chance (n.)
possibility of something happening.
CHECKMATE #2
"am i supposed to be happy that i lived and won? because technically i could never be."
The victor's crown sits upon Gwyneth Anderson's head.
She can't process the horrors she went throug...
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— CADENCE DI ANGELO —
= the day before =
I SIT at the desk inside my room, scrawling on pieces of paper. The letters to family, friends, everyone whom I will miss if I die in the arena. They sit in a corner, neatly stacked into a pile. I'll try my best to not let that happen. But most of my friends are here with me, and I really don't know what's going to happen the day I enter the place I've been dreading ever since my name was drawn from that life-changing bowl.
Everything seems so distant now.
Perhaps, I won't even live to be thirteen? Perhaps, it will be the end of my twelve years on Earth? Or maybe, I will be the one to end someone's innocent life?
A piece of blank paper sits in front of me. 'Dear Cynthia,' I write, but under that, are not the words I want to say to my older sister, who loves me so much. She was the one who took care of me when my parents weren't able to - the one who cooked food for me and brought me to school every day.
'If I don't come back, be happy without me." are the only words I manage to write before the pen in my hand spirals out of my control.
I don't know who or what is controlling me, but all I know is that the words aren't mine. And I don't know what I'm writing.
Minutes or even hours later, I look down at the piece of paper.
Words litter across the page.
Byrok. Stupid. Games. Tribute. Blood. Kill. Life. End.
I don't know what I wrote, or even why I wrote it. But except for those words, some more fill my mind and echo against the blank walls. And I write them down under the other strings of words.
Live. Die.
These words are so short.. yet so important, so crucial for Byrok and their Games. People will be dying every day in the arena, and me.. would I happy because I didn't meet the same fate they did? Would I be happy that they died, because I had lived?
Hatred.
They'd hate me for all I had done. And what I know for sure is, in the Hunger Games, hate overpowers love, and love overpowers hate, in the sense that people could sacrifice or do anything for their friends or lovers. In this rendition, maybe even allies; but wouldn't hesitate to kill them either. But that makes me wonder. Would I be forced to make a choice in the arena? And would I be able to?
Suddenly, another word battles them away.
Friendship.
Took so long to build.. yet would Byrok strip the only thing left of our childhood from us, just for it to be gone in the arena, with the wind? Would they dare to destroy ten years of memories? Or, could they?
Once again, I look back at the words I've written and smile.
"Cynthia, I won't let anything happen to me or my friends."
= present day =
Tomorrow I will enter the arena. Will I be killed? Will I be brought out of my misery, or will I be destined to suffer?
Would I be the one to watch, doing nothing, as my friends die before my eyes?
I think of the first Hunger Games. I had just turned twelve the day after the reaping, and I was lucky enough to escape it. But my friend Hannah wasn't. I watched her beg for Nathan to kill her, and yet I knew deep in my heart that even if she hadn't asked for him to, she wouldn't have come back alive. Even then, I mourned for her and cried for hours, seeing his weapon cut deep into her chest, blood pooling around her dead body.
And yet the next morning, I woke up and watched Charlotte Levine plunge her knife deep into Eunice's stomach. I watched wide-eyed as Gwyneth Anderson dropped to the ground crying, and let out a silent scream as Nathan jumped in front of Charlotte, unfailingly protecting his lover till the end of his life.
I hated myself for being secretly happy that my friend's murderer had met his end, even if Hannah had asked for it.
And yet now I will be the one to do it. Cynthia needs me, my family needs me. But in reality, I'm the one who needs Cynthia and my family. And I don't know if I could kill, but to go back to them, I would do anything.
My stylist bangs on my door just as I wipe my tears off of my face hurriedly.
Holding the tissue to my eyes, I run to the door and let Ophelia in, and she immediately drops the dress in her arms to the floor, choosing to envelop me in her arms instead.
She strokes my back, and I can't help but think of how much she reminds me of Cynthia. How much Ophelia reminds me of home. And the tears start to flow once more.
"I-it's not fair," I manage to say between deep breaths. "Why did they want this?"
"No one wants this." assures Ophelia. "I feel you."
"But why? You're from Byrok. The interviewer is from Byrok. The people there are just happily watching this," I sob.
"See, Cadence, that's where you're wrong," corrects Ophelia. "Byrok isn't like that. When I first started designing for the Games two months ago, I only wanted to use this chance to train up my styling skills - and yet I got attached to the tribute I styled for."
"When she died, I felt a piece of my heart torn away as I watched her body being lifted up into the air by the hovercraft. And she never saw light again," she mutters. "That's why I stayed distant since you came here. I didn't want to get too attached - I knew that there was at least a slight chance that you wouldn't come back alive."
Ophelia takes a deep breath and pulls away from the hug, holding me at arms' length. "Please try, Cadence," she exhales, "Show them that you are strong enough to handle this."
I look at Ophelia. The tears in her eyes shimmer, and I can't help but think it's hope, calling to me, and I nod.
Ophelia picks the fallen dress up from the ground, handing it to me. I marvel at the sight of the plain yet beautiful dress that she has created for me - I hold the beautiful strapless beige gown with thin white layers that resemble flower petals in my hands and hug it to my chest - and almost start crying all over again.
I spin around in delight after the dress is settled on my shoulders, and small specks of glitter fly to the ground.
I gasp when I realise what the gown reminds me of.
Angel wings.
"You've found out?" Ophelia asks, smiling. "Di Angelo means 'from the angel' - that's what I noticed first when they made me your stylist. It's what your gown is inspired by."
"My gods, you're amazing!" I squeal, grinning wider than ever. "Thank you so, so, so much, Ophelia!"
"It's my job." she replies. "But now, it's more than that. It's the hope that you'll return alive. Stay safe, Cadence. Get out there and show them that you're the angel that you are."
