Chapter Text
Unlike most careers, the day I volunteer is not a joyous occasion.
There is no party. In fact, since I don’t have a single friend, no one even stops to congratulate me. My father is working. None of my six older sisters live at home anymore, not that I told them I was chosen. I don’t want to worry them. They have their own families and lives now. They’ve moved on, off to more important things like getting married and raising babies.
There’s seven of us, a whole half a dozen plus one. If there were only six Summers girls, the world wouldn’t be worse off. Honestly, I doubt anyone outside my immediate family would notice. Ever since I stopped performing with my sisters two years ago, it’s like I’ve been half-dead to everyone anyway.
My father, on the other hand, would be furious if he knew what I was planning. He would forbid it, as he does with anything remotely dangerous. I can’t use the stove, walk alone after dark, or shower when it’s thunderstorming.
I know I’m the baby of the family, but it’s bonkers. Next thing I know, he’s going to coat me in a protective layer of bubble wrap before I step outside.
So the Games–uh–he’d hate that. Hate isn’t a strong enough word actually. Detest. Abhor. Loathe.
The only reason my father tolerates my training is because apparently physical activity is good for depression. Not that I’m depressed. This is just the way I am. I’m not a happy person. I don’t know why people don't just get that. I do feel happiness, yes, but it’s not this overwhelming thing that makes me grin from ear-to-ear and laugh uncontrollably for hours on end. I don’t know why everyone’s pretending like it should, or that something’s wrong with me if I don’t act a complete fool every time something remotely positive happens in my life.
So I’m alone today. Whether that’s by choice or not, I can’t really tell. A part of me wonders even if I did scream my grand plans from the rooftops if anyone would be here, or if I’d still be eating my last breakfast in Four alone. There’s a reason I don’t have any friends.
The dining room table at my father’s house is laughably large. It’s one of those insanely long tables that I imagine rich, powerful people like President Snow or the Inventor of Hovercrafts own. My father, as the mayor, is indeed a rich powerful person, but I’m talking about the next level: Capitolites. This is a table built for a grand feast. Today though, it’s practically empty. The only dish that makes up my final meal is a bowl of my favorite sugary cereal, Capt’ Cornelius. A dribble of milk runs down my chin and onto my shirt; I don’t bother to wipe it. There’s no one to see anyway, no one to impress.
After eating, I go upstairs to change. My closet is full of old dresses that don’t fit me anymore. At the academy, a good chunk of the girls and even some of the guys plan their reaping outfits months, sometimes even years, in advance. Me though—I haven’t thought about it until now. There’s a clean blue tank at the top of one of the drawers that smells relatively clean, so that will do. I’m running late so my hair remains an unbrushed knotted mess. At least I cut it short. If it were the length it used to be, down to almost my mid-back, it would probably be dreaded and matted, a rat’s nest.
When I step outside, the autumn wind brushes my bare shoulders, leaving goosebumps behind. It’s unseasonably cold. In the distance, the ocean crashes against the shore, reminding me of where I once was, where I am now, where I’m going–
Destiny awaits, it calls to me. I go forward, into the unknown.
The town square is full by the time I arrive. I see my father on stage, his eyes scanning the crowd for me. My sisters are here too, somewhere, but they stand with the adults, all too old to be reaped now.
Once I’m in the 18-year-olds section, my father finds me easily. We lock eyes. Even from two dozen feet away, I can see he’s nervous because he’s rubbing the back of his head: it’s his tell. He surely doesn’t know I’m volunteering–otherwise he’d be down here yelling at me–so he must be nervous that out of thousands of names, I’m going to magically be reaped and out of dozens of hopeful academy trainees, no one is going to volunteer. There’s a near zero chance of that happening. But as long as the chance isn’t exactly zero, it’s in his nature to worry.
The escort, Oedipus, also notices my father’s distress and whispers something to him. My father doesn’t reply, his eyes locked on me.
I return his stare with one of my own. My pale blue eyes are calm and determined.
Oedipus has been District Four’s escort for as long as I’ve been alive. Every year, his hair is somehow more nauseatingly green than the last. Seafoam green, to be exact. Each year, he’s also grown fatter. At school, we refer to him as the Oompa Loompa. It’s one of those pre-dark days references that no one exactly remembers the origin of, but it sounds fitting, so it sticks.
As the Panemian anthem begins to play, my father stands. He’s still staring at me. He reads the same speech as he does every year, the one about the History of Panem, all without looking away.
He’s going to fucking flip when I volunteer. I almost feel bad—almost—but then I remember who I am and why I’m doing this.
“It’s now time to acknowledge District Four’s esteemed victors and thank them for bringing glory to our humble district,” my father continues. “Misty Vaughn, victor of the 5th Hunger Games. Mags Flanagan, victor of the 11th Hunger Games. Cascadia Weatherhead, victor of the 19th Hunger Games. Rowan Alvarez, victor of the 30th Hunger Games.”
The four victors make their way on stage, and the crowd roars. Many careers volunteer for the fame of it all, but not me. I could give a rat’s ass about what everyone else thinks.
As is tradition, the girls’ names are reaped first. Oedipus waddles over to the large glass bowl and dives his chubby hand into the sea of slips. He swishes it around for a minute, making a show of it all, even though Four hasn’t had a reaped tribute since the 19th Hunger Games, when Cascadia won. That was twenty years ago: I hadn’t been born yet. My entire life, I’ve only known careers.
It’s a bit ironic, I think, that Four has only had one career winner since its academy was established. Meanwhile, its first three victors were untrained, yet more successful. If I cared about my sheer survival this fact would frighten me, but it does not. When it’s my time to die, it’s my time to die. I am not afraid.
“Nixie Gali!” Oedipus shouts, waving his arms dramatically in mock excitement as he reads the slip aloud. His skin looks even more orange than I remember.
“I volunteer as tribute!” I yell, my voice cutting through the thin air.
“No!” Someone in the crowd shouts. It’s one of my sisters, but from this far away, it’s hard to tell which one. Maybe Harmony. I ignore her.
As I walk to the stage, I feel a strange absence of emotion. I thought volunteering would make me feel something, anything, but my body still rings with a dull numbness. Meanwhile, I cannot bring myself to look my father in the eye. I can feel his gaze, sharp like daggers, still pressed onto me. Good thing I’ve built myself impregnable armor, so his disappointment doesn’t sting at all. I could care less.
I step onto the wooden stage, and Oedipus eyes me suspiciously. I can tell he doesn’t like what he sees. He probably expected someone more put together, a little prettier perhaps. Careers are usually pretty. It’s been a long time since someone’s called me pretty.
I consider eyes as the window to the soul, and behind Oedipus’s green contacts, there’s a complete absence of sympathy. My emotions may be muted as of late, but the day there’s only emptiness behind my eyes will be the day I no longer know who I am. I still have empathy and compassion, always, even if I don’t outwardly show it.
“What’s your name, young miss?” Oedipus asks gingerly, feigning kindness. I dislike him already.
“Horizon,” I say. “Horizon Summers.”
But that wasn’t always my name. In another lifetime, I was Grace.