𝖙𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘 | THE HUNGER GAMES

twelve

Twelve

Kamari ✵

The whole chariot jerked under me. I felt each hit of the hooves on the pavement underneath. But my hand firmly rested on the railing in front of me and Keith, his hand barely grazing mine. But his warmth comforted me unexplainably. By the time our little chariot reached the end of the city circle, the floor was covered with flowers. Some roses, mostly daisies. It warmed my heart a little that soo many people remembered me saying that I preferred daisies over roses before I was subtly reminded of them sending me to slaughter as Snow stood up for a speech.

For a man of his power, Snow certainly did not look the fairytale super-villain part. He wasn't strong or young. But what he did have was a way with words. Snow was influencial and that was what kept him in power and right now I hated how powerless I felt under his gaze.

But something else caught my eye. I finally realized what Pixie had done and suddenly, Looking at Katniss and myself, Snow's frown made a lot more sense. Everytime I moved even a little bit, the sunlight reflecting on each jewel made me look like I had been bathed in blood. The streaks of red and the gelled down hair finally clicked as the outfit came together in my mind and I silently smiled to myself.

Katniss on the other hand looked like the goddess of fire. The flames going around and rising and falling to the subtle change of emotion on my face. She was unafraid as if the fire bended to her will. It was impossible to think that I had seen her cry and weep over Rue's body last year. Or how she had tucked a red berry flower into my tributes dead body and had asked for my forgiveness later. That innocent naïve girl was gone and a soilder stood in its place.

A warrior.

I was jolted out of my stupor as the chariot jolted forward taking us back into the training. As we approached the gate, hallway there, an idea struck. I held out my fist over my head. One that here meant victory. But I could almost hear the silence that must have spread back home. Because that symbol. The pump of your fist in the air meant so much more in 10. It meant departure to war. It meant hopes of victory. It means survival. But there is a story back home, all children learn in school. About a king, and a rouge soilder who killed the corrupt king. And right before he headed into battle, he held his fist out over his head.

He managed to kill the king but was given a life sentence and was hung in the public square the next day. Since then, the symbol has been one of rebellion in 10. I remember back when I was little, I must have 7 or 8. A group of my father's friends had found me alone in the square and had told me to rush back home because something bad was about to happen. As I had almost reached the edge of the town square, I heard the bombs go off. Against all instinct, I ran back to find the peacekeepers' office destroyed. Burned to the ground. Among everyone trying to get away from the angry peacekeepers and the rebels, another one of the group grabbed me, trying to get me away and as he had carried me over his shoulder. I had seen the man who told me to run. He raised his fist above his head, joined with a shout, and all other rebels resonded back with the guester. There was a flicker of hope on his face before a gun shot rang through the square as he fell.

So, after that, every time anyone rebeled, they died but not before the were honoured with the sybol. The symbol that meant death to king.