THREE: What was the first reaping you remember?
“i thought it was fucked up, that the kid’s family were so happy to see him gone--” he speaks the words quietly--he’s not really sure why. maybe it’s because he’s spent so long treating his mind like a cemetery, digging through the grave dirt with his hands to just bury everything that felt too painful to think about. maybe it’s because it feels dangerous to speak of the dead in district six, where everyone and everything seems to transverse that boundary with ease--neither fully alive nor fully decayed. speak the words too loudly, and the thing will come back to you, in the worst way you could think to want it.
“i realized it later--that the reason was that they had one less mouth to feed, that it was probably their only chance at something better.” he bites down hard on his bottom lip, ignores the taste of copper, salt, oil--the way they briefly sting individually before they become one scorpion’s tail. it’s a smaller pain to mask something larger, something that sits on his chest and threatens to crush the bones of his ribs, like the impact of the fucking train. “it was the first time i wondered if my parents would have been happier without me. if they would have been relieved, if my name had been called and i didn’t make it back.”
he chuckles, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, the strip of skin that the worn neck of his shirt does not cover. “guess i never got to find out the answer, huh?”
