I realize too late what's going to happen before it does.
Using my nimble hands, I grip my dagger and cut away the excess wires. By this time, I thought I was pro at my job. I was wrong. I was a fool. Usually I do a scan of the area, but I completely forgot and I didn't realize that one pesky rotten cord was still plugged into the wall like a catastrophe waiting to happen. As soon as I cut the wire, electricity surges out in one quick "zap!" and scorches my hand with one burst of pain that leaves me feeling as though the force of an explosion was just transmitted into my hand.
Hot tears burn at the back of my eyes and I clutch my burnt wrist, careful not to rip the peeling skin. My palms are bleeding and thick blood, now black from soot, leaks out, slowly trickling in a stream as red as roses. This has happened before, but never this bad. I've never been so stupid, so careless.
"Oh no," I hear a clucking voice behind me, "the Millers can't be having trouble with their electrical system again, can they?"
Mykael, his voice thick with sarcasm. Clearly he hasn't noticed me grimacing in pain, holding my charred hand and hunching over like an old hag.
"Dayta?" This time his voice is gentle, concerned, always kind when it matters. He must have realized something was wrong when I didn't reply with a cheeky comeback.
I try to hold back my tears when he crouches beside me and tenderly tucks a strand of dark, ebony hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my cheek. I hate to seem weak in front of him. I hate to be weak. It makes him feel sorry for me and I can't stand being pitied, as though I am still just a child. I stopped being a child a long time ago. I can never force myself to look into his eyes when they are no longer laughing, but dark, like a forest on a shady day.
I hear a sharp intake of breath, as though someone has just stabbed him, and watch him run a hand through his chocolate coloured hair. "Oh, Day..." He takes my hand in his and holds it between his palms, warming them, as though they need to be warmed. The slight pressure helps a little bit, but not much. I can almost pass out from the agony, but my stubbornness keeps me awake.
I'm only a year younger than him but he is still very protective of me and thinks it's his responsibility to take care of me just because my parents died in an electrical bomb explosion six years ago. Just because our parents were friends.
"Come on, mum will make some salve for that. And then we can talk to the mayor about getting you a different job. They might understand; you've been putting up with this danger for far too long. It's no place for a fourteen year old gir–"
"Are you kidding? It's reaping day! They would never listen to us, especially not today. Besides, it's not like they've ever listened before, or have you forgotten?" I don't mean to sound harsh, but Mykael looks away and his grip on me loosens.
"Maybe –– maybe they've changed their minds. You work hard; we could convince them..." His voice trails off and I can tell he knows it's hopeless. Maybe his relentless optimism is finally running out.
I put my good hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry Mykael. I know you were just trying to help. It might not matter, anyway. I could be chosen. My names in there seventeen times. The orphanage doesn't just give supplies for free, you know."
I shrug and try to look nonchalant, but Mykael winces, as though I just punched his grandmother. "Don't talk like that."
"What?" My voice is shaking with frustration. Not at him, but at the world and all its unfairness. "It's the truth. You know it's the truth. I prefer to accept the facts rather than set myself up for disappointment."
Mykael stops and look's into my blue eyes, stern, like a chiding mother. "You're not going in there without me." Then he smiles slightly, some of his usual light returning. "Cheer up. Tonight we can celebrate another year of safety."
And twenty-three other tribute's year to die.
I know he's only trying to make me feel better and I appreciate it, but it doesn't help. If my name is picked from the reaping bowl, I'm going into the arena, with or without him and there's nothing that is going to stop the Capitol from taking me away. The power of two teenagers is nothing in comparison to the wrath of President Snow and his citizens. Where our internal rebellion is a steady flame, his ire is a city blown to ashes.
I hadn't realize how far we'd walked until Mykael knocks on the wooden door of his home. Myra, his mother, answers the door immediately. With one short gasp, she rushes me in and starts shuffling through the cupboards with super human speed, looking for some sort of medicine that might help as though her life depends on it. Her brow is wrinkled in concentration and the roots of her hair are greying from stress and age. Eventually, she releases a sigh of accomplishment and pulls a container out of the drawer. Opening the lid, she applies a milky white substance onto my hand and rubs it gently, as not to irritate the burn further.
The results are immediate. The cream has some sort of numbing ability and all I can feel are cold fingers clutching my wounds, squeezing the pain from existence and leaving me with unimaginable relief. I sigh aloud and lean back in my chair, the scorched ball in my stomach unravelling and leaving me weightless.
"Thank-you," I murmur softly, no words available to express my gratitude. Myra is always so good to me. In other circumstances, I would just believe it is simply in her nature but -- although that is probably at least partly true -- I've always thought that she thinks she owes it to my parents to keep an eye on me.
"Don't mention it." Myra smiles at me while wrapping a bandage around my arm. "Now," she says when she's done, "are you going to tell me what happened or am I going to have to guess?"
I shift my fingers uncomfortably in my new temporary cast and purse my lips, knowing that I can't leave without giving her answers. "I wasn't paying attention. The wire –– it was plugged in but I didn't see it.... Before I could react my hand was, well... this."
Myra clucks her tongue in pity and I fight back the urge to get up and leave right there. "It isn't right. They can't just send a little girl to do their dirty work. I swear, I should file a complaint ––"
I cut her off and grab her hands which are moving around like crazy. "Please, it's all right. It was my fault. I was being careless." I pause and then grab my ratty old jacket that I should have thrown out months ago but couldn't afford another one. "Thanks for everything."
Myra looks like she wants to protest but decides not to, probably guessing that she can never win an argument with me. I can return every obstacle that she throws at me. Sighing, she says, "I suppose I shouldn't keep you. You better head back to the orphanage and get ready for the ceremony. But don't forget to come over here tonight. There'll will be a few other children your age and I'm baking a cake." At this she winks at me.
I nod gratefully and wave as I'm leaving, even though inside I'm trying my hardest not to bite her head off for referring to me and the other girls my age as "children". I'm about to shut the door behind me, but Mykael's blocking my way and I stop, knowing that I can't get past him. "I meant it when I said we'd find you another job, you know." He smiles and winks at me in a perfect imitation of his mother before shutting the door softly behind me and despite myself, the corners of my mouth twitches up at his determination to help me for no reason at all.
What Mykael speaks of is practically impossible. The officials don't care about me, they just want the work done that nobody else wants to do. Being a mechanic is one of the worst jobs in District 3. Instead of programming and sending off broadcasts, I have to fix all the electrical issues around the district and make sure everything's working properly. Despite the low-pay, it's completely exhausting, tough work. Not to mention un-satisfying. Luckily, I don't mind a little challenge now and then. I'm good at what I do, and most of the time wires don't explode on me.
But that's talking about it lightly. Sometimes there are accidents. Big accidents. People grow resentful, careless. They get consumed with ideas of better living and screw up, throwing all of their plans of a better tomorrow out the window. It's the only reason why the job was up for grabs. No one has ever lasted more than five years. Sometimes they find other work, but more often than not, they make mistakes, just like I did. I'm lucky that I'm still alive.
Besides, I need the money. My parents didn't have a will, so when they died I was sent to the orphanage without a single penny in my pocket or any say in what happened to me. I'm too poor to buy my own house and besides, I'm not eligible to do so anyway. Sure, the government supplies me with food and other basic things I need, but I have to buy my own clothes, tools, and any other possessions.
When I reach the door of the small glass building that has become my home, I turn the knob and shuffle in quietly. There's hardly any other kids in the building as deaths of parents are rare. Besides, most of the children aren't as desperate as me. Most come from rich families and when they turn eighteen, they will get well-paying jobs and become influential people. I'm different; I don't have any checks to aid me in my success.
I feel like I just swallowed a lemon but turn away from my bitter thoughts to focus on silence. The adults who run the orphanage don't appreciate noise, so I tiptoe quietly down the hallway to my room, which I share with four of the other girls who stay here. There's only two other rooms for girls and a separate wing for the boys. I've never socialized with the boys before, but I've seen them in the eating hall, talking with their sisters. I tend to dine on my own, but the privacy suits me just fine.
Swinging open a single trunk, I pull out a white dress, turning grey with age and build-up of dust and dirt. I've worn it every reaping day for the past three years and by now it's a bit small for me. It's isn't unbearable though. I'm only 5'2 so it works. In an attempt to pull my straight hair into a bun, the thick strands slip out, so I have to pin them back in a messy and unappealing way, equivalent to that of a savages. Figuring that I don't need to impress the people picking kids to send to their death, I grab my shoes and head on my way, but am stopped suddenly when another girl enters the room.
Mag, one of the new orphans. I believe that she is a year older than me. I don't know her last name, or where she comes from around District 3 because she refuses to tell me for whatever reason. All I know is that the women who run the orphanage call her "miss" and treat her like royalty from the olden days. I also remember that they never say her surname and that one time one slipped up and Mag gave her the dirtiest look I have ever seen. The woman corrected herself before I could hear what it was, though. There's rumours flying around that they were going to get her a separate room all to herself, but she refused.
No matter how hard I think about it, I just can't figure her out. I feel certain that I recognize her, but I can't recall where. Most of my memories from a few years ago are hazy, covered by a layer of mist from my shock. It took me years to get over my parent's death, and even now, I still haven't fully recovered. How can I?
Mag's long blond hair is piled into a neat bun atop her head and she is sporting a deep green dress that is fitted around her waist and looks striking on her, bringing out the vibrant colours of her eyes. Despite myself, I flush when she looks me up and down, even though I know her approval doesn't really matter. I can't read her eyes and I uncomfortably push past her.
It isn't that I don't like her. It's not her fault that she has all the money she could ever want at her disposal whereas I have to work hard just to save up for a pair of shoes that don't have holes in them. Besides, Mag has never been rude to me; I guess we're all in the same boat, but I can't act like it doesn't bother me when I see her lovely expensive blue sheets at night and even though we both despair for our parents, at least she has a soft pillow to cry into at night. Plus, the fact that I barely know her doesn't help. She disappears during the day. To where, I cannot say. Mag is as much of a mystery to me as her last name. Figuring there is nothing I can do about it, I continue on my journey to the place I have been dreading.
District 3 is one of the most developed districts in all of Panem, what with all the technologically advanced buildings and electronics that we ship off to the other districts. Secretly, many of our gadgets aren't actually released until long after we've programmed them to function just right. The mayor works hard to make sure that our district is on top of the others in superiority. Most structures are made out of glass now, but some older houses, like Mykael's, are wood or stucco. I've always imagined what the offices must be like, but the computers and monitors were always brought to me when they needed fixing so I've never seen inside.
I sigh and line up behind some other girls my age to "sign in". After one of the peacekeepers pricks my finger, I find my place in the row of kids to stand. Searching the crowd, I find Mykael, who smiles at me encouragingly. Despite his easy grin, I can tell he's worried. He keeps biting his lip, a nervous habit I have learned to recognize over the years.
I didn't realize how much this had been weighing on me until I see all the other kids. The impact feels like someone just dropped a bag of bricks on my shoulders. I notice some twelve year old kids, new to the whole system, with their lips quivering and their eyes all watery and huge, like they can see Death itself staring them in the eye. The girl beside me keeps chewing on her fingernails, making an annoying and nerve-wracking screeching noise to the point where I want to slap her and tell her to snap out of it. A thirteen year old to my left continuously taps her foot and hums to the rhythm as though she can sing her way through this. Don't kid yourself, none of us are safe, I almost tell her.
All voices in the crowd go silent when the same video that's played every year comes up on the big screen set up in the square. I hear a boring, monotone programmed voice give the same, ridiculously utopian speech I've heard all my life and have to cover my mouth to stifle a groan. There's no way anyone can actually believe this crap, but when I look around I see adults nodding their heads in the crowd with agreement. Most of them are single and don't have kids of their own, but I notice with horror that even some parents seem to fully agree with the Capitol, as though they are glad that their kids might die. The thought makes me nauseous and I have a sudden urge to throw up but resist it.
Finally, after what seems like hours, an elderly woman with faded pink hair steps up onto the stage: Lydia Cheval. Some of the orphanage gossips told me that she was ill and wanted to pull the names for reaping day one last time. Clearing her voice, she gives a short raspy speech that I have to strain my ears to hear and then says a meek, "may the odds be ever in your favour" and a "ladies first" before approaching the bowl with the girls names in it, her wrinkled hands trembling. If I didn't know better, I might think an earthquake had just passed through.
My heart pounds against my chest and the number "17" bounces around in my brain, echoing everywhere until I can't hear anything else. So far, I've just been very lucky. District 3 is not a poor district. The orphans take up over half of that bowl and that's only the ones who can't afford anything, like me. The odds are not in the orphan's favour. They aren't in mine. Because, unlike everyone else, we need the supplies they offer in return for another name in that bowl. How long before my luck runs out?
I imagine myself walking up to the stage, trying to be strong; trying not to break down as I stand in the girl tribute spot but the thought is too terrible so I turn off my mind and tune out all the white noise.
I watch as Lydia's lips stop moving and it takes me a moment for my brain to process what has occurred through my shock and when I do I feel like all the air has been sucked out of the atmosphere. She called someone's name but I completely blanked and missed all of it. For a moment I just look around, searching for the girl walking towards the stage, but she's no where to be seen. Why does she wait? Why not get it over with?
But then I notice the doe-eyed stare of all of the girls around me, each and every pair of their eyes centred on me. A feeling of dread fills through my stomach and I feel like I might pass out. Maybe if I faint right here, I'll hit my head hard enough that I'll never wake up and I won't have to listen to the tortured screams of the dying, or feel the blood rush through my hands of a wound in my chest....
"Dayta Coryd, please make your way to the stage."
My head flicks up to the stage and I notice Lydia moving her head around, her eyes squinted, as though she is looking for something she is too blind to see. Someone, I don't see who, gives my arm a squeeze and I slowly start to move.
As I walk towards the stage, where Lydia is waiting expectantly, I press "mute" in my thoughts. I don't want to listen to the absence of crying in the audience, or the shaky laughs that sometimes emerge from the mouths of relieved parents. Lydia shakes my hand and speaks something into the mike, but I don't know what she said. I'm not listening any more. I don't know what's going on around me. She announces the boy tribute. I can't hear. I can't hear anything but the beating of my heart and "17" still repeating itself in my mind, a mocking reminder that makes my head spin.
I don't realize who the other tribute is until he's standing beside me and my world finally topples over the edge. A familiar face. A smile, replaying over and over again no matter how many times I wish it didn't. The only one that was there for me these past six years when things were rough. He won't meet my eye, as though my pure existence is painful. He's just staring blankly into the distance, no emotion distorting his face. I remember his promise. And he was right: I'm not going into the arena; we both are.
After that, I don't know exactly what happened. I remember being led to a room, separate from the other tribute, and waiting in silence and solemnity, alone with my grief, enduring fate slapping me in the face a million times in a row. I remember a peacekeeper walking in, a woman behind him, telling me that I have a visitor. I snap out of it.
A visitor?
"Aren't you visiting him?" I ask her, the first thing I've said in the past hour, regret and guilt mixed into my voice as though this is all my fault, along with the relief at seeing her.
"I already did." Her eyes are filled with tears that speak of a heart torn in two. Conflicted tears. "Oh, dear."
She steps forward and puts her arms around me. A part inside of me cracks when she hugs me and I let the tears pour out of my eyes like a stream that has not run in many, many years, adding moisture to the dry ground as the water flows freely over the rocks once again.
"Too much grief. Too much sorrow for someone so young. I know that your hearts are in the right places. Both of you. You aren't just one of their bloodthirsty pets, remember that. Just know that whatever happens, I will love you both." At that she turns away, not wanting to show her tears, and leaves in a flash, before I even have time to say good bye.
I think about this whole situation as I listen to the steps of the peacekeepers echo down the hallways of the still train outside my door. Everything in this train is promising death... and whatever trains generally do. That woman has always been the closest thing to a mother to me. I shouldn't be astonished that she came for me, but I am.
Oh, I am.
And I know that an act so kind, with no reason whatsoever, is an act that must be rewarded. Who am I to anyone? What do I matter? I'm just an orphan; a lonely, toiled orphan. My parents, Telly and Ryam Coryd, the people who loved me; they're dead, nothing but a pile of bones buried in a single mound along with eight other bodies that no one ever gives much thought to except for the few who it affected. Who it still affects. I have nothing to lose. I have no one to live for. The other tribute does and I'm going to make sure he survives. My friend. The boy who has always been there for me. Not me, him.
Mykael.