𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐝 - Based off Hunger Games

Chapter II

 
"Children see things very well, especially the things you don't want them to see." - Victor Hugo

I got up around noon, realizing I needed to complete my daily routine. Damn. It was already 1 PM, and El would surely be up by now.

Rushing out of bed, I found El's room empty, and as I entered the kitchen, there was Dad, wide awake with a bottle of beer in hand. His eyes were glassy, the telltale signs of drunkenness. He nodded at me, shuffling towards me, his hand reaching out to brush the hair from my face. Even from a distance, the smell of alcohol emanating from him was overpowering.

He muttered, barely a whisper—as if you could go any lower—calling me pretty. As he always did. But when he was sober it's a different story. It was a weird moment for the both of us, I chose not to argue or make a word.

He strolled past me, shouting as he walked into another room. "El went on a walk! I'm going to bed—"

I rolled my eyes, letting out a tired sigh as the door shut behind him. Finally, some quiet settled in, allowing me to hear nothing but the rhythm of my own breathing and the distant chatter from outside. The walls in this place were paper-thin. I didn't mind most days, but right now, all I wanted was a bit of privacy or perhaps just a moment of peace.

——

I went out once again, just to shop around for a bit at the corner markets. Among the assortment of rusted and broken trinkets, my eyes caught sight of a pretty golden pin shaped like a sword or a dagger. It seemed out of place in this sea of neglect. Eleanor would love this, I thought. She always had a fascination with books and papers about wars, for some peculiar reason. It was her forte.

After paying for the pin, I continued down the street, passing by more market stalls. Suddenly, the chatter around me faded into an uneasy silence. A large crowd had gathered up ahead, drawing my curiosity. Could it be another public punishment, a whipping is a common sight in our city. Held at the center where they cuff you to a post and go at you until you're either dead or just unconscious.

As I reached the edge of the circle, all eyes turned upwards.

Damn it.

It was the Trials—a computer randomly selects citizens to participate in a televised historical reenactment. Instead of fighting to the death, the chosen participants must survive in a wild, uninhabited area while completing challenges inspired by the struggles of past generations: starvation, hunting, incurable diseases, and unbearable weather.

It always occurs around 2 times every 2 years, catching everyone by surprise. 'Fortunately' for us, this was only the first time in the past few years. January 3rd. That means the next one is around October. They usually select 5 from the more impoverished neighborhoods—our part. Then they pick 5 from the well-off areas to make it 10. Imagine 10 teenagers and adults fighting it out, succumbing to sickness and suffering. It's whoever is still alive by day 10 (which no one ever is) that are declared the winners.

There's only ever been one winner from our side of the city, compared to about 20 from the other side.

When you do win, you get to live out the rest of your life in peace in a relaxing part of the city.

Anyway, we kept our eyes fixed on the screen as it displayed the usual instructions.

"Once 5 individuals have been chosen, please step forward once the selection process is complete."

It was nerve-wracking. I wasn't nervous though. No one under 15 would be chosen, and nobody older than 30 is safe due to health reasons—older folks are more prone to getting sick during the hours.

The chances of being chosen were slim. Those who had been selected had volunteered. Most people didn't even make it out of the training building. To avoid going, they would commit suicide on the spot, reducing the number to about 7 players.

We fixed our gaze on the screen as the first row spun, revealing a name and photo.

First name: Demi Smith.

Damn. She was the daughter of the local bakery down the street. I've visited there once or twice and seen her around the shops. We've never spoken before, maybe for the best.

Demi is quite popular in school. It's surprising to see her in this part of the city. She's fairly pretty, I think Henry had a crush on her once. It might have been for the free cakes he'd get.

She's about 19, known for her exquisite cake decorations, but nothing extraordinary.

The crowd's attention turned sharply towards her, a pure look of fear etched on her face as her name and image flashed on the screen.

Slowly, she stepped forward onto the mat as the next row of names was chosen.

Right beside Demi's name flashed:

Joan Write.

I recognized her name. We were classmates, the same age. Our moms used to be friends a long time ago, but it seemed she cut ties with us after mine passed away.

I remembered the times we spent together when her mom visited.

I glanced over at her, wanting to confirm it was the girl I knew. It was. She didn't appear phased, almost as if she expected to be chosen.

Joan had stepped forward, her hands clenched into fists.

In the midst of the crowd, there were laughs mingled with soft cries. Some were relieved not to be chosen, while others were upset that their friends or loved ones were being thrown into this fight for survival.

Scanning the faces, I saw Eleanor standing beside my dad. His expression was stern, Eleanor's, worried and fearful. Neither of them could afford to be picked.

My dad had just turned 38, so he was safe from the selection. Even if he had been chosen, his weapon would have been a broken bottle, a sad relic of his alcoholism.

The next name flashed on the screen, a girl with light brunette hair:

Tizzy Steen.

I hadn't heard of her before, but I knew her brother, West. He was like a brother to Henry. In our small town, knowing everyone was inevitable.

She was only 16, her recent birthday adding a layer of cruel irony to the situation.

Tizzy stepped forward, her face a mix of anger and sadness etched deeply upon it.

It was the final two rows, the last two competitors left.

The two had spun, both finishing around the same time, their names and photos causing me to freeze in place as they came onto the screen.

Henry Welsh.

Beverly Carter.