We stand silent, watching the screens, waiting for the tributes to be announced. None of the persons move. No breeze stirs the still heavy air. "Sasha Lodan," calls the escort. A girl detaches herself from the throng of fourteen-year-olds, ascending the stage, her face resigned. Nobody else moves, except the Capitolian on the stage, making her way across to the boys' ball. Somewhere, a bird whistles. The sound is surprisingly loud in the otherwise silent square. Everyone is watching the taloned hand in the reaping ball, swishing around, painfully drawing out the horrific waiting. Finally the crimson-painted talons clasp a piece of paper, lifting it from among the others.
"Tawn Fields," rings out the silly accent. I move away towards the stage, the other seventeen-year-old boys separating to let me through. Some give me sympathetic looks, others avert their faces, extremely relieved and feeling guilty for it. I ignore them all, silently mounting the stairs. I shake Sasha's hand, then stand staring blankly as the escort announces us again for the Capitol. It is all a blur as we are shepherded off the stage, to the Justice building then the train. It's all a blur.
No comments:
Post a Comment