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Dad's looking at it from every angle, but I can tell there's no way out for either of us.
It's in the way his forehead keeps scrunched up. The tense set of his shoulders and the trembling in his fingers no matter what he’s doing. Stubble accentuates the stiff line of his lips, though it will be shaved off tomorrow. Rich and warm, his eyes hold mine until I look away as he stops messing with what’s in front of him to listen to me. How he holds us just a little bit longer, his heart beating steadily against our ears. Dinner goes on forever, yet the last bite grows cold on our plates before we empty them. Hovering by the table, he watches me and mom clean up while he works just a little more, though they both insist I don’t have to. That I could play instead. Where once I would have celebrated a little time to experiment alone, revel in their trust that I can avoid starting a fire (this time), now I’m hanging onto mom’s every breath and the clattering of tools as dad practices generating light with more than just the potato he brings to training.
I don’t want to leave them.
Stacks of books are passed between us which he gathers while I'm I'm the shower. The bedside lamp reflects off his glasses and shines extra bright on their eyes. I can hardly read myself though I know squirreling away every spark of knowledge could help me out there somehow. Just like mom, I can’t seem to keep tears from pooling in my eyes, blinding me to what else I could do to help them. She says she’s extra emotional ‘cause of the baby, but hasn’t stopped calling me baby either. Is it just like Nan said, that none of us will ever stop being her babies long after we’re grown? I can see why now, where I couldn’t while I was growing. Just like I never appreciated the heaps of love dad infuses into his voice when he tucks me in at night until they called my name in the Reaping. I hope I can remember him murmuring ‘I love you, son’ and the clean smell of mom’s hair right up to the end. Shouldn’t be too hard, considering how I can still feel the scratch of Nan’s nails over my back from when she used to read to me.
I’m not going to win, but I can be smart for them.
Fury flashes in their eyes whenever they glance at the cameras, but that’s okay since they are angry at the Capitol and not each other. They aren’t mad at me. Our house back in three was filled with voices, debating or celebrating or humming along with our electronic projects while we each fiddled with something or other. In this Capitol apartment everything is muffled. We’re mutts in a kennel some Peacekeeper threw a Gamemaker’s tarp over. Yet, though I hate it too, I don’t know what I’d do without the buzz of the camera in my room keeping me tethered to the here and now. Nothing that lives either with a heartbeat or an electric current can remain absolutely quiet. Somehow in that silence dad asks me if I want to try and break it like he did, just better. It’s all ones and zeros disguised as a map on the paper, but it’s there. Mom’s eyes ask nothing of me, either yes or no, but when I reach out for the hand that’s cradling her belly she winds our fingers together. Her tummy jumps. That district twelve kid is a burning coal if only I could help him plant the bomb. I want all the children in Panem, district or capitol, to live in a world without a Reaping. I want the resentment flaring in my chest to benefit someone. I want to blow it all sky high–my death is so loud no one hears the bang that announces when my heart fails. Butterflies flutter through my innards. The family will be proud of me if only I can do this–if I can pull it off.
There’s no way out, it’s true. Not for any of us. We are still hungry. We are still in the game. Zinc and copper. A spark and fire. A blasting cap and a fuse. I’m not making it out of that arena, but someone will. A Newcomer with new ideas and a torch to carry on for some other dawn with a belly full of fire and resentment. It’s the only thought that helps me sleep at night; perhaps my sister or brother will survive the last Reaping.