71st Reaping [D10]

[Lulu]

The escort of the district stepped out onto the stage, a smile plastered across his face as he stared into the cameras that surrounded it. It was time once again to choose two children to compete in the Hunger Games, and it was his job to do so.

"It is time," he said as he stood over the impatient people of the District, "To once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!"

He did not look to see the reaction of his district before reaching into the glass ball that held the names of the female children. "Ladies first," he announced, pulling out a slip of paper. He unfolded it and read out to the crowd, "Leticia Tibideaux!" He then reached into the other ball. "Rodrick Benstaloe!"

OOC- RPing is allowed. If you wish to volunteer, let the tribute post first either accepting or stepping down from their place for volunteers, and then post. If the tribute doesn't reply by Tuesday, September 29th, a staff member will post saying that volunteering is open. Please do not post until you see this staff message. FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE.

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Also, and this is really important: If you have been selected as a tribute and plan on going into the arena, we HIGHLY SUGGEST you take some RP Tutoring lessons ASAP. It doesn't matter what level RPer you are; everyone can use a little help. RPing a tribute is a privilege; if you're not going to put the time and effort into making your posts the best they can be then you can count yourself among the dead.. It's not a requirement, but please please please just consider the lessons. They'll help even the most advanced RPer.

[mat]

[googlefont="Kranky:400"]

Rowdy Benstaloe

life is like a nightmare
dressed like a daydream

My eyes flicker open to the dreaded day known as the Reaping. I feared this greatly as a kid, but now that I’m never going to wake up, I’m not worried. It’s not like I would get reaped in a dream. It’s not a dream turned nightmare. And when I die, it’s still only a dream. Dreams are never ending.

Rodney’s body is still motionless, just as it is every morning, and Rory isn’t fidgeting across the room either. If it wasn’t for Rodney’s cockiness, I’d still be fearing this day, just like everyone else. Maybe that’s why I care for him as much as I do, he saved me from having to endure so much pain. Pain was the last thing I felt before I began to live a new life in dreams. And believe me, I don’t miss it.

I try not to make noise as I roll out of bed, but if you fall instead of land on your two feet, you’re bound to make some noise. I did that, and Rodney moaned, turning opposite to where the noise was. I don’t want to wake them up. Rodney is the only person I’ve truly learned to love. He keeps me close when I’m sad and keeps me in check when I’m angry. It’s the least I can do to let him sleep in a little longer. It seems like I never sleep in my dreams, when I close my eyes, they seem to open back up instantly to a new day of dreaming.

I do my normal routine before either of them wake up, only Mama and Daddy are awake. They ask if I feel okay, and I nod. Why do they always ask me that? I’m living through the best dream ever, how could I not feel okay? It’s the same answer every day, and the sigh of relief they make every day after I ask means that I’m doing something right, right?

By the time Rory and Rodney are awake, I’m already ready to go. I look nice, but personally, I look better shirtless. So does Rodney, but he tries to show off and ends up looking immature. It’s funny, actually, because he claims to be the mature one (but he’s not the star of my dream, now is he?)

Rodney and I walk side by side, and Rory is not far behind us. My eyes examine the things around me. I love all the animals in District Ten. Even if the District isn’t rich, it’s still my favorite compared to any other. The combination of wealth and a district full of animals would be my dream, but everything is so accurate to before I started this new life.

By the time we’re all situated in the Town Square, I can’t help but think that Rodney or Rory are going to be reaped. I mean, it’s my dream, it would never go bad for me, but things can go bad for them and indirectly go bad for me. Just cross your fingers and hope for the best, I hear Rodney mumble out a few words, and I nod. He’s right beside me, just like every night.

The escort begins the annual speech, and I tap my foot. Can’t we just get this over with, reap the two people, and then leave so we can all take a power nap?

I cross my fingers and hope for the best. Not Rodney. Not Rory. Not Me, although that’s a given. Dreams don’t turn into nightmares easily.

His hand dips into the first pool of names, the girl pool. I have nothing to worry about with this one.

Leticia Tibideaux

The name is unfamiliar to me, and when she walks up, nothing changes. The boys are next, and it’s at this time that I feel nervous for my brothers. They’re defenseless in my dreams, I can’t control what happens in them. I cross my fingers. Not them, anyone but them.

Rodrick Benstaloe.

It takes a moment for me to digest the last name, my last name. And then I dysect the first name, my first name.

My eyes begin to open wide. Me? How? Dreams can’t be nightmares. Nothing bad is supposed to happen in my dreams. The guy said he was going to make sure nothing bad happens to me! He lied. Rodney elbows my side, nudging me. I begin to walk up to the stage. I just want to wake up now. This nice and calm dream is now a nightmare, and it happened in split seconds.

The term ‘pinch yourself, you must be dreaming’ describes everything right now. I’m dreaming, and no matter how hard I pinch myself, I don’t wake up.

I want to wake up.

**Rodrick Benstaloe accepts his position at D10M

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

L.T

I'd always kept my diary stuffed under my bed in a large box with all the other things which were relatively sentimental to me. A book of flower pressing and a necklace made by my sister which she gave to me on our first reaping day. Every now and again, I'll wonder if I should stop my writings and dedicate my time to something more beneficial, like how to farm or breed cattle.

But there's nothing quite like jotting down what you feel to someone that is there (but isn't really).

It's like a window to my private thoughts. A window into all the good and all the bad and all the things I've been too scared to talk about to anyone who has ever walked the planet.

My diary did manage to make it to each important event with me. My first day of school and my last. Mine and Noelia's birthdays and being allowed to keep that scatterbrain cat which was living in our foundations for three months. A insignificant little book in the whole wide world managed to see the light and dark, the dreams and nightmares, the hurt and the heal.

I'd trace my fingers over the pattern on the front: a never ending loop of intricate lines. Noelia and I would follow it with our fingers for hours when we were little and naive. Exclamations of our innocent minds combined into one activity caused for a hurricane of arguments which weren't necessary but still slipped through our friendship to happen anyway.

Of course, this was documented in my book.

Leather bound with crusty old beige pages, white pages, nice pages, thin pages, thin handwriting, crushes written in code, silence, dog-eared pages, drawings, sketches, art, masterpieces, notes in margins and dates as a header, careless whispers between one page and another and relieved sighs archived as 'Reaping One' to 'Reaping Five'.

This diary is my everything.

Reading countless entries from my younger self makes me feel like my eyes have opened. My views have changed. Things aren't obscured by my mother feeding me lies to try and comfort me. At the time, my 12 year old self was guided by the reassurance that things would "get better" or "be okay".

Of course, they didn't and my little book tells the story of a girl who transitioned from a dream world to reality.

And I can remember the transformation. I was a caterpillar my whole life, living life in the dark, unaware of all the tremendous difficulties the world dealt. There was no light really, and I realised that. But just when I thought the world was over, I became a butterfly.

It made sense.

Infinite scribblings in my tatty old diary looped together and became clear. The pieces fell together and the picture was complete.

All those words written about different days and times and moments and lies and heartbreak were unscrambled by this enlightening, and I must've been blind because they were all documented beneath my name.

—

"Leticia Tibideaux!"

My fingers curl around Noelia's palm and I do nothing but squeeze. I don't want to look at her and I don't want her to look at me. I don't want anyone to look at me. I don't want to look at myself. In the seconds between peacefulness and a hurricane of emotions, I whisper to her.

"I love you,

and I will always love you until I die.

And if there's life after that,

I'll love you then, too."

Saying goodbye to my saving grace, my sister, my rise and fall makes my knots become loose with acceptance. I won't be away from her, not really. Because when a person is your tragedy, you have to wear them as armour.

I let go of her hand and place my hands behind my back, my thumb tapping against the leather cover of my diary to make sure it's still tucked into my skirt underneath my jersey. It's still there.

Good.

Involuntary movements made by something alien control my body. I feel like a puppet on strings as I walk out of the organised lines of children and teenagers to show the world the face behind the name. My eyelids flutter to blink away tears but a stray droplet slithers down my face.

I'm limp: my arms and legs feel weak. It's set in stone, there's no volunteers for me so I'm going to have to do this. I'm going to have to do this for real and I can't go back now even though I wish I could just pinch myself or something so everything would be like how it was when I was eleven because it was so easy—

—but I can't. I'm reaped.

I blink and appear on the stage. Time ticks slowly on as half the crowd stands in anticipation of the second name, the other half: relieved. My eyes flickers to Noelia, her head facing towards the ground. I don't want her to see me like this: a delicate puppet held in place by a single fraying string.

I can't look any more. And I won't.

The depth and clarity in my eyes becomes lost, they've frozen over like the surface of a puddle on a bitter day. My insides dampened by uncried tears and I can feel the battle going on to make sure the crowds don't see. It's not fear, worry or shock.

It's pain, and it's arrived like an unwelcome gift to my arms forced open.

Golden tickets of hope become lost in the ice and everything becomes cold. The world around me turning slowly becomes blue with each movement I make, and though my desperation to run from it all is high, I'm frozen like a statue into my place.

All I have are my eyes. To watch the seeds of relief be sown and to see the harvest of another skeleton twinned to mine. I can't accept the frost which washes over everything, and so I look to the only warmth found in the eternal numbing.

The sun: a star.

My eyes close and my mind runs with emotion. Harmonic symphonies playing as coins are thrown from a mountaintop to a fountain. I inhale to let the toxicity stain my lungs, but exhale childish dreams of wishing on a star.

But in this moment, I just need to know how many wishes one star can give.

{leticia accepts her position as d10f}