Perspectives

Their Daughter

I find the kitchen to be surprisingly free from my brother's constant chatter as I make my way down from my room. It's Saturday, the only day where I like to sleep in or read in bed until late, and usually, by this time, Aidan would be sitting at table, talking non-stop about a seemingly endless list of topics which he thinks Mom would be interested in. She would be humouring him in response with an odd word here and there whenever he stops to breathe, but would mostly sit next to him in silence, content to hear him ramble on, asking questions which he has a habit of answering by himself.

My little brother's propensity to talk away one's sanity drives me crazy. But this morning, I'm unnerved by the silence, and when find both my parents sitting at table with linked hands and haggard faces I start to actually feel scared.

"What's happening? Why is Dad still at home? Where is Aidan?" I fire in quick succession.

Mom blinks away tears while Dad looks at me with very tired eyes. "Aidan is at school, it's Memory Day remember?" he replies, his voice laced with fatigue and worry.

Oh.

I had definitely forgotten that. Memory Day is the most important annual event that happens in Panem. All twelve year olds are called to school on the day that, up to thirty years ago, used to be reserved for the Reaping. A commemorative ceremony usually takes place, with the names of the lost from each District honoured, and footage from different Games shown so as to ensure that the new generation of Panemians do not forget or ignore the mistakes of their ancestors. I remember my own Memory Day very very clearly. It was the first time that I had seen actual footage of the Games, I had seen my parents being reaped, I had seen them dressed as Tributes, I had seen them -" Oh shit.

"Oh shit," I breathe.

"Language Alba," my parents murmur simultaneously.

"Sorry," I reply as I open the refrigerator and pour myself some freshly squeezed orange juice. The fact that there is any left is actually worrying in itself because the rate at which Mom and Dad chug at orange juice is ridiculous. Something about them not having discovered oranges until they were my age bur resulting in their never being enough to spare for me. Except, apparently when my parents are making themselves ill with worry over how my brother will react to Memory Day.

Aidan knows about the Games, of course. Just as I knew about them since I was old enough to understand what the kids were talking about at school. Mom and Dad had set each of us down when we were about seven to explain to us about their life as kids, the Reapings and the fact that they both were part of something called "The Hunger Games". They also told us about the rebellion, and the war; but no amount of warning or knowledge can really prepare you for the moment where you actually see your mother kill another boy with an arrow, or your father mercifully ending the life of a young girl, after she was left to die in agony by another Tribute. The fear, the tears, the helplessness that I had always felt whenever I heard their story...and the idea that it could have easily been myself, had I been born just a few decades earlier, were further amplified when I had to witness, on a big screen, the two persons that I loved the most having to kill in order to stay alive. That kind of fear, not only of the unknown, but also suddenly of your own flesh and blood, consumes you.

"You did warn him didn't you?" I ask softly as I sit down next to them.

"Of course we did," says Dad, "we've been trying to prepare him for weeks, and we also tried to tell him what to expect before he left this morning, but you know how Aidan is. He kept tripping on his shoelaces and talking about the soccer match he would be playing this afternoon. He didn't even hear a word we said."