-:edited 22/12/24:-

My reflection stares back at me with a certain intensity as I stare in the mirror, dark, almost black eyes flickering in the faint orange grow cast across from a lamp in the corner of the room.

I always disliked my eyes. No matter how I tried, I could never make them appear anything else other than emotionless. But what I dislike even more is how much it bothered me. 

But eye colour didn't matter. Not now, anyway.

This is who you are. Remember it. My mind clings to the phrase like a lifeline, the mantra repeating itself with the repetitiveness of crashing waves, over and over as if it could anchor me against the storm of anxiety that loomed in the backs of my mind.

Or more accurately, on the sky's horizon, patiently waiting for the arrival of the sun to carry it across tomorrow's sky.

Normally I liked storms, the rolling thunder and whipping lightning serving as a form of comfort, in some twisted way.

But this storm is different, and it comes in the name of a Reaping Day, and the sound of my name being read lilted between the wind and clouds, threatening to loosen the grip I had on my lifeline.

It's like this every year. I get worked up every single year, only to be flooded with a guilty relief as the name of another girl is read who wasn't so fortunate.

"Zu?" A quiet voice comes from my door, blowing away my thoughts with ease.
Julian stood at my door, watching me with dark eyes much like my own. I think about scolding my younger brother for being up so late, but honestly, I wasn't sure I had it in me.

"Hey. What's up?" I ask, making an effort to sound warm, though I'm sure my tone still felt blank as I sat at the end of my mattress.

"Couldn't sleep," He replied, stepping forward to sit beside me. Something twinges inside me at his comment, a slight flicker of sadness, because of all the kids, he needed to worry the least. Julian just eleven—too young to carry the weight of sleepless nights, but here he is. And who could blame him? No one in District 4 sleeps soundly this close to the reaping. Julian's still got a year before his name is added, but the fear reaches even him. He's always been different, his mind stuck somewhere between seven and eleven.

But that didn't matter. Because half the time, my little brother was stronger than I was. It was something I appreciated, yet envied about him at the same time.

"I made this today with Mum," he says, pulling something from behind his back. It's a necklace, its string threaded with seashells and tiny pieces of sea glass that washed up from today's tide.

"It's beautiful," I tell him, cupping the item in my hands as if it were a priceless treasure.

He smiles—small, fleeting smile that cuts deep when it fades. And for a split second, I would have done anything to put it back on his face. His dark eyes are carefully searching mine, digging through an answer in me.

"Zu, do you think you'll-"
"Don't," I snap at him, a little harsher than I meant. I was already struggling to deal with the possibility myself, I didn't need him to voice it as well. I'm supposed to be holding it together.

A sigh escapes my lips as my eyes close, an attempt to arrange the puzzle of thoughts swirling around my head.

"We can't just sit here and worry, you know. What does dad say?" I say, taking care to soften my tone.
"Worrying never helped anyone." He recited, his gaze focused on his hands.
"Right. Let's think of that." I reply, lightly nudging his shoulder in reassurance.

But because that doesn't seem to be doing much, I go on.

"It's the same thing every year, Jules. We get all worked up, then the day passes and it's all over."
I decide to leave out the fact that someone else ends up not being so lucky. He didn't need that right now.
"I know," He replied in his usual, simple way.

"Hey," I nudge him again, fishing for his eyes. "Promise me you won't worry, ok?"

"Ok." He nodded, meeting my eyes. I narrow my eyes at him as I arch an eyebrow, faking a suspicious expression.
"I'm gonna make you pinky promise." I tell him, extending my pinky finger.
"Fine. That's serious stuff, you know." He says, rolling his eyes and suddenly fighting a smile.
"Oh, I know." I reply, our hands shaking, feeling glad he was comforted.

"The other thing I know, is that we do have to sleep at some point too." I mention, looking over at him.
Balancing the lines between the older sister and the parent felt hard, sometimes. But it felt like the best I could do in the moment.
"Yeah, you're right." He agrees, standing up from the bed, and he's walking towards the door of my room.

"Night, Zu." He says, his voice quiet as he paused at the door.
"Night Jules," I reply, giving a weak smile as I watch him disappear behind the door frame.

As his footsteps fade down the stairs, I let out a breath. I turn my attention to the necklace sitting on the mattress beside me, carefully lacing it through my fingers. It almost feels heavier in my hands than it did before, now weighted with unspoken fears. Sleep still feels far off, but there's something I need to do.

Lifting a candle off the side of my bed for extra light, I slowly yet surely padded my way out of my room, down a narrow, creaking staircase. The kitchen feels smaller at night, moonlight spilling from a window at the sink, casting silver and shadows across the rafters in the ceiling. My fingers trail along the brick archway that frames the space as I lay the candle down on a bench, quietly beginning to pilfer through the drawers.

My fingers clasp the handle of a pair of sharp scissors, taking care to lift them out of the draw. Satisfied I had retrieved the item I needed without waking anyone, I gently lift the candle up in one hand, scissors in the other as I begun creeping back up the staircase. The old, smooth floorboards creek slightly underfoot, and I cringe in the dim light, practically praying I hadn't raised attention.

Releasing a breath of relief, I continued up the staircase, stepping back into my room before it felt like I had left, the soft orange lamp glow cast gently across the room, and something about it almost felt comforting.

And I'm in front of the mirror again, my eyes tracing the hairline crack along the edge of the glass.

My gaze falls down to my hair, dusty brown waves that fell to my hips, faded summer highlights giving way to the dull tones of winter. I always kept it this long—out of habit, out of laziness. But not anymore.

It's for the best, I think to myself as I watch the steel prongs of the scissors close over my hair, a lock of hair drifting to the floor with each snip. For some reason, keeping it this long seemed like trying to be my 13 year old self again.

Another lock falls to the floor. Then another. And another. Each cut feels like shedding an old version of myself, someone who doesn't fit anymore.

By the time I'm done, my hair brushes just above my shoulders, uneven but manageable. I glance at the pile of hair on the floor but decide it's best left for tomorrow, if I even get the chance.

Because there's a chance I won't. And then my bedroom floor will be the least of my problems.

With a heavy sigh I step back from the mirror, silently scolding myself for being paranoid. I'm like this every year, the one suspenseful night that might as well be called torture to everyone under 18 in District Four.

Nine out of ten times, the pent up anxiety is followed by relief, then ending with a weighty guilt that doesn't go away until the games end.

Sometimes people volunteer, merely in pursuit of the glory and glamour that being a career tribute gets you.
I could never see myself volunteering out of want. As selfish as it is, some of us just have too much to loose.

I switch off the lights, a tiny thought also hoping it would somehow switch off the spinning of my thoughts.

Rays of silvery light spill across the room from an open window, the soft crashing of waves in the distance complimenting the gentle, salty breeze that swirled across the room, chasing away the claustrophobia of being locked in a room. It never failed to have a comforting effect.

My mind runs through the people that I might care to say goodbye to. My family comes to mind first, my Mother and Father, Julian. Tess, whom I'm not related to, but might as well be my sister. Perhaps Mags, who again is as good as any aunt—

And suddenly Finnick's name crosses my mind, adding itself to the list in my mind. I make a quick effort to swipe it away, because Finnick had no reason to say goodbye to me anymore.

Maybe it would have been different three years ago, before his name had been pulled at the reaping, back when days in the sun were all that mattered, when the only games we played were spent fishing in a patched up rowboat, laughing until one of us fell into the water. It was always me. Except for that one time l managed to hold on longer, and he flipped the boat out of pure spite.

But that Finnick is gone, replaced by someone I hardly recognise. Three years since he came back a victor, and he hasn't been the same. Not with me, anyway.

And looking back on it, it still amazed me how quickly a close friend such as him turned into a stranger, clouded by the space that had grown so quickly between us.

I hate how quickly it changed, how long it took to get over it, how not having an explanation very nearly drove me insane—
I mostly hate how I couldn't seem to let go of whatever ridiculous, unrequited feelings I held for him, one way stuff and nonsense that I kept locked away in a box at the back of my mind. But every now and then the box opens, despite my desperate attempts.

But it's not worth it, because I was only ever a friend to him. And even now, I don't know if I'm even considered as that.

With a sigh of exhaustion I toss onto my side, once again hushing the thoughts crashing over my mind like waves.

And it doesn't take long until sleep doesn't feel quite out of reach as the ocean's lullaby and salty breeze lull me to sleep, my mind drifting slowly away like a boat leaving the docs on the night's tide.