Callie Hadley: Catching Fire

Back Home

    I spend the first few days back home not speaking to anyone and locked in my room.

     Cato comes around my room multiple times a day telling me Darrin has come around but I don't care. District One wasn't as bad as a District for us, but stepping foot there, I could tell I was not welcome. The way I treated Glimmer in the arena shows that. But I don't regret it. Letting regret get through me is the same feeling as loss. And I can't have another loss leave a hole in my heart.

     When I finally get out of my room and go downstairs after 48 hours, my brother and father stand and stare for a solid five minutes.

     "Are you going to say anything to me?" I ask as I glance back and forth from my brother and dad.

     "Darrin's outside," my dad says before turning away from me.

     Cato looks at me with sorrow filled in his eyes. Before I can even move to the door, he pulls me into an embrace. This is the first time my brother has hugged me for no reason. In Two, not many people show affection without great reason.

     "Let's take a walk. The people haven't seen you in a while. We can talk to Darrin before then. But then you have to send him on his way. We have things to talk about."

     I step outside for the first time in two days, and am met with a bone crushing hug. "I'm guessing you missed me," I chuckled.

     "More than you know," his voice is soft and hollow. "Everyone missed you, in fact," He pulls away and points to the huge crowd of Victors and Victor families gathered outside of my house.

     As soon as they see Cato and I, they start clapping. The clapping grows louder and louder until it gets so loud my dad comes out to try to see what the ruckus is. When he sees the other Victors clapping for us, I spot tears forming in his eyes.

     "We wish you luck for the whatever the Quarter Quell brings. Make our kids winners you two!" Someone in the crowd shouts. This is the greatest sincerity you will get in Two. Whatever it may be, the mention of the Hunger Games will always be included. Nevertheless, we need this kind of affection especially with the Quarter Quell drawing tonight.

We take a walk around town, and no joke, every single person we pass acknowledges us. This sort of gesture I would usually find annoying, however it doesn't rub me that way this time. Because for once, people are acknowledging not only my brother, but me, and in a positive light.

     "As you know, the Quarter Quell drawing is tonight. I know this must be really tough on you. Mentoring at Thirteen. It's a tough job, but we've been through worse. And besides, we're doing this together, aren't we?"

     I shake my head at my brother with a smile, and reply, "you're so corny."

     Cato stops walking and smacks me in the head, hard, as an attempt to knock some sense into me. "Man, this is serious. Our lives, and the kids coming into the Quells' lives are at stake, and you think this is funny? You have issues," he sighs and continues walking.

     "Oh, you want to play that game? You fucking sadist, you killed my best friend!" I cry, tears threatening to spill. Cato stops again, and I can see he is truly hurt by this comment. I want to take back my words, knowing how deeply it effected him.

     "And I carry that with me every day, you dumbass," he stands with his arms crossed, "but I did what I had to in that arena and I regret nothing as long as both of us are alive. Now come here and give me a hug, kid, because it's time for go back home." He puts his arm around my shoulder and as we're walking back I whisper to him, "You're still corny."

     He smacks me again, but not as hard as he had done previously.

     As we walk through the door of our home, our father sits on the couch eagerly, beer in hand, and motioning us to come sit. "Hurry up, it's starting, it's starting!" He squealed. A hint of excitement filled his voice, which caused Cato and I to give each other a questioning look. I interpret it as a sign of betrayal.

     We do hurry up to the couch, and stand up, respecting the national anthem. That is until my heart drops to my stomach an throat tights in repulsion as the infamous President Coriolanus Snow takes the stage. In front of him, is a young boy in a white suit with a wooden box in his hand. The anthem finishes, and the President begins to speak about the Dark Days, henceforth known as the beginning of the Hunger Games. He stated that in the making of the rules of the Hunger Games, every twenty five years, the anniversary would be marked as a Quarter Quell. A glorified version of the Games to refresh the memory of the ones that were killed in the districts rebellion. Then he begins to speak of the previous Quarter Quells. "On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it."

     "It was a girl from Two who won those Games, y'know," my father leans over and tells me in a raspy, low voice. Even after moving away from me, the scent of alcohol lingers in the air, indicating to me the reason my father has been acting eccentric.

     "On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send in twice as many tributes." That was the year Haymitch Abernathy won. How could a skinny District Twelve kid face 47 tributes and be the one to make it out alive?

     "And now we honor our third Quarter Quell," the President states. The young boy in the white suit steps forward, holding the box out as he opens the lid. Inside, are rows of yellow envelopes. The division for the Quarter Quell was not made with haste, as I see centuries worth of envelopes dedicated to the occasion. Snow removes an envelope marked with 75. He reads, "On the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Quarter Quell, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors." I look to my left and see my brothers face drop. I look to my right and hear my father scream as he throws his beer bottle at the television, smashing the screen into millions of pieces.

     "Wh-what does he mean, Cato?" I ask, hands shaking at the reaction coming from the family. Cato turns to me, tears in his eyes.

     "It means-it means we're going to the Training Center again. As tributes, and not as mentors."

     The words hit me like a brick and sink into my skin.

     Half my family tree is the existing pool of victors.

     Being a victorious family is no longer a flex. It's a deadly sin.