[D6] The Reaping

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

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, " Ophelia Wylder!" He then reached into the other ball. "Crescent Avos!"

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, June 7th, a staff member will post saying that volunteering is open. Please do not post until you see this staff message. FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE.

Tributes, please do not make your acceptance or denial of your spot in character; instead, please leave an ooc note at the end of your post stating whether they accept or are stepping down for volunteers.

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.

[Deleted]

( c r e s c e n t )

What can I say -- I'm a moon child? 

I never slept the night before (I don't really ever), it's a scary thought. Eight p.m. rolls around and I scratch my head, "this might be my last sleep." My last dream, my last thought, the last night I put my head on that pillow and actually think this might be it. And it probably won't be. It probably won't be the last day I bite clouds and trip on stars and the next day will be the same as any other and sometimes that's just as scary. 

Sometimes it's just as terrifying knowing it'll all be the same. Knowing that my white ass might get trapped in the same monotony. The same spiral as I walk down that subconscious hallway, what if this is it. My big 'is.' It's all just one same pattern of me staring death in the face before realizing it's a mirror and then ten p.m. rolls around and I step out of bed. It hits dusk  and the very minute my mother is asleep on her aching back in the other room I roll out and open the window. And I roll out the window, the glass pane frosting against my palm; if this is my last sleep maybe I shouldn't ever sleep. 

Maybe if this is my last goddamn sleep, maybe I should just never put my head down. Just wait for the sleep to become reality and spend my last fucking hours somewhere new, somewhere that's not my last.

Something that's finally my beginning. 

I do this every year, ten rolls around and my tennis shoes hit the pavement in long strides; I'm so tired of this tiredness. That yearly fear, even that daily fear -- if this was my last, would it make a difference? Of all my lasts, of all the big 'is''s I've faced in my life, how many have made any difference? This year against next year what made this last better than the one before it, and the one before that, to the one of my fourteenth and thirteenth year. What's making this one different than the first last I ever had, when my mother and I drank hot chocolate on a warm day and she held me tight thinking it was gonna be the last first last I ever had. 

Twelve runs by, one am, two a.m., three a.m., four-

If this is my last last, should I be scared? 

The stars flicker across the sky fading into the peach sunlight, no matter where I go he'll always be there. Whether this be my true last or not, my fates sealed anyways, what's the difference? What's the point of running if I'm running to the same end, the end, that true last. And then five a.m. comes back around and I'm not scared, it's a yearly alarm. I'm so close to being out of this cycle, but what's after that. 

Come six a.m. I'm back home, I take a shower and my mother's still asleep. I put on a vest, I stare the mirror down as I tuck my undershirt into my pants; maybe if this is my last last there's not much to be scared of. 

( s t e v i e )

I practically woke up high (shiiiiiiiiiiiiiit)

Normally I'm not like this, like, like, I don't try my own shit? I save it, yeah. YeaaaAAAaa, it's just a reaping thing y'know? The hospital tests this kinda shit on the regular, kinda, I mean I know who's in charge of it but I'm just an intern I can't smirk my way through this, it's cute. I was naked, injected shit in my arm and immediately regretted it, I mean, I just do it on occasion. And fuck, this is the occasion ain't it! Anyways I woke up like that, no clothes, sweating on the ground that happens sometimes. I think. Yeah, yeah it does happen, sometimes I wake up with nosebleeds but I was pretty okayish, the needle was cold and my vein wasn't feeling it buuuuuuuuuuutttttttt

I guess it is now? 

I mean shit, it's feeling something. 

Besides, it's just fucking business. It's just this fucking business that's something more than that; I don't see why I'm the only one who can't catch a fucking break. I mean, hell, my parents are drugees, my aunts and uncles are morphlings addicts, it's just a thing that runs through these fucking veins I guess, some fucking hospital drugs just like the rest of this district, and why am I the one who suffers? Why am I the only asshole drowning over here, I just -- I'm not feeling it. I slam my fist into the dresser and climb up, my head light and the blood in my body heavy, my vein sore. The red light of the clock screams seven and it feels like an echo - I'm so tired of this shit. 

Just business. I planned this y'know? I plan it every year since I've started this -- I mean shit, that's only three years but ever since I promised just one time. Just this one fucking time because I promised I wouldn't be like them, and it's not that their drug addicts, I live off that shit. If drug addicts didn't exist I'd be selling pills to fucking rats but I just don't want to be them, I don't know, my head's pounding. Cute. I grab clothes, at this point in the morning they all look the same. Something blurred in early a.m. dew in my corneas, I never said I was a fashion artist. Shiit, that's something I could get behind. 

Maybe I could actually be something. 

(When's this shit supposed to kick in?)

And I swear, my head hits the pillow for a second, the sweat on my jawline pressed knuckles deep into the cotton and it's eight, my pa's shaking me and I nearly reflex punch him in the jaw. But reality hits hard, and the sunlight from through the closed blinds sting my eyes, "hurry the hell up, we're ready to get this shit over,"

"Ye, yeeh sure whatever," I rub my eye.

And my clothes are awkward on me, scratching my clammy skin, shit. Everybody usually comes looking to the nines, but ya know what I just wanna look to my sixes I guess. That's fine, I separate from my parents and their eyes are as bloodshot as mine - cute. They care about meee. Or they didn't hit up or something, or just tired hell I don't know. There's a chance they care about me? Yeah I'm vibing that. With each step into the boy crowd I'm feeling each joint of my body, the way my hips turn and how bony my arms under this sweater god fuck me. 

("Ophelia Wylder!")

Cool shit, it's whatever. One more name, one more girl, one more coffin, whatever. I count em on my fingers but I'm still lightheaded - that can't be good. I think I'm just tired, shit, my seventh reaping and not a damn winner. Just fourteen coffins, and I'm just one more dead fucking body anyways. 

("Crescent Avos!")

So why the hell not.

The green scrag of my christmas sweater slides down my arm, my bony wrist in the air above my stupid ass fucking grin and the blood rush of my head, "I volunteer!"

When the fuck does the high kick in. 

(stevie masinova volunteers for crescent avos)
(trib wall maybe idk)

[gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕]

lucy.

They say that after a while you forget how to feel.

That you become numb.

Once your world comes crashing in around you once, it will never crash in on you again. And if it does, you won't feel a thing. But they're wrong. Everything hurts just as worst as the first. Every loss, every death, even the deaths of those I don't know. It all hurts me just as much as the first time I thought my world was ending. Each one hurts, leaves its mark. I am like glass, each one adding its own crack.

Until I am no longer able to stand.

I fall to my knees in front of my bed. Praying to a god I'm not sure exists. Praying to a god who has never done anything for me. Praying that somehow I'll make it through. Somehow to muster the strength to make it through the day. Twice in a row we have been reaped. Two of my sisters gone just like that. I pray again that somehow we all survive today, that somehow we get lucky.

But luck and Eckhart are not two words that you use together.

My lips whisper one last silent prayer and I force myself up. I quickly straighten my dress and make my way over to the mirror, pushing back any loose strands of hair. There's no sound in the house. Maybe I got the day wrong. My body relaxes a little, maybe it actually isn't today. That's when I hear feet echoing in the hall, no other sound slips through, and I know. My breath catches in my throat and I close my eyes.

Maybe if I shut them tight enough, all of this will disappear.

A gentle knock on my door tells me it's time. A take a deep breath, trying to calm myself, trying to put myself back together. One last pull on the hem of my dress and I'm out the door, pulling the door tightly behind me. I add my footsteps to those of my sisters, adding to the death march. My legs feel as if they may crumble beneath me. But I hold myself together. All I want to do is grab someone's hand, and never let go. Tell me everything is okay, let them support.

But I force myself to be strong.

Hot bodies surround me and I can't help but feel nervous again. Strangers on all sides of me. Which one of us is to die next? Has anyone experienced pain like I have? Is the girl on my right use to it? Are they numb? The escort begins to walk to the stage, taking each step one by one, moving in slow motion. My mind goes blank and ringing fills my ears, and it is much worse than the silence that filled them before. An elbow to the ribs is all it takes to bring me back to reality and let my fears consume me once again. And I feel as if I may fall. "Ophelia Wylder," the name breaks through the silence and relief crashes over me.

And I finally allow myself to breathe.

Somehow we managed to survive, somehow I won't lose another sister, somehow I may be okay. I see the girl they call standing not too far away from me, frozen in fear. Her limbs move stiffly as she walks towards the stage and I manage to catch a glimpse of her face, as her head swings nervously around. My mouth opens a little as I realize who she is, and remember what she's been through. Her world has already fallen apart, but she somehow managed to but it back together, even if it is a little broken. I can tell she still hurts, in the way she cringes when the Peacekeepers grab her, in the way she wraps her arms around her, trying to cover herself up. She has somehow managed to glue herself together.

She has somehow managed to become numb to the pain.

I can't help but to stare at her in awe. What she has gone through must have been much worse than me, she has a daily reminder, but she seems to be strong. She seems to have so much to live for, a story that still needs to be told. But me, what am I? I am just a girl. A girl without purpose, a girl that has suffered so much that she's told she is supposed to be used to it, but can't wrap her head around. Just a girl. That is all I am. But her, she is strong, she is brave. I can tell as she walks up there, not a tear in her eye. And I can't help but feel an opportunity is being taken away from her. Someone who has gone through so much, but can still continue living. But me, I am just a girl, I am practically gone already. My hands shake and my eyes start to water, but I hold my tears back, knowing what I am about to do will not be a waste. "I..." my voice trembles and no one even bothers to look up. I close my eyes, willing myself to find the strength I need. I step out of the crowd and stare straight ahead, refusing to look around, knowing that if I see my sisters that I will break. "I volunteer," I say with as much strength as I can, and my voice shaking as little as possible. And for once I feel numb. I just signed my life away. But it doesn't matter. I am just a girl.

I am glass.

And I am about to shatter.

[lucrezia eckhart volunteers in place of ophelia wylder]
if you can please use this for the trib wall c:

[я𝑜𝓈𝑒]

LET ME SLEEP, I AM TIRED OF MY GRIEF AND

E L V A I N A  E C K H A R T

I WOULD LIKE YOU TO LOVE ME, TO LOVE ME

We were born to die. The same blood does not run in our veins, and yet we share the same curse.

Two years. Two sisters.

My family has seem to have forgotten how to smile as a whole. Except for maybe Hesper, but her smiles are cruel smirks, curled crooked up the side of her face. We have grown used to wearing black funeral dresses and wiping tears from our cheeks and avoiding meeting the eyes of passerbys. We are a grim sight- hollow eyes, sunken faces, pale knuckles.

Do their deaths define us?

I couldn't answer that for the life of me.

There was once a scream. It shook the house like thunder, reverberated throughout the street. It is only an echo now, but I wear it on my skin.

My scars are healing- the ones on my arm I carved years ago. JEQ. Just the ghost of her name remains etched into my flesh, just pale white semiopaque lines. I have worn nothing but long sleeves in the past two years to hide from the shame of what I'd done to myself. It is now a normality to wear jackets and sweaters in the spring and summer- I threw out all of my tank tops and short sleeves.

I can't hide forever, but I can sure as hell try.

(Or at least, until the scars completely fade.)

I am healing, slowly, on the outside; I swear the scars become fainter every day, fading into the background- an echo. But I am not healing on the inside. I can still feel blood pooling, the cuts tearing.

There are some things time cannot mend.

Time is what fuels the worry rising in every fiber of my body, jolting through my veins like electricity in uneven, unsteady waves. Two years. Two sisters. I stand with balled fists, white knuckles, beads of sweat running down my forehead.

Lucy and Frances stand on either side of me- the Eckharts are all assembled in a line. There are spaces between us and the rest of the crowd, like everyone else is recoiled from the sight of us. They can see the shadow of their graves hanging over us.

And it repulses them.

The escort pulls a slip from the bowl-

my heartbeat halts and I forget to breathe.

"Ophelia Wylder!"

Inhale, I let it all pour into my lungs. They burn for air, scorched and scratched by the lack of it.

It's not her. It's not any of them.

There are split seconds of relief, when my world is spinning as my mind tries to process that I will not bury another sister this year. I would not go so far to say that I am happy- that is something I have been empty of for too long. I doubt I would recognize the feeling again when it has been crossed out, scratched, faded, debased by gray.

Gray. That is what I have named this feeling, this hole in my chest, this dark cloud that hangs over my head and spills over my body.

But there are only split seconds of relief, and then everything crashes and it feels like I am falling from the sky to meet the concrete.

Her soft voice is a scream against the grim silence that fills the District Square.

"I . . . I volunteer."

Lucy has stepped forward, the crowd nearly leaping out of her way to make a path for her towards the stage. Their gazes flicker between her and us- their eyes are pity, shock, disbelief.

Everything crashes, shatters- I fall from the sky and meet the concrete. But I do not shatter upon the impact. I have broken too much to break again- you cannot tear dust apart. Everything crashes, but I say nothing, do nothing. I am submerged in a strange, numb chaos. I feel my heart hammering away at my chest as if it is trying to break free from my ribcage, I hear the frantic murmurs, the cries, the gasps, the blood roaring in my ears. Images of Lucy flicker in my mind, memories from childhood, but there are no words.

When she leaves our ranks, I do not cry- there are no tears left in my eyes to cry. I am still, with the memories crashing into one other in my head. I can smell the strawberries on the old garden path, taste the citrus in her freshly washed clothes, feel the warmth of her arms around me.

I watch her walk onto the stage, but I already see her as a ghost.

Rocking chairs. Storybooks. Ring around the rosie. Hide and seek.

The memories leave with her.

Lucy and I are one in the same- we are glass girls. The only difference is that she is about to shatter; I already have, long ago. I was left in ruins on the floor.

I never resurfaced.

Three years. Three sisters.

THIS IS THE NIGHT WHEN THESE WOODS SIGH

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