The Daughter of the Sea

▬▬ 𝟎𝟕 ∙ 𝝩𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗦𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝝾𝗻

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˚✩ ⋆｡ ✩┊ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐚 ┊✦ ˚ · .

▬▬ 07 ∙ 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗

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Towards the end of lunchtime, a female automated voice calls the District 1 female's name. Twenty-three pairs of eyes follow her as she all but bounds back to the gym. The next to go in is her tribute partner. He gets up eagerly, rubbing his hands in excitement. I watch him enter the Training Center, then the doors to the gymnasium close, and we are made to wait like pigs for slaughter.

One by one, the tributes walked into the Training Center. Every ten minutes, another name was announced; it would be an hour before it was my turn. My palms were sweating, my stomach filled with fluttery butterflies.

    Slowly the time ticked down, 50 minutes, 40 minutes, 30... Slowly the number of remaining tributes lessened, 23, 22, 21... The girls were called first, then the boys, by district. The food was still sitting out on the tables, but no one touched their plates anymore. Instead, everyone was watching and waiting. The silence was so tense that the dullest butter knife could cut through it with ease. I leaned next to Mila, and we whispered inspirational words to each other.

    "You'll do great."

    "You too. Are you going to use the spear?"

"I don't know, maybe. What are you going to do?"

    "You guys are terrible at whispering." This voice was new and we looked up. A fragile tribute sat next to us. "Hi. I'm Jade, District 11."

    I looked curiously at the girl. "How old are you?"

    "Twelve. You?"

    "Twelve? Isn't it frightening being in the Games at such a young age?"

    "Yes, but life at home is terrible too. Being here, even if it's only for a few days, is better than starving at home."

    "Hey, you're just like me!" Mila exclaimed with a fake, joyful tone. "We can both starve to death in the place we call home!"

    "Well, it's not really home to me. I live at the community home. Y'know, the place where they put kids whose parents are dead or can't take care of their kids anymore. Mine are dead. Anyway, the caretakers there are every bit as horrible as the terrifying stories that the kids at school make up. Also, you didn't answer my question. The one about how old you are?"

    "Oh, right. I'm Cordelia, fifteen."

    "And Mila, fourteen. You don't look very scared."

    "That's because I try to convince myself I'm not because of the other tributes. It would be terrible for the other tributes to think you're weak and scared. But in reality, I cry myself to sleep every night."

    "Oh, that's so sad. You must feel so despondent."

    "I am." For a second, her mask cracks and we see who she truly is: a girl too young to be here. "I miss my mom. I miss how she sang me to sleep when I was a baby. I don't miss my dad, he ran away when he heard my mom was pregnant with me,"

    "If it makes you feel better, I'm sure you'll get a great score for your private training session," I say encouragingly, but she only scoffs. The mask is back on.

    "If you count five as a good score, then yes, I will."

    "Sassy," I hear Mila whisper.

    "You're still bad at whispering," Jade says softly. I laughed.