not. Right now, you feel like you are nothing — a disposable trinket of the Capitol. You have never felt broken before; you hardly remember the Rebellion, and even if you did, your family stayed on the sidelines, shielding you and your siblings from the worst of the war. You have never seen so much blood, have never felt such anguish burning through you.

Everyone is watching as you sob on the stage, but you don't care. Through the blur of tears, you can vaguely see the face of Esmeralda Salazar, your best friend and long-time crush. You can't see the tear that drips down her cheek, but you imagine her sadness. You know that she will miss you, as you will miss her.

When they call the name of the male tribute for District Seven and he walks up onto the stage, you don't stop crying. You don't even look at him, you just look down as your tears drip down onto the concrete beneath your feet.