Azalea Rose Willow loves three things above everything else:
summer, the only season that mattered in her mind.
singing, alongside the comforting embrace of her guitar.
but above all, the easy camaraderie with the boy who lives next door to her, and...
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As Azalea carefully placed the last pin in her hair, a sense of resignation washed over her. Today was reaping day.
Azalea, with her wild, untamed spirit and free-spirited nature, had always rebelled against the oppressive norms of how to look. She shunned makeup and fancy clothes, preferring to wear comfortable, flowing dresses and sandals on her everyday.
But today, she felt a strange compulsion to conform to the expectations of reaping day. She had gathered her hair into a neat bun, something Mags, had always done for her growing up. She had even chosen the one smart dress that still fit her from last year, a handmade creation by Mags that spoke of love and care. And on her feet, she wore socks that went just above her ankle and flat ballerina shoes, a touch of elegance that felt incongruous with the grim reality of the day.
Azalea couldn't understand the logic behind this tradition of dressing up for reaping day. Was it to give the children a sense of false normalcy, a brief respite from the impending doom that loomed over them? Was it so their parents could get a polished version of their kids if they were chosen before their death? To remember that face, instead of the bloody and bruised one they would be seeing on a screen if they didn't make it? Or was it to appease the Capitol, to show them that even in the face of such hardship, the districts still adhered to their standards of refinement and elegance?
Whatever the reason, Azalea felt like a hypocrite. She was dressing up for a ceremony that celebrated the sacrifice of children, for a tradition that forced them to face their mortality before they were even old enough to fully comprehend it. She felt trapped in a cycle of oppression, forced to conform to the Capitol's cruel games while her own dreams and aspirations were put on hold.
She looked at herself in the mirror, and sighed as she murmured to herself before exiting her room. "Happy Birthday Azalea."
Azalea descended the stairs of her modest home, her heart pounding in her chest like a drum. The dress that hugged her curves, very similar to those worn decades ago in her district, which Mags said made her beautiful. She plastered a cheerful smile on her face, determined to mask the fear that threatened to consume her today.
Her father and Mags were already by the kitchen waiting for her arrival.
"Ah she's coming, pass me the lighter!" Tomás whispered to Mags as she passed him the lighter to light the candles. Azalea laughed to herself, as she secretly waited outside a few second for them to be ready before walking in to the kitchen. She smiled as she walked in, seeing her father and mags holding out a new cake with the numbers 16 placed on top of it.
"Happy birthday, Azalea Rose," Tomás greeted her warmly, his voice trembling slightly. Azalea forced a smile, her heart sinking with every passing second. She admired the gesture, but was not used to celebrating her birthday's at all. She wanted to savour this moment, to cling to the normalcy of a birthday celebration amidst the oppressive reality of reaping day. But the fear gnawed at her, a constant reminder of the terrifying fate that could befall her.
