2

24 2 3
                                    

Screams. Crying. Just a little girl, being dragged away to her death. I groan in frustration; why can’t I look in the mirror without seeing her? I hate that we’re identical. I take the bow Old Ervin gifted me out of my pocket. It’s a green colour, sea-green. It matches my eyes. I slide it into my hair and look into the mirror again. I look even more like her now. She was the girly twin, always in dresses with pretty bows and bracelets. We were polar opposites with the same face. 

      I take the bow out of my hair and set it on my desk. I’ve never been a fan of girly things like accessories or shoes, I wear Finnick’s old clothes which are usually oversized shirts, shorts and worn down trainers. 

      There’s two knocks at my bedroom door before Finnick barges in. He doesn’t look his best; red eyes, worn out from crying. He’s holding scissors. “Can I help you?” I ask. He breathes heavily and stares at me in silence. I awkwardly drum my fingers on the desk. Then, without warning, he lunges at me. “What are you doing?” I struggle to wrestle him off as he fumbles with my hair, holding the scissors dangerously close to my head. Has he finally gone mad? Has he come to kill me before I do too? 

         He grips my wrists together tightly with one hand in order to keep me from fighting back. “Stay still.” He hisses.
        I fight back, I don’t fancy dying today, no thank you. I stamp on his foot and he lets go, holding his injured foot and cursing under his breath. “Just stay still.” He tries to grab me again. I still don’t get what he’s trying to accomplish. He grabs my chin between his fingers, “Trust me.” He stares into my eyes, I can see genuine emotions. Sadness, fear? I don’t know. 

         I nod and sigh. “OK.” 

         He faces me away from the mirror, perhaps so I can’t see what he’s doing, and begins to cut my hair. Wait. I begin to wrestle him again. “No, stop it.” I push his arms away from me but he’s too strong, lumps of my bronze hair fall to the floor. It’s too late now, he might as well finish the job. I face the mirror and bring my trembling hands up to my lopsided bangs. “What did you do?” I choke out.
          “Don’t cry.” He orders as he cuts my hair into a more even shape. It’s still horrendous, Finnick is no hair dresser. “Everything’s OK now.” He whispers before taking a step back and taking in my new look. He walks out of my room, leaving me alone to mourn over my hair.

          I no longer see her in the mirror. I don’t look like her anymore. In fact, I don’t even look like a her anymore, I look like a boy, and significantly younger. I guess I match my hand-me-down clothing style now. It’ll grow back, it’ll grow back. 

          I miserably walk down the stairs, part of me wishes I would just trip and hit my head hard enough on the bannister. I shouldn’t be thinking like this; it’s just a haircut. At the end of the day, the world’s still spinning. I have worse things to worry about, the reaping. My twelfth birthday is coming up, the day before the reaping. This means my name will be put in the reaping because I’m old enough now. I know it’s only one name out of thousands, but it’s not impossible. Take last year, for example, in District 12, a twelve year old was reaped, luckily her sister volunteered for her so she didn’t have to go in. And luckily her sister was the Victor. But if I was reaped, Finnick couldn’t volunteer to take my place, he’s too old. Plus, in order to volunteer to take someone’s place, you must be in the same category. A male tribute can’t volunteer to take a female tribute's place. 

         I sit on the sofa next to Finnick, who’s frantically fiddling with a small piece of rope.
        “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I had to. You wouldn’t understand, wait until you’re older.” What’s that supposed to mean? Wait until you’re older. I’m mature for my age, he knows that. Surely I’d understand. 

What If? - Jayda OdairWhere stories live. Discover now