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the reaping
volume one; before
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It was no secret that Elora Clarke struggled with her past. Blood ran down her palms every morning, dripping off each fingertip to stain her crisp white sheets. Bleeding into every corner of her life, the blood could not be rubbed clean. It stained her vision red and tinted her lips pink, it was the blush resting on her cheeks and the smile she put on for the camera. Blood was the dye in the ribbon she wore to her fifth reaping and blood was the basis of every conversation she had.
Wading into the water of district four, it was easy to imagine to water cleansing her body. Removing the blood and the stain of the capitol to leave whatever would remain behind. Elora wasn't sure who she was without her past. If her name had never been pulled from that bowl, today would have been her last reaping. She would no doubt be living in her small family house with her mother and father and the ghosts of her two brothers. She would marry a fisherman and bake seaweed bread and watch the other victors with a sad glint in her eye.
Soon the sun peeked over the horizon, waking the world as it arose from its slumber. Paint strokes of pink and orange and blue stretched across the dark canvas until the beach was alit with sunglow. Finnick waded into the water to stand beside her, taking her hand in his ever so gently. Together they made their way from the beach up the path to the victors village, ready to guide two more teenagers to their deaths.
"Every year I wake up expecting it to hurt less, expecting to be ok with the fact that we have to guide new kids through these games. It hurts just as much as the first time".
Finnicks words draw her gaze to him and her heart clenches in a way thats so painful she finds it difficult to breathe. Pain is etched onto his face thats so sorrowful yet achingly beautiful in a way that only Finnick can be. Elora doesn't say anything, not yet, not when she's trying to process the fact that it's been nine years for him and it hasn't gotten any easier. Not when she can't even begin to comprehend the pain he goes through, leaving Annie every year to sell himself at the capitol, returning with an empty heart and a mind full of guilt.
"One day, when we're old and our bones ache with every movement, it will all be over. They'll leave us alone and those kids will be somebody else's responsibility".
He smiles at me so softly I almost can't see the twitch of his lips. Raising his hand in a salute, Finnick enters the front door of his home with the promise to walk me to the reaping. As the door closes behind him I catch sight of the markings on his wrist and the ghost of a smile passes my face.
Annie Cresta.
✯¸.•'*¨'*•✿ ✿•*'¨*'•.¸✯
Elora Clarke did not walk with Finnick to the reaping. Annie's wailing echoed across the victors village as he attempted to leave, her mind not quite the same since her games. Elora sometimes wonders what Annie sees every time she closes her eyelids. Wonders what image is splayed across the backs of her eyelids like a nasty scar that doesn't seem to ever fade. Elora hopes it's nothing as horrific as what she sees everytime she closes her eyes, that its not splashes of blood so real and so warm that you can feel it on your face even after all these years.
The walk to the reaping was lonely, but it gave her time to think and prepare herself for what was to come. For the most part, her district partner would be by her side to guide her through the more difficult parts of their capitol visit. These had nothing to do with the games themselves but the pictures that flash through her brain as she spirals out of control in the one place she never had it. This time, she would control herself. Her games would never fade but her panic could, she had been living with it for some time now and that uncontrollable feeling of fear that gripped her every time she set foot in the capitol was beginning to ease.
She sat on the stage now, with the mayor on one side and an empty seat left for Finnick on the other. As they waited for her district partner to arrive, her eyes scanned the crowd of children standing before her. Her eyes narrowed in on those who had a better chance to win physically, but she focussed even more so on those who appeared mentally strong. Those who stood with their heads held high and no glimmer of fear in their eyes. As her eyes rested on a sobbing twelve year old boy, barely holding himself on his own two feet, she prayed to any god that may exist that it wasn't a twelve year old this year. They never make it and the death of an innocent ways heavily on her soul.
She shares a glance with Finnick as he hurries up the steps to the stage. They sit with so much space between them she can feel the breeze brushing up against her skin, whispering in her ears. She longs to take her hand in his, to feel some semblance of normalcy, but the cameras are on them now. It is time to put on a performance, to be the blood she spilled. To be the cold hearted killer the capitol knows her to be.
"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour"
The district escort, Cecilia, walks on unsteady feet towards the female reaping bowl. She teeters dangerously in her ridiculously high heels, managing to save herself before the weight of her wig pulls her off the stage. Her hand is suddenly shoved into the bowl and she swirls the pieces of paper. Once upon a time, that bowl held 42 slips of paper with her name.
"The female tribute for distict four is Coral Machen"
A girl steps forward from the seventeen year old section an my heart soars in relief that the youngest are spared for one more year. Coral has that glint in her eyes, the cold unfeeling expression that Elora is so used to wearing herself. She thinks that maybe, just maybe, Coral has a chance. The toned muscle in her arm suggests talent with a spear, maybe even knives. As Elora ponders Corals odds of winning the games, and gaining sponsorships, Cecilia has made her way to the male tribute bowl.
"The male tribute for district four is Beckett Radel"
A cry tears through the open space of the town square and to her horror, Elora watches a distraught twelve year old boy step forward to clumsily make his way to the stage. There is no volunteer. This boy, with his golden curls and sunshine kissed skin and smile wrinkles will be dead in two weeks. A pang of pain rips through her once again, and Elora feels the panic of the games rise up in her once more. She pushes it down. There will be no panic, there will be no fear.
Elora Clarke is the blood that will spill from Beckett Radel's wounds.
Elora Clark is the blood that will taint Corals hands for years to come.
Elora Clarke is the victor of the 72nd hunger games, and she would behave as such.
