Ruby Jubilee
Twenty-four. Twenty-four years since everything changed. Twenty-four tributes for my birthday, just like every year. Today is my fortieth. My “Ruby Jubilee” some call it, though anything with a shade of red leaves my knuckles white over the bottle’s neck. The floor clinks as I grab my coat and stumble my way to the front door, searching for the strength to witness another reaping. My face is feathered with coal dust as I step out of my solitude toward the town square, my feet finding the same fossilized footprints from every year before. It’s not a long journey, but the closer I get to the crowd, the more isolated I feel. You’d think I’d be numb to the theatrics of the Games after all this time, but walking toward the stage never ceases to leave my eyes sunken and my throat dry.
A blur of bright color steps up to the mic, welcomes the district, and then the annual anthem of servitude begins to blare over the speakers. We all stand in silence, the foreboding feeling of what’s to come growing stronger with each word toward the final note. From overhead, District 12 must look like a forgotten monument: the gray stillness, mockingjays zipping through, and the lifeless air dense with haunted souls.
After her cheery little words of approval for the Capitol, Effie reaches her hand into the glass bowl, swirling her fingers around the cards as if trying to catch a mouse to feed a snake. For a moment, everyone’s hearts beat as one, dreadfully awaiting the name of the child whose cannon would inevitably boom across the airways for all of Panem to hear. I’ve stopped listening to the names a long time ago, the only names having weight within me being ones I can no longer speak. Besides, what can I even offer these kids? I didn’t win with skill, I survived with unfortunate luck. And even if one happens to become a victor, is it really a win when you’re just thrown into a new arena and your opponents are no longer district but the president himself? Forever a prisoner of surviving, with the promise of a fragile freedom in predetermined choices made for you. Look good for the cameras, be gracious to the generous Capitol, and say the words you’re fed, or your voice will be a distant memory like a song you’ve forgotten the words too. Slowly fade to just the tapping feeling... and then nevermore.
The greetings in the train is really all I can do, to give them the false sense of security that if a mess like me can survive, maybe they can too. I’ve become the animal the Capitol views me as, but not without being primped and preened for the cameras first. To be honest, I’d avoid seeing the tributes all together if Effie didn’t hound me into making my presence known. All about optics, that one; too bad she can’t see that these kids aren’t the heroes she believes but victims to a rigged system. I know how it looks, my lack of enthusiasm and outward apathy, but who even cares? No doubt I’ve gained the reputation of a waste of a victor, haphazardly leading two children every year to their demise; but my efforts towards the Games only lead to more darkness, and these kids deserve to have their lights snuffed out as quickly and painlessly as possible.
A name is called, ladies first because we all know how chivalrous the Capitol is, and the standard commotion of cries spark up into the air. The break of silence isn’t uncommon. Families panicking and Peacekeepers subduing the crowd. I’m all too familiar with the temporary disruptions that follow the Capitol’s ritual in keeping feigned harmony between them and the districts. Someone’s scream in protest will be instantly quelled into obedience faster than I can take a swig of clear. It’s not like any of the disarray would be seen outside of Twelve anyway. If I were a betting man, the odds of a silent reaping would be a wasted wager.
But then I hear it, and my stomach lurches. “I volunteer as tribute!” I can’t help but look up, and as my eyes adjust when she steps into my sight, shades of orange rays surround her silhouette. The singular braid over her shoulder, the familiar gray eyes that once begged me to see the light again, the look of an injured bird fighting to fly. And as if lightning struck my nerves, I know deep inside, things are about to change.
