I was eight years old, my mom was pregnant with Nellie. For little Jarel, everything was new. He had to work to gain money to sustain the house, but he also had all the friends he could ask for. Eight years old Jarel is truly happy being himself, not having to change his actions to be like the others. He was a sweet boy. A sweet boy that didn’t need to see what he did that day.
The morning is fuzzy, but I remember walking down to the Town Center with mom. We live in the poorest zone of District 9, which implies that we need to walk a couple of miles before getting to the Justice Building. The image of our shadows on the floor is pretty clear inside my head. And I’m happy it was that way, because that’s one of the last happy memories I have with her. But this isn’t what this is about.
The Town Center was full with kids walking with their heads down and visibly trying to be strong. I gripped tighter on my mom’s hand, my small fingers squeezing hers. “Jarel, it’s fine,” she said and kneeled on the ground, in front of me. “They are choosing the boy and the girl that are going to the Hunger Games. You know about that.” And I did. I saw it every year but, for some reason, it didn't impress me. Until that day.
I can’t remember those first years of Hunger Games. In fact, I was still born during the rebellion. I lived for two years without the fear of being picked to die. But it’s not like I remember those now too distant times. And mom never enjoyed talking about the fights that took over Panem. But I’m drifting off...
The sun was burning my skin that day, but the older kids didn’t seem to care. Now I understand they were too scared too notice the sweat on their foreheads. Mom took me to the middle of the crowd and we just stood there, watching the a boy and a girl getting up on stage. The terrified expressions on their angelic faces made me cringe. Then they entered the Justice Building and everyone was silent for a second. Not even the wind dared to disturb the mourning of the ones who were still alive. Like it settled, the silence disappeared, abruptly and with a strange indifference.
A small group of people were crying, but the others just engaged in the everyday conversation. “The weather is nice today,” some said. “The harvest is going to be great this year,” other exclaimed. Then there were the ones who talked about what just happened, brave enough to touch the subject. Those poor things, we have to help the families with the funerals, was the sentence I heard the most.
Mom started talking with a man I didn’t know, so Miss Molein, an old lady that never got married, took me home and I stayed with her for the night, as I did so many times since my mother got back to leave her lost tenagehood. But I didn’t sleep. Instead, I thought about what I saw. The whole night, my ears were filled with screams, my eyes with blood. I wasn’t scared, just horrified by this reality. But that’s this thought that I clearly remember, even ten years later:
I was probably only six or seven at the time. Funny how I can forget what I had to eat for dinner last night but I can remember such vivid details from years ago. The faint trails of wispy smoke as they wafted away from my father's cigar, carrying the putrid stench across the room. My mother hated him smoking in the house but she loved him too much to say anything.
She was wearing her favourite dress that day. The white one with the lace. It really did make her look beautiful the way it swirled around her legs while she walked as if she was floating. My father liked her in that dress too, he said it made her look like a queen. Sometimes we would pretend we were a king queen and prince and parade around that gigantic house of ours. Grown up I know for all intents and purposes we were exactly that, the royalty of District Six.
"Mum, Mum look!" I cried excitedly. My fingers curled around my toes and under to the soles of my feet, something I'd been working on for weeks. With only a slight nod of her head she muttered something along the lines of "That's great hunny." Without looking away from whatever was drawing her attention on screen.
Now believe me I was quite the bratty child. This was before we switched dance instructors and I learned some actual discipline but that is a story for another time. With hurt in my eyes and a pout on my lip I marched up to my mum and demanded her attention. As my eyes met her I saw something in them, some level of fear that I couldn't understand. She was watching t.v. what did she have to be afraid of?
Wordlessly she pulled me up onto my lap and gently ran her fingers up and down my arm. I stopped my pouting knowing it was no good and chose to focus on what they were watching. My father whispered something to my mum in a hushed whisper. Her response seemed to strain both of them but they seemed to agree and no more was said about it. My eyes had glued themselves to the screen and more importantly the two people on screen. Both were boys but one was significantly larger than the other. I wasn't sure what they were holding but the small one threw something that stuck to the larger one without making much of an impact. The large one charged the small one, knocking him off of his feet and slamming him to the ground. I could sight of a silver gleam and then a spray of red before a great booming made me almost jump out of my mum's lap.
The large boy stood up and smiled at the camera while the little one lay beneath him, a steady pooling of scarlet beneath him. "He's going to get up, isn't he?" I asked my mum, lip quivering from fear. She gave a sad shake of her head and my father turned the t.v. off. Tears began to form in the corners of my eyes for the unknown boy who had lost his life and I ran from the room. Behind me echoed "I told you he wasn't ready." I was only seven when they first showed me but I really doubt I would have been prepared at any age for the first time I watched the Hunger Games.
From as far as I can remember, my first hunger games experience has to do with my oldest brother, Anton. It was his very first reaping and the first I would attend to. He was 12, I was scared and 5 years old. We woke up early this morning, my mom insisting in pampering all of us for the big day. Of course, now that I think of it, being cute and clean does not have anything to do with your chances of not being picked, but for my mother it seemed so important that none of us, not even Xavier who always hated to be clean, bothered to annoy our mother. As it was is first reaping, he decided to stay near the limits given for the children in age of being picked to stand in. Through the fences build the same day, I remember holding his hand so tightly as they were picking the names out of the box that I almost collapse when they called Anton Gibson, our neighbour that obviously had the same name as my brother.
As I hugged my brother who sough in relief, I could ear the cries of the other Anton’s mom as his oldest son, who was 14 year old, had to get away from her and step on stage. It is the last time I saw him alive. Poor boy, he was of the nervous type, quite small for his age and dangerously clumsy. I watched him everyday on the television after that, but not for quite long as he died after 3 days in the arena, stepping on a mine. That’s probably at that moment that I really understood how atrocious and despising were the hunger games as I was too young and had no reason to be around them before that.
I stopped watching them after Anton’s and our district 9’s girl’s death. I can’t remember her name, nobody in my family was close to her’s but she lasted quite long in the Arena, being in the top 5 of the persons who stayed alive. Although I was quite young, seeing blood and all this gore did not scared me. Even if I couldn't understand why all those people were killing each other, I know it now, I stared at it without a sound and watched it every year after that first time, promising myself that if I was to go in there one day, I’d fight with all I would have to get the hell out of there alive.
I don't generally have a good memory for things. Just ask my best friend Parker. I barely know what I had for breakfast let alone what happened three years ago. I'm not sure why to be honest, but it's always something that's been a part of who I am. But there are some things you just don't forget.
I'll always remember the day my mother died. I was only seven at the time. It was a balmy summer day, the kind where you sweat even if you're standing still. barely understood what was happening, only that my mother was gone and she wasn't coming back. It wasn't until I was older that I learned the truth.
I'll always remember my first kiss. It was with Parker, totally awkward. We were just eleven. I guess we were just curious, saw the other kids doing it and wanted to fit in. We decided being friends was just fine for us.
I'll always remember the first time someone beat me up for no reason other than the fact that I'm deaf. I was ten years old. I was on the playground at school. I don't know what started it, but I do know I ended up with a black eye and a scrape the length of my arm. That was the year my father decided to take me out of mainstream school, the year I learned what it was like to have a real deaf community, to learn with other kids like me.
Although each of these memories stick with me to this day, nothing can top my first Reaping. I really didn't know too much about the Hunger Games as a kid. My father had somehow managed to keep me sheltered enough to stay in the dark. But when I was twelve, he couldn't exactly hide it from me any more. I remember they way he sat me down, wearing the same expression as the night mom died. He explained everything to me delicately, but it didn't help any. Is there any easy way to tell your kid they might die in a matter of weeks?
My first Reaping was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. It was hot and humid, the way it was when mother died. I cried as my father left me, stood in one of my mother's old dresses as they pricked my finger till it bled. Herded with a group of girls my age, I watched the stage as a sharp, cold, green-haired woman began to speak words I could not hear, her accent so foreign I could not make out the words on her lips. So I stood, pretending to understand what was happening. Then all of the sudden the crowd parted, people were moving and there was sobbing and wailing, at least I assume so. Two children were picked, no one I knew. That's the one good thing about not having any friends, less people to lose. Out of everything, I remember the unsettling silence in the middle of the frenzied commotion. That silence follows my everywhere.
I don't remember much from the rebellion, all I remember are the Capitol newscasts warning the districts of the price they would have to pay for the rebellion. After the Capitol put an end to the rebellion, my parents made sure to distance me as much as possible from the punishment they placed on the districts and their people: The Hunger Games.
"Daddy come on let's go outside!" I was bouncing in place on the wooden floor of our home, impatiently waiting for my father to bring me out to ride. The seven year old me was far from patient, and the fact that Maddox was coming to join us just added to my excitement. I hadn't been able to pick up on the pattern that for a select few weeks each year one of my parents would take either Maddox and I or just me out to the pastures for most of the day.
My father ran at me, pulling me up onto his shoulders as he walked out of our house. My mother waved at us from the small kitchen, knowing we wouldn't be back for a few hours at least. Bouncing as we walked, the warm sun was a usual comfort that came with our district. Despite the fact that we lived near the center, and had to walk quite a ways to the pastures, there was no smog to fill the air and cloudy days were few and far between.
As we walked through the town I waved at everyone passing by from atop my father's shoulders. I got small smiles in return and couldn't help but feel tall and invincible from where I was. Once we finally reached the pastures, Maddox was already attempting to get on his own horse, Teko, and failing miserably. My father let me down from his shoulders and I ran over to the small stable while Mico greeted me with a small whinny. I had been riding since I was able to, and it was a favorite past time of mine.
My father, Maddox, and I spent most of the day in the pastures. We had a small lunch and then by the time we began to head home, the sun was already beginning to set. Tomorrow would be another long day, so I wasn't too disheartened when I brought Mico back to the stable.
"Race you back," I shouted to Maddox as I took off, giggling while looking back as he chased me. Once we reached town, we zigzagged through the streets until I was sure I had lost Maddox in the town somewhere. I skidded to a stop, searching for him by the light of the setting sun. I was anything but a sore loser and I liked it when he gave me a run for my money, even at that age. By the time I turned back around to start running, I caught a flash of his light hair running around a corner and took off after him.
"Beat you," he said as he touched his hand to the door of my house. We were both out of breath from running and I was sure that my father would be a few minutes behind us. His lopsided smile only accented his then-crooked teeth and made him look like the dorky eight year old Maddox I remember.
"No fair!" I said with a breathless laugh. No point in arguing, he won fair and square. I reached forward to open my door when I heard a few screams coming from inside. I pushed the door open and franticly look around the room, "Momma are you alright?" I asked, walking further into the semi-lit room.
There, being projected onto the wall was the image of a tall boy, standing over a girl who seemed only a few years older than me, holding a large sword over her neck. My mother whirled around to see Maddox and I standing there but she wasn't able to turn off the projector before red splatter the camera, and the girls screams were cut off.
I could feel my eyes begin to water, and I ran back to my room fearful of what I had just witnessed. From that day on, I knew why my parents took me out to the pasture during those few weeks. From that day on, the Capitol had already placed it's brand on me.
I was six years old at the time. This one particular memory stands out to me because of Bae,Bane,and Selsa. The twins were only four. They had only just begun to understand our life. When they grow up they would start training with weapons and becoming the killers that we are supposed to be. This would be the first year that they would fully be exposed to The Hunger Games. This is also the same year that our care taker was reaped. I hated the timing because they would have to see our Selsa die. My parents took bets on when she would die. Ceili chose the bloodbath while Desmond chose later on Day One. I laughed at my parents and ran to get my favorite book. When I came back to them I set the book on the table.
"Daddy I bet with mommy. You can have my favorite book if she lives past the bloodbath. If we win then you have to let me train early. I like regular school but I want to fight like they do."
A six year old betting on when her baby sitter would die. Am I the only one seeing how fucked up this is?
My father happily agreed to this. The five of us sat down in front of the t.v. and watched the games unfold. Bae and Bane spotted Selsa during the first five seconds.
"Al! It's Sel! Look Al!" Bae said whilst poking me in the side. Bane was jumping up and down shouting "Sesa! Sesa! Sesa!"
They were so excited to see Selsa prevail. I glanced back at my mother and father giving them a knowing look. This won't end well for anyone. I turned back just as the gong sounded. Selsa was heading right for the blue pack. The boy from four was just getting done with a kill when he starting heading for the same pack. Bane stopped jumping. Bae stopped her poking. Everything was silent for those few moments. The District Four boy came at Selsa like a tsunami on a village by the coast. She stood no chance against him. His sword sliced through her neck with surprising ease.
"Yes!" I shouted at the same time the twins let out a sob. I was not as attached to her as Bae and Bane were. When I noticed the tears all I could do was wrap my arms around them. My parents joined in on the embrace.
"Allyn we will get you registered tomorrow." my father said.
I was joyful but at the same time I felt slightly upset. Selsa was part of the family. While she was only a pawn in this grand show of the people who think they are all powerful, she was once an important person to all of us. Selsa cared for us while Ceili and Desmond were away. But is her death really all that bad? I get to train now. She doesn't matter any more.
There it is. My first almost family loss. I was simply charming at that age.
"Daddy!" I shout from my perch on the swing set, my voice filled with a child's instinctive joy upon seeing a parent after a long absence. My father looks ragged, tired, with clearly visible circles beneath his weary eyes. But the corner of his eyelids do a familiar crinkle as he smiles at me, and I jump off of the swings at the peak of the arc in my impatience to get to him.
I don't see his face contort with worry, nor see his hasty strides forward. I am too preoccupied with a new sensation that I have stumbled upon - flying. I can't help but wonder why birds bother coming down to earth when such grace and weightlessness is only to be found in the air. It is only when I land in my father's arms with a slight thump that I descend once more into reality, but reality is home, and home is safety and warmth.
"I've got you," He says, breathing a relieved laugh. "I've always got you."
He laughs, but his arms close around me with a protective tightness, as though I might break free from his grasp at any moment and take my place among the heavens.
"Don't fly too far, Adrienne."
That's all he says, his smile not quite reaching his eyes this time. I rest against his broad shoulders, my forehead gently scratched by the light stubble on his face as I sway back and forth with his long strides.
"I'd never leave you daddy," I whisper, drawing patterns on the front of his shirt with my tiny finger. I don't think he hears me, for my words were scarcely breaths, quickly swept away by the wind that's begun to pick up now.
Even though my father's steps have lengthened and we're walking at a faster pace, I fall asleep like that, pressed against his chest with my arms curled naturally about his neck. When I wake up, I let go of him to rub my still-closed eyes, my small mouth opening into a yawn. As my eyelids flicker open, I realize my father is back in his office and I'm seated on his lap as he types furiously on a computer.
I crawl out from under his arms and onto his desk, where I sit quietly and play with the bouquet of wildflowers blooming in a simple but pretty vase on the corner of the table. My father always gets a strange look on his face when I play with flowers. I think it has something to do with my mother.
My father and I sit there, each of us to our business, quietly enjoying the others company. I may be four years old but I'm not deaf, and when I'm being babysat by one of our neighbors I do pick up on what the matronly ladies say about my dad. Typically it's the stuff that makes my eyes roll of their own accord- how good looking he is, etc. Occasionally though, someone will mention something of interest. Like my mother.
Before I can attempt to remember what they said, the door to my father's office flies open and a large man dressed in a strange suit made of white comes in. It's the same type of suit that all of the people with guns wear. It's the suit that sends our neighbors scurrying indoors in their haste to avoid being collateral damage.
"Caladan!" The man yells, his head snapping to my father's spot at the desk, as though he'd been in the room before and knew where my father would be.
I've never been one to show fear, always approaching everything with optimism and hope, but the man seemed so angry, and he was targeting my father, and I knew that nothing good could come of this. I crawl over to my father, thinking that perhaps he wouldn't be hurt if I could protect him. In my haste I knock over a picture frame with my foot, sending it crashing to the office floor.
The Peacekeeper turns sharply towards me, as though only just noticing that I was there, a witness to whatever he was about to do. My father, previously calm and composed in the face of the angry stranger, looked frantically at me before lunging from his seat and taking me in his arms, shielding me from the weapon the Peacekeeper held aloft.
"Not my daughter. She has nothing to do with this!" He yells.
The Peacekeeper does seem to be perturbed by my presence, as he lowers his gun slightly, but his finger remains just above the trigger, poised to pull should the need arise.
"I'm not here for the girl, Xavier," He states, leaning arrogantly against the door frame. "Surely you've heard. Uprisings in the Districts, talk of another rebellion. All of the known rebels from the war are being monitored." With a gloved fist he shatters the mirror and I scream at the noise, burying my face in my father's shirt.
"Watch yourself, Caladan. Only eight more years and your daughter could be one of the kids shipped off to the Capitol and those arenas. And you know what could happen in there - hell, you design most of the crap, don't you?"
I could hear his smirk from the behind the black face guard, could feel the man's arrogance from my refuge behind my father. My father, who is currently glistening with anger, his hand not carrying me clenched into a white-knuckled fist.
The Peacekeeper finally picks up on the daggers that my father is mentally killing him with, and smashes a lamp against one of the large art frames as he leaves.
It's only when he's gone that I realize I've been holding my breath.
"Daddy?" I whisper as he sits down at his desk and lifts me into his lap.
"Adrienne, I don't think I'll be having Mrs. Pioch watch you tonight, okay? I just feel better with you here." He murmurs, his attention already focused on the screen.
Tired from the ordeal, I immediately nod off in his lap. A few hours later I wake up, but I don't move, preferring instead to watch my father. He throws himself into his work, they say, to get over it. But I never learned what that "it" is.
He doesn't see as I crane my head for a better view. He doesn't see that I watch, entranced, as the film continues flashing across the computer scene.
I've watched movies before but this is different, stranger, scarier. There are kids, all lined up in a circle. And their emotions - ranging from terror to anticipation - are too real to be acted. All of a sudden a cannon goes off, and they all start running. And then the screaming starts.
And my father, busy talking into a microphone that will play back for the engineers later and tell them what to improve on, doesn't notice that I'm very much awake. He doesn't notice my small whimpers as I watch a girl hacked to pieces with a blade by a boy with blood stains all down his front. He doesn't notice as I shut my eyes tightly, hoping in vain that perhaps I can forget the carnage unfolding on the screen before me.
He doesn't notice as I cry myself back to sleep.
"No. No, we'll have to see. You know how the tech people from 3 can get about District 5 engineers suggesting things. Tell them to slow it down though with the advanced weaponry. These Capitol people like blood, they just want to watch these kids tear each other apart. These are the Hunger Games."
"Why are those people going into the building?" I asked my dad. When I looked up at him, his eyes were full of tears.
"Those people are going on a little adventure." I heard him say. "Darius, you are only five years old. You will understand someday."
I didn't know exactly what he meant at that moment but that was my first reaping I had ever witnessed. A couple days passed and suddenly while eating dinner at our house, my parents turned on the projector. It was odd because they never turned it on before. The capitol symbol showed and then some man i didn't recognize came on. He started talking about tributes or something like that. Then he went down the Districts. I knew a little bit about them but nothing to special. I knew there used to be thirteen of them but now there was only twelve. Each person was getting a number. Some got an eight, some a four, some even a ten. Then came the people that I saw go into the building. The boy got a seven while the female got a five. "They have no chance." My dad said turning off the projection. I was curious. Was this a game? Why were there scores? Was there a prize? The next day, my dad turned on the protection again and they were in a field with swords and other object around them. All of the kids were. Next thing I know, I see kids getting stabbed, heads going off, limbs as well. I see the kids from my District, I see the male stab a girl in the chest. I see the girl get a sword across her stomach, blood going everywhere. My eyes opened wide and I couldn't believe what I was watching. I started to cry. Little did I know, that was my first experience of the Games.
