Chapter Text
-----Sadie-----
The scorching summer sun is warm on my skin as I wake. I squint against the rays of light flooding into my room, casting dappling patterns on the deteriorating wooden walls.
The heat is almost suffocating. If it continues to get any hotter, there’s a chance the house is going to catch on fire soon. I’m surprised it hasn’t already.
I drag myself out of bed with a sigh. My mind is still foggy with sleep. Why am I even awake yet?
The usual chatter coming from the streets outside is absent, replaced with the soft chirping of birds and rustle of the wind stirring leaves. Of course. It’s reaping day. Everyone’s taking the opportunity to sleep in. However, even my dreams are haunted by the thought of innocent children being sent off to slaughter.
The reaping is the one of our only ‘holidays’, if you can even call it that. The occasion is darkened with the knowledge that two kids will be sent to their death.
Being eighteen, I have one more year left in the reaping. One more year, and I’ll never have to live under the crippling fear of being reaped for the Hunger Games again. I've survived so far… I just need my luck to last another year.
I push open the door to my room gently, wincing slightly as the hinges creak loudly, listening for any traces of movement from my mother’s room. Her patience is short in supply at the best of times, and completely non-existent during the worst. Years of being lectured repeatedly for the smallest of mistakes whenever something irritated her was enough to know my mother was a much better person when she was asleep than awake. In slumber, her frown relaxed, her scowl slipped away, and I could see hints of the person that my father had once fallen in love with.
I walk to the bathroom and splash water on my face, the sharp cold erasing any traces of fatigue from my mind. The tiredness of my brain had managed to numb my anxiety for a while, but now it returned, occupying every inch of my thoughts as I carelessly threw on my reaping dress. The thing’s pretty enough I suppose, but all I can think of when I look at it is the extra hours I had to work slaughtering those poor animals so we could get the money to buy it.
But there’s no point in thinking of that now. What’s in the past is in the past. I smooth my hands over the soft fabric of my dress as I tiptoe to the kitchen. It feels smooth and delicate against my rough, calloused hands. We don’t own a full length mirror, but I couldn’t care less how I look anyways. It’s not like every camera will be pointed at me. Hopefully, it’ll all go well.
There’s a bit of bread and salted meat left when I check the kitchen, but I’m not in the mood to eat. I kind of feel like I’m going to throw up. I sit down on a cracked wooden stool, trying to keep the nausea at bay. Every year, the amount of entries I have in the reaping increases, heightening my chances of becoming a tribute. The mandatory entries included with all the accumulated tesserae I’ve signed up for means this year, I have a total of 21 entries.
I sit and try to think of anything else, anything else, except for the reaping. But of course, my efforts are in vain.
A few minutes tick by. There’s nothing to do, but think. No distractions from my thoughts. After a while I finally register the ache in my lungs, and remember that I need to breathe. Breath in, breathe out. There, it’s not that hard.
I hear movement from my mother’s room as she finally wakes. She throws open the door, eyes bleary with tiredness. I would’ve been concerned if her signature scowl didn't stain her face even in the morning. “What time is it?”
“We’ve got around forty minutes until the reaping starts.” I informed her.
“What?” she snaps at me, “Sadie, you should’ve woken me sooner.”
You would’ve just yelled at me. I bite back the words, instead opting to not reply. It’s hard to argue with someone who’s smart, but it’s impossible to argue with an idiot.
My mother gets dressed in a hurry and we leave the house, making our way through the dusty streets of District 10. The air quality isn’t the best, and the heat isn’t doing us any favours. I cough slightly as we walk.
My mother nods tensely when we arrive, gesturing to me to go on. “Good luck.” she says.
I hesitate for a moment. This is my last reaping. I’m eighteen. Once this is over, I’ll never have to enter again, not for tesserae, nor mandatory participation. I’ll never have to listen to her again. I could leave her and start a new life… but still. I feel like I’m obliged to say something sentimental, something along the lines of “I’m grateful for everything you’ve done,”. But the words never come.
“Thanks.” I tell her simply, before walking away.