Isolated Together | Panem's Past Hunger Games

Chapter 2

Reyna

I can't believe what I'm hearing.

"The games are already horrible enough," I mutter to Serena, trying to keep my voice laced with my usual neutrality. She doesn't respond. Her pale complexion is a rarity in our district, and right now she stands out even more with the blood drained from her face. 

A team contest.

I study everyone's reaction, keeping my face blank. Jess is smiling her dimpled, pretty smile.

Typical of her. She's so naive. Completely oblivious to everything, living inside her perfect little bubble.

Hazel is biting what little is left of her blood crusted nails. Sheena is staring at the dirt ridden floor. Esmẽ... is looking at me? I stare back at her, ensuring that I don't blink. She looks away.

I can feel a  vice of fear tighten the mechanics of my chest.

I need to calm down. I think back to my father. 

If you don't let anyone close to you, you can't be hurt. If you don't show how you're feeling, you'll be safer.

I've managed the latter, and I'm still working on the former. But cutting ties with my best friends is like slowly pressing a bullet into my skull. Stagnant. Painful. Sure to end in disaster. Serena has proven to be the most difficult. A week ago I tried to stay home instead of go to Jess' birthday celebration, but Serena just came to my house and dragged me out by the ends of my hair.

"You need friends. If you don't have anyone to lean on in your hour of need, you'll be in over your head in no time," she told me through my locked bedroom door. I finally gave in when she said she would kick the door down if I didn't come. 

And then there's Sheena. We've known each other since before we could talk, and yet... I'm still trying to push her away. No.

I am pushing her away. 

For my sake. For my father's sake. 

I'm doing what's best for me. For him.

In my mind's eye, I can see my father laughing and smiling, being happy. Being himself. If that really was him. But I can also see him shrouded in shadows and whispers. I see him, hear him, teaching me how to be strong. The most efficient way to be strong.

Cut ties with them. With everyone. It's the only way. There. Is. No. Other.

When I was small - when I was weak - I wanted a puppy. It was all I wished for at night, what all of my prayers would ask for. It was a silly desire. Foolish and childish. Even so,  I begged and wailed, cried and pleaded. My parents barely even blinked. Every time they would stare right through me as if I was nothing but air. Cold and bleak. Now, whenever I reflect, I know deep down that my father was just preparing me, making me tough. But that didn't erase the tears, the nightmares, the loneliness, the empty space in my younger self's heart that my parent's were supposed to fill with tender love.

At the time, I would have given anything for even a snippet of their attention. Just a drop of compassion and I would have been satisfied. But my parents believed in a different kind of... love. It seems absurd to call it that, but what else could my father's lectures and rules and relationships have been driven by? 

He believed in it. The isolation. And so do I. He died so that I could be stronger.

He must have known that if he was gone, everything would change. That when everything happened, it would force me to become resilient. Resourceful. Durable.