Sacrificial

Chapter 8: A Show of Luck

I pull on a black tank top and throw on the shirt I bought yesterday. I look down at my black pants, brushing off the dust, dirt, debris, and anything else that could be on them. I have been spending weeks in the woods. I pull my pants as far up as they will go so they are under the highest part of the shirt. I run my fingers through the mess of my curly, auburn hair. Not a hair is where it should be; every piece of hair is out of place. The shirt, thankfully massive, hides the fact I am a bigger person, sort of well. It is at least well enough they will not care until they find out the truth, and by then, it will be too late. I know the freckles that cover my skin are only matched by the soot already covering my face. I had even spent the last hour trying to scrub it off, the soot, not the freckles. I shake my head, walking away from the cabin I will never see again. If she has a problem with me, she can fix it later, or he can, or whoever else wants to fix me because, after all, I am only a piece of coal.

One last deep breath, and I am on my way. I trudge to the fence line. Today is usually busier than any other day at the fence. The guards have to ensure that no one tries to skip out on the Lottery. I head to the secret spot. Bastiaan is there right beside the fence on the forest side. He has a pheasant in one hand as he leans against a tree. "Was hoping I would see you," he says, giving me a smile.

"What are you going to do with that?" I ask, looking toward the pheasant. He tells me he's going to sell it. "Today?"

"Not to the guards, of course." I mock him back with my own of course. He leads the way, and together, the two of us head through the fence. He looks at me on the other side. "You don't have to do this." I tell him I will do what I must, and we continue. Before we get into town, he pushes me into an alley. "Don't. Even if her name is pulled, don't. Don't. Walk away. Run. Live. You deserve to live after everything you have been through. Please. Maybe I can even go with you." I feel my jaw set. He shakes his head but walks away before I can say anything.

I slowly walk the rest of the way into town. By the time I am in the center of town, everything is going in full swing. People are running this way and that, getting into their place. I glance to my left, the last of the vans unloading their prizes. Men and women from the ages 18 to 35. All of them quite somber. They are awaiting their execution or maybe their stay of one. And their faces show it. There is not a smile. Or light in their eyes. No, this is death. This is mourning. This is a life not fully lived. This is promises never to be kept. And a haunting reminder of what we choose to put off. The dirge of reality firmly and confidently playing around us and for us. There is one set of people almost indifferent to the whole scene: the guards. There has already been some backroom deal we will never hear. Some 18-year-old Replacement. None of them have to care about a life that will end. Even if it is because of them.

"The women in one line, the men in the other. Your identity will be checked if you are selected," one of the guards calls. "If you are selected, they will need proof of identification." As if they don't already have enough ways to prove who we are. We had to pay a fortune to keep my identity quiet while I was with Arvin and Aster. It all seems like a waste now, knowing I still ended up here once more. I quickly shuffle with the women, ensuring I am not touched by anyone and that my hood stays firmly on my head. Maybe I will get lucky. Maybe there is a chance I could be considered lucky for once in my life. Just once. That is all I hope for. Just once. I would truly like my luck to hold.

I watch as more and more people filter in. I can see the older adults standing behind us. The rope that holds the masses back from the potential slaughter as they clutch the children - both young and old. They are offered a stay of execution for one year. More and more people keep coming. We crowd around this area. This is probably the most options for the Selection this area has ever had. There will be no shortage of people that could be selected. The statue of Mavery Meddows is now completely covered in flowers, and she seems to loom over us as if she, too, is judging us for our actions. What would she think of what we are doing now? More than that, what right does she have to judge us? Who gave her the power to loom over all? And where can I make a formal complaint?