Sacrificial

Chapter 1: Funerals

I pull at my bandana, ensuring it is perfectly positioned on my head. Double- and triple-checking that not a hair is to be seen. The funeral is packed, standing room only. The room is primarily black. There are black curtains lining the walls and black veils over the windows. White flowers, lilacs, are in vases against the wall. Near the caskets, there are even more vases overflowing with flowers. The caskets themselves are also covered in flowers, either white, black, or red. Some are from around here, others from all over. No expense too high for these funerals.

Nearly everyone is wearing black out of respect for the dead. The conversation is a light hum, quiet, but if you listen, you can hear the same phrases being repeated over and over. It was an honor to have known her. It was an honor to have seen him fight. Their parents should be so proud. Their parents' faces surely try to portray their pride. Their eyes are sunken in. Their skin pale, almost translucent. The mothers' cheeks stained with tears shed for practically two months now. The only father of the two holds his back straight, but I notice his hands shaking. However, for the most part, they play their role perfectly.

As did all of the attendees. They fought well. They honored our region. They will be remembered for a long time to come. They will live in the hearts of all. It is never said what anyone actually feels. They will be remembered until the next Tournament. They will be held in our hearts for a week and forgotten as our lives move on despite their death or maybe because of. We didn't know who they were, and we were just happy they succeeded in protecting our own children. It's rotten luck on your part, but we are happy it wasn't one of ours.

Wouldn't it be easier if they spoke the truth? However, everyone has been pretending for so long I don't think anyone knows when they are pretending, when it's a tradition we must follow, and when we are doing something of our own accord. For my part, I also pretend. I walk through the line, pulling at my bandana one more time before I go to bite my right thumbnail.

The line is slow, but that is to be expected. A hand is placed on my shoulder, and I jump. I almost punch the man behind me, but I stop myself. "I'm sorry, Dahlia. I didn't think you had heard me."

He is an older gentleman. He has tan skin and longer hair. His hair is starting to go grey around the ears, and there are a few other places it's going grey, like his stubble; however, most of it is completely black. He is fairly muscular. He has dark brown eyes. There are a few dark circles around his eyes, but I can think of few people who do not have them. Arvin Hadders. "It's alright, Arvin," I say, swallowing the nothingness in my mouth.

"I never understand why you choose to come to these things. They always make you jumpy." He stops and taps his finger against his leg before he adds, "More jumpy than normal."

"Someone has to be willing," I whisper. He tells me he can represent all of us. "I would never ask you to do that. I must be willing. It is the least I can do for those who have bravely lost their lives," I say, trying to straighten my back. He tells me I shouldn't have to punish myself.

I offer a weak smile, the only response I can give, before turning back around. My hands are shaking at this point. I can feel my blood curdling and pulling. It heats and burns, but I know it is all drained. I have no blood in me; if I do, it is somewhere I no longer know. The silence echoes whispers said in the line. Tears fall to the ground. It almost sounds like glass shattering into a million pieces. My heart is the loudest thing in the room. It pounds against my chest, trying to escape. It wants to break for the families but has already broken so many times before. There are only pieces left, and those pieces break further for the families that mourn today and every day.

The line keeps moving. We are getting closer to the end. Isn't that how it always is? "Dalhia," I hear Arvin whisper. I turn around. "Do you have the food?" I look down at the tins I hold and pull them tighter into me. It's two tins with the paint completely chipped off. The paint had been chipped long before I ever saw them. Still, they are considered good tins. We lose two to a near perfectly imperfect cause every year. He nods as his eyes follow mine and sees the tins I am holding. "Aster says the idea of sharing food is the one thing that brings everyone together. We can all feel a bit of warmth and home with the food around us." I sigh, looking down at my hands, before nodding; however, my eyes do not pick up to look at him. I start to turn back around. He stops me by asking, "Do you want me to do the talking again?"