Chapter XVI
Impending Death and Gracious Smiles
("A red sun rises. Blood has been spilled this night," Legolas said.)
(Okay so yes! There is a Santa-Day's present, and it is that I will try to publish three chapters today! (today-US-time not today-EU-time)
X
Rose is a good actress.
Rose, seconds after heeving over the bin, is fixing her hair in the mirror and riding her eyes of tears. She picks up the pieces that had fallen out of their place: the anxiety that squeezes her throat; heart; chest and rearranges them so convincingly that minutes later, when she comes out of the bathroom, she has assured even herself that everything is on its place.
"As you know, the reaping is today. This concludes a part of our sessions." Gaul announces just half an hour earlier in a festive atmosphere that seems closer to Christmas than a start of deadly games. No one minds. "I think it's about time I give you the specifics of the next task."
Eleven pair of eyes are fixed on her. The twelfth, belonging to a redhead, are plastered on a table in an unfitting manner, watching her fingers going bum, bum, bum, on the table, lustrating them for a sign of tremors. It is a calming sort of task, its repetitiveness soothing the girl's thoughts. Bum, bum, bum, she repeats.
"I suggest you listen closely, Rose."
The eyes are averted; they pick themselves up, slowly, yet in their lack of haste: frantic. Once they meet the blue and the black, tilting upwards, the dark circles underneath are revealed.
Rose hasn't slept today.
Bum, bum, the fingers hit the table. She tries to listen.
At that, Gaul looks pleased enough.
"The last year's hunger games, most of you have played mentors. We've learned plenty from this little experiment. Most good things, but, not good enough. You see, mentor is a reward for a tribute: a true chance to win, a friend, even, outside the arena," she looks at Coriolanus here, a line of communication he'd rather not establish, "That is not as desirable. Not if we can't counteract it. That will be your job."
And, before Arachne Crane can chime in with a stupid question: what do you mean that everyone knows is coming, the woman continues.
"This year, each one of you will get a district, not a person. Less personal, less prompt to mistakes." She says, and once again, her eyes land on Coriolanus. A fact missed by all but one: Rose, however, is not fit to debate the worth of this information. A rhythm plays in her head. "A favour to you all."
"But the Academy students were supposed to be mentors this year-"
"They still are. Arachne, for your own sake, I suggest you listen before talking. Maybe then you will start to grasp anything. Think of it as a competition between you and the mentors. They want their tribute to leave and you want just the opposite."
Our task is to kill them, Rose repeats. It doesn't sound nearly as wrong as she thinks it should.
That's easier than last year, Coriolanus decides.
"But, if we just wanted to kill them, I wouldn't need all of you, no? We want something else. What do we want, Apollo?"
"Revenge." The boy proposes.
Gaul's brows tense, "Oversimplification. I'm not even going to ask you, Crane, put that hand down. Coriolanus?"
"A show."
Palms are raised in a praise; Coriolanus acknowledges the Doctor's approval with a slight grin.
"A good one!" Gaul highlights, staring once again - only the eleven pairs of eyes - down, "I suggest you try hard, dear students. Every single one has a lot riding on this. I do not suspect this will be the case," now, she stares at Rose, "but, if you will hold back at any time, I will know."
Badum, badum.
Rose doesn't know if it is her heart or her fingers - the beat of which reaches her ears as the only sound.
"Do not disappoint me, darlings. Every one of you has stacked his cards on this competition. I suggest you do not lose."
Badum, badum.
Clemensia leaves in a hurry; Rose doesn't say goodbye. She walks out of the lab two minutes later as one of the last ones.
Badum, badum.
Her feet trip on the corridor, but her hand supports her, on the wall, so she doesn't fall (as she always does).
Badum, badum.
She falls on her knees, and, trying to get her hair out of the way - her perfectly pinned hair - Rose vomits the lasts of her breakfast.
Badum, badum.
It takes all but five minutes to fall apart and pick herself up. But, after they pass, it is like nothing ever happened. Five minutes later, Rose is all good.
~*~
Rose Claude
(she's back!)
We watch the reaping ceremony in the auditorium. The mentors from Academy sit opposite us, so we get to meet out opponents. I lustrate the wall of faces I do not know and try to guess which one will I be faced against. Earlier, Gaul gave us a list of names, each one of us paired to one of the districts we are to supervise. I skipped over it fairly quickly.
Coriolanus Snow got district twelve: a year ago, this must have been a punishment. Now that the rules of the game had switched, everyone regards him with envy.
Arachne Crane got One. Makes sense, Gaul despises the girl - well, not despises. She just has a hard time ignoring her, which every single one of us would like to do, and the exasperation caused by this is transferred into sort of hate toward her.
Clemensia got eleven. Congrats, I smile, and I receive a smile back but she says nothing about my assignment.
Apollo gets Ten - maybe out of pity, I think at first, unable to decide how he'd deserve such an honour, before I remember Gaul doesn't know such a term. It is a favour, then: I wonder for what exactly.
Me, I get Four. This could have been predicted, of course - after all, I have spent the past month telling everyone that is where I come from, that is where I used to live. As much as this bends the truth - I used to live there, yes, but it hardly differs in my memory from other districts (grey room, one window, books and sound of guns at dusk) - as much as this bends the truth, it works symbolically. Everyone thinks I will know whoever gets pick.
Only I know that's impossible. I didn't get to meet anyone during my time there.
As we watch the names getting read out, the people stepping out - being dragged out - of the crowd, as I hear the familiar sound of guns and see the familiar District sky (hope-less blue, no clouds), I think that I should muster some pity for the chosen.
My mother would have wanted me to.
Rose, look, she used to say, berate me after I've done so much as hit one of my plush mascots when I got frustrated, you've hurt it. Now it's sad. Apologise.
I did apologise, and, imagining it had feelings I always felt the paralysing guilt my mother's expression induced. Somehow, I cannot recall that feeling now; not in details, not as one recalls a memory. I can remember the thoughts I had, the words I reasoned with, but the guilt escapes me like it was never there.
The most of feeling I can render right now is relief: that I am not the one standing there, that it is not my name that was read out, and that I got lucky: that my mother was a Ravinstill, and theirs wasn't. That even if my father was District, just like theirs, I got lucky. That they do not belong here: but thankfully, I do.
The cameras finally switch to District Four.
First, they read the boy's name. Unorthodox. I try not to catch it, but it is imprinted on my ears: Koi. He's neither tall, nor short; neither strong nor weak. A normal face, unassuming beauty: he does not limp, but his arms, visible due to ever-present district Four heat (that I remember well) do not look toned, either.
Maybe it won't be too hard, I hope like a fool.
Getting on the stage, the boy (I will not call him Koi, I decide) doesn't fight with the guards: he walks slowly, but surely, aware that he's walking towards his end. He bares neither much obedience nor fight. A man faithful only to fate, I think. Maybe he'll win, I imagine he thinks, maybe not. There is nothing to do but hope.
I'd snort at that, if the situation wasn't so serious.
The girl is second. These tend to be more interesting, I suppose, whatever the reason is. Perhaps it is the fact that they usually die quicker. Maybe that's exactly why the atmosphere is different, coloured with hints closer to ones accompanying a self-sacrifice or a funeral. A final goodbye of some kind. Whoever she is: she will be the one that saved the others. The good one.
She'll die, but she will be remembered, I note, and a peculiar feeling of jealousy clouds my eyes for just a second. I have to pinch myself to get out of it.
My eyes go back to watching the screen, which, for once, gains my curiosity.
"Mags Flanagan" the mayor, I think, reads out.
There is no reaction: no heads turn to see, no tears are shed. The crowd stands still - not deceptively still, but almost unbothered - and one could even believe that out of hundreds of people, the girl whose name was just announced is known to neither of them.
We have to wait five seconds before we see the face. Gracious, I think at first.
The girl is on the shorter side, with a round face and high cheeks. One could call her pretty: the blond locks fall on her back in an endearing way. Not overtly pretty, but maybe even beautiful. Not beautiful enough to cry over her death, that is. Her steps are more sure than the boy's; no- that's not it. Her steps are only faster. She seems more eager to get to the stage, jumping the stairs, landing on her feet, turning toward the crowd of faces that stare at her unemotionally.
Once the camera closes up on her face, I frown.
There's smile painted on there. It is not a happy smile, but neither it is a sad one. It is not a rebellious grin, either.
Just gracious. Accepting. A smile of a girl whose mother said share your sweets with him, Rose.
A good kind of smile; a self-sacrificing kind of smile.
Which makes it all the more confounding: the lack of yells that rung through the other three districts, and the lack of tears in the crowd. No person, as far as I can see, calls for her: no person says goodbye. The cameras cut off at once, moving to another two, but before that, I get one last look at the two faces: two faces of two people whose life has to end. By my hand, one way or another.
It should be harder than this, Rose, I can imagine my mother saying. You make me sad. Apologise.
I'm sorry, mum, I'd murmur out of habit. But the guilt's not there. I cannot recall when I lost it: whether it was over a moment, or over years, maybe in stages. I am sure, as I search myself for a feeling that my mind tells me should be there, that it no longer exists.
Something else does; something much more dangerous than guilt. A twist of compassion gnaws at my stomach along a feeling eerily similar to pity for the girl who stands at the stage, all alone, no one to cry for her impending death.
I wonder, if I were to die right now, would there be anyone standing over my grave?
~*~
Okie dokie this is little about Coriolanus, for a change. Hehe. But Mags! Is! Back! Ey! Me gusta. I am creating an entire subplot for her cuz I'm gonna play with this character very much.
I think the next one is longer though soo we'll see if I manage to write two. But deffo at least one coming today-the-US-time, not today-the-EU-time and I-Don't-Know-about-other-timezones but maybe-today-the-phillipines-time-too.)!
Also, I feel like my writing took a turn in the last two chapters. I read a book (God of Small Things - disturbing by good, definitely recommend (omg do tell me if you want book recommendations I want to spread my influence!!!) and from Handmaid's-Taily it switched into this. It is less descriptive, more symbolic. I am not sure whether I keep it, though, because the other one was better for making a picture, but do let me know (if you see the change). Anywho?
Next one in three of four hours! Cuz! It is! Little! Christmas! Aka! Santa! Day!
Just out of curiosity though (hehe) because I've been wondering (and checking the map the wattpad provides) if you wanna satiate my interests - what countries are you guys from?
🌟⭐️✨
I would be super ultra very greatful if you could leave a star or a comment!
🌟⭐️✨
Happy Santa Day ! And thank you for reading!
Till soon,
Byebye~