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When I tell people that I’m blind, they assume the world is a dark and tactile place for me. They see a super human sense of smell or sound. They imagine that my life is a series of hurdles and a winding line of discomforts.
Now, this is Panem. I’m not going to pretend now is like it was in the olden days, where they actually had wheelchair ramps in all buildings. I heard they required signs to be in braille. Accessibility, they called it way back then.
I call it common decency. Panem calls it a wasteful expenditure. We’ve agreed to disagree.
Now I wonder what it would be like, to live in that world. Sure, technology was kind of crap, but at least there was some sense of making the playing field fair for everyone on it. Since I don’t have a time machine, I’m stuck where I am.
And normally, I don’t think about these things, you see. Normally I barrel through my own day and don’t think such grandiose, generalized thoughts. Today changed that though - now it is different.
I’m thinking about how I’m coming off and how I look, because I’m standing up on the reaping stage in front of my whole district.
They read my name.
Okay, okay. You’re mad I didn’t tell you the most important thing happening in my life in this moment. Can you blame me? I think I was in shock. It isn’t everyday a stranger says the country wants to watch you die.
But yeah, I was reaped. Just hours ago.
I sit here on the train, fiddling with the empty cuff hole in the bottom of my jacket sleeve. It’s the only nice suit jacket I have and now I idly think it won’t be passed down to my brother. It will mold away in some Capitol landfill while my little brother Renald wears scraps to his reapings.
At least I was strong in the end. My family saw my chin held high. I felt their damp faces and heard their voices cracking in despair. I can’t blame a single one for assuming I won’t return. Heck, my knee jerk reaction was to wonder if I will end up a target because I can’t see well.
But that’s the thing - when I say blind what people actually picture is a world of pure darkness, populated by sounds and touches. Yet legally I am blind, but I can see. Just not well and certainly not like most folks. The difference is I might be able to discern a color and general shape or size, but that’s it.
Squint at a string of fairy lights and see the way that bulb glows like a round orb, losing its real shape? That is how I see the world - irregular balls of the most common color of whatever the item is. That was why I managed to get to the reaping stage without any issue. It was not obvious I was blind, so maybe I can hide it. Wear some shades in my interview.
Maybe I can get out.
My beliefs look comical in retrospect only two days later. That was all it took.
I could handle the parade, because everyone was stock still and waving. Just smile and wave. However, training was far more difficult. Without being able to discern detail I was fumbling taking a hold of things and missing the mark on thrown weapons.
“Butterfingers.” Another tribute laughed, outright snarling the new sobriquet in my direction. They were with a large group who burst out laughing obnoxiously, bringing such heat to my cheeks. I knew by the size of the group and verbose reaction that it had to be the careers.
Near the end of that same session, something slammed the small of my back unexpectedly and I went down like a bag of rocks. They laughed so hard.
I had a nice, caring mentor to go back to at the end of the day, but it hardly helped me in the training hall. Their laughter kept wearing away at my confidence. I was keeping my disability secret so far, but they still saw the shortcomings it caused.
Plus I knew bullying from back in district Eleven, but this was something else. Constantly carrying the fact they wanted to kill me in the back of my mind was like living somewhere that never stops having earthquakes for a second. It isn’t just some needling words when they have a sword in their hand and a willingness, no, a desire, to use it.
So call me nervous if you want. I say I was being reasonable. Maybe it was a bit excessive to come back to the district suite, bent over the toilet for a half hour hacking up everything my guts had to give. Either way, that was my reality while training went on.
You could say it was a relief to only need to walk across the stage and sit in a chair. All I needed was to say a few words - I can practically hear my mother saying that. It’s just conversation, she would have said.
But when Augustus Flickerman asked whether I was hiding the blind status they had found in my medical records on stage, I froze. Whenever people said ‘I froze’ I always just imagined them being real still but for me a solid coldness came over me. Ice dripped down my spine. I truly did freeze and it was awful.
I didn’t know how to respond so after the most grueling silent seconds of my life I awkwardly answered, “Well, not anymore.”
The whole Capitol audience burst out laughing.
That’s all they ever did in the Capitol - other tributes over my fumbling, my stylists over my hair, or the crowd over me being different. The only person to never laugh at me was my mentor, Truffle, but that was a minor balm on such a large bruise.
You might think to yourself that it would be a relief after such indignation to be put inside a launch tube and sent into an arena. You would be dead fucking wrong there, excuse my language. I was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane wind when they raised us up on the pedestals. Only the thought of my fear making me even more of a target stemmed my quivers. I balanced carefully, unwilling to teeter off the edge and fall.
All around me was a sea of gray. I stared hard to discern anything, but only saw cliff-like walls of it on some sides, and distant gray-blue expanse on the others. There was a slight breeze, but the air was temperate without being warm.
I saw something glinting several yards in front of me and decided to run for it. One thing, then out. So when the gong finally sounded out I leapt forward and ran with purpose. When I reached down I was hoping for a thick, plastic water bottle. Instead my hand slid onto a hilt.
Although surprised, I turned to flee. I knew I couldn’t stay. But something hit my back as someone ran past. “Butterfingers!” They laughed snidely as I lay in the dirt. It was a little sandy, but I skipped doing a mineral test and pushed up onto my knees.
Someone fell nearby with something thin protruding from their back. They did not get back up. As I stumbled along I could see bright red. I snatch at it and ended up finding a nylon strap, throwing it over my shoulder. Now leaned in close enough, I had a good guess that ‘thin protrusion’ was actually a spear. Queasy from the realization, I turned and raced away.
I speed walked more than ran, fearing what I could run into or off of just as much as the careers behind me. I knew they were, because other tributes were screaming in my wake. Someone cried loudly for mercy and their silence came on slowly, garbled and anguished.
Then a body slams into mine and someone jerks off me. As I sit up I spot a frenzied, blobbish figure of a tribute stumbling backwards from me. A short figure, so between that and a high pitched whine that comes from the back of their throat, I know they’re a younger tribute. “Take it, and leave me alone!”
My mouth opens instinctively, wanting to correct their misconception. I was just trying to get out and never noticed them coming from whatever angle they had ran into me from. It was not like I wanted to steal from them, but I could see a bright orange dot before me and I grabbed it. I felt nylon with heft beneath my fingers and knew I had secured another backpack.
Returning to my escape, I bolted now in fear that I would not be so lucky on my next interaction. The ground sloped before me but it was still gray. There was a slight crunch sort of like gravel, though nowhere near as noisy. The ground had very little give beneath my sneakered feet. As the bloodbath cries lessened I stared hard ahead to discern the flat land ahead.
With that, I started to jog.
I jogged and walked in tandem, pushing myself heavily to go further. Something about distance felt right. Plus once I stopped I knew I would be a potential sitting duck.
At least the arena wear was thermal and athletic, albeit a bit tight for my tastes. I like tying a sweatshirt around my waist in the winter, so the idea that every crease of my butt was on display did rub me the wrong way. Sue me, I don’t like attention.
Oh, I should have mentioned the cannons. After the bloodbath they fired off ten in succession. A particularly vicious and bloody time. There’s even been another two since then.
After a time the ground rose up on either side, forcing me down one path. Craning my neck, I could see the gray slabs on either side rose up at least the height of a mature tree. Growing nervous and weary, I move away from the center of the path and walk along the sheer, straight up cliff.
Sometimes as I walk I allowed my hand to slide along the rough surface. I felt the arena and its grainy, rocky walls. Up close I could make out some black and browns dully standing apart from the amalgamated gray slate colored cliff faces. Yet nothing prepared me for my hand suddenly dipping inwards.
It was so abrupt I backpedaled a step, having been marching right along. My hand stuck inwards but hit stone quickly. I stepped forward and felt about, realizing it was a very narrow, diagonal passage. Just a thin vein really.
I slipped inside while holding my breath, barely able to make it. All around me was dim gray so I knew the light was poor here. Stepping up on my tiptoes I stared hard and was certain there was no break - I was in a thin crevice, not a sliver that would show from above. Exploring in the space turned out to be little more than turning in place since there was no room for anything else.
Still nobody could get inside. I had a small knife on my belt and I lucked into an orange backpack. I feasted on its contents, while wondering what the little boy I ran into would do for sustenance tonight. It was a lick of guilt that I moved on from, at least until my exit interview.
The pack had two of the ripest oranges I had ever eaten. It was easier forgetting where it came from while sinking your teeth into that pulpy tang, especially after fearing you would go hungry in the arena. So maybe I was not in the kindest frame of mind, but I know deep down I never meant to run into him or steal his stuff.
That night I leaned against the stone wall and learned to sleep while sitting upright. Although I doubted many tributes could squeeze themselves into the slim opening, let alone even find it, I still slept with that knife on my lap. Just in case.
Two cannons fired in the night, waking me. I tried to return to sleep but it took so long both times. I was afraid of who, but more importantly I feared how they died and when it would come looking for me.
The next morning the air was far warmer and another cannon fired as I sipped from one of the two water bottles from the pack. I had already resolved to ration my supplies, but the steady stream of cannonfire that morning steeled my resolve.
By the time the afternoon hit, I was shocked that we were in the top six. In fact it had happened so quickly I felt certain they had not been able to do interviews with number eight and seven’s families. But I knew my own would be rolled out. I feared for their sake.
Yet, I was a little excited. When the next cannon sounded shortly after the thought crossed my mind I was happy to hear one for the first time. Sick, but true. It was the first moment actually getting out of this felt like more than just an idle dream.
I had never wanted to give up, but that hardly meant I thought it could work! Positivity is in my nature but in the Capitol I kept my head down and just tried to fake it. Here, it felt like maybe I had finally faked it long enough to make it.
I never left my crevice the second day, but I listened to the cannons. I counted their numbers. The one benefit to the Capitol knowing the true condition of my eyesight was that they not only showed what would have been indiscernible colors in the sky, they also boomed out in a loud and clear voice the gender and district number of each of the fallen. So on that second night I discovered only three remained - but unfortunately they were all careers.
The next morning that trio of careers wore itself out. I wondered if it was a mutt or one another when I heard the double cannon. Then I wondered what was meant to happen next. If I never left the crevice, would they just die off?
As if answering my wish for good luck, the ground began to quake beneath my feet. A little gritty dust fell from the ceiling above. I knew this stone reached so high up and could surely crush me if a large enough rock fell so, begrudgingly, I squeezed myself out of the crevice with my knife in hand. The backpack, which was mostly empty, was left behind. I only kept a half filled bottle of water clutched in my other hand.
Once I staggered out, the ground stopped shaking. The gamemakers were not being subtle at all. I knocked back the water bottle and threw it into the crevice, knowing I could not return without the earthquake starting back up. I stood for a second, uncertain, before realizing my best bet was to go back the way I had come - towards the cornucopia.
At first it was a steady walk left with my own thoughts. Quiet, not even a chirp of a cricket or song of a bird. Come to think of it, it had been near silent in the crevice too. It was like the whole arena was already dead. When I show up, what should I do?
It’s a career and they’re alone. They probably feel pretty cocky. I can’t creep up on them. I have to talk my way out. I shifted my belt, turning the sheath that held my knife around so that it was concealed behind my back. I had a plan but was still nervous because it could easily go wrong. If they held a bow and spotted him from afar, he was toast.
Then I spotted a slight movement and something began to disturb the unaltered blue skyline I had been walking towards. I could also feel a slight lifting in elevation beneath my feet, and I could see this new figure on a slight crest ahead. I had to be back nearer to the cornucopia.
“Seriously, you?” The satisfied, half gleeful laugh that left the figure was so mocking.
“Yup, little me.” I answered with a slight smile, keeping my gaze off to the side of them so they could not tell how much my clouded eyes could discern.
“I thought they had to have put the wrong picture in the sky or something.” The career girl sounded more amused than angry, so I thought it was probably the One girl. Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember her speciality at all or much of anything about her. I was winging it.
“Oh no, they didn’t.”
“Huh.”
“Aren’t you going to ask how I survived this long?” I said when there was a lull too long for my liking. The last thing I needed was to give her an excuse to fire a shot or throw something at me.
“Okay, shoot. How’d you survive, Butterfingers?” That snap to her voice was like cracking a fresh cucumber in half.
“I found a hideyhole nobody else did.”
“So you think you’re smart now?”
“No. Just alive.” I then paused just long enough for that to sink in. “Did you kill your friends?” I take a couple of measured, slow steps forward as if simply curious.
“Allies aren’t friends.”
“Oh. Too bad.”
“What happened to yours?” She asks snidely, smirking at the thought.
The truth is irritating and belittling but I know that it will be fuel on her fire, so I offer it without hesitating, even if saying it is like spitting glass. “After Flickerman outed me in interviews, they kicked me out. I’ve been solo since the gong.”
“Wow, that sucks, huh?”
“Well, I’d call it more of a personal picnic.” I answered back with the steadiness and hint of humor that I would always show bullies back home.
“And now you’re here expecting an easy death?”
“No, I thought this was the finale.” I replied evenly, holding the slightest hint of curiosity. “Isn’t that what you came for?”
She barks out a surprised laugh like she never expected to hear such a thing out of my lips. I take it as a good sign and offer a hesitant, tight-lipped smile as she does.
“You think you can fight me?” The One girl sounds so sure of the outcome of this.
“Well, sure. You don’t?”
“Hardly that, it’s just… I mean, Flickerman said it. You’re blind.” Even still, as she spoke she slowly approached him. “Not a fair fight.”
“Well, if you’d rather no fight at all, I can’t stop you.”
“You seriously think you can take me?”
“I can try.” I’m trying to keep up the ignorant bravado act so I lift my hands up, clenching them into fists. I purposefully don’t turn my body in her direction but I keep my dukes up, as my nan would say.
Then she’s laughing again, so openly mocking her doubt of me. “What the hell, sure.” Then she thrusts something sideways away from her body and hear a clattering sound. I think it might be a spear hitting the hard rocky ground. I see shifting blobs in front of her and my heart skips a dozen beats as I think she’s putting up her fists, too.
I pretended to bob and weave a little while scooting forward. She just chuckles and calls, “Over here.” Then I turn towards her, pretending to have followed that call. I smirk a little, as if I think I have it under control, and punch forward into the nothingness. She snorts. “Shit, right here. I’ll give you one punch straight to the kisser before I kill you. Nobody can say I wasn’t fair then.”
I realized she must think I have no sense of sight at all. People hear ‘blind’ and think darkness. They don’t think in shades - which is an ironic statement in and of itself, no matter how true.
As I neared her I could feel the satisfaction radiating off her, but I was still so full of fear. Now I was not aiming wrong though - I wheeled back my left hand for a real punch to her jaw, but it was my right that darted behind me. My dominant hand clenched around the hilt of my knife, drawing it from the sheath, and plunging it straight into her face.
She had held still, expecting a weak punch. Instead, the career girl shrilly screamed as I felt my blade drag through flesh, quickly hitting bone. I pulled the knife out, not realizing it was in her mouth until they told me later. Then I slammed it into her jaw again and again. She fell to the ground and I aimed for her heart.
I could see lashings of red coming off her chest when I drew the knife out, right up until I stopped when a cannon fired. Then a voice boomed out with the richest delight, “Congratulations to Rupert Reubens of district Eleven, Victor of the hundred and eighth Hunger Games!”
I discovered in my exit interview that the careers had seen me leaving the cornucopia clearing but must have thought I stood no chance because they shifted their aim onto the district Seven boy instead. He had gotten an eight in training. That moment of doubting me would cost them.
While I loitered in the crevice, anyone without water from the cornucopia died. This year the environment was the deadliest part, with most tributes dying from acidic water. When it wore down to me and the careers, they fought among themselves, not feeling as if all three were necessary to face a lone, blind sixteen year old tribute from an outlier district.
It did not feel vindicating or satisfying to think of all those kids who called me ‘Butterfingers’ and laughed at me were now dead. I pity them because most were just being stupid kids. Some were probably lashing out in fear. It doesn’t make it right, but when you live and they die, well, you kind of let go of a lot of things real quick.
It is hard to be angry with the dead. I think that’s because they can’t talk back.
So although I know people won’t understand my time in the arena, I don’t mind bearing their confusion, because I survived it.
How many others can say the same?