Victor

In all my years serving as a mentor to the unfortunate tributes of District Twelve, I have yet to find a child as eager as myself to participate in such a sickening event. I’ve never found another tribute who has been as anxious to wrap her fingers around a knife and learn how to expertly murder another human being, nor have I met a girl who mercilessly slaughtered to be freed from what was my own personal hell.

The mornings of Reaping Days at my home were always silent. My mother could be found praying, lips moving wordlessly, by the empty fireplace. My father would disappear for hours at a time. My brother would remain in his room, tucked beneath his sheets, silently quivering.

The habitual event was nothing to look forward to, but every morning after, when I would wake up, I could only imagine what the children chosen from here were witnessing at the moment and every day after the Reaping. Especially during the week after. What were their tired eyes seeing now? – that is, if they had survived the bloodbath. I vividly remembered covering my brother’s eyes when, on the television screen, another tribute was beheaded, and his head rolled into the shrubs and blood spattered the camera lens. My mother tended to shriek during these times and flee the room, slamming her door and collapsing into a crumpled heap on her bedroom floor. I could hear her sobbing throughout our fragile house.

My Reaping Day nearly sixty years ago felt no different than any other - I woke before the sun rose and climbed out of bed and sat by the window, watching the sun creep over the hills and douse the land in its golden light. I would sit there every Reaping morning and appreciate the scene, wondering every morning if I’d be able to see it again.

My mother and father didn’t leave their room until we had to proceed to the Reaping. I put on my nicest dress and shoes and peered at my blonde hair in the dusty mirror. It was pretty useless trying to look fancy with it, so I swept it up into its usual ponytail. I dressed my brother Julius and he kept nervously fidgeting in his collared shirt. While we walked to the square, he bit off one of the buttons on his collar. With no time to replace it, he slipped it into my dress pocket and then curled his fingers around mine, squeezing my hand.

We waited in line to have our fingers pricked. When we were separated, Julius’ eyes held mine for a long minute before he nodded and went to find a friend in line. I slid to the side and made small talk with some of the girls in my classes. We talked about everything but the Reaping.

Eventually, our Capitol escort, Dorothea Yule, glided onto the stage, beaming at us with the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. She fluffed up her magenta hair so it rested in loose curls around her face. Licking her lips, which were coated in a deep shade of purple lipstick, she proceeded to preaching how wonderful the Capitol was and how grateful we all should be.

It felt like years before she wandered over to the Reaping Bowl. “Ladies first!” She simpered, like she was doing us all a favor. Dorothea plucked out a slip of paper with her bird-like talons and unfolded it. Clearing her throat, she stepped to the microphone and read clearly, “Cali Russel!”

In that moment, my death played through my mind like a horror film - an axe tearing through my skull; being dismembered and left to bleed out; my head being torn from my neck...I didn’t react for a moment, but my back stiffened and I stood up straight.

The girls around me shuffled to the side, sighing gratefully having been spared another year. I stumbled up to the stage, dazed, two Peacekeepers following close behind me. I squinted in the sun’s glare as I stepped onto the stage.

Suddenly the silence was broken by a thin scream. “That’s my daughter!” My mother shrieked in the back of the crowd, flailing wildly as the Peacekeepers tried to quiet her. “That’s my baby!” My father grabbed her waist from behind and pulled her back, murmuring in her ear.

I froze halfway up the steps and Dorothea teetered over to me, grabbing my hand. Each of her fingers were adorned with a ridiculously large ring. I shook hands with her and forced a smile at the crowd.

“How old are you, dear?” Dorothea asked, obviously trying to distract the crowd.

“Sixteen.” I swallowed.

“Fabulous. Simply fabulous.” Dorothea smiled again and wobbled in her heels over to the other bowl on the stage. “Oh, wait!” She chirped. “I almost forgot! Are there any volunteers?” I held my breath and prayed, but no one spoke up. Not that I’d expected them to.

Satisfied, she peered into the bowl and drew another paper. Unfolding it, her dark eyes scanned it and she read, “Justen Frost!”
His reaping was much less dramatic. His name was called and he approached the stage, no questions asked. Once again, she asked for volunteers and his age. “Thirteen.” He murmured, looking at his shoes. His mother whimpered in the back of the crowd and his father clung to her weeping frame for support.

We faced each other and we shook hands - his hands were shaking visibly and tears were streaming down his freckled cheeks.

Immediately after, we were brought into the Justice Building, which was cold and unfriendly. I was separated from Justen and put into a small room. I walked to the window and sat, staring at my own reflection for a long time. The door flew open after a few minutes and my mother rushed in, enveloping me in a hug. She smelled like home. We held each other for a long moment before she broke away, sniffling.

My father held me next, whispering in my ear. “You can do this.” He mumbled. “I know you can.”

Julius wrapped his arms around my waist and pressed his cheek against my stomach.
“I love you.” He said as simply as a seven-year-old could. I bit back my tears and smiled at them.

We all hugged again for what was only seconds before the Peacekeepers barged in and asked them to leave. My mother grabbed my hands again and locked eyes with mine.

“Come home.” She whispered, kissing my hands. I kissed her cheek and blinked, trying to hold back my tears.

In a few moments, I was escorted back out of the room and then we were outside in the dazzling sunlight.

“We’ll be going by train!” Dorothea said excitedly, clapping her hands together like a child, as if this were some great reward that would compensate for the torture we were going to endure in the Arena.

Justen’s eyes sought mine, but I looked away.

After boarding the train, I asked to be taken to my room immediately. They submit to my request and again I’m alone. I turn off all the lights and sit on the bed and let the tears fall.