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Thomas brutally stabbed with his silver fork. He scraped it against the ceramic, listening to the delightful screech that sounded. Every other at the table winced in pain and discomfort, just barely.
Then the chaos began again.
"Oh, Mary, how are you feeling today? I understand that today resurfaces some feelings for you." Mother said, covering Mary's hand with her own.
Mary smiled and laughed. The girl waved her mother off, "Not to worry mother. I feel just fine. The Games was a blessing to me, not a curse. It was the opportunity that allowed me to provide for our family so lavishly."
Thomas glared down at his plate as he ate. If he had to hear one more time about perfect, strong, ferocious victor Mary, he would turn the fork onto himself. Thomas knew that this discussion would ultimately lead to Mary recounting a play by play of every single moment that occured from her Games.
It was irritating. He had watched the entire time on television, and Mary had forced the family to watch it over and over again until one of the younger children burst into tears.
Of course Thomas's bitter mood would be resurfacing today.
Today was the reaping.
Thomas was now eighteen.
This year, he was a legal adult and this year would be his last chance to bring honor to himself. To finally rise above his sister's legacy.
He wished to move into his own manor. He would never have to face his family again, and he would be happier for it. Thomas picked up his fork again and cringed as he took a bite.
Thomas had always hated his family.
He felt green envy for his sister ever since she had been selected for the Games. She was too perfect, too flashy, too prideful. She was everything their parents wanted and everything they thought Thomas could never be.
A deep rooted loathing for his father. A cold workaholic that drowned the knowledge of his wife's infidelity in hard, burning liquor. Thomas had never seen his father smile, cry, or burst from compressed anger. Steely calm. Cool. And Thomas despised him since childhood.
A disgust for his whorish adulteress of a mother. Bruises down her arms pressed into her skin by handsome men and seductive women. She often stumbled back home Friday night with lipstick smudged on her neck and fresh scratches down her back. Thomas could not remember the last time his parents slept in the same bed.
His younger siblings were obnoxious at best and insufferable at worst, always running underfoot and whining incessantly. They always screamed and yelled, and yanked hair from his scalp. The youngest was sniveling and crying, refusing to eat her food. Randy and Anna kicked at each other under the table, giggling and screaming.
More than anyone, he hated Martha, slaughtered three years ago in the arena of glory. When he had watched her death, all that time ago, he had internally scoffed.
She had always been too gentle. Weak and powerless. She had been slaughtered like a runt bitch in the bloodbath. Thomas remembered watching it live. The rest of the family had gone to watch in the square, but he had stayed at home, sat in front of the family television.
Martha had been gutted by District 6 and left to bleed out onto slippery rocks that covered the Cornucopia grounds.
He had huffed and rolled his eyes before he turned off the television and went to bed.
The night of the embarrassment, his mother stumbled in, drunk off her ass. She smelled of sex and sweat. Thomas heard a thud, and when he went downstairs the next morning, he discovered her passed out on the floor.
He stepped over her body and went into the kitchen to get food.
His father walked that morning, still drunk. His eyes were red-rimmed and his voice was harsher than usual. But not angry.
Thomas's father was never angry. Always cold.
Martha had disgraced the Jefferson family name.
An ugly sickening feeling of crushing loathing curled in Thomas's gut.
He stabbed again at the food on his plate.
He shoved bacon and eggs around, wrinkling his nose in disgust. The cook always made the eggs too runny and the bacon too charred.
When he lived in Victor's Village, he would not tolerate such inedible meals. His father was absent from the table, likely working the morning away in his office.
Thomas's mother sat at the head of the table, struggling to keep the younger kids calm and under control.
And perfect Mary sat quietly next to her mother, legs crossed and napkin in her lap as she carefully ate her breakfast. She made no move to assist her mother with the situation.
Mary glanced up at Thomas, trying to catch his eye. Thomas stubbornly kept his eyes on the soggy eggs. His jaw was clenched, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
He had already decided that he would volunteer as tribute and no one could convince him to do anything but commit to the Games.
It was his escape from this wretched family. It was his destiny to claw towards the glory that the Games promised to anyone worthy enough to earn it.
Thomas was worthy.
He knew he deserved this.
He was going to volunteer as a District 1 tribute.
And then he was going to do whatever it took to win.
After he decided he was finished, Thomas stood up abruptly and grabbed the flashy purple blazer hanging on the back of his chair. He pulled it on as he walked out of the dining room.
The rest of his family watched him leave.
"Thomas, we will walk out to the square as a family. You know this." His mother called after him as he left.
"Oh, shut up!" He replied, slamming the door behind him.
The sun's heat beat down at his face.
He clenched his fists as the peppy man on stage strut towards the bowls that held the names of the eligible. The Capitol man's aquamarine hair seemed perky and vibrant, standing out in the sparkling sun.
"Ladies first!" He chirped.
Thomas stood at attention and straightened his jacket. He had to be ready to announce himself once a boy's name was pulled.
He did not particularly care who the hell the female tribute was.
The man's manicured hand plunged down into the bowl and pulled it out again, a slip of fate between his fingers.
"Elizabeth Schuyler!"
Screaming. Horrified, weak screaming.
Thomas glanced up at the big screen. An older woman was held back from running forward. Then the view shifts to a white-faced sixteen year old. She is pretty enough, Thomas supposed, if he ignored her nose shape, dry lips, and the acne scar on her forehead.
She had a slight build. She was quivering.
Thomas smirked to himself. Easy prey. If this was the competition he was against, there was no doubt in his mind he would return home victorious.
The woman screaming, Thomas recognizes as an old classmate. Angelica Schuyler. At nineteen years old, she is just too old to volunteer for her little sister.
Nonetheless, Elizabeth Schuyler takes slow steps up the stage. The District seems to watch silently. They wonder what would happen to her. Curiously, no one volunteered.
Thomas glared straight forward and readied his voice to project.
"And now for the gentleme-" Before the man could finish her sentence, Thomas pushed forward and yelled, "I volunteer as tribute!"
There were gasps, but he continued his trek towards the stage.
He heard whispers swirling around him.
Mary. Martha. Mary.
The kid's sister died four years ago in the Games.
Then his older sister won two years later.
God, his poor mother is in hysterics.
"Ah, and what is the name of District One's volunteer tribute?" The man asked once he reached the top stair.
He turned to look at the camera closest to him and flashed a confident smile. He stood tall and confident, showing the stark contrast between himself and the shaking Schuyler girl.
"Thomas Jefferson. My name is Thomas Jefferson."
"Congratulations to the tributes of District One! Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor!"