Dan POV
"Don't leave me! Don't you do that again!" Charlotte screams at me as I numbly get up from the chair.
I place a hand on the door, wanting none of this to be real, wanting to take back what I just said.
"Please," she begs, "Please, tell me what's happened."
I look back to her and see the tears in her eyes, the strain she is putting on the padded shackles.
I look away from her and squeeze my eyes shut. "You won't be able to handle it."
"Tell me anyway!" she sobs.
I take a deep breath and relax my whole body.
"After the Games..." I whisper, "...he was...taken by Peacekeepers...went to the whipping post..."
"Is he okay?" she asks in a small voice, the sobs caught in her throat.
I give my head a small shake. "No. He's dead."
Charlotte then breaks into uncontrollable sobs, and she screams at me, loud enough for the whole of Thirteen to hear, "Go away! Never come back!"
I obey with hesitation, no longer wanting to escape the truth, but to embrace it and try to help her. However, with no way of knowing how she'll react if I don't leave, I exit the room.
About an hour later, after I had returned to my room and seen a platoon of people go to find out why Charlotte was screaming, I catch something moving in my peripheral vision. Turning to get a full view, I see that Charlotte is strapped to a wheelchair, being taken to wherever it is that she will be shown the Games. Her stone gaze flicks over to me for a moment, burning me like a fire. She resumes staring straight ahead as she passes my room.
I should've gone out of the room. Told her how much I wish I could've saved the only family she had. Instead I remain numb.
Back home in District 12, I lived on the outskirts of the merchants' district. The shop we had was medium-sized compared to most other shops, and we never had to worry about where our next meal was coming from. Being the oldest, I took tesserae for the extra food, just in case we ended up having a hard winter where not much food was left. Often times, a man would come by the shop to give us game. Hunting is illegal, punishable by death even, but he always gave a fair price. A few times he'd bring his daughter with him; a little four year old girl who'd always be curious when I'd make arrowheads for her father. Last I remember, that family had another on the way.
It's the little things that I like to remember about home, really. Like sitting down with the whole family for an evening meal. Letting Maisie watch me sharpen the knives. The notches in the doorways to show how tall we'd all gotten.
A pang of hurt hits me, because I know that I won't be able to go back home. Some Peacekeepers probably cleared the place out and sold it to an aspiring Seam worker.
The Seam. That's where Charlotte's from. Trademark dark, straight hair. Dark eyes. The only difference she has is the paleness of her father and her love for literature. Most people in 12 are too busy to read that many books. As far as I can remember, Charlotte got caught a few times for sneaking books out of the school to read at home. What a card - a girl getting in trouble for learning.
Seeing how much our lives have changed since then is something that, before now, I dreaded talking about. But with Charlotte being back and finally having the opportunity to breathe slowly, I'm beginning to feel free to discuss it.
Back home I'd spend my free time going around the district. On the weekends I would even sneak to the Meadow to gather fruit. When I had days where I felt brave, I ventured farther, sneaking out into the forest.
On one particular day, when I was fourteen, I think, I had gone into the woods and managed to catch a fair-sized fish from the stream. It was the first animal I had caught, and it coincidentally would be one of the last. Feeling satisfied, I went to climb a tree to await nightfall. The Meadow was right below me, and I even dozed off a little bit while I sat on the branch.
I was awakened by the sound of rustling leaves. Fearing that it might be a Peacekeeper looking for poachers, I backed up to the trunk of the tree, hiding amongst the foliage. I peeked downward, resting my stomach on the branch I sat on.
It was a vaguely familiar figure, and it cloaked itself within the cover of the bushes. I could tell the figure was female, and I saw her sit down behind the bush. She took a few minutes to shove a few fruits into her satchel, and then she just cupped her face in her hands. I could hear the crying begin.
A small, soft voice lit up the woods, and I immediately recognized the tune.
An old mountain song, one that everyone knows should not be sung in public, flowed out of the girl's mouth.
Are you,
Are you,
Coming to the tree,
Where they strung up a man,
They say who murdered three.
Strange things did happen here,
No stranger would it be,
If we met at midnight in the Hanging Tree.
The sounds of her crying entered the song, but she regained her composure.
Are you,
Are you,
Coming to the tree,
Where I told you to run,
So we'd both be free.
Strange things did happen here,
No stranger would it be,
If we met at midnight in the Hanging Tree.
I then realized why she was so upset. She looked to be about twelve or thirteen, and that year's Reaping was a week away. She was scared.
That was the last time I had heard Charlotte sing.
