Sunrise on the Reaping (The Hunger Games)

by Suzanne Collins

“Don’t leave me again,” she whispers.

You must know that the eyes of Panem, and mine in particular, are watching your every move.

I am completely in Snow’s power and his to manipulate. His puppet. His pawn. His plaything. It is his poster I am painting. His propaganda. I am trapped into doing his bidding in the Hunger Games, the best propaganda the Capitol has.

The shiny silver bicycle bell. The blowgun. The child-sized boots. The tiny knife in her bird claw. Dove-colored feathers. Headless baby chick. I could live ten thousand years and never erase this sight from my memory.

“We all have people,” I say. “You think yours will ever be able to forget this? I know mine won’t.”

“Oh, you’re not going home, Silka.”

I will kill her, and Snow will kill me. These Games will have no victor.

Those thirty-one allies I boasted of to the Head Gamemaker? I can feel every one of them at my back.

Well, I may not be trained, Miss Silka, but I bet I’ve spent more time wielding an ax than you have, and I’ve got the white liquor and clean laundry to prove it.

This weapon feels right at home in my hands. Barbaric. Brutal. Bloody.

I cannot let Silka win.

Then there’s the return of the whistle, her moment of confusion as the spinning ax catches the sunlight, and the dull sickening sound as it lodges in her head.

It’s okay, Pa. It’s okay, Ma. Lift up your head, Sid. No one but me will paint this poster.

This time it works, Ampert. Loose cannon going off, Louella. Wyatt. Lou Lou. Wellie. I pinkie swear, Maysilee. Pay attention, Panem. Newcomers land on top.

Oh, Lenore Dove. Oh, love of my life. I am with you before, now, and always. And I will find you. I will find you.

My last sensations are of the slippery coils of my intestines in one hand, the songbird pressing against my skin, and the earth quaking beneath me. I die happy.

Where am I, Lenore Dove? Where are you, my only love?

Nobody’s here because everybody’s dead.

I am indeed a dangerous young man. The charming rascal turned deadly rebel.

I will not be allowed to die. I will be resurrected by the Capitol for their entertainment.

You know when you’re starting to miss hanging out with the mutts, you’re in trouble, but I long for company.

Perhaps my victory celebration has been canceled due to my insurrection. Maybe I’m just being imprisoned for my public execution. One can hope.

On-screen, a girl in a rainbow of ruffles sings a familiar tune with unfamiliar words. It’s sooner than later that I’m six feet under. It’s sooner than later that you’ll be alone. So who will you turn to tomorrow, I wonder? For when the bell rings, lover, you’re on your own.

And I am the one who you let see you weeping. I know the soul that you struggle to save. Too bad I’m the bet that you lost in the reaping. Now what will you do when I go to my grave?

The girl bows and extends her hand to a figure who’s standing just out of the spotlight. A silhouette of a man. Upright, trim. A crown of curls. He waits a moment, as if deciding whether or not to join her. Then takes a step forward as the screen goes black.

I think about the bits of color Lenore Dove adds to her wardrobe, the bright blue, yellow, and pink. Are they scraps from this girl’s dress? A way to keep her memory alive?

What did she do to be erased so completely?

President Snow would’ve been eighteen during the Tenth Hunger Games. The Covey girl would have been no older. The curly-headed man in the shadows that she reached out to . . . was it him?

I’ve killed multiple times and preserved no life but my own. I left a simple district piglet and returned as the murderous beast that they always suspected lay in wait.

“He’s the second Quarter Quell victor. Drusilla and Magno are not available. Someone should be with him to honor his achievement.”

“I know that,” she says. “I’ve known who you are ever since you helped with my makeup box. And I know your position could not have been easy.”

I’m the hero of the moment. The star of Panem. The victor of the Quarter Quell. And that can only mean that President Snow has won the day.

No mention of my support of the Newcomers. No silly interplay about making booze for Peacekeepers. The rascal’s just a jackass.

Does no one remember? Do they just not care?

Their lack of discernment transforms the recap, validating it as truth. I hope those in the districts can still see it as the piece of propaganda it is, but no telling what they’ve been fed.

So, what am I? A rascal? A cheater even? Maybe. But clearly I do not rise to the standard of a rebel.

Well, the symbolism has been lost on no one. Even the little kids in the Seam know the Capitol powers are watching us.

I wonder if they ever consider that we’re watching them, too.

“I guess Snow lands on top,” I say under the applause. Utterly guilty on all possible counts, I await his sentence. He merely smiles and says, “Enjoy your homecoming.”

His puppet. His plaything.

The only person who keeps an eye on me is Effie Trinket. She mingles nearby, watchful, but careful not to take any credit for my success.

Confined. Starved. Tortured. Raped. Murdered.

They are coffins. Louella, Maysilee, and Wyatt will be riding home with me. I thought them long buried, peacefully resting in their family plots on the hill in District 12. Instead, we will finish this journey together.

My thoughts turn to Lenore Dove. My Covey girl. What happened to Snow’s? The mysterious District 12 victor. She could be alive. He is. And yet she’s all but vanished from memory in District 12. Did President Snow have her killed? No, he would only have been a boy. Hardly older than me. He wouldn’t have been in power. Not like now. What plans does he have for my dove?

You can take several things from me — my ma, my brother, my love — that are the only things worth keeping.

Are you, are you Coming to the tree Where they strung up a man they say murdered three? Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree. Are you, are you Coming to the tree Where the dead man called out for his love to flee? Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

Maybe Lenore Dove and I will hang together. Could be easier to find her then, in that next world of hers.

for the first time I allow myself to believe that I have really come home.

Any house can catch fire. What with rusted stoves and unwatched hobs. Maybe it’s not mine. I know it’s mine.

Burdock’s hand clamps over my mouth. “It’s too late, Haymitch. We tried. It’s too late.”