A sudden, sharp pain shoots through my chest as if all the air had been forcefully squeezed out of my lungs, leaving me gasping for breath. I never imagined that shock could rob me of something as innate as breathing until this moment. My chest constricts with each inhale and exhale, leaving me feeling light-headed and disoriented.
My name keeps echoing in my head, trying to fully process what's happening. It all feels so surreal until Beatrice jolts me forward with a small shove. I take in a ragged, audible breath, having not breathed for about a minute now, before carrying myself towards the stage. I turn and see the faces of people— some familiar, some strangers— all staring at me with sorry eyes as I drag myself onto the platform. My eyes catch Wren's and Beatrice's, both with pitiful expressions on their faces. It only adds to the overwhelming sense of dread settling in my stomach.
On a day like today, I had hoped for at least one other volunteer to step forward— someone who actually might be able to win the Games. But it seems as though everyone else is just as terrified and resigned as I am. My father's absence only adds to the isolation I feel at this moment; he was back at the shop, likely unaware of what was happening unless he remembered to turn on his radio.
"Come up, come up!" trills Victoria Bloomfield, her voice dripping with cheerfulness as she motions for me to hurry up the stairs. I don't move, instead taking a moment to gather myself, steeling my nerves before climbing the first step.
"We haven't got all day!" she says in that annoyingly optimistic Capitol accent.
I finally reach Victoria's side at the top of the stairs. The crowd in front of me becomes clearer, though my vision is still blurred with unshed tears. I fight to hold them back, refusing to let them fall now in front of everyone.
A heavy silence falls over the crowd, the only sound a distant murmur of whispers and shifting feet. I stand there, my heart racing, seeking solace in the familiarity of their indifference. The crowd of onlookers remains stubborn, unwilling to surrender even a single volunteer. My gaze shifts to the past victors, a mosaic of emotions reflected in their eyes. Finnick, seemingly the only one embracing this twisted lottery of fate, exudes an eerie excitement. Beside him, the two girls stand stoic and unmoving, their faces like masks hiding any hint of emotion.
But amidst this complex tableau of feelings, a silent understanding brews between us— the unspoken alliance of those who have known the cruel embrace of the Games. We are united yet divided by the looming threat of the Capitol's merciless whims.
Victoria's booming voice breaks through the tense atmosphere, her question stabbing at me like a knife. "Tell me, (Y/N). how does it feel to be one of the lucky twenty-four going into the arena?" Lucky? I bitter laugh bubbles up from my chest as I turn to face her, my mouth slightly agape with shock. How could anyone label this event as luck when it will only lead to the demise of 23 lives— including my own— leaving behind shattered families and echoing pain? This cannot be seen as a stroke of fortune in any sane mind.
Victoria's unwavering stare bores into mine, her expectant expression demanding a response that I couldn't muster. My mind races, searching for the right words to break through the barrier of fear and stubbornness that have taken hold of me. But my tongue remains still, betraying any attempts at composure with a single tear that escapes down my cheek. Her impatience flickers across her face, a mix of frustration and understanding as she realizes I'm frozen in place by my own fears.
"Moving on!" she proclaims, trotting over to the bowl that holds the slips for the male tributes. "It's time to pick our tribute for the boys!" Her hand dips into the vessel, the small pieces of paper, each one representing a young life, swirl between her touch until she finally retrieves one, holding it delicately between her fingers.
"Our male tribute for the Seventy-fourth Annual Hunger Games is Wren Oliver!" her announcement rends the air like like a death knell, a proclamation of doom that echoes through the crowd. Not Wren, I silently plead, feeling my heart sink as I look over at him. In an instant, Wren's terror is evident on his face— his features contort into a canvas of dread.
But before Wren can take the reluctant steps forward to accept his fate, another voice shatters the grim silence. "I volunteer as tribute!" A wave of relief washes over me, but it's bittersweet. Why couldn't somebody volunteer for me? The question echoes through my mind, a selfish plea to escape the horrors that await.
"Oh, a volunteer, how fantastic! That's the spirit of the Games!" Our escort's high-pitched voice is jarring against the solemnity of the moment. Relief washes over me, knowing at least one of us is spared.
"Up you come," Victoria beckons, her hand outstretched towards the boy who stepped forward for Wren. He joins us on stage, his strides confident and his demeanor unsettlingly proud. He waves at the crowd with an air of triumph, as if this were a celebration rather than a somber event A few scattered cheers break the eerie silence that still dominates the scene.
"Tell us, young man, what's your name?" Victoria prompts, feigning interest.
"Well, my name is Fletcher Wellworth," he speaks into the microphone. "Let me tell you, I'm so ready to be here."
Wellworth— where have I heard that name before? The pieces click into place as a memory resurfaces. Years ago, our district bore witness to an act of selflessness; a young volunteer, known simply as Eddy, stepped forward, offering himself in the place of Fletcher Wellworth.
Eddy's sacrifice rippled through our District like a stone cast into still waters, leaving behind a quiet yet powerful wave of emotion. His determination to protect and preserve the life of a younger tribute tugged at the heartstrings of all those who watched.
As the Games went on, Eddy fought with an unbreakable spirit, defying every expectation and obstacle set before him by the Capitol. Every move he made was fueled by an unshakable commitment to return home to his family. He became a symbol of hope against the Capitol's cruel Games.
In the final moments of the competition, a glimmer of hope sparked within us all as Eddy stood among the last three surviving tributes. But fate is cruel and a tribute from District 12 delivered a heart-wrenching blow, bringing an end to Eddy's struggle.
The shock and sorrow that consumed our district was immeasurable. Eddy's sacrifice, his fight for another chance at life, etched itself deeply into our collective memory. And now, as Fletcher follows in his footsteps, we are left to mourn once more for one who gave everything for another's sake— Eddy Wellworth will forever be remembered as his younger brother prepares to make the same sacrifice he did those years ago.
"Mister Wellworth, are you related to our previous volunteer tribute? Edgar, was it?" Victoria inquires, her voice drenched with theatricality. "I believe he volunteered for you a few years back."
The boy's jaw tightened at the mispronunciation of his brother's name. "His name was Eddy, actually," he corrects, a hint of sadness creeping into his tone. "And yes, he was my brother."
Victoria claps her hands together in excitement. "Oh, how fascinating!" she exclaims. "And what motivates you to volunteer today?"
The boy meets her gaze head-on as he speaks. "Well, Victoria, I intend to win. And I'll tell you right now: a tribute from District 12 will fall by my hands. For what they did to Eddy."
"Well, there we are folks! Our tributes for the Seventy-fourth Annual Hunger Games!" she announces. "Go on, dears. Shake hands." She urges us closer together.
As we turn to face each other, it becomes apparent just how different we are. Physically, he dwarfs me, towering at least six feet tall with a robust, muscular frame. His piercing blue eyes hold an unyielding intensity, framed by tousled brown hair that falls lightly over his forehead. Every inch of him exudes readiness and purpose like he has been training his whole life for this very moment. In comparison, I feel small and uncertain, lacking the same physical presence. My abilities pale in comparison to his; my only experience with a weapon is spearing fish with a trident. Fletcher stands a chance in this arena. I do not.
But as our eyes meet, I see a hint of understanding in his gaze. We both know the gravity of the situation we're about to face. I extend my hand and he reciprocates, our palms meeting in a firm handshake that reveals the difference in our strengths. His grip is solid, while mine is shaky. "Happy Hunger Games," he utters quietly before turning back to face the crowd.
The lively anthem of Panem fills the air, signaling the start of our journey into the unknown. We're escorted into the building behind the stage separately by peacekeepers. Once inside, I'm directed to a room and left alone. The room is very luxurious, with velvety couches and silk drapes adorning its walls. I'll spend the next hour in this room, one of the most difficult hours of my life, as it's the hour we have to say goodbye.
Beatrice is the first to enter the room, her delicate fingers resting lightly on my shoulder. His touch is both comforting and burdened with unspoken worry. "You'll be okay, (Y/N), you know that, right?" Her voice carries a glimmer of hope but I can sense the underlying fear and sadness in her tone. She's preparing herself for the inevitable, for a world without me, masking it with a fragile layer of denial. I rise from the plush seat and wrap my arms around her. We stand there in silence for a moment, just clinging to each other's presence.
"Please take care of my father, Bea," I manage to say through my faltering voice. "He needs someone to go into town for him. At least once a week. He's getting too old to do it himself." Beatrice nods, tears beginning to well up in her eyes. I pull her in for another embrace, silently reassuring her that she will have Wren to lean on now, but it'll still be a daunting adjustment.
"Wren will look after you, don't worry," I say, trying to inject confidence into my words.
"I'll be alright. It's you who needs to looking after. You can win this thing if you really try," she tells me.
But deep down, I know the truth— I'm ill-equipped for this battle. I haven't trained or prepared like I should have. The illusion of safety has deceived me, leading me to believe my name would never be drawn. But now, facing the reality of the Games, I feel completely unprepared and outmatched. If any other tribute possesses even a fraction of Fletcher's stature, I stand no chance.
"Maybe I can," I reply softly, my words hanging delicately in the air. I know that if I say anything more, we will both break down in tears and I can't afford to do that right now. Cameras are constantly watching, and I can't afford to show any signs of weakness early on. Not when the other tributes may already be sizing me up, searching for flaws.
The peacekeeper appears at the door, signaling that my time with Bea is up. "Goodbye, Bea!" I call out as she's ushered out of the room.
I sink back onto the plush couch, my body weighed down by the overwhelming sense of dread. I can't believe I'm really here. The door creaks open and I look up to see my father enter the room. "Dad!" My surprise spills out, unsure if he knew about my name being drawn for the reaping.
"Wren came and got me. That kid can run," he chuckles, enfolding me in a comforting embrace.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, guilt tightening my chest. "I never wanted things to end up like this. I never wanted to leave you alone."
"It's alright, Gup, you'll be okay," he says.
He steps back and reaches into his front left pocket, pulling out a small silver necklace. "Each tribute is allowed to bring one item from their district into the arena. I want you to have this. It was your mother's."
I smile gratefully. "Thank you."
"Your time is up!" the peacekeeper shouts.
He pulls me into one final embrace, his words a tender whisper against my ear. "You truly look beautiful today." His parting sentiment lingers, offering a fleeting sense of comfort as I sit there waiting for the next and final person to walk into the door.
The door creaks open once more, revealing Wren's familiar figure. He enters the room with a forced chuckle, attempting to ease the tense atmosphere. "That was a close one, huh?" It's his way of coping— a thin veil of humor over a well of despair.
Wren stretches out his arms and I immediately move into them, seeking comfort in my friend's embrace. It may be the last time I feel this sense of security. "You'll make it out of there," he reassures me, desperation laced in his voice. "I've seen you with a trident. You're pretty good."
"But this is different," I reply, "I've speared fish, not people."
"Just try to think of the people like sharks," he offers. "Fishing for sharks isn't too different than snagging a smaller fish."
The peacekeepers appear, ready to separate us once again. Wren gently cradles my face in his calloused hands, our foreheads pressed together in a desperate bid for one last connection before we're torn apart. "Just come back," his voice pleads, a profound sense of need emanating from each word. It's a silent acknowledgment of the uncertainty looming over our futures, an unspoken promise to never forget each other no matter what lies ahead.