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Lizabeth’s bright laugh fills the meadow. I’m lying next to her, braiding my big sisters’ blonde coils. I don’t remember when I last felt this peaceful. As I twist her hair I notice something. Silver strands spreading through gold. “Liza! Your Hair!” I scream. No response. I turn and look right into her eyes. Dull. Motionless. Dead. “LIZA!” I’m shaking her but at my touch her skin greys and disintegrates like coal in fire. “Liza, don’t leave me!” I’m clawing at her arm as she slips away. Slips away from me. My eyes fly open. I’m alone. Always alone. My sleep riddled brain takes I the bleak sunlight falling onto my bed. Or the district 12 equivalent. Coal coated rag tangled around my sweaty limbs. Reality comes crashing back as my nightmare shatters, piercing deep into my heart. Lizabeth is gone. I’m Delly Cartwright. District 12. 16 years old and todays the reaping.
The trip to the Townsquare was slow. ‘Why! Why must I relive this all 4 years later.’ My thoughts turn to school. I’m a totally different person at school. There, no one knows about the holes in my heart. I have to smile and laugh, all while knowing the life waiting at home. My empty room, distant mother, drunk father and empty vases. Liza loved flowers. In her hair, on her clothes and hanging all around the house. My foot catches, snapping me out of the spiralling darkness. I lay there stunned, watching the young kids file silently in. Peacekeepers line the crowd. Stark white uniforms glowing against the dirty sky and streets of district 12. ‘Will I get picked?’ The question hanging over everyone’s heads. But not me. I don’t care. The games don’t scare me. I don’t fear death. I fear life. I fear the pain. I fear the darkness. I welcome death.
My eyes drift to the people watching. Parents clutching children who don’t yet understand that the next two onstage will soon be dead. No one wins in district 12. Being reaped isn’t a glorious chance to prove yourself or whatever slogan the capitol is fed. A sad, lonely, brutal death broadcasted all over Panem so your family can watch your last breath and the capitol can cheer or moan depending how much they wagered on your life. Like you’re an animal. They don’t care that you had a family, that you painted flowers and taught your little sister to read and they don’t care that your little sister truly believed you would come back because you promised. You promised. And you did come back. Back to a grave. Reduced to a name across cold stone.
My gaze returns to the onlookers, tuning out the squealing microphone. Some people stand alone. Hunched and sad. No one they care about is left. Everyone leaves eventually. Even loving older sisters. I reluctantly draw my attention back to the stage. “Ladies Firsts!” Effie trills, scraping her fingers through children’s fates. “Primrose Everdeen.” Pangs of sadness and pity crush me. Poor little Prim, barely twelve with the beaming smile and ribbons in her hair. My heart speeds up watching her pass. “Prim!” Someone cries behind me. Katniss. She pushes forward, screaming for her little sister. The memories hit. I’m drowning in them. “Lizabeth Cartwright” echoes around my skull. The stunned silence as my beautiful big sister is sentenced to a cruel death. My knees buckle. I’m on the ground but I can’t do anything but watch Liza turn at my scream. I lunge forward. Her eyes find mine and she reaches her arms out, fingers centimetres from safety. Tears are spilling from my eyes. Her hand brushes mine before the peacekeeper rips us apart. She’s forced up the stairs, forced to face her fate. Last time I saw my sister alive. Someone grabs my arm and I come reeling back. ‘My breathing won’t work. Why won't my breathing WORK!’ I watch silently, tears streaming, as Katniss volunteers and is torn from Prim. Then the world fades to black as panic consumes me.
I’m in bed. Starting the cycle again. I miss her. Liza got reaped four years ago. That was the worst day of my life. Except for watching her die. And getting her body back. I walk to the giant graveyard on the very edge of seam. My eyes find her name sprawled across the dirty stone. This is the closest I’ll ever be to my sister again. Until I die. Until this nightmare ends. I picture her face, exactly like mine, bright blue eyes and gold hair. Then I hear sobbing. Someone little is curled up a couple rows over. Prim. She’s sitting next to her dad, separated by earth. She turns at my approach, eyes fearful and sad, tear tracks splitting the grime on her face. I sit and hold her. I hold her like Liza would hold me when I woke from a nightmare. I hold her and I know that everything won’t be okay but that this little girl is the only thing keeping me afloat.