The Hanging Tree

Before: Reaping What You Sow

I am seventeen the year of my Games. 

It starts with mandatory viewing. You can always tell when those days come because the streets turn deadly silent with only the Peacekeepers' footsteps to break it. Those days come like unfeeling clockwork, especially near the Games. 

But today it is mandatory and the Games are still more than a month away. 

"As you all know, this year marks the 25th anniversary of the Hunger Games," President Laurent says, with Vice-President Snow at his side, and the Panem signature behind them like this is all so normal. "In accordance with what is written in the Treaty of Treason, on every 25th anniversary of the Games we will be having a Quarter Quell."

That comes as strange. I have heard the Treaty of Treason repeated every year and never did I hear anything about a 'Quarter Quell' or whatever this nonsense is, but I don't dare say that. 

Mom sits up, making the remainders of the sofa we are sitting on creak and shudder. I see the fear in her eyes. I see it somewhat in Dad's too but mostly I see the grinding of the mine there. I wonder sometimes if they didn't used to worry, back when I was still a small child or even before then, when they didn't have kids at all. I don't remember. I don't remember anything except the Games. 

"For this Quarter Quell and every one hereafter, there will be a change in regulation, however slight or large, to keep remembrance of the Dark Days renewed in everyone's mind. This year's Quarter Quell will be..." Vice-President Snow goes to retrieve a box that is just off screen, opening it for the President. Within are dozens of envelopes, too many to count, all with a different 25 year written on them. It's sickening. I try to imagine the Games for a hundred years, five hundred, a thousand, and the cost is too great, too painful to bear. 

As the President takes out the very first envelope, I start to wish I had found a lock to fix or trap to untangle or something from the Hob like I usually do when anything about the Games are on because I don't want all my attention on this, the last thing I want is to be watching this. 

He opens the envelope, clears his throat, and continues, "This year because you chose to rebel against the Capitol, you will now choose the tributes for your district. On Reaping Day, mandatory voting will be held for everyone over 19. Men will be voting for the male tribute and women will be voting for the female tribute. The tribute you vote for must be within the usual age restriction of 12 to 18 and must not have won any of the previous Hunger Games. The..."

He goes on. He does so until he steps off the screen and the television goes to static, the buzz filling the entire room. But everything just seems to fade away with that. Voting? For our tributes? 

This is far worse than any Reaping ever was. 

"He can't do that," I hear myself say, "can he?"

Dad presses his lips together. "He can do whatever he damn well pleases." He stands and walks outside now that the transmission is over. Mom pats my hand. 

"Don't worry. They're not going to take you," she says and I get the feeling she is saying it more to herself than to me. "They're not."

*** 

Yondrie. 

Her light gray eyes hold mine as we lean against the buildings near the square. People go to and from, shopping and living and trying to avoid the Peacekeepers that roam so freely. Rumor has it that there has been rebellion in some of the other districts which explains both the resurgence of so many Peacekeepers and perhaps even this Quarter Quell nonsense. The Capitol wants to show who is in charge. 

But neither Peacekeepers nor people notice this couple leaning against the wall, their hearts so entwined they cannot be undone without ripping one or both of them apart.