60th games ➸ a.i.

before.

➸⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Willow.

I couldn't tell if the fear of dying or the fear of living scared me more.

Because living in Panem is just as much pain and worry as being brutally killed in a 'game.'

This afternoon was probably one of the most dreaded times of the year in ol' Twelve. Where another boy and girl pathetically lose the grip they've kept on their young lives and vanish off of the Earth. As saddening as it was, there was also a thought which gave me a pure, rotten feeling of guilt pile up in my stomach like vomit. And that feeling was being relieved that 'I'm not going to die in a few days.'

I turned on my heel and stared into the mirror of my bedroom. I looked like a slave. My hair was in frizzy auburn knots and my skin had never been more pale. I was practically white, just like the dress I had over my scrawny body.

I've been mistaken for a thirteen year old more than once. My dad always told me how unnatural it was, and 'you're some sort of freak I accidentally gave birth to.'

And then I'd reply, 'Mum gave birth to me, you stood in a damn mine trying to get gold when all you got was coal, almost as black as your heart.'

Probably one of the biggest sentences I've regret uttering.

I didn't know what to expect for today. Maybe I could have a freak accident and die? Maybe someone will volunteer? Maybe this is all a dream, and I'll wake up.

It wasn't a dream, though, because I'd wake up from the sound of a cane clacking against the warped wooden floor of my home. I met an 85 year old pair of eyes in my doorway, but they were bright, just like a child.

My grandfather, Pa, wobbled into my small filthy bedroom, a sad smile spreading across his face as he saw me. He shook his head before speaking.

"Just like your mum," he rasped in that stereotypical old man voice. I smiled; something I hadn't done in a long, long time.

When you live in such a dreadful place, smiles aren't common. Sometimes, they're even unnerving, in a way I cannot explain.

"You better get crackin'," Pa mumbled, standing next to me. I turned to examine myself in the dirty mirror.

Twelve isn't what you would call luxurious or The Capitol's favorite. Partly because it's probably impossible to clean - the coal dust from the mines are to thank for that. And, not to mention, the fact that District Twelve has the smallest pool of victors in Panem. It was two, only one was alive: Haymitch Abernathy, an old drunk who practically stumbled his way down the streets of Twelve.

Houses here weren't nice and up to date like the ones in The Capitol or One too. My 'house' - it was more of an oversized rotted wood box, not going to lie - had three rooms; mine, Pa's, and a small kitchen with a fire and a single pot with one cupboard.

Glamorous, huh.

Coal dust. Soot. Dirt. More coal dust. Every surface in Twelve was a mess, including every person in Twelve.

Every person in Panem, to be correct.

Including my father.

About a few weeks ago, a lot of shit went down in Twelve, caused by my family. It was bad, so bad that Snow and Peacekeepers somehow managed to slither into the mess.

So, how did it start?

I still don't know.

-

flashback : 3 weeks before

I cautiously followed my dad through the streets of my district, the sour and hot scent of fire and fuel burning my nostrils. Miners were working extra late hours, until even 3 am, for the demand of coal had shot up in the last few weeks.