Timber

Chapter Nine: The Reaping

With the first light of dawn piercing through the curtains, Hazel found herself wide awake—an unusual victory in her ongoing battle with insomnia. Today, however, her internal alarm had triumphed over exhaustion.

But this was no ordinary day. No run-of-the-mill routine awaited her.

It was July Fourth.

Reaping Day.

She lay in bed for what felt like too long, yet absolutely not long enough. Sleep had been out of reach, replaced by the relentless thud of her pulse in her ears. Her fingers worried at her cuticles, and every muscle in her body ached to move.

To run, more likely.

The twins' bunk creaked and moaned as their restlessness shifted in their sleep. When she couldn't tolerate it any longer, she broke free from the comfort of her bed, making her way to their shared bathroom.

The mirror exposed a harrowing sight. A girl with a bedraggled crimson mane, wide, jittery green eyes, and finally, a mask of marrow-deep fear. She splashed her face with cold water as she futilely attempted to wash away the sleeplessness and dread that had become a part of her very being.

At breakfast, the atmosphere in the kitchen was oppressive, funeral-like. Fern flitted around the kitchen, setting out plates of simple fare for breakfast. Oren sat at the head of the table, his usually strong features etched with lines of discomfort. The twins, Lily and Linden, ate silently, their usual bickering absent. Rowan kept glancing at Hazel and Silus, his expression an amalgamation of worry and stoic resolve.

It was like every reaping day before it, with one exception. A new, thick gauze bandage wrapped around Silus's hand. The tan wrapping obscured the majority of his palm. He adjusted his utensil grip, holding it in a wholly awkward, unnatural way.

"What happened?" Hazel murmured as she pushed around a spoon full of grits.

Silus glanced at his hand as if he'd forgotten about the injury. "Nothing. Just a scratch from work yesterday." His tone was short and filled with finality.

She didn't remember him getting hurt at work in the clearing.

Maybe it happened at the paper mill? She wanted to press further, but the tightness in her mother's jaw and Silus's avoidant gaze told her this was not the time.

As the family ate in strained silence, Hazel's stomach churned. She hardly touched her food, but when she did, it tasted like cardboard and dread.

An hour later, and a trash full of uneaten grits, they began their journey to the Townsquare.

Stepping out into the bright sunlight of the summer day, the air was crisp but beginning to boil with the heat of the day. The sky above was a brilliant crystal-clear blue, and the trees of District Seven waved to them as they passed. It was too beautiful of a day for such a heinous holiday.

It would've been better spent taking lunch in the woods and cooling off in the crisp waters of the Alpine after work.

Hazel sighed. Anything would be better than the yearly death march. Even her clothes felt foreign, too delicate and ill-fitting. She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, trying to find comfort in the unfamiliar fabric.

As they walked, the distant hum of a solemn tune threaded through the trees, a wordless variation of their ancestors' funeral songs.

Fern moved beside her, draped in a simple yet elegant dress that sharpened the blue of her eyes. Oren strode ahead, crisp in a pressed shirt and trousers, his jaw set tight.

Silus's dark suit, once a perfect fit, was now strained at the seams, making him look older and yet smaller all at once. Rowan kept his eyes glued to his shoes as they walked. He looked so grown up, his shirt neatly tucked and his curls combed back.