Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
I recall the library, his knowing smirk
. . .
“Bet I know a thing or two about your dove.”
“Like what?”
“Like she’s delightful to look at, swishes around in bright colors, and sings like a mockingjay. You love her. And oh, how she seems to love you. Except sometimes you wonder because her plans don’t seem to include you at all.”
Oh, Lenore Dove, what have I done to you? How will you pay for my surviving the Hunger Games?
I lose it, smashing a chair into the window, shattering glass onto a table of china kittens, then pounding at the bars with a heavy lamp. I hammer away until a burst of bullets above my head breaks my focus.
A pair of heavily armed Peacekeepers has materialized, their rifles trained on me. Behind them, my prep team huddles and would likely flee if Effie Trinket didn’t have a firm grip on their grooming belts. “Well,” she says with false cheeriness, “who’s ready for a big, big, big night?”
The Peacekeepers slap on handcuffs and propel me into the center of the room, where my prep team stares at me, aghast. I’m skin and bones, wearing dirty pajamas, and my bare feet bleed freely from the broken glass. Somewhere in the last few weeks, my nails have turned to claws, my hair to fur. I’ve killed multiple times and preserved no life but my own. I left a simple district piglet and returned as the murderous beast that they always suspected lay in wait.
“Just need a flower for my lapel,” I say.
But you can’t keep Effie down. She holds up a white rose. “Got it. Why don’t we start with a shower? You’ll want to look your best for your Victor’s Ceremony.”
No execution, then. At least, not yet.
Soaped up, rinsed off, trimmed, shaved, teeth brushed, feet bandaged. Revulsion at my scar expressed and dealt with, the team dresses me in another Uncle Silius ensemble.
I finger the champagne bubbles embroidered in the jacket. “Where’s Magno Stift?”
Effie’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “More toads. He’s still recovering, but he’s planning to make an appearance tonight since you’re the victor.”
“I’m going to tell everyone you dressed me.”
“Please, don’t.” She sighs. “He’ll only make a scene, and it’s hard enough being a Trinket.” She arranges my flint striker over my shirt. I try to shove it back under my collar, but she resists. “He said to keep it out, where everybody can see it.”
“Magno did?” I ask Effie.
“No.” She clips off the end of the rose, slides it into a buttonhole and gives it a tap. “He did.” She steps back. “You look very presentable. Remember, positive attitude.”
Despite my finery, I’m shackled and transported in the van, which feels so dark and desolate without Maysilee, Wyatt, and Lou Lou. No greenroom for me this time. Still rattling my chains, I’m escorted beneath the stage and shoved into a chair, with four guards assigned to me.
Effie, to her credit, stands by me. When the Peacekeepers object, she says, “He’s the second Quarter Quell victor. Drusilla and Magno are not available. Someone should be with him to honor his achievement.”
“Your funeral,” a Peacekeeper says.
I think about the things I did in the arena. Things they definitely would have shown. Killing the pair from District 4. The brutal ax fight with Silka. Maybe they’re right to chain me like a beast. I feel grateful to Effie. “I won’t hurt you,” I mutter.
“I know that,” she says. “I’ve known who you are ever since you helped with my makeup box. And I know your position could not have been easy.”
It’s surprisingly touching. “Thanks, Effie.”
“But they really are for a greater good. The Hunger Games.”
And now she’s lost me.
The area beneath the stage begins to fill with people and their handlers. The activity centers around five metal plates that will ascend with the featured players of the night. Proserpina and Vitus jitter on one circle in anticipation, tweaking each other’s makeup. Drusilla, who appears to be wearing a stuffed eagle on her head, teeters on six-inch heels. Magno reels in, decked in live-reptile fashion, and a few assistants balance him on his spot, with crossed fingers. I crane my neck, trying to find my mentors. Finally, Mags arrives in a wheelchair while a still-mobile but distressed Wiress twitches her head about in a birdlike fashion, a steady stream of words spouting from her lips. Very bad things have been done to them. Mags spots me and tries to rise before she’s shoved back in her chair. No reunion for us.
Their torturous treatment makes it impossible to deny my family’s certain punishment. Are they already dead? Or will Snow arrange, as he did with Beetee, for a time when I can personally witness their suffering?
The anthem plays and I hear Caesar Flickerman welcome the audience to the second Quarter Quell’s Victor’s Ceremony. He calls the Games historic, unparalleled, unforgettable, and as devastating a reminder of the Dark Days as the country has ever witnessed. He begins to introduce my team as a hubbub of shouting and whooping comes from the audience. Up go Proserpina and Vitus, clapping for themselves. Drusilla follows, in a dramatic pose that mimics the eagle’s outstretched wings. As his plate rises, Magno almost tumbles off, but catches himself and crawls back aboard. He makes his entrance on one knee, his hands in a victory clasp above his head. The Peacekeepers haul Mags to her feet. She and Wiress, arms encircling each other’s waists, lean against each other for support.
Freed of my shackles, I’m held in place on my plate until it begins to rise. What did the audience see during the Hunger Games? Will they boo or applaud for me? And who am I supposed to be? Is it possible I’m still a beloved rascal? Or are they salivating to see the murderous monster from District 12? Effie Trinket, the only one I might ask, has melted into the shadows.
I brace myself, preparing to be pelted with rotten fruit or jeered off the stage. Bright lights partially blind me, and I lift my hand to shield my eyes. When they adjust, I realize the entire audience has given me a standing ovation. Mad cheers and hot tears.
I’m the hero of the moment. The star of Panem. The victor of the Quarter Quell. And that can only mean that President Snow has won the day.
People in the crowd begin to chant a mishmash of sounds that reduce to “Show it! Show it! Show it! Show it!”
I turn to Caesar for direction and he draws a line across his abdomen. My scar. They want me to show them my scar. There appears to be no choice. I pull my silk shirt up, unzip my pants as far as modesty allows, and display my scar. The applause lasts for a full five minutes.
Giant screens throughout the auditorium come to life with the anthem playing over a fluttering flag of Panem. Caesar guides me to an upholstered chair positioned in the center of the stage for the recap. It is my first glimpse into how my Hunger Games were broadcast to the public.
The recap opens on the reading of the card, which I watched from home with Ma and Sid in the spring. A little girl dressed all in white, the picture of innocence, lifts the lid on a wooden box filled with envelopes. They widen the shot to include President Snow, who intones, “And now, to honor our second Quarter Quell, we respect the wishes of those who risked all to bring peace to our great nation.” He leans over and carefully selects the envelope marked with a 50 and reads the card inside. “On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district will be required to send twice as many tributes to the Hunger Games. Two female and two male. In this doubling of reparations, we remember that true strength lies not in numbers, but in righteousness.”
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