[91st] The Reaping - District 11

[admin kay]

The newly appointed escort to District Eleven, Lysistrata Salmon, steps up to the podium, a smile--and a heavy amount of magenta makeup--was plastered on her face. She wears a lavender suit plastered with frills and embossed with jewels of varying shapes and looks out over the crowd, surveying the sea of potential tributes. "Who here is ready for another exciting Hunger Games and to send two tributes to compete for a chance to win!?" her voice booms into the crowd as she waves her hands energetically. Clearing her throat, she continues in a more subdued tone, "Right to business then, shall we? Let us begin the Reaping!"

They did not look to see the reaction of his district before reaching into the glass ball that held the names of the children. "First up," they announced, pulling out a slip of paper. They unfolded it and read out to the crowd, "Andrew Priest!" They then reached into the other ball. "Cain O'Malley!"

OOC - The deadline to exchange spots is Tuesday June 7th. District Escort Lysistrata credit to pup

[bailee]

God had shown the O'Malley's mercy last year. 

Ever since Abel's death, and Six's the year prior, an uneasiness fell over the O'Malley clan. Especially when reaping time rolled around. Prayers were spoken in hushed tones underneath the believer's breathsw hile the non-believers crossed their fingers behind their backs and hoped. Or dreamed. Or did whatever non-believer's did when they so miserably wanted something to happen (or in this case... not happen). 

I did neither.

I was a believer back then - still am. But God does what He wants - and not what His people want. He blessed us with the power of free will to figure out life with the cards that He dealt. Six was not strong enough to handle God's will - and my little brother was not much better, either. None of us really were.

That's where I'm different from them. They pray to God for the strength to carry on - I don't. I take it into my own hands - I become strong enough. 

But I would be lying if all the pressure alleviated off my shoulders - a heavy sigh escaping from my lungs as the Reaped tributes of the 90th let unfamiliar names escape from their mouths. Another year had gone by, and I was closer than ever to finally getting the fuck out of District Eleven and making something of myself - making something of our family.

One more to go.

Just like last year, Cliff had taken off early, arising before any of us had even gotten out of bed. But my thoughts spiralled - a canvas of my dreams splaying across the wall from where I slept, my eyes open without the force of sleep trying to close them, my arms crossing my body. They danced - imagery of the ivory uniform, rifle in hand, learning the cadence, marching through Districts, through the Capitol...

And then they would quickly fade - imagery of shattered dreams on drywall. A piece of paper being pulled from a bowl, the name so familiar upon the escort's lips. An inconvenience beyond repair - a virus that would rip apart every little thing I had worked forward to for the past three years all hidden in the pulp of a fishbowl. 

Suddenly, there was the familiar sound of my Dad shuffling around the house and I had realized dawn had arisen and sleep had not found me once that night. 

Was this how Abel felt the night before he decided to volunteer?

I wish I had asked him before he left. Abel wasn't the calculated type, but he did have an incessant need to prove himself. Was it a decision he had already made? Or did he decide to do it after Prop's name was uttered from the escort's lips?

Did he die thinking he made me proud?

There were four of us in the Reaping today. It was my last - Noah and the younger kids still had many to go. My cousins scattered across the corrals - like herded farm sheep, all creepily in line and well-behaved, devoid of tears and tantrums and anger that filled the District teenagers on Reaping day. 

Breathe in.

I feel like Noah could sense my anxiety.

"Andrew Priest,"

Not me. Not my family. Irrelevant. Breathe out.

Breathe in.

"Cain O'Malley,"

My breath hitches and my eyes widen. Suddenly my world spirals around me and I'm surrounded by hallucinations, screaming and blood tattered white uniform, a massacre beyond measures. This is real. These are my nightmares coming to life and God had his hand in it. My hand grips into a fist at my side, veins bulging with the sheer force of the repressed anger held inside. Tears threaten at my eyes - but I repress them, remembering the words of my father from my first reaping

The initial shock passes as I'm coaxed up the stage. The familiar voice of my father grunts my name, firm and stern and devoid of the emotion of a father, and a hand grips onto my bicep. Reality comes to life like a trainwreck - destroying everything in its path, my future crumbles beneath my fingertips. Cliff's guiding hand brings me back to life and suddenly I am on a stage, standing in front of my siblings, my parents, my cousins, my peers as they also watch all of my plans of going to District Two go to absolute shit. The crowd is silent when the escort asks if there are any volunteers.

I let a couple deep breaths escape as my fate is sealed - reality had set in, but I was even stronger than the cards I had been dealt, I reminded myself. I have the strength of the predecessors - the same ones who won a war.

I am an O'Malley, and they would remember me as such.

cain accepts his spot

1 2 3

[dars]

As far as Andrew Priest could tell, the world was the one with the problem. Not him. Standing there in his bedroom mirror, wearing the belt of a dead man because he's slimmed up too much for the summer, he thinks the world had several problems, in fact. The Priest household was arguably a lot of things, but certainly anything but holy. It was little more than two bedrooms full rickety floors, a kitchen with nice water pressure and poor lighting, and a general air thick with- something. Regret or relief. Blame or praise. Understanding within the mass of confusion. A mother, a son, and an empty spot at the dinner table Andrew was not sure he should be aching so much because of. Whatever it was, he felt it all the time and it choked him like a cloud of smoke. Was it grief maybe?

Guilt?

He and his mother hadn't spoken of it since. A single second's eye contact through the silvery moonlight and the smells of whiskey and redemption, the ghastly expression on Andrew's face, the closing of his bedroom door, and the first of many months of sleepless nights.

She stopped in the doorway now, his mother, and he noticed the hesitation. Like she wasn't sure if it was okay to tell him she loved him anymore. He would've mentioned it weeks ago, except he wasn't sure yet if he should. She hadn’t brought it up either, so he gathered that she wasn’t sure she deserved to. She was aging with quiet grace, his mother, embracing her gray these days and offering the world the same warm eyes and straight teeth she passed down to her only son. She was always a gentle soul, and Andrew knew if there was a lick of goodness within him it was her doing.

He just didn't know if that was enough. He didn't know if it should be enough.

"Meal service just came," she said with forced positivity. She always tried to positive her way through the tough times, which meant these days she was chronically acting happier than she was. As much as it drove him completely insane, Andrew would be lying if he said he didn't have similar avoidance tendencies himself. But today was a reaping day, Andrew was from a district the world hated, and it happened to be his abusive father's birthday- the first since his passing four months ago. Some days were destined to be bad, he figured. And some days didn’t deserve his positivity.

“Okay,” he replied politely.

“You want juice?” she offered, strained. His mother’s way of apologizing had- for as long as he could recall- been through acts of service. She enjoyed performing tasks, thought that apology through action was always the best course of action. Andrew was the same because of her.

“You don’t have to go through the effort. I can have water,” he said politely.

She scoffed at this, a hand of dismissal- “The oranges will spoil soon anyway.”

Politely, he agreed.


He and his mother made their way to the square after a sufficiently awkward, expectedly quiet, and thankfully brisk breakfast- the Capitol sent oatmeal, granola bars, and dried peaches, which was an unusually generous amount of variety, but he figured this was one of the Capitol's half-assed attempts to keep everyone civil on days like this. Like getting the dried version of the fruit they weren't allowed to have when it was fresh was somehow a reward they should be grateful for.

He sighed against the fog of the morning. The sun had only risen fairly recently and the muggy heat had only just warmed the world enough to start evaporating yesterday's water runoff and rain- of which, at the very least, there was an abundance those days. There was still a lot of time between then and noon, and already Andrew's shirt was sticking to him because of sweat.

He flashed his smile at the familiar faces from school, squeezed some shoulders, shook some hands, kissed some cheeks, pretended like this was something that was beneath him, like he was completely unbothered by the reaping or what it meant or what it might mean for him. Pretty boys like him didn't have problems: they weren't allowed. And for some reason, he cared very deeply about maintaining that image. Now, perhaps, more than ever before. Maybe because it was the only thing he still had some semblance of control over. He was a Capricorn with a Scorpio rising and a Virgo moon... He cared a good deal about control.

His mother smiled from her place with the other mothers, watching him interact with his peers like she was proud of how he turned out. He wondered what that said about her.

He wondered what that said about him.

The crowd went silent when they heard the sting of the stage microphones switching on. It was more like a sense, that sound- a dog whistle that set them on edge without even trying. The woman who took the stage wasn't someone Andrew recalled ever seeing before in his life. She was a plump one, with beautiful glowing skin and long hair and an electric smile. Andrew was struck by the loveliness of her hands as she reached into the bowl of names-

The bowl of names.

Singular? Did that mean-

"Andrew Priest!"

        ^{Andrew you have to-}

       
         <sup>Andrew you have to-


                                                              so sorry, Drew-</sup>

_{-im through! Back up, h-}

_{-thin g to say?}



"Hm?"

"I asked, 'Do you have anything to say?'?"



"Oh."






"No. I don't- I mean, yes. I'm... Sorry, a bit taken aback. Ahem."

He could feel his mother's eyes on him. When he met her gaze, he saw the very same look he'd worn that night reflected back at him, so he looked away and vowed not to do it again.

"I... promise to do my very best."

Because no one would ever volunteer for a nobody.

He smiled. They cheered, happy to have a place to put their guilt. The new escort called another name Andrew was too dumbfounded to hear, and then everything began to dull around the edges. His vision, the sound, it all seemed very far away. He remembered willing himself to hold on until the red lights switched off on the cameras, and then he fainted.

[Andrew accepts]