Guys, I'm doing so well! Second chapter in two days! Please, vote and comment: they're what gives me feedback from readers!
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There came a commotion from 32 Pickard Lane, a rambunctious clattering emanating from the inside of the house. Though the outside of the house was kept normal (Mrs. Grove had done her best to retain the image of a perfectly normal family), the inside was aflutter with shouts and crashing as the two Grove children attempted getting ready for the reaping. Most of their efforts, however, were directed at yelling curses and profanities at each other.
It had started off as a normal day, as most of theirs did. Ilara Grove had dragged herself out of bed, dragged herself downstairs, dragged herself to the kitchen where her younger brother Cedar was eating his breakfast. Ilara knew before she could open her mouth that the morning would not go well, the glint in her brother's eyes telling her all she needed to know. Still, she picked up her book from the side table, made her way to the table, and sat down with a satisfying thunk as she pulled her chair in. Her parents had come in then, and she had a passing thought that perhaps Cedar wouldn't be the annoying brat he always was and would actually shut his mouth.
Alas, it was to no avail, as he looked up from his plate to their father and said, "Dad, do you think they'll let Ilara into the reaping this year? I mean, I would think they would only let in kids who can actually do things in the District, rather than the weak ones who can't even climb a tree." He grinned then, turning his head so he could watch Ilara boil in anger.
Before their father could diffuse the argument, Ilara had reached over the table and was hitting Cedar with her book, pounding on him as she began to yell at him, cursing and swearing as she told him that even if she couldn't climb trees, she could flatten him into a pancake, and how even if she couldn't be a lumberjack, she could very well become the mayor of Eight and then get the Peacekeepers to destroy Cedar by cutting off his every limb one by one.
Their mother, somewhere in the background of the argument, was heard distantly yelling at the two, and she eventually walked away in exasperation, leaving their father to break them apart. Of course, Ilara had not only gotten in trouble afterwards, but her book was also ruined, ripped and torn from Cedar's retaliation. She huffed, fury still filling her veins, and stomped up to her room before the hot pools of angry tears could spill out and her brother would gain the satisfaction of achieving what many had done before.
It wasn't her fault she was terrified of heights in the District where heights were basically a requirement. And it certainly wasn't her fault that she was forced to do the job that little kids did. She could do so much more than that, and she knew it. If they would let her in as an accountant or a scientist in the forestry labs she could show them all how much she could do. Their taunts shouldn't hurt her, after all these years of it, but she still found herself slumped against her door, head in hands, as she wondered why she had to be good at everything but climbing.
If anyone asked her teachers, they would know that she was more than just a Grounder, more than just a little kid who had to pick up the leaves off the ground. She could think, she could read, she could argue and fight just as well as the others, but her hindering inability to climb a tree without shaking was what set her apart from everyone else.
She only straightened herself up when her mother called her down to walk to the reaping. Her mother was a stern woman, tall yet mild-mannered except when it came to the headaches produced by her children. She worked in carpentry, carving figurines and intricate patterns from wood for the Capitol. Her husband was bulky. Strong and large like many men in the District, he was a kind soul who worked as a lumberjack. He cared for his family deeply, though as he walked out behind his children, he wondered with gruff annoyance if they would ever truly grow up.
The walk was long yet serene. As the wind bristled the forest around them, Ilara kicked up the leaves at her feet, sending them in swirls as they reminded her bitterly of the job she had to do. If her parents would let her, she could've been apprenticing somewhere she was good at, but they still insisted on waiting until she was an actual adult. She could hear Cedar snickering behind her, and she made a mental note that when she got home she would spit in his food. If her family wanted to treat her like a child, she would act like one, she thought as she walked with a mischievous glint in her eye.
Though the travel was in silence save for her parents meeting up with their neighbours a kilometer down the road, it gave Ilara time to think and fume over the previous events. She needed new responses, new pranks to pull when people made fun of her like that. She would have to read up on it when she got home, but she just wished there was a way to get through to the others that not climbing trees wasn't such a bad thing. After all, it was much safer on the ground than high above!
Once she became a high-ranking official like the Mayor, then she'd shut them up. They wouldn't ridicule her for not being in the trees: they'd take orders from her. They would have to be kind to her, have to play along like she's had to for all these years. She could be in control, in power as she watched the others do the work they taunted her with. That would be the day, she thought, when everything was better.
Still, today was not that day, and so she was stuck kicking up the stupid leaves as they made their way from dirt road to gravel, from gravel to concrete, and finally from concrete to the packed Square. There were no longer trees towering over buildings, though sparse ones dotted the streets in testament to the Capitol that Seven was always working. And, like clockwork, everyone had their place, and Ilara took her place in line firmly and confidently, brushing off the looks and comments from the people around her. She would gain power one day, and then look who would be talking.
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It was perhaps coincidence that Forrest Martin, victor of the 68th Hunger Games, lived across the dirt street from Ilara Grove. 35 Pickard Lane was as normal a house one could get in Seven, and the family to match. Forrest never liked to talk about his Games, his modest life fitting in nicely with the rest of the District. After his Games, he'd learned a lot about life, and how much he needed to treasure it. He didn't need to subject himself to remembering his time there by taking a previously empty home from the Victor's Village. Instead, he'd returned home, heartbreak on his mind, and set about to make himself a better man.
This had, in theory turned out well. Though the memories still haunted him—they never truly went away—and Atlana, his District partner, would slip into his mind occasionally, he learned to block them out. He had come home, he had won, and so he had returned and done what he would've done had he not entered the games at all: logging. He realized that he had taken for granted the people he had left behind, and the people in the Games. He had been foolish, he had been childish, and he came home and threw himself into any task he could.
It had been 32 years since his win, and though he was verging on fifty, he was still working. It was on occasion when his wife (whom he had married at the age of thirty) asked him if he was ever going to retire when he stopped to look back at all he'd done. And he would always realize that he could not stop working. It was in his blood to keep moving forward, to keep supporting those around him with a meaty hand. Still, his children were what made him never lose touch with what he had and what he had lost.
Reyce and Aspen, nine and fourteen respectively, had been the blessings of Forrest's life. When he had spent thirty-some years believing not only that Atlana should have won, but that he would never be a father, he had been overjoyed when his children came along. Blessings, both were fiery, headstrong, kids, that Forrest loved more than anything. Though they would run around causing havoc, he could never stay angry for long. He still remembered when they were babies, giggling at the tattoos that lined his arms after years of wanting to ignore the scars and pain; when they would poke at his stomach that held not only love but strength too.
It was for that reason that the announcement of the Games had sent searing fear down into his veins, throwing him back to memories of his past Games. Gone were his big-bellied laughs and blue-eyed twinkling smiles He had shuttered himself back to his old days, and his children were very worried about him.
Now, however, the day had come, and though Forrest knew there were three other victors, he still felt his heart rise to his throat as he thought of the prospect of leaving all he had worked for behind. So much he had put forth in making himself this life, and now there was a possibility of it all crashing down on top of him.
Still, as the clock in the kitchen of his wooden house neared the noon mark, he was well-dressed and so was Aspen. The family had sat down for a last lunch before leaving, and all of them were immensely uncomfortable with the situation His wife, Winter, was looking sadly onto her plate. Her auburn hair swept down in front of her eyes as the only sound at the table was of the clattering of forks.
Neither Reyce or Aspen spoke, both worrying not of themselves, but of their father. Their father had a much greater chance than Aspen would ever have of going into the Games, and the inevitability of the odds were not lost on them. When their meal was over, however, they went about as normal, scraping their bits of food off for the large dog they owned, and as a family they marched down the road to the reaping.
They were as different from the Grove's as a family could be, yet both families ended up sharing a single thing in common.
As the reaping process began, and Forrest ambled onto the stage in a plaid shirt, he took his place beside the three others victors, all looking decently healthy and well-kept. Their escort, Florentia Springweather, began the reaping process like she had so many years before. She drew the first name, the tribute for the game's, and Forrest looked across the pens as a girl from the sixteen-year old section walked up to the stage, silent tears streaming from her eyes. He couldn't tell if they were angry tears or sad ones, but for Ilara Grove, the only thought that was on her mind was that she had to win and prove that even if she hadn't become mayor, she could still be strong.
Next, it was the victors. Florentia gave a look over to the four of them. None were particularly young, which meant she had grown to know every one of them. Forrest thought she had been around since he had won his Games, and as thus he had not only memorized her speech and her walking sounds, but had made good acquaintances with her. This made it all the worse when as she read out the name, it was his. He put on a stone face, looking out to the crowd to find his wife staring at him with her hand over her mouth, and he needn't even be close to her to know of the sobs and tears wracking her body.
And as he looked over to Florentia, he realized one thing: nothing mattered except getting home. Unfortunately, Ilara was thinking the same thing.