They think they possess me but I have got my teeth out and ready.

I was not expecting them to be quite so young, well I had expected such things yet I am still surprised.

The first time I saw their face was June 4th. I remember because it was the day my blood turned cold, and it has yet to warm.

Their skin is milky white, their eyes sunken, and they look perturbed as if being in our quaint district is surreal to them.

That does not surprise me.

They look as if staring too long will turn you to stone. Maybe it will, I've yet to check.

No one knows their name yet, their appearance was sudden, disturbing almost.

It is silly really, we all knew they were coming yet the disbelief we held was real.

The rumours are saying that they're a gamemaker's kid, given the gig through privilege rather than actual merit, I can't say the notion shocks me. Despite the escort title, they are rather plain. Long, salmon-dyed hair, and a petite figure, they have elegance yet none of the Capitol's in your face pizazz.

They look like sex on legs.

When people describe such lewd things in poetry, you would imagine such a soul as them, dainty yet dirty, the kind of thing you want to be served to you on a silver platter.

The first nod of oddness was the guard.

Now, it was not unusual for escorts to bring their own guards with them, peacekeepers do what they can, but they do not provide 24/7 supervision. So, some members of the Capitol bring their own, trusted employees who will keep them safe no matter what.

However their guard, their guard looked at them with something more than profession in his eyes.

He was at least a foot taller than them, strong and dark-haired, locks long enough to slot into a neat top-knot. However, unlike most guards, he wore a suit. A nice two piece suit.

The rumours say they're fucking.

The rumours probably aren't wrong.

I pay heed to the warnings of the reap, the catch is being announced live this year. Every resident of each district must attend; it will be broadcasted in the centre, our escort smiling jovially whilst we get told the news that will ruin all children's lives.

12 hours.

If you do not attend, if your presence is not noted, peacekeepers will storm your house, to ensure that you are on death's door, and if you aren't, you will be.

I loathe those who find glee in this. Those who sit in their luxury, drowning in their riches. Those who have never felt the pain of dying alive. Yet I know they are not to blame, they simply live. Just like us.

But their complacency lets us be murdered.

I must remind myself, they are not the reason for this.

There are many reasons and innocence is blamed each and every time. Maybe it is a cruel joke, blaming the child, the naivety of new, cursing youth to eternal damnation.

I sit on the step outside of our home.

He is still walking, the Xanthus girl needed a hand with her firewood and of course, he was the first to offer up assistance.

Love envies lies.

I lie a lot.

I lie in the name of love.

Love doesn't like that.

Lysander loves openly, his heart on his hand, beckoning those who haven't felt such emotion to touch, to enjoy what he has to give and to take. To take and take and take until nothing remains.

He sees it as a service, justice to those starved.

How he does not see that he is one of them will forever confuse me.

That boy of gold will never know his worth. Maybe that's how it's meant to be. He shines so brightly it is as if he swallowed the sun. The sun burnt his tongue when he swallowed, that bruise follows him in places he and I wish he could forget.

I can hear his footsteps along the gravel path. She is still with him.

Tanzin Xanthus, all brains, no beauty, the idol that has gained my brother's affection. She is a rather tall girl, standing just mere few inches under my brother himself, her eyes a startling green and her hair muddy brown. Her features are oddly soft, carrying a sense of fat on her limbs in a way that I envy, yet she holds herself with a gentle care, a warmth always evident in her eyes.

Sometimes it strikes me as odd that she is so different to Rhoswen, not just in looks, but personality. Rhoswen Xanthus, only two years older than me yet everyone knows her. She's inviting, encapsulating. She is much shorter than her sister, only 5 '2, yet the rounded maturity that surrounds her is what nods to her age, deep eyes and dark hair, Rhoswen is the astounding opposite to her last breathing relative, their blood merges in a way that combines their love.

Sisterly saviours.

I can hear Tanzin's laugh from where I am sitting, her head is thrown back and her mouth is divided into a smile, Lysander's chest is moving from where I can see and the pair are lugging the lumber in a khaki sling, similar to the one I know Greer owns.

God, why I know such things is a mystery to me.

Suddenly their shadows overcast my face, and I look up with twitching amusement, their expressions nothing short of gleeful.

"Yes?" I ask, knowing their answer will be something equally infuriating and endearing.

They've dropped the wood now, it lies at their feet, damp but not too damp to stop a fire. They must've trudged rather far to have got this much in so little time.

Tanzin shuffles under my gaze, it is peculiar, she has known me for all of her life and yet she gets nervous. Weird.

"Y'know Marigold? Marigold Donner?"

I sigh. Do 14-year-olds ever stop being so cryptic?

"Yes I know Marigold. What of it?"

Now Lysander looks uncomfortable. This is odd, my brother and I are a vessel of comfort, joined by our blood and the man who spilled it.

"She was crying today. Real bad." Lysander answers my question with a touch of softness.

That boy is the light and he will one day be devoured.

Schooling in District 12 is an interesting experience, they tend to lump multiple ages together, seeing as the sparse amount of teachers is nowhere nearly enough for the vast amount of children attending. Often meaning that if I did venture into a classroom, I would be there with my younger brother.

"Huh. I didn't know Marigold had emotions other than being stuck-up." I retorted.

Lys shrugged, "Seems that way. Regardless, I felt like I should do something, y'know, help make her feel better."

My brother, the only man alive capable of empathy.

"And you're telling me this, because?"

I already know the answer, even before his eyes start to water.

"Please 'Mitch, reapings soon, don't wanna upset anyone and end up in that arena."

He is good, I'll give him that. His care is disguised with selfish reasons, my brother knows me far too well. I turn my eyes toward the Xanthus girl who is still standing awkwardly, legs far too gangly to stand proud and arms that stretch down to her knobbly kneecaps.

"And you, Tanzin?" I ask, "What do you think?"

The worry in her eyes amuses me, thrills me almost.

"I don't really know her," she mumbles, "but maybe she'd like it if someone would reach out."

I hum. Marigold is undoubtedly the less desirable of the sisters, although identical in looks, she has a spiteful tongue and judging eyes; coming from wealth led her to possess a cruel sense of superiority over the rest of us, enjoying our suffering as she floats above it all. Maysilee on the other hand, is much to my preference. She does not speak much, only when words that bounce around her mind can no longer be ignored.

I shrug, "I'll see. You better get that wood inside and start a fire. Mother and Rhoswen will be home soon, they said they wanted it ready for their return."

I received a smile laced with glitter for that remark, pushed from my brother's mouth to my own, he is contagious, a disease of niceties, forever cursing my wannabe aloofness.

The pair grabbed their sheet of lumber and made their way up the wooden stairs, fumbling a tad when they reached the step with a harsh crack in it. They pushed through the door and out of my view.

Marigold, interesting.

I don't spend much time with either of the Donner sisters, their parents deemed my company undesirable years ago. I see them both walking idly by the other, to and from school the perfect little girls their parents demand they be. Maysilee often interjects herself into my life, pushing me further towards annoyance than most, our only similarities that of our love for our siblings.

Marigold much prefers to spend her time fawning over Rodger Undersee.

Rodger Undersee, the 18-year-old son of Mayor Undersee, is a fucking pain. Pompous and poncy, he acts as if he owns the place. He might as well do, it is rumoured for him to be taking over from his father soon, District 12's lack of a democracy leaves plenty of space for nepotism to take place.

Not that I care. He can take that position for all it's worth, it means very little to me. Mayorhood achieves nothing, you just get a fancy house and more food than the rest of us could ever dream up.

You must abide by the Capitol's rules, that is the catch of authority, you are a statement piece, a particular thwart in the side of being, a mouthpiece for the president's unspoken wants and needs.

I could never do that, no, I would rather choke.

The laughter echoing behind me makes the tense stance I have been holding soften, I know Lysander's laugh well, it is one of the many beauties of knowing such a boy, the sweet sounds of his joy prove to me that justice is in reach.

I don't suppose Tanzin Xanthus will ever realise how lucky she is, she has the love of my brother in the palm of her hand and she does nothing with it. Lysander's love needs to be protected, he is a saint, an omen of wonder. In my eyes, she is undeserving.

I can hear murmurs again, looking up, my mother and Rhoswen are straying up the path, small smiles gracing their mouths and a care-free look about them.

You almost wouldn't think she was capable of being my mother, small and slight, the older she got the more youthful her features appeared. The death of my father helped, I'm sure, he aged her, his unsavoury habits tainting us, dispelling any happiness into fear - that's what he did best.

But now, oh now she looked like one of us. Her wrinkles disappeared as he rotted, an infant glow mocking the childhood we lost.

I could not hold it against my mother, she was purified in the blood of her lover after all. Maybe her dignity will be reunited by God. Maybe not.

Her hand squeezes my shoulder, gently, a soft reminder that I am real. I am here. She enters our house with Rhoswen, calling to the children, exclaiming joy at their triumph of firewood. Sometimes it is hard to believe that our home was a myriad of scars, beaten into us with blood.

My eyes trail the path leading up to the stairs I am sitting on, the dark treeline not escaping my gaze. I was thinking stupid thoughts again. He was not going to appear, that is ridiculous, I know that.

But still, no, NO, we will not be doing that.

That silly, tall man with dark hair and tanned skin seems to be plaguing me for whatever reason. It does not matter. It is not relevant to what I must focus on.

The trees, the trees, of course the trees. I must keep a watchful eye on those pesky things. No other reason.

He cannot creep in, he mustn't, I beg for him to stay back, does he? No, of course he doesn't. He is sneaky, a snake in fact, he is meddlesome and oh how I desire him. It is carnal, it is wrecked, it is all consuming in a way that he will never be allowed to know.

It is a hushed secret between me and my pillow, wishes dreamed through the tranquil trail of my tears.

It is not relevant to what I have to focus on.

The soft thump of a warm body next to me echoes in my ears. From the light scent, I know who it is.

"Hello Rhoswen."

My voice is sweeter than expected, kindred to a jar of honey left on a sunlit window sill.

"Haymitch."

The smile in her tone is unmistakable.

She speaks again, "Are you nervous?"

I scoff, "For what, pray tell?"

I am not looking but I can feel her eyeing me with almost exasperation.

"The catch. The announcement, we have what," she checks the small watch adorning her thin wrist, "10 hours? Does that not scare you?"

I chuckle, "Rhoswen, dear, I fear nothing and certainly not whatever cruel jest the Capitol is intent on throwing to us."

The lie is heavy on my tongue, viscous and choking me.

"Sure. Have you seen the escort yet?"

Now that piques my interest, "Not that I am aware of, no, why? Have you?"

She hums.

I turn.

"Have you?" I ask again.

She shrugs, "Possibly, it's hard to tell."

"Hard to tell, how? What do you mean?"

"They don't look how you would think," she pauses, "they look. They're, well."

"Spit it out Rhos, we don't have all day."

She swallows, "They look erotic. Like, I felt as if I needed to pluck my eyes from the sight."

Oh. Well, that was not what I had been expecting.

"Oh really? Have that much of an effect on you, huh?"

Her elbow coincides with my gut, winding me.

"Shut up."

"That can;t be it, why else are you not sure of their identity?" I ask.

She shrugs, "They aren't flashy. They look well, quite plain. Beautiful, of course, but no fancy modifications like the rest of the capitol."

I hum, "Interesting. Maybe a rookie? New to the scene?"

"Maybe. But that's the thing, I saw them being escorted. What rookie has a personal bodyguard?"

"A very special one."

I do not show it, but I acknowledge Rhoswen's words far more carefully than she may think. She is a clever girl, sharp, astute at noticing things. She is not on my level, no, I am superior to her in many ways, including intelligence, but she is valuable to my bank of wisdom.

"We're 12. We don't get special."

I nod, "No, we don't. Maybe Snow decided all of us should have something nice this year, even if it is just eye-fucking our escort."

She slaps my arm, "Haymitch! You cannot say those things so casually."

I raise my brow, "Who's listening?"

I am goading her, I know this. So does she.

Rhoswen nestles in on herself, edging closer to me, chasing the warmth of another body.

"Still, it's unsavoury."

The rustle of leaves takes me away from her lecturing tone, my head shoots up, ravishing what I hope to be the sight of Greer. As always, I am disappointed.

Rhoswen's soft gasp tells me everything I need to know from what my eyes are taking in.

Moving through the gentle gravel path, is a tall man, wearing a sleek suit and hair brushed back into a neat top knot. And next to him, well, I began to understand Rhoswen's words in their complexity.

What a little treat feasted upon District 12, the starved nation of miners. No wonder the thing requires a bodyguard, I imagine everyone capable of a libido yearns for a chance with them. They don't appear to have noticed us., our quaintness is simply below them.

Yet, they also expect to go unseen. Their pale hand inside his screams, I simply listen.

The pair disappeared as quickly as they appeared. I don't think Rhoswen's jaw gets off of the floor. My mother calls us for dinner, and that is that.

Our house is filled. We are shaking fists and trembling teeth. I know: we did not mean to be cruel. That does not mean that we were kind.

✸

When darkness plagues me, he always carries the sun in his hand for me. Lysander, my beautiful brother snores gently in the bed next to mine.

It is early. Light has yet to greet our room but he glows.

I am lying on my back, the thin cover sticking to me slightly, the sweat that builds up on a June night is sticky. I can hear mother downstairs. We have an hour, give or take, before we must leave our haven and move towards the town centre. It should all be set up by now, a nostalgic sight laced with violence.

I shuffle awkwardly out of my bed, bare feet touching the cold ground.

My body makes its way towards my brother before I even realise what I am doing. He sleeps so peacefully, an angel on the Earth. My hand reaches out, petting his hair. He sighs softly and leans into my touch.

My brother, the boy desperate for salvation whilst granting it to others. Namely, me.

"Lys," I say, "Lysander, it is time to get up."

His eyes squeeze shut, and murmurs something incomprehensible.

I stroke his face, squeezing his cheeks gently, "Come on, sweetheart, wake up."

Suddenly we are looking at each other, and he breaks into a smile.

His grin will forever encapsulate my happiness, that brother of mine.

"Don't wanna," he mumbles.

I laugh, slotting my arm underneath his leg and pulling him to my chest, he is 14 and still weighs next to nothing, "No one wants to, but we must! Mother is downstairs, c'mon Lys, I can't carry you anymore, your legs are too long."

He tumbles out of my arms, hitting the floor with a light thud. He stretches, a yawn exiting his mouth, and he opens the door, greeting me with the sight of our stairs.

He leaves.

I follow.

Our mother is sitting at the table, a cup of what appears to be tea in her hands. She looks unwell. She mirrors how I feel. Sickness empties my stomach, rotting like poetry.

The only positive of today lies with our escort. If what I saw is truly them, well, whoever is reaped might even enjoy their time in the Capitol. I can hear Rhoswen in my head, swatting away my unsavoury thoughts.

As always, he returns to me. He has no right, that stupid boy, yet here he is, again. I shall see him today. And I shall stare. There is little point denying that fact now. It is the truth adorning my scars.

Lysander's chatter breaks my desires away from me.

"Hm?" I ask.

He smiles, of course he does, "I asked if you're okay? You look a bit loopy."

I laugh, "Yes, Lys, I am fine."

My mother pushes bowls of gruel into our hands, tightening when she clasps my own, a tight smile on her face. Today will be difficult, whatever the outcome. My mother has had a lifetime of grief, waiting is a game no one wants to play.

Maysilee's words echo my head, haunting my proclaimed innocence.

Doubly difficult. Now that could mean a whole manner of things and I ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach that negates the fact that I already know what is to be said. I know but I do not let it be known. My knowledge can decay because it cannot be that. It mustn't.

I shall live in that ignorance until it stabs me in the back, blood clogging my throat.

The clock gleaming in front of me mocks me.

We must go.

I do not want to.

We must.

Alas, despite my stubbornness I am still a sheep to be sheared by the Gods above.

Lysander notices my shuffling, and his kind eyes gleam with curiosity. He watches as my eyes shift between him and time, the crease in his forehead highlighting his loss.

I nod towards our mother, "We better go."

Her face is grave, sickly.

"My brave boys."

It is said with fear, a tremor present.

"No one ever says that to lucky people, do they?"

I am supposed to be the pessimistic one, not my darling Lysander, "Well, we have always been different." I look towards her, "Today will be fine. I know it will."

Her weak smile does nothing to help her son, "Yes, I'm sure it will be."

None of us make a move. Somebody always needs to go first. I know this. I go.

They follow.

We walk in silence. Families similar to ours all around, trudging towards our same destination, dread embodied in our legs. There is little noise, the chatter heard only being whispered by the young, too little to understand the terror of the reap.

Sometimes I have to remind myself, there is good in this world. It is painful and ugly and quite possibly the heaven promised to the wealthy but there is good. I know this, I found a little of it in Lys.

Usually, I would remark how wonderful it is, to be silent with someone. Today is not like that.

This silence, it follows the curve of my bones, entailed by flesh, burnt deep inside of me. I care and it is all over the place.

The vastness of the town square overwhelms me. Lysander clutches my hand, refusing to let go, I am thankful because I cling back. He reminds me, I am alive, we are beings forced to the slaughter but I have this, we have each other. We are okay. (For now).

Upon the stage, is Mayor Undersee. 

Behind him, sat in the chair beside another empty one, clearly made for him, is them.

I suppose the tributes truly are getting lucky this year.

"Welcome, welcome, to the 50th Hunger Games announcement of the specialty of this very fine, 2nd Quarter Quell!"

His booming voice oozes Capitol. What a pity, another one of ours lost to the dogs.

"I am sure all of you are just desperate to find out, but before the broadcast, I must introduce our new escort!"

I bet Mr Mayor Undersee has fantasised about them. The way he leers at my classmates is enough to make me sure of that.

"As we all know, Miss Curio is no longer District 12's escort, however, our new attendant is just as lovely, if not more!"

Definitely fantasised.

"Without further ado, I will give over to the exquisite Angel Aoki!"

See, what President Snow and I both understand, is that names are a valuable thing, You can use names. Keep them. They are a poison you don't even realise can harm, and that is the best kind of ruin.

They get up, their smile is a master of hiding the disgust I am sure they wish to send to Mayor Undersee, but they move past it, towards the microphone.

They clear their throat before speaking.

"Er, welcome. As, um, Mayor Undersee so, ah, kindly introduced me, I am the er, new escort for District 12. Your district, oh, ha, you guys know that. Um, as always, may the odds be ever in your favour."

Well this was quite the surprise. Angel Aoki is nervous. The stuttering, the general bleh-ness of their commentary intrigued me. Who in the world would send someone who is incapable of masking the confidence of the Capitol into District 12 of all places? That is just cruel.

They coughed, "Now, er, I will be announcing the catch. It has been um, 50 years, since the districts rebelled against the Capitol, wreaking uh, bloodshed and um terror. In order to create peace once again, the leaders of each, er, district signed a treaty, saying that such actions would never be committed again."

They paused for a second. Thank god we had the video for the actual reaping, or else we might be there forever.

"25 years ago, the, er, 1st Quarter Quell occurred, and a catch was decreed. It was a reminder that even rebels turned on rebels, um, so each district voted in their two tributes."

The silence is heavy. Lysander squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.

"This year, for the 50th games, President Snow wants to remind you all that, er, war is a game for everyone."

My heart is in my stomach.

I am always right, I had said to Greer, oh what a curse that is to bear.

"Therefore, double the amount of tributes will be entering the arena."

Lysander has tears falling from his pretty little face. There are shrieks and cries. They are ignored.

"Um, the reaping shall progress as usual. Instead of plucking one name from each section, two names will be, er, chosen. Thank you, um, for listening, and may the odds be ever in your favour."

Angel Aoki falters back to the safety of their bodyguard.

Now I understand it.

As lucky and lustful as they are, District 12 would take violence over sex any day. Stay behind your chosen bars, and we won't strike.

My head turns. Our eyes meet. He is there.

I dreamt last night of his teeth on my skin.

They are out now, and biting.

That's okay. I bite too.