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Prelude / No need to unbury the tragedies of lineage. [ TW: MENTIONS OF CHILDBIRTH, C-SECTION in PT. I ]
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I.
You are there in the dark when the first blood is spilled.
It is autumn. There aren't much trees in District Eight, but the ones that do exist near the borders have started to wither. The lush green is colored red, bright against the dreary landscape of Eight like the setting sun. Like blood.
Perhaps it was an omen of death and you had just never realized. After all, the trees turn red every year. There is no reason to think that it might mean something this time.
Today is a big day. It is your sister's birthday. The day she takes her first breath. You are excited to finally have a companion outside of school— your classmates are lovely, but your father is strict, and you want a friend you can have sleepovers and late night talks with.
At school, you ask the girl besides you to braid ribbons into your hair for you. Your mother likes it when you wear them, she says it makes you look pretty. You want her to be happy when she sees you later at the hospital. You are smiling for the entirety of your day; the teacher threatens to give you detention when your excitement causes you to zone out of lessons.
You wonder if your sister is as excited to meet you as you are to meet her.
Something goes wrong in the middle of the day. You don't know what it is, but suddenly the hospital calls your father and your father calls the school, and you are dragged out in the middle of the class. The teacher looks pitying and it's strange because she has never looked at you this way.
"What's happening?"
"Nothing. It's okay. It doesn't matter."
Three different answers and still you know nothing.
Your hand is tangled in your father's on your way to the hospital. You do not let go of him.
District Eight's hospital is in a perennial state of near collapsing, though it has persevered for as long as you can remember. It is run down and loses more lives than it saves, but you suppose it could be worse. At least it's not like District Eleven, or Twelve. Rumor has it that they don't even have hospitals there.
Someone is always crying at the hospital— sometimes it's the children with broken bones or wounds from working long hours at the factory, sometimes it's the nurse that has reached her breaking point five or six hours ago and just can't take it any more.
You hadn't cared much until the person crying becomes your father. It's more scary than if he were to yell, mostly because you have never seen him cry.
