So it’s been a while because I needed to get my computer fixed, but I’m finally getting around to writing up the short stories for the WHG!! Thanks so much to @ratracechronicler for hosting this year’s WHG. If anybody would like tagged for this let me know, and without further ado, the first prompt.
Nothing can touch him as Jackson sinks to the bottom of the lake, the silt pillowing toward the surface, hiding the harsh reality of tension only a few feet above him.
This reaping is different, he can already tell. The rumors have spread like an oil spill, coating everybody’s lips in thick grease. We’re well off here, they say quietly and behind closed doors. Surely it’ll be fine.
Jackson knows better, has seen the way children get pushed to exhaustion because surely we don’t need assistance. Assistance is a higher likelihood of death, and everyone agrees that they’d rather their children be yanked under by a rip than be gutted on live television like a prized catfish.
That’s no hypothetical either. On average, three kids drown every year right before the Reaping. Jackson has attended every one of their funerals since he was old enough to walk, along with his mom and dad, who faithfully pay respects to each family.
His mom refuses to talk about it, refuses to acknowledge the creeping of the calendar, and Jackson thinks he understands. She’s a strong woman and the wife of District 4′s governor, but five of her six children are being entered this year, himself included.
Not that it matters. Nothing has mattered to him for years beyond the deepest, darkest lakes or choppiest, churning waves District 4 has to offer. Even the harshest sunlight distorts and blurs beneath the water, and he embraces the muffled hush, seeks out snatches of the in-between. He may be the governor’s son, but Jackson navigates his district easier than breathing.
Familiarization means survival, and if he excels at anything, it is always that.
It’s been almost four minutes now, and his lungs burn, his throat bobbing with the effort of holding his breath. The bottom of the lake still reaches for the surface, and once again he hasn’t found what he’s looking for.
Surely he will someday. That day is not today.
“Where’d ya go?” Pearl chirps as soon as he walks in the door. She’s sitting on the kitchen counter kneading dough for bread. “Mom’s been looking for you for hours.”
Jackson huffs and flicks his little sister on the nose.
“Hey!” she squawks, pulling back and glaring.
He shrugs and grabs a glass out of the cabinet. “Do you know what she wants?” The tap is warm, but he doesn’t bother with ice.
Pearl shakes her head and goes back to kneading the dough, though her eyes trace the kitchen counter as if the linoleum has suddenly become fascinating. “Prob’ly about Ana,” she says, not offering anything more.
Which can only mean one thing, Jackson thinks, and chugs his water in one go, avoiding eye contact with his sister. That makes seven kids this year and one of the worst Reapings in the last decade. His throat tightens at the thought, his fingers squeezing the glass in his hand until his knuckles are white, but doesn’t say anything. Pearl’s too young for the Reaping, and he wants to keep her out of the loop as long as he can.
He doesn’t want to think about Ana, about the little girl that used to go with her mom on outings and had an eye for navigation. The stars fascinated her, even when she didn’t need them for navigation, and now that he’s thinking about her, he remembers a lot of broad-faced smiles and belly-laughs.
He doesn’t want to think about Ana, a girl who will never make it to fourteen. Doesn’t want to wonder whether Pearl is next, or maybe Tyler or hell, even Vick. Maybe it’s the Games, maybe it’s the assistance, maybe it’s none of those things, just a regular fucking riptide.
Surely it’ll be fine---and he fucking hates that it has to be.
That fire never lasts long, never burns beyond fleeting, and just as quickly as he worked himself up, he calms down, puts his glass in the sink, and heads for his room. Pearl says nothing as he leaves, and he shouldn’t be grateful but he is.
Ana had two sisters and a half-brother. The sisters are young, too young for the Reaping, and Jackson can’t remember their names but he can see their faces, can see the youngest one trailing after her sister like a lost puppy. The half-brother is the oldest, if Jackson isn’t mistaken, and about his own age. They’ve never spoken past regular hellos, and that’s probably because Torrance doesn’t stand out. Jackson’s familiar with his name because he makes it his business to know everybody.
His mom and dad pretend to know everybody, and his siblings don’t even try, but Jackson watches the people around him, watches them work dawn until dusk, and goes out of his way to converse with all of them at least once. District 4, with its lakes and rivers and coasts, with its salt-encrusted and gritty wealth, leaves its mark on him every time he goes out looking for something he’ll never find.
Tomorrow will undoubtedly be Ana’s funeral. The day after is the Reaping.
Jackson sits down, leans against his bedroom door, head between his knees, and lets the anger recede, lets the hate simmer. He stares at his hands, unmoving, even though in his mind they clench and break and destroy, and waits until all traces of it fades into the background once again. Until his own body doesn’t feel foreign, like it might betray him any second.
Days are numbered before he crosses the point of no return, before he doesn’t want to return, and he can’t help but hate how much he longs for it.
