The Hanging Tree

The Hanging Tree

Bit of a departure from tradition, I know, but to celebrate the release of the Hunger Games I thought I should have a go. I even set my spell checker to American English to honor Suzanne Collins. No, the character isn’t anyone specific.

I don’t own the Hunger Games. No really. Would you see Suzanne Collins writing fanfiction for her own series?

I reach out and feel the old gnarled wood beneath my finger tips. It is rough and unyielding, yet soothes and comforts me. Soon, nothing else will matter anymore. They took my sister. Snatched her right in front of me. The Capitol decreed I must watch, knowing I could have been the chosen one. And there was nothing I could do. They say you can volunteer, and I wish I had. But, when they say you cannot move, you really can’t. A hand slips into mine; reassurance. What is left for me? A nod of the head; this is right. Why should I play along with the Capitol? These games are nothing more than a message from the Capitol that we should play along. But I won’t. Mockingjays whisper, calling out to me. Even I know the lyrics.

“Are you, are you,

Coming to the tree,

Where they strung up a man they say murdered three,

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be,

If we met up at midnight in the Hanging Tree.”

Years ago, this used to be the place they hung convicts. We learn about that in school. They tell us how uncivilized we were then. Now everything is performed nice, cleanly and humanely in front of the barrel of a gun. Not long that many years ago, a man was found strung up here. They think the peacekeepers shot him, and then hung his battered body up as a warning to those who stray past the boundaries. We must not stray past the boundaries. It is forbidden. The Capitol decrees it. I saw it. The mockingjays gathered and sung.

“Are you, are you,

Coming to the tree,

Where a dead man called for his love to flee,

Strange things did happen here,

No stranger would it be,

If we met up at midnight in the Hanging Tree.”

His wife was held back by the fences. She screamed and kicked. Someone must have told her. It happened at the small entrance we used to exit the perimeters of District 12. She must have slipped through somehow, though, because two nights later, I found her sitting on a stump next to the tree, watching her dead husband’s body swing from the branches. Murmuring reverberated around the forest: “It’s all my fault…it’s all my fault.” Then the mockingjays surrounded her and sang. I returned the next day to find her gone. Her house was empty, and neither a hide nor a hair was seen of her, or her children, again.

“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 up at midnight in the Hanging Tree.”

Grasping on to the only source of support, I almost cut off the circulation from my partner’s hand. He had nothing either. His sister had been reaped a full 12 months ago. 12 is too young to die. She had her whole life ahead of her, just like my own sister, who had lasted to 13. Unlucky thirteen. The continent they called North America thought the number 13 unlucky, and it was. But why are they right? We had been told they were wrong. They caused wars. We do not have wars in Panem. The Dark Days were so long ago. No-one would consider a war. Because war would mean we would pay more than we already do. We are like pieces in a game, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. We must do what the Capitol decrees. He only lasted this last year because he didn’t have the guilt of not being quick enough to volunteer. I lasted a day. I knew he wanted a way out; he had indicated so on many an occasion. His mother had lost her will to live since her daughter had been taken. She had watched the whole sordid affair on the battered television set. Her daughter arrived home in a wooden box, decapitated, with large chunks torn from the fragile body. The box the Capitol decreed. With no father, and a mother who couldn’t even look after herself, the body next to me is pale, fragile, and so thin he is literally no more than the skin and bones he would gladly sell at the Hob. Death is a welcoming embrace.

“Are you, are you,

Coming to the tree,

Wear a necklace of rope side by side with me,

Strange things did happen here,

No stranger would it be,

If we met up at midnight in the Hanging Tree.”

The moon shines through the gaps in the over canopy. Last night I watched that moon. Was that only yesterday? It felt like a lifetime. Mother and Father will not mind, if they ever find out the truth. With two of us gone, it is two less to feed, two less to worry about. A face stares at me. I can tell he is thinking the same. That there is nothing to try and soldier on for. Foot holds in the tree provide a natural boost for us to climb onto the long branch they strung up our fellow district man from. Sitting side by side we divided the rope between us. Shaking fingers assembled my necklace of rope. A strong grip removed the noose and finished it deftly. A lot of practice, enough to fill the past year. I slid the opening over my head. I want this. The other end is tied to the branch. It is pleasant outside the boundaries. My final moments looking at the view somehow make me at peace with myself. Our eyes meet. An unspoken agreement. Rope dangles down beside me. I lean over, and kiss him on the cheek. Unfitting, yet, I hope it conveys everything I wish it to mean. I mouth three words to him. One…two…three. We jump. I feel the rope constricting round my neck. Choking, spluttering. I want this. My vision goes blurry. I hear mockingjays flitter around me. I see a wing through my fuzzy vision. They sing to us as we sleep.

“If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree”

A song the Capitol decreed must never be sung.