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The Hearts Of Lonely People - Part II

Part I

Word Count: 2,628

A/N: these were supposed to be short blurbs and then I got carried away. Not proofread because there are no rules.

Warnings: discussion of assault, abortion, mention of cannibalism, drugs, cannon typical themes.

***

We don’t work today. Those of us with the less important jobs anyway. My father will still be at work, until the Reaping starts, which will be shown on every television through the building. Just like the coverage of the games will be once they begin.

They want us to take the day to prepare, to spend it with our families because it may be the last time we see them.

We are, despite everything, fortunate in 6. We don’t have the worries of the sparse electricity in places like District 12, where, so we’ve been told, their nights are sometimes only lit by candle light and they only have the coal they produce from their mines in order to make their dinners.

We make something important, so they make sure we always have power, and, of course, with all of our trees, we always have the kindling and bundles to make a fire.

On a regular day, I would get up and dress in a pair of dungarees and a shirt with stains of paint and thinner.

My job is one that surprises me even exists, which at the same time, with catering to the rich luxuries of the people in the Capitol, it shouldn’t be shocking.

I paint the cars in the factory that my father is in charge of. On some days, this is a simple task. A coat of one color, all the same.

On other days, I am allowed the small freedom of creativity when they request something different, because those that live in the Capitol don’t stop at just the modifications to their clothes and bodies. Of course it would extend to their cars, too.

Vehicles covered in flowers, feathers, sometimes tasteful stripes, and other times simple graduated colors from one end to the other.

I’m surprised someone as mundane as myself is allowed to do this. I am not important. I’m not anyone, really, and they trust me with this.

The work, once it’s set up, is easy, but the preparation can take some time. There is heavy lifting involved, the removal of the precious metal trims, and the time to sand down the vehicle are what I think has kept me from getting bored of the monotony of the single colors.

I look down at the cord around my neck as my mother stands behind me, brushing out the pale blonde hair, only lightened from the sun, days spent helping my father with tending the small garden that we are allowed to have has given it enough exposure to lighten it from the dirty blonde color it usually is.

In the necklace is a small piece of, what I’ve heard my father call it, Fordite. All it really is, is paint. Layers of paint that have dripped off the cars, thick and thin layers, that are dried, and then cut into different shapes.

The one I’m wearing is round, mainly greens and blues, with one spot having a faint purple streak, wrapped in wire and situated on a leather cord, tied in a knot around my neck. My father made it for my mother as a gift to wear on the day of their wedding.

I don’t remember any of my sisters wearing it, but, there’s something about the way it sits on my chest that makes me worry less, so I don’t ask questions.

We are 10th in line for the Reaping. The Capitol has them staggered in intervals throughout the day so that everyone can watch. I’m thankful we have most of our day to spend together. We have to be at the square by 1:00PM to watch for who of our District will be sent to fight for their lives.

My mother has been fighting with the small fire in the middle room and the set of hair irons for longer than I think is necessary. I shouldn’t complain. The people from the most inhabited northern part of our District, the ones that don’t have access to an old vehicle for some kind of transportation, would have had to start walking days ago or hope there was room for them on the busses that they shuttle the factory workers back and forth each day to make it here.

It sounds miserable, to travel that far just to turn around and go back after such a short time.

The thought makes me choke up as my mother parts out another chunk of my hair, wrapping it around the hot iron, freezing me in place.

Sometimes I enjoy that I forget that I’ve traveled to the uppermost part of our District. The people are fewer, less Peacekeepers stationed there, and, the tip that is covered by the peninsula from District 9 is claimed to be mostly uninhabited.

I dislike that I know differently. I, like the other women and girls that refuse to bring a child into the world we live in, know the truth.

It’s easy to stowaway on those buses. They don’t keep count, some people choose to sleep in the lots behind the factories in the warmer months, rather than make their way back home on the few hours journey, so, to blend in is easy.

I wasn’t scared to go somewhere new.

I was only scared of what would happen when I got there. To hope that the end result wouldn’t result in casualty.

I can hear chatter outside as people pass by the window in groups. We are the most inhabited part of the District, with most of our 700,000 plus people residing somewhere nearby.

She doesn’t burn me with the irons this year, thankfully. She never does it on purpose, but usually someone walks away with a burn or two. Between her shaky hands and tears in her eyes, I try not to get upset, it’s something that she thinks is important. It just feels foolish to me.

My mother rakes her fingers through the curls while my hair is still hot. She straightens the collar of tbe dress and necklace before we go out to join the rest of our guests.

Our television is on, but no one pays attention as my sisters, their husbands, and their children arrive, luckily young enough to not yet be faced with what the day truly means, what the Reaping really is.

There is food cooking, and the smell of all of the different dishes that my sisters have brought, as well as a few of our older neighbors, makes my stomach yearn for it to be time to eat.

I sneak outside of our red brick home, thankful for the silence amongst the bubbling of conversation that goes on inside.

There’s a hum of electricity in the air as I sneak through the alleys and side streets of our neighborhood, thankful that the regular lineup of Peacekeepers must be either distracted by the people that have already begun gathering in the square or are dealing with the morphlings that would be foolish enough to try and trade their smuggled contraband in the open.

We’re used to it, and most of us ignore them, but the northerners don’t take as kindly to their antics and are ready to report them the first chance that they get.

I take a deep breath, thankful that the sun is blocked once I reach The Mural.

The Mural stands mixed in with rubble and vines that try to grow and cover it, cracking through the ground and reaching for the sunlight.

Occasionally, myself, and, I assume, others, will clean it off, leaving the image exposed once again.

No one knows when it is from, but the images show the process of building a vehicle, just like we are known for here in 6.

Something about it fascinates me and brings me comfort. One of the things other than my family that I associate with home.

I’m not sure how long I stay there, long enough to feel the hunger setting in and urging me to return home.

Some people continue to stop by as they make their way to the square.

Dalton, my oldest and only friend, in truth, arrives just before we are ready to leave. Skinny, like most of us are (because although we are fortunate enough to live in the better part of 6 doesn’t mean that we’re that much better off, although some of the northerners and those who live on the outskirts seem to think so) with sandy hair and kind eyes, he’s the only person that has ever been able to see eye to eye with me, and for that I’m thankful.

“Are you worried?” He finally asks as we pass an alley where two Peacekeepers are stationed at the opening.

I play absentmindedly with the necklace.

“No,” I lie, everyone is worried today, but to say yes would just make me feel weak, “are you?”

He shakes his head, “No, we’ve made it this far, right, mouse?”

I shake my head at him. Dalton has called me mouse every since the first time I went to their home, feeling rude to eat anything off the table other than bread and cheese.

The Square is full. Cameras, brought in this morning from the Capitol, line the streets and buildings to televise the ordeal to the rest of our nation. The sun is just leaving its peak in the sky, thankfully behind us but the rising humidity makes a thin layer of sweat start to raise across my forehead.

Aster Greenleaf and Culver Paragon are the only two living Victors from District 6. Their cheeks are hallowed, their eyes large in contrast to their skulls, and their yellowing skin hangs off their bones in a way that makes me fear they may take flight if the breeze comes through wrong.

They look like they have done their best to look as presentable as they each can for the occasion, but they stare on as if they don’t truly see what is going on around them.

I shuffle to the side in our compartment of all the 18 year olds. Dalton stands beside me, shoulder to shoulder, and I know that if it were like other times where I’ve lied and said I’m not worried, just us, he would hold my hand, because we’re both scared, but looking soft at a moment like this is no use, so we both stare on with brave faces and wait.

Clementine Sterlingshire, the escort for District 6, with her peach colored hair, introduces our District Victors, waiting for some kind of response in applause, but it’s sparse through the crowd.

They both managed to make it far in their games, the 65th and 62nd, by using camouflage tactics instead of confrontation.

It surprises me that the Gamemakers didn’t try and write them off sooner like they did two years ago with Titus, the cannibal, that, even at his age was likely suffering Morphling withdraw, and began to eat the dead he had killed before they engineered an avalanche to kill him.

Compared to other victors I don’t think the Capitol would be overly entertained by someone winning by blending into their surroundings.

Behind Clementine, Aster and Culver sink into their seats, and Mayor Ankley settles beside them.

I can’t stand the thought of anything to do with their family. His son, Gerard, caused me the most grief I’d ever experienced in my 16 years, at the time.

He looked at me like he wished me dead when I told him I was going to travel north to find a healer that would help me terminate the life inside me that he had cursed me with. The result, was the same woman treating me for a black eye and a busted lip as well.

Sadly, she told me the occurrence wasn’t that uncommon.

Mayor Ankley recites his yearly speech, and I let my mind wander while Clementine steps aside and lets him speak.

The air doesn’t move. It just hangs around everyone packed tightly into the square. The mayor finishes his speech by talking about our four victors, saying he is thankful that two of them are here to join us today.

I feel bad for whoever has to be mentored by Aster and Culver. The thought of the lives of people from our district depending on their coaching isn’t really a reassuring one.

Clementine smiles, returning to the microphone, the feedback echoing through the square at the continued silence before she speaks.

“Thank you, Mayor Ankley! Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

I swallow hard as she echos the statement that every escort chirps before they stick their hand in the glass ball and choose two youth to send to their deaths.

In 68 years we have only had four victors in our district. It’s not a good average. Nothing like the careers from districts 1, 2, and 3, anyway.

“We’ll start with the girls,” Clementine smooths the fabric of her metallic dress, sleek and curved with metal accents just like the bodies of the cars we make before I paint them.

There’s silence as her hand grasps a piece of paper, keeping it folded before she speaks into the microphone.

“Quinn Meyer!”

Everyone else hears my name. All I hear is my heart causing my thoughts to swim.

The thudding in my ears doesn’t silence as my former classmates part to give me room to walk to the platform, Dalton giving my hand a firm squeeze that almost brings tears to my eyes as I drag my feet along.

They’re lead. My shoes must be filled with it now anyway, because it feels as if it takes me hours of walking through the hot air to stand next to Clementine on the stage.

She’s a bit taller than I am, which surprises me, because up on the stage she always seems so small and far away.

Clementine nods at me, a small smile and she continues with the ceremony.

This is procedure. This is routine. This is normal for her.

But not for me! I’ve stood for the last five years and always watched it be someone else. Someone who looks more suited to the task.

There’s no way I’ll make it out of this alive. Truly.

“And now for the boys!”

I’m not as strong as I think I am. So what, that I move some paint and sand down cars? I can’t climb, I can’t fight, and I don’t think I could kill someone even if I had to.

Clementine returns next to me with the slip, and there’s a pause, a beat, as she opens it, reading the name before speaking into the microphone clear as day.

“Gerard Ankley!”

I think my heart truly stops. I look through the crowd, and see, barely, Dalton start to move.

No.

No one in our district has ever volunteered to be tribute. Ever. I don’t think they would know the protocol even if someone did. It isn’t like we have careers that vye for the honor of being tribute.

I shake my head at him as subtly as possible, and he stops. I know what he thinks, that it would be less terrible if we could be there together instead of being sent to my death with someone who truly has already wanted to kill me, but the thought, if we both survive and one of us had to kill the other to be able to come back home, I couldn’t kill my best friend.

Gerard stands next to me on stage, and Clementine seems upset that I refuse to shake his hand, but looking at Gerard, I know, for sure, I won’t be returning home alive.

For that I am certain.

#thg fanfiction #thg #the hunger games #hunger games fanfiction #hunger games au #Quinn Meyer #the hunger games au #oc fanfic #peaky blinders #fanfic au #tw abortion #tw assault #tw cannibalism

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