{The Danger In Starting A Fire} (Standalone)

[charade]

Sawyer Monaghan

"Fire is the test of gold; adversity, of strong men.”

I make my way off of the platform, racking my brain and trying to come to terms with the fact that I will shortly be shipped off to the capitol. The next week of my life will be spent in front of a bothersome amount of cameras; as well, every minute of my life will now be completely planned out for me. I won’t be able to do so much as eat or sleep without somebody’s say-so. It is a sobering thought – Especially since I have spent a major part of my possibly soon to be ending life avoiding the Capitol and everything to do with it. I feel more suffocated than the time I accidently set my bed on fire and almost succumbed to the smoke that was created. I tell myself that there is nothing wrong with the way I am feeling. Is this how Gage Cooper and Aenor Kembry felt? What went through Katie Morven and Karl Millers minds as they walked down this path, flanked by the same peacekeepers as I?

I know deep down that this is all chance – That what I do in my spare time has nothing to do with my current predicament. Still, I can’t help but wonder If this is how the capitol picks the tributes for their sordid games. Do they watch us, scheming to weed out the deviants, the trouble-makers, the kids who already have enough problems on their own without having to worry about twenty-three other teenagers attempting to kill them? My line of thinking is interrupted as I and my escorts enter the Justice Building of District Three.

The first thing I see is my parents; my mother, all prim and proper, with what are most definitely tears gleaming in her eyes. She caresses, me whispering in my ear that no matter what I’ve done in the past, she is still proud of the young man I’ve grown to be. I embrace her, but I feel as though these words of hers come all too late. My father looks taciturn in his tailored suit. He says nothing, but putting out his hand for me to shake, passing me a cigarette as he does so. I look up at his face, and he gives me a sad but knowing smile from behind his wire-rimmed eyeglasses. I guess chewing gum, mouthwash and air freshener couldn’t take away the smell of smoke that surrounds me. It’s all too much to know that they still cared, despite never showing it to my face. I shove the small token into my pocket and take one last look at them before I am ushered outside.

I can scarcely believe what I'm seeing as I watch Peacekeepers drag my district partner onto the platform where our transportation will soon arrive. I can only imagine that she conducted a similar goodbye with her parents before being brought out; though judging from the glares the peacekeepers are giving her, It may not have gone that well. I do not ask, more concerned about what lies ahead than the well-being of this Cassandra. It does not pay to get close to anyone in the arena. I am reminded of when I watched Topaz Ross cradle the dead body of Nash Harvey three years ago. The two of them became more than just allies; and it was all the more terrible when they had to fight. I suppose though, that that might be a better alternative than not knowing the details of someone’s fate.

I recall the previous year’s Hunger Games and the unusual pairing of a career named Razor and a Blind girl named Saskia. It was a relationship I myself could not understand. One can only talk about what must have gone through their minds as their relationship lasted for only a few days. The cameras really played their scenes up; leaving the crowd in suspense. It annoyed me greatly that several people that I knew made bets on how long it would take for the career to ditch her– Or to kill her himself. I’d like to think that he did care for her on some level. His anguished cries and the tears that stained his face after he saw her in the anthem seemed real to me, and not a product of the capitol’s machinations.

I found it interesting that he hadn’t killed a single tribute until the only four of them were left. Aenor Kembry, the girl from my district was the only one he killed. I’d like to believe that they were both crazed by that point. It sickens me to think that anyone would derive any real pleasure from snuffing out another’s life. Will I be up against people like that in the arena? No. That doesn’t make sense to me. The tributes always seem to start out the same; Fearful, perhaps a dash of false bravado, just…scared.

Monsters aren’t born, they’re made. I think I read that somewhere once. It would take a lot of messed up circumstances to make a monster in my opinion, and the arena is full of messed up circumstances. We’re just teenagers after all. I think that’s why the eyes of the victors look so hollow whenever I see them on screen. Put all the make-up and highlights you want on them, you can’t remove the haunted, dead look in their eyes. And it is a dead look. Because somewhere along the line, somewhere inside, they died in the arena too. It is not a comforting thought, and certainly not the kind of thinking one would expect from the neighborhoods resident hooligan.

What can I say? Just because I don’t like school doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Not having anyone to talk to gives me a lot of time to myself. A lot of time think, and right now, a lot of time to reflect. What was the purpose behind all the trash bin fires I started? What was my motivation? I’m sure most of the adults around would say that I did it because I could, or perhaps in defiance to the capitol. Please. I have no delusions of grandeur. I was never trying to start a rebellion or overthrow the government. If anything I did it for two reasons. One; I love the fire. It has always captivated me watching the bright tendrils of light and heat cause paper to blacken and curl or wood to collapse on itself, all becoming a pile of ashes, soon blown away by the wind. Fire has magical qualities– of that I am convinced. It is the most destructive of the four elements and the most beautiful.

And as for the second reason; everyone needs attention. Everyone needs a way of letting the world know they count for something. If my parents wouldn’t listen to me, they would listen to the fire, though I don’t think they ever really understood. They don’t teach you to think like this school after all. In school you are just a number, you don’t mean anything. Was it wrong of me to want to stand out from the crowd? Was it wrong for me to try to find a way to be accepted? Everyone else has their place figured out. That’s how it seems to me. That everyone else is just content to be a cog in the machine because they have been accepted. Because they have a sense of security I’ve never been able to achieve.

I feel like everyone tries to hold onto something to remind them of who they are. Maybe that’s the reason for the tokens. It’s something to remind you of home, though I don’t know how many past tributes this has worked for. It’s because the arena strips all of that away. There’s no security; when you could die at any moment. There’s no trust; because everyone knows only one person can walk out of the arena. There is only the faint glimmer of hope that you’ll outlast twenty-three other people. So what does that leave a person with? Fear or madness? No one is given time to cope with what happens, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching the games, it’s that you only have time to react– never mind what the capitol tries to make it look like. I’m from the electronics district and I can tell when something is cut from a film.

Our ride arrives, and I am once again jolted out of my thoughts as I am pushed aboard the gleaming silver train. After a few minutes I am placed inside a compartment. I sit down and face the window before I am again interrupted, this time by a woman with eyes which look red from crying, slides the door open and plops down across from me.“Hello there; Sawyer right? My name is Jasmine Livewire, but you can call me Sparky. I’m going to be your escort until arena time you poor thing.”She purses her lips as she says this, and I can almost believe she is actually sorry for me. It is hard to tell what emotion this woman is feeling under a mask of far too much make-up, but she seems genuinely concerned. My eyes are drawn to her hair, which is curled around her head in an odd way. Even more eye-catching is the shade of electric blue that her hair appears to be dyed.She notices my gaze and responds accordingly. “Do you like my hair? I like the streak of red in yours Sawyer. It makes you look edgy.”

I smile. This Jasmine lady has a good heart; if not all the lights on upstairs. “Thank you err, Sparky,” I reply. “But if it’s not too much trouble though, do you think I could be alone right now?”She gives me a sad look and pats my cheek with a manicured hand. She smells of lilies.“Of course, I can’t begin to understand how you must feel right now. Torn away from your parents… and soon you’ll have to... to...to …Oh how horrible!”She wails, and for a minute I think she is going to collapse into sobbing nervous wreck. Are all capitol women like this? But she wipes at her eyes with a multicolored handkerchief and stands to leave.“I’ll be back later okay?”I nod as she exits, and I hear her sniffle something about “them” never coming back, year after year. I can only assume she means previous district three tributes.

There is a morbid truth to her parting words, whether she meant for me to hear them or not. The closest any district three tribute in the past five years got to winning was Katie. And yet, she was killed in the final battle by a girl with no legs. Part of me thinks she wanted to die. I believe there was something in her future that she saw, and It was not something she liked. Who was the real victor then?

Is this where life is taking me? I can only hope that the candle of my life does not burn out too quickly. Staring out the window as the train begins to move; I take the cigarette out of my pocket and roll it around in my hand. I could use a smoke right now, but… I won’t use this one. Right now it’s all I have to remind me of a simpler time. Like earlier today. I still wrestle with the idea of being reaped. It’s so surreal. And the worst part is that all I have is a cigarette, because I know that my clothes, including my precious leather jacket will soon be exchanged for whatever the capitol wants me to wear. I lift the small roll of paper up to eye level before placing it back in my pocket. I will hold onto this fragile thing. Because I know that everyone holds onto something. It’s how we define ourselves when no one is looking.