Cowboy Like Me - (Finnick Odair)

Thank God For Hometowns

Up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down.

That was the movement Jolene's right hand had been incessantly following over the last fifteen minutes. With an old rag on her grip drenched in at least half a bottle of rubbing alcohol, she managed to clean up the surface of almost every table at the bar, except for one. There was one particularly sticky stain on the counter that refused to be erased no matter how much she scrubbed it. Everytime the rag would pass over it to reveal it was still there, staring back at the girl, the more she felt like it was challenging her, mocking her. Maybe she was just reading too much into it because she was tired, and although she knew she needed to wake up early tomorrow, it had come to a point where leaving without removing the stain would be an offence to her honour. Just as she was about to dip the cleaning piece of fabric back into the bootle, a voice coming from behind startled her, making her stop immediately.

- What in God's name are you still doing here, girl? - It was a tone of incredulity, one that she knew was being used to reprimand her, but there was also no anger behind it.

- Well, Mr. Ansel did us the favor of spilling his beer all over you counter so I couldn't leave without fixing it. - Jolene explained, displaying her best innocent smile in hopes of avoiding a scolding.

- Like hell you can't! - Polly's voice raised an octave, her southern accent increasing in intensity as well. - Have you forgotten what day it is tomorrow, girl? Or, as a matter of fact, today? - The woman asked while motioning sharply to the old clock suspended on one of the walls of the establishment, which pointed to the end of midnight.

- How could I forget? - Jolene muttered in dissatisfaction, finally letting go of the rag to rest her tired arms on top of the - almost - clean counter.

- So you know very well why Mr. Ansel spent all the money he doesn't have in a beer he spilled over my counter and why you should be long gone from here at this hour. - Polly approached, her wide hips swaying with each step she took closer to the girl.

Reaping day. The most dreadful day of the year for any district that wasn't a career, which was District 10's case. Two years ago, Mr. Ansel's son got reaped at the age of fifteen to "represent his district at the Hunger Games", or whatever bullshit the Capitol people like to call it with their pretty words. At home, everyone knew that he just had the misfortune of being selected to get mercilessly killed in front of the whole country. That's what happened to the young boy. However, he subverted expectations by outrunning every other tribute in the arena. That boy ran as if his life depended on it, because it did. But he couldn't run forever, and he certainly couldn't run away from the poisonous rain that poured down onto the arena just as he made it to the rank of top 8 tributes left alive. By that time of the games, his parents already had their hopes of holding their boy again restored, and once reporters from the Capitol came all the way to their house to interview the family of "one of the possible victors", Mr. and Mrs. Ansel allowed themselves to hold onto that hope. In a matter of hours, that hope was taken away from them by droplets of water, taking their son and happiness along with it. Safe to say, the two were never the same again.

- Yeah, I know. It's just that... it keeps me busy, you know? Stops me from thinking of too much shit. - Pulling at the loose strand of fabric of the now abandoned rag, Jolene tries to distract herself once more.

- I understand, girl. Believe it or not, I remember what it's like. The stress. Even if it's been years I hadn't felt it, thank God. - She replied as she went on dropping some of the tableware left into the already overfilled sink. - Well, not that kind of stress, anyway. - Polly added with a humorless chuckle.

Of course, it was impossible to not experience at least an ounce of stress living in a district such as 10. If it wasn't stress about the reaping, it was stress about the games, or about your family and friends dying. Or about starving, or your poverty, or contracting a disease you had no way of treating. Or having to work more than 10 hours a day at the farms, or the fear of trying be smart and ending up caught by a particularly angry peacekeeper, or even how the hell are you supposed to take care of your loved ones in the middle of all this.