The Forgotten Days

▬▬ 𝟬𝟏 ∙ 𝝩𝗵𝗲 𝝜𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝝾𝗳 𝗗𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗰𝘁𝗶𝝾𝗻

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽

˚✩ ⋆｡ ✩┊ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐬 ┊✦ ˚ · .

▬▬ 01 ∙ 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

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MY MOM remembers a time when District 4 was different.

We thrived on the ocean; our lives revolved around the deep blue with its own civilizations below, for us to survive on and give to the Capitol. A picture-perfect image of the forever tropical District.

Such beauty only lasted so long.

With the bountiful ocean came storms. Storms that crackled with lightning and boomed thunder loud enough to scare children and have them dart under the bed. Rain pounded on the docks, on the cheap roofs of houses; boats became a place for water to collect. Fishing stopped for a day or two until the storm passed, and production continued as normal.

But some days we got a hurricane instead, carrying the force of our giving ocean inside whipping winds and violent rain. The streets would flood, and everything shut down, everyone stopped. Stores, schools, and companies all waited and weathered the hurricanes for days or weeks.

Eventually, we learned to adapt and live with it. Minor storms were not enough to stop us; fishermen threw on their caps and bore the rain, flying behind their sails, children giggled as they splashed through puddles on their way to school. The hurricane became not an enemy, but an ally, mostly after the worst passed. Disasters were not disasters if we did not let them cripple us.

I've only heard of such storms in stories, vivid tales of yanking currents and people lost to floods bitterly recounted.

But my hurricane arrived, and with it came a hit of impossible destruction.

✯✯✯

Today is the Reaping. My chances are slim, slim but not impossible; I am in the bowl, along with Annie and Finn; they won't get chosen, I won't get chosen.

I cannot.

I walk through the morning numbly. The simple task of getting out of bed is arduous, as is fixing my hair and making my bed. My limbs feel heavy as I walk to the kitchen, yet my mind is oppressed by much darker thoughts. I've dreamed of it enough that it seems true: our eccentric escort, Moxie, calling my name, picking the one slip that could destroy my future.

My mom attempts to cheer me up, and even suggests I run to the beach with Annie after breakfast. She cooks my favorite foods, but it all tastes bland and flavorless. Still, I manage to stomach the smallest bit of food and excuse myself as soon as possible, rejecting all conversations.

I never liked Reaping Days, not when I was younger, when the most I could do was cry in bed that night because one of the kids I knew from school was going in. Two years ago, it was Finn's first time, last year was Annie's, and this year is mine. This year is mine, and I'm torn between refusing to believe that today marks the start of seven years of annual stress and hiding in my room until long after the names have been called. If they didn't check for the presence of every child eligible, I would have spent the next few hours huddled in my closet, clinging onto my rope necklace.

Annie shows up at my window twenty minutes later, tapping on the glass. I draw open the curtains and push the window open as Annie waves cheerfully.

"You do know we have something called a door, right?" I ask, leaning out.