Of Victors and Tributes

Part 1: The Reaped

Chapter 1: The Reaping

There is a pain demanding to be felt in the air this morning, and no one can pretend that they can't feel it. Kids can't sleep– they roll around in their beds, throwing their sheets on and off but never finding any comfort. Parents and elders lay awake– they didn't get a wink of sleep, they want to hold their children in their arms. Even the most emotionless drunk can't close their eyes without being restless, thinking of their days standing in the town square, the glass bowls glistening in the sunlight. No one sleeps, but no one leaves their bed, and the town is quiet.

I slip out of bed as quietly as I can to avoid bothering Twine, who I think has fallen into a fitful rest. Across the room in the other cot lies Mom and Lacey, cuddled tightly together under a thick blanket that has begun to look worn. I'll have to pick up some thread to stitch the holes together, considering we spent the last of it fixing our reaping clothes. The chore will have to wait until tomorrow.

I tiptoe out of the room and to the front door, where my boots and jacket are waiting for me. Before I slip them on, I go to the kitchen and root through the cupboards. I pull out two apples and tuck them into the little pack I have slung over my shoulder. It would be an average breakfast, but I know that Jean will handle the rest of our feast. I grab a quilt, folding it and tossing it over my arm. I pull on my boots and wrap the jacket around me– despite it being summer, it's still cool out in the morning. I peer into the bedroom one last time, finding my family still at rest, then walk out the door.

Reaping day leaves the district in ruins. There is silence throughout the entirety of 8. The textile mills are closed– if it were required, I'm sure the people would rather risk whippings than go in– and the air is only clean today. Peacekeepers roam the town in search of families looking for a way out, but no one is willing to take that risk. Even though I know the Peacekeepers will be focused in town, I still take some caution while walking towards the fence. The Peacekeepers have seen me and Jean here before so I'm not worried about getting in trouble, but still, you never know when a new head Peacekeeper will be assigned.

I stand in silence before the fence when I reach it. The fence is tall, looming five feet above my head, topped with razor sharp wire and plated to the ground so that no one can get under or over it. It hums, a constant reminder that if you dared to touch it you would be shocked beyond repair.

There's soft footsteps behind me, breaking through the light noise of the fence and the birds outside our district. I turn around and meet the dark eyes of Jean Selvedge, daughter of the mayor's assistant. Her hair, long and black and twisted into thin braids, lays neatly along her shoulders. She is already in reaping clothes, but the basket on her arm reminds me that we have time.

"Happy reaping day," she tells me, setting down her basket and helping me unfold the quilt. We lay it down on the grass, then take our seats on top of it.

"My favorite holiday," I mumble, taking my apples and water skins out of my bag. I hand her half of my haul and she opens up her wicker basket, producing her own pickings. Two containers of small round cheeses, two containers of crackers, two containers of thin-cut meat. A meal fit for a king.

"The extra containers are for the kids," she tells me. Jean herself is a lone child, but she knows that I have two little kids at home waiting for me to return. They're able to afford a good amount of food from her mother's job, and she doesn't mind sharing it with a family like mine. We would be much worse off if it weren't for Jean and her mother's kindness. I take one of each container and tuck it in my satchel.

"How are they?" she asks, laying out the crackers and smearing warm cheese on them. I place the meat on top.

"Fine. Scared. They miss him. It's always harder on reaping day," I say softly. Our hands brush for a moment and she holds mine, then releases it. It's been three years since he died, but every reaping is a cold reminder of what was while every normal day is a reminder of what could have been. He haunts me in my sleep, follows me around the house, helps me with my work in school. He sings to them at night and in the morning, takes out clothes for them to wear. Sometimes I think his death was worse than Dad's.