Almost Me, Almost Human

Every morning on this day, I would awake to facing my sister as we lay in bed. She would open her eyes almost exactly after I did, and we would look at one another for a few moments. We would look at each other, like we were looking in a mirror. "Happy birthday, Ressa," I would tell her.

"Happy birthday, Dessa," she would tell me in return. We would not smile or grin or giggle or gush over our gifts for the year. We only had one wish, and it was that we would not be picked.

"Happy Reaping Day," we would say together, our voices hollow as we took in the silence of the day. No birds sung, and no winds brushed the branches of the bushes against our window. We, Ressa and me, would simply look at each other and whisper a small prayer in harmony, wanting nothing more than to have the day over with.

We were eighteen today. This would be our last time having to stand amongst the children of our district as we held onto our last shards of hope, wishing our name would not be called out.

Our mother came to us an hour later, carrying a tray of berry flat cakes and steaming cups of fresh cream from the only cattle we owned on our modestly sized farm. We would eat, our mother brushing our pink blonde hair, smiling with ever so sad eyes. The only difference between Ressa and I was that she was given ironing board straight hair, and mine was a mess of curls and waves that had a mind of its own.

Ressa was the oldest of us, but she acted the youngest. She was constantly running after the boys at our school, hoping to catch the fancy of a future Victor of the Hunger Games. She did one year, but he was the first to be killed off. The next day, Ressa was after someone else.

I was quiet, yet I still held some fancy with a few boys. There was one boy I was the current fancy of, Ventis Playo; he was the mayor's son. I held a fancy for him also, but I was going to wait until after today's reaping before I tried to show my returned feelings.

"Would you like to dress the same, or wear something different?" my mother would ask, and we would always answer:

"The same."

She would nod and go and get our matching pale pink dresses from the top of the fabric cupboard and come back, letting us chose over who wore which. They were our mother's and our aunt's from their childhood days of Reaping. I was like my mother, a large bust and flared hips. Ressa was like our aunt, flat chested and plainly straight with her only curves being from her large rear and thighs. That was the only other difference in us.

Mother would do our hair the same - in a long braid that she would wrap into a bun on the back of our head. Ressa would go first, then me. But this year it was different. Mother left my hair down, simply taking the long bits of overgrown bang from beside my ears And pulled them back to be clasped on the crown of my head. I looked at her with a questioning look.

"Forgive me for not feeling up to wrestling with your hair today, Dessa, dear."

I couldn't help but smile and nod. After our breakfast, we would sit at the table, smiling as our father told us of his teen days when he was rebellious and had been picked to go to the games, but a boy volunteered for his spot. It was the same story every year, but because of that idiotic boy, we had our father, and we had our lives.

After the story, we would eat a small lunch, the dread of two o'clock coming nearer and nearer as the sun rose and the streets began to fill with nervous families and their children. This is how it was each year. An hour early, we would leave our small farm, kissing our only cow goodbye and chasing after a chicken to kill for supper that night. If we were not chosen, we would feast happily, giving a small moment of remembrance for the two chosen and their families. If we were chosen, the chicken would hang by its neck on our front door, and our families would have the week to mourn until the beginning of the Games.

It was a small tradition in District 10. Halfway to the open plaza where every child between the ages of twelve and eighteen would stand as they waited for two poor souls' names to be called, our parents were called over by an old friend and ushered us along so not to be late. They would be there shortly. We could hear the whispers from the plaza when Ressa stopped, looking longingly at the blacksmith's shop, hoping to see a certain dark hair boy. No, Tylas wasn't a boy, he was a man.

I nudged her, and she looked at me with apologetic eyes. "Go, just don't be late." Tylas was Ressa's current fascination, and I couldn't help but pour the fuel to that fire.

The people of our District filled the open circular area. I looked over to the boys side, smiling as I caught Ventis' eye. He smiled back with a two finger wave. I gave one back.

Finally, the large clock above the Justice building dinged two o'clock and the entire district was hushed with fear. Who would be the two poor souls today?

We focus on the stage built in front of the Justice building, looking at the four chairs. Our mayor sits in one, a slightly grim look on his face. This is his son's, Ventis, last year in the reaping bowl. In the second chair is our escort, a brightly dressed man by the name of Clovius Famblegarth, who has been doing the reaping picks since I was thirteen. I looked to my said, frowning when Ressa was no where to be seen. Where was that silly girl?

In the next two chairs were our mentors; one woman, one man. They were past Victors of the games. Talia Grustso was the winner of the 128th Games. Galton Trueseer was the winner of the 135th games.

"Welcome to the District Ten's Reaping Day for the hundredth and forty-ninth Hunger Games!" greets Mayor Playo, but he has a grim tone in his voice. He knows his son's name is sitting in the boy's bowl off to his right. He pulls at the collar of his shirt before continuing.

He begins with the history of Panem like every year. He tells of the large destruction that plunged our once glorious nation into chaos. Then goes on to tell of the Dark Days, when the Districts rebelled against the Capitol and were defeated. There were once thirteen districts, and now there were only twelve. Each district had a main supply, and District 10's was our raise and slaughter of livestock. And then came the punishment for the rebellion. The Hunger Games. Two tributes from each district, a boy and a girl, we're chosen from one of the bowls sitting beside the podium. In the tinted pink bowl, my name sat ten times. My sister's name sat nine. We rarely had to sign for a tesserae, and when we did, we only got enough for ourselves. Mother and father could live off the bark on a tree and roots from plants we grew on our farm. They would not allow us to do the same.

There was once when I was extremely sick, and was forced to sign so I would not die of starvation that winter. Thats why my name was in there once more than Ressa's.

The mayor continued going over the required speech, but I could hear the faint stammer in his words. He just wanted to know if his boy was safe any or if they were going to die. In the last hundred and forty nine games, District 10 had only had eight victors; two of which stood in front of us and the rest buried in a special cemetery at the Capitol.

Then speech of the Hunger Games and the strength of the Capitol always sent the District into a fitful silence. It was just a reminder that we would not survive another Rebellion. We were at the mercy of the Capitol and it was there way of shoving it into our face.

As an even worse way to shove it into our face we must be celebrating this day as if it were a holiday, much like New Year's Day. But would any of us see another New Year's Day?

Mayor Playo finished and read off our past victors. Talia and Galton simply stand when their names are read off before sitting back down. They do not smile or wave. They know what we're going through.

He pulls the attention away from the silent Victors and introduces our escort to the Capitol, Clovius Famblegarth. He bounces up to the podium, his bright outfit and hair burning our eyes. "Happy Hunger Games! May the odds ever be in your favor!" he would excitedly greet us, clapping his hands together. I believe he was required to say it.

We would all stare in silence, shuffling from foot to foot.

Clovius greets Talia and Galton, but they say nothing back. It's only a loss of breath. They are simply going to be training two children who will die a few days after they leave them to fight for their lives. Sometimes I see them drinking at Marge's Bar, sharing stories between each other. They are the only comfort each other have.

Clovius bounces back to the podium, "Ladies first!" It is what he always says, and goes to the tinted pink bowl. His hands does not take the one off the top. He digs, grabbing the one on the bottom ; as always.

My breath catches as I wait to hear one of the younger girl's name who has only had her name put in there once. I wait to hear a close friend of mine who I will cry and mourn for as if she were my sister. I wait to hear a name that I have never heard, and see a faceless girl walk to the stage, no one willing to volunteer.

Clovius opens the neatly folded piece of paper, smoothing it out before reading. I wait for some girl's name who has hers in there hundreds of times.

"Ressa Ovilet!"

I can see my parents breaking down into tears as they wait for their oldest daughter to walk out and to the stage. But they do not see her and her plain body with straight braided hair.

No.

They see their youngest, with her flared hips and curly, wavy hair step out. Ressa is no where to be seen, but only a select few people can tell my sister and me apart. Ventis starts to step out by a Peacekeeper is blocking the way. Four surround me, taking me to the stage.

"Ressa Ovilet?" I nod, but I want to scream that I'm Dessa and I have no clue where my twin sister is. I keep quiet, and turn to face the crowd. Next is the boy, and it's a small thirteen year old.

"Selop Rodes!"

But before the boy even moves, Ventis is running out. I want to scream for him to stop, but hold back. "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

He runs up, standing ready in front of Clovius. His father's face is priceless.

"And your name, young man?" Clovius asks, not seeing the resemblance between him and his father.

"Ventis, Ventis Playo."

There's a small sound of awe before Clovius turns to the cameras to introduce us. "District Ten, I give you your tributes! Ressa Ovilet and Ventis Playo!"

And as I looked to my fellow tribute, feeling my stomach clench and my hand reaching out to grab his or else I'll crumble to the ground in tears, I see my sister running into the circular plaza. Her dress was crumbled and her hair not as neat as mother had made it. I knew what she had done with the Blacksmith's apprentice. Our mother was gliding in her direction, fire lit in her angered eyes like two candles never going out. As I passed through the door, I watched as my mother slapped Ressa straight across her face with the back of her hand.

Because of her childish infatuation with a man who would never care for her back, she had just brought on her younger sister's death.

And for a moment, I wish our mother had done more than slapped her.