Always Home Chapter 2
Always Home
Characters: Luke’s POV (age 14), Reid (age 17), Little bit of: Casey (16), Lily, Holden, Faith, Natalie, Ethan and other Oakdale characters
Pairings: Luke/Casey, Luke/Reid
Rating: R for violence and language
WARNING: People will die in this, that’s the basis of the story. I’m not saying who dies though, but if you’ve read the book you know how it works.
Synopsis: After a terrible civil war North America is in ruins and is split up into 15 Districts. The country is called Oakdale, it is a totalitarian regime. Every year to mark the anniversary of The Republic crushing the civil war, they celebrate The Reaping where one member of each District must participate in a battle to the death, with one soul survivor.
Thank you: to my wonderful beta, Slayerkitty who has been helping me out this past month because apparently I don’t know grammar, lol! She has been, and continues to be, a big help so thank you very much!
Play List (so far)
Chapter 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yqhyqPYFDGg
For whatever reason when I make it a hot link LJ says it's not available.
CHAPTER 2
I fuss in front of the mirror with the knot in my tie. The end of the tie is longer than the front of the tie and it makes me look boyish and simple. I see my mother reflected in the mirror as she pins up my sister’s hair. My father is crouched on the ground dressed in his charcoal suit, slipping on Ethan’s tiny loafers.
“Screw this!” I cry in defiance ripping the tie from around my neck and throwing it on the floor. My mom looks up at me inside the mirror, a scowl on her face from my swear, but she says nothing. My father sets Ethan down on the soil and walks over to me, scooping up my tie. He stands behind me, wrapping it around my neck like a noose. Hang me, I think to myself, hang me now so I don’t have to be around when they do it for me.
“There you go,” my father smiles, sad and proud, as he swishes the knot up to my Adam’s apple. He kisses the back of my head, his eyes closing for a brief second, feeling me, smelling me, wondering if he’ll ever get me back, before he turns away and scoops my brother up once more.
“We’d better get going.” My mother’s strong voice cuts through my thoughts. I turn from the mirror as my sisters flounce in their faded white and pink flowered dresses with pink ribbons tied around their waists.
I take a deep breath and flatten my hands down my slacks, feeling the wet clamminess slick down my legs. “Sure, yeah, let’s get this over with.” I nod. My mother holds Faith and Natalie’s hands and walks out first. My father scoops up Ethan and follows behind me, resting a strong hand on my shoulder for the moment, as he had done earlier today.
“Whatever happens,” he says in a very serious tone amidst my brother’s incoherent babbles over his shoulder, “Remember that you are a Snyder. Never underestimate the power of where you came from. Of who you belong to.”
Not knowing what else to say in the midst of what could be the eve of my death, I nod and give him a pathetic, “I know.”
*************************
I am lined up in the middle of the district square amongst hundreds of 14-year-olds. Everyone eligible for The Reaping is sorted and grouped by their age and corralled in rope circles in front of the stage. I can feel Casey’s presence, even though I cannot see him, I know he’s here. He has to be here. I feel his heart pounding with mine, his kiss still lingering on my parched lips. It is hot now in the full spring sun and all I want is for them to call the name so that I can go home and get a glass of water. Instead we must wait for the entirety of District 8 to assemble before the horrific festivities begin.
To the side of the stage and the children corrals, the family members stand under the oppressive sun, as we all stand here under the oppressive Republic.
My parents, sisters, and little brother are lost in the multitude of bodies. I wonder if they can see me, for I am easier to spot than they.
On the stage there is a glass podium and on it sits a glass cauldron that holds hundreds of slivers of paper. You’d think it would be grander than that, but it’s not, and one of those pieces of paper has my name on it, Luke Snyder, ripe for the picking. Ready to be plucked from the cauldron as simply as we pluck fruit from this earth and give it to the Republic, so they pluck us and hand us over as fruit. To be chewed up and spit out. To be killed for sport, for entertainment.
There are three chairs on the stage to the left of a podium. In front of the stage in a pit are the camera crew, for this lovely event is being broadcast to not only The Republic but every other District, just as I in the days before have watched Districts 1-7 go through this same ritual. On one of the chairs sits the Master of Ceremonies, Lucinda Walsh, a regally ornate older woman with a nose like a bird’s beak and harsh wide eyes. She visits each district and picks the name out of the cauldron. Beside her sits Craig Montgomery, a fat graying man with dark menacingly suspicious eyes whom, years ago when he was of age, competed and won The Reaping for our District. He will be the mentor, as he is every year, for whoever gets picked today. Of course, he doesn’t have much to do since our Offering usually gets killed the first day of The Reaping. Apparently he’s not a very good mentor.
Casey once said that he thinks Craig Montgomery gives the Offering’s bad advice to make sure they die, so that no one will win and challenge his position as the only survivor of The Reaping from District 8. I decided years ago that if I am picked, I won’t listen to a word Craig Montgomery says.
Next to fat gray Craig Montgomery sits the Mayor of District 8, Henry Coleman. He’s an eccentric simpleton with a flair for the dramatic. Mayor Coleman is like the sun in our sea of despair. While we all wear raggedy clothes, the colors washed out from them years ago making us all identical in hues of grey and faded blues. Mayor Coleman’s wardrobe on the other hand, is vibrant and impeccable. He is showy and energetic with very few ideas or thoughts of his own; a perfect mouthpiece for The Republic.
The Mayor doesn’t have much in the way of power, which suits Henry fine, but The Republic gives each District a Mayor to make them feel like they have some sort of say to what happens to them. All the Mayor actually does is make tired speeches to the cameras and show up once a year on the first day of The Reaping to witness the name being picked from the cauldron.
I crane my neck once again over the heads of my peers, across the roped in corrals in hopes of catching a glimpse of Casey. But he is far away from me, passed the masses of 15-year-olds, in the company of all those sixteen. A hush falls over the crowd and I look up to the stage, red lights flickering on the cameras, as Lucinda Walsh takes to the microphone, puffing into the microphone, sending a large rumbling over the square.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, those of you privileged to be of age to compete in The Reaping, I welcome you all of District 8 here today where I will pick the name of this year’s Offering out of the cauldron!” She says this in a cheerful grandiose tone of wonderment, as if she is calling the start of a marvelous sporting event. There is no acknowledgement of her words by the crowd during her pause; only the rustling of feet and clearing of throats cut the silence. She continues as if she has been showered with excitement and cheers. “Every year at this time we pay homage to The Republic who 70 years ago united us under one leader and created the country of Oakdale!” Once again she pauses for cheers. What an interesting way to put the destruction of North America and the slaughter of millions and the slavery of generations: a uniting under one leader. “One of you here today before me will receive the ultimate tribute, to be sent into the Reaping as your District’s Offering and be given the chance to perform in front of the Nation and win your District prestige!” Again, a romantic way of saying “You’ll be forced into a death trap and watched as you die.”
“I’d like to ask at this time if anyone of age would like to volunteer themselves?” She pauses and every head turns around them. Please, please, someone be stupid enough or selfless enough and volunteer yourself for slaughter. End this now so I can go home and take a drink of water. The moment for volunteering passes without a peep and Lucinda Walsh clears her throat once again into the microphone, “Since there is no one ready to volunteer it is now time, citizens of District 8, to pick the Offering’s name from the cauldron and see whom the lucky boy or girl is!”
She neatly skips over to the glass cauldron. She dives her hands into it, rustling it around for dramatic effect, pretending to pull a piece of paper out and then heisting, dropping it back in and reaching for another. My heart is beating so fast it has stopped and my blood pools into my feet, my head light with white nothingness. Finally, after pawning with us, she pulls her hand out and unravels the bit of paper. She reads the name to herself and nods her head approvingly, as if she knows the kid in person and approves of them.
She skips once more to the microphone and reads out the poor kid’s name. I can barely hear through the whooshing of my ear, through the gasps of children around me, through the sighs of relief and pangs of horror as she says “Luke Snyder!” clearly into the microphone. There is an image of her standing at the microphone clapping, the piece of paper, which holds my name, drifts down to the stage floor like a rotting autumn leaf. No one applauds. The air is still and heavy. I look up where a towering screen projects my image. My face is confused, bewildered, as if I moments ago landed on this planet and have no idea how it works. I watch on the screen as the children around me pull away from me, backing away as not to associate themselves with the newly chosen Offering.
I glance down at my arm; it feels foreign and detached, as if I’d never seen it before. Someone else places their hand against me and I feel the sensation of being pulled, tugged, and pushed towards the stage. My head cranes backwards, too heavy for my neck. Through my muddied mind I make out Casey. He is straining against the ropes of his corral. His mouth is wide open in a silent scream, words that will never reach me. I see the fear tearing at his throat, his eyes wide with rage and terror. I trip up steps and find myself facing a million mechanical eyes. The cameras wire my image to every household of Oakdale.
“Well done, my boy!” Lucinda Walsh claps my back harshly and I nearly throw up. I can hear a woman weeping and I suppose it is my mother. There is nothing they can do now. No one volunteered and now no one can take my place. Lucinda Walsh is trying to get the audience to applaud for me. I feel sick, unsteady like I do when I stand on thin tree branches that bend under my weight. The waves of faces make me dizzy. She puts a microphone to my face, pressing me to address my fellow citizens. I open my mouth and only a short gasp comes out and murmurs over the silence. She seems frustrated with me, for this is no way for a new Offering to act. She instead abandons me at the side of the podium and goes to interview Mayor Coleman, who is prancing about happily on the stage, and then moves on to Craig Montgomery asking if he thinks I’ve got a chance at winning.
Winning. I look down at my stringy arms and legs, good only for climbing up trees. All of a sudden the reality hits me. I’m going to be dead in a few days. Dead, as in never seeing my mother or my father again. Dead, as in not seeing my little brother and sisters grow up. Dead, as in never being able to ask Casey what his kiss meant. Dead, gone, buried and forgotten in only a few short days.
______________________________________________
Song for this chapter: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nsSR4VrmsRY
Characters: Luke’s POV (age 14), Reid (age 17), Little bit of: Casey (16), Lily, Holden, Faith, Natalie, Ethan and other Oakdale characters
Pairings: Luke/Casey, Luke/Reid
Rating: R for violence and language
WARNING: People will die in this, that’s the basis of the story. I’m not saying who dies though, but if you’ve read the book you know how it works.
Synopsis: After a terrible civil war North America is in ruins and is split up into 15 Districts. The country is called Oakdale, it is a totalitarian regime. Every year to mark the anniversary of The Republic crushing the civil war, they celebrate The Reaping where one member of each District must participate in a battle to the death, with one soul survivor.
Thank you: to my wonderful beta, Slayerkitty who has been helping me out this past month because apparently I don’t know grammar, lol! She has been, and continues to be, a big help so thank you very much!
Play List (so far)
Chapter 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yqhyqPYFDGg
For whatever reason when I make it a hot link LJ says it's not available.
CHAPTER 2
I fuss in front of the mirror with the knot in my tie. The end of the tie is longer than the front of the tie and it makes me look boyish and simple. I see my mother reflected in the mirror as she pins up my sister’s hair. My father is crouched on the ground dressed in his charcoal suit, slipping on Ethan’s tiny loafers.
“Screw this!” I cry in defiance ripping the tie from around my neck and throwing it on the floor. My mom looks up at me inside the mirror, a scowl on her face from my swear, but she says nothing. My father sets Ethan down on the soil and walks over to me, scooping up my tie. He stands behind me, wrapping it around my neck like a noose. Hang me, I think to myself, hang me now so I don’t have to be around when they do it for me.
“There you go,” my father smiles, sad and proud, as he swishes the knot up to my Adam’s apple. He kisses the back of my head, his eyes closing for a brief second, feeling me, smelling me, wondering if he’ll ever get me back, before he turns away and scoops my brother up once more.
“We’d better get going.” My mother’s strong voice cuts through my thoughts. I turn from the mirror as my sisters flounce in their faded white and pink flowered dresses with pink ribbons tied around their waists.
I take a deep breath and flatten my hands down my slacks, feeling the wet clamminess slick down my legs. “Sure, yeah, let’s get this over with.” I nod. My mother holds Faith and Natalie’s hands and walks out first. My father scoops up Ethan and follows behind me, resting a strong hand on my shoulder for the moment, as he had done earlier today.
“Whatever happens,” he says in a very serious tone amidst my brother’s incoherent babbles over his shoulder, “Remember that you are a Snyder. Never underestimate the power of where you came from. Of who you belong to.”
Not knowing what else to say in the midst of what could be the eve of my death, I nod and give him a pathetic, “I know.”
*************************
I am lined up in the middle of the district square amongst hundreds of 14-year-olds. Everyone eligible for The Reaping is sorted and grouped by their age and corralled in rope circles in front of the stage. I can feel Casey’s presence, even though I cannot see him, I know he’s here. He has to be here. I feel his heart pounding with mine, his kiss still lingering on my parched lips. It is hot now in the full spring sun and all I want is for them to call the name so that I can go home and get a glass of water. Instead we must wait for the entirety of District 8 to assemble before the horrific festivities begin.
To the side of the stage and the children corrals, the family members stand under the oppressive sun, as we all stand here under the oppressive Republic.
My parents, sisters, and little brother are lost in the multitude of bodies. I wonder if they can see me, for I am easier to spot than they.
On the stage there is a glass podium and on it sits a glass cauldron that holds hundreds of slivers of paper. You’d think it would be grander than that, but it’s not, and one of those pieces of paper has my name on it, Luke Snyder, ripe for the picking. Ready to be plucked from the cauldron as simply as we pluck fruit from this earth and give it to the Republic, so they pluck us and hand us over as fruit. To be chewed up and spit out. To be killed for sport, for entertainment.
There are three chairs on the stage to the left of a podium. In front of the stage in a pit are the camera crew, for this lovely event is being broadcast to not only The Republic but every other District, just as I in the days before have watched Districts 1-7 go through this same ritual. On one of the chairs sits the Master of Ceremonies, Lucinda Walsh, a regally ornate older woman with a nose like a bird’s beak and harsh wide eyes. She visits each district and picks the name out of the cauldron. Beside her sits Craig Montgomery, a fat graying man with dark menacingly suspicious eyes whom, years ago when he was of age, competed and won The Reaping for our District. He will be the mentor, as he is every year, for whoever gets picked today. Of course, he doesn’t have much to do since our Offering usually gets killed the first day of The Reaping. Apparently he’s not a very good mentor.
Casey once said that he thinks Craig Montgomery gives the Offering’s bad advice to make sure they die, so that no one will win and challenge his position as the only survivor of The Reaping from District 8. I decided years ago that if I am picked, I won’t listen to a word Craig Montgomery says.
Next to fat gray Craig Montgomery sits the Mayor of District 8, Henry Coleman. He’s an eccentric simpleton with a flair for the dramatic. Mayor Coleman is like the sun in our sea of despair. While we all wear raggedy clothes, the colors washed out from them years ago making us all identical in hues of grey and faded blues. Mayor Coleman’s wardrobe on the other hand, is vibrant and impeccable. He is showy and energetic with very few ideas or thoughts of his own; a perfect mouthpiece for The Republic.
The Mayor doesn’t have much in the way of power, which suits Henry fine, but The Republic gives each District a Mayor to make them feel like they have some sort of say to what happens to them. All the Mayor actually does is make tired speeches to the cameras and show up once a year on the first day of The Reaping to witness the name being picked from the cauldron.
I crane my neck once again over the heads of my peers, across the roped in corrals in hopes of catching a glimpse of Casey. But he is far away from me, passed the masses of 15-year-olds, in the company of all those sixteen. A hush falls over the crowd and I look up to the stage, red lights flickering on the cameras, as Lucinda Walsh takes to the microphone, puffing into the microphone, sending a large rumbling over the square.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, those of you privileged to be of age to compete in The Reaping, I welcome you all of District 8 here today where I will pick the name of this year’s Offering out of the cauldron!” She says this in a cheerful grandiose tone of wonderment, as if she is calling the start of a marvelous sporting event. There is no acknowledgement of her words by the crowd during her pause; only the rustling of feet and clearing of throats cut the silence. She continues as if she has been showered with excitement and cheers. “Every year at this time we pay homage to The Republic who 70 years ago united us under one leader and created the country of Oakdale!” Once again she pauses for cheers. What an interesting way to put the destruction of North America and the slaughter of millions and the slavery of generations: a uniting under one leader. “One of you here today before me will receive the ultimate tribute, to be sent into the Reaping as your District’s Offering and be given the chance to perform in front of the Nation and win your District prestige!” Again, a romantic way of saying “You’ll be forced into a death trap and watched as you die.”
“I’d like to ask at this time if anyone of age would like to volunteer themselves?” She pauses and every head turns around them. Please, please, someone be stupid enough or selfless enough and volunteer yourself for slaughter. End this now so I can go home and take a drink of water. The moment for volunteering passes without a peep and Lucinda Walsh clears her throat once again into the microphone, “Since there is no one ready to volunteer it is now time, citizens of District 8, to pick the Offering’s name from the cauldron and see whom the lucky boy or girl is!”
She neatly skips over to the glass cauldron. She dives her hands into it, rustling it around for dramatic effect, pretending to pull a piece of paper out and then heisting, dropping it back in and reaching for another. My heart is beating so fast it has stopped and my blood pools into my feet, my head light with white nothingness. Finally, after pawning with us, she pulls her hand out and unravels the bit of paper. She reads the name to herself and nods her head approvingly, as if she knows the kid in person and approves of them.
She skips once more to the microphone and reads out the poor kid’s name. I can barely hear through the whooshing of my ear, through the gasps of children around me, through the sighs of relief and pangs of horror as she says “Luke Snyder!” clearly into the microphone. There is an image of her standing at the microphone clapping, the piece of paper, which holds my name, drifts down to the stage floor like a rotting autumn leaf. No one applauds. The air is still and heavy. I look up where a towering screen projects my image. My face is confused, bewildered, as if I moments ago landed on this planet and have no idea how it works. I watch on the screen as the children around me pull away from me, backing away as not to associate themselves with the newly chosen Offering.
I glance down at my arm; it feels foreign and detached, as if I’d never seen it before. Someone else places their hand against me and I feel the sensation of being pulled, tugged, and pushed towards the stage. My head cranes backwards, too heavy for my neck. Through my muddied mind I make out Casey. He is straining against the ropes of his corral. His mouth is wide open in a silent scream, words that will never reach me. I see the fear tearing at his throat, his eyes wide with rage and terror. I trip up steps and find myself facing a million mechanical eyes. The cameras wire my image to every household of Oakdale.
“Well done, my boy!” Lucinda Walsh claps my back harshly and I nearly throw up. I can hear a woman weeping and I suppose it is my mother. There is nothing they can do now. No one volunteered and now no one can take my place. Lucinda Walsh is trying to get the audience to applaud for me. I feel sick, unsteady like I do when I stand on thin tree branches that bend under my weight. The waves of faces make me dizzy. She puts a microphone to my face, pressing me to address my fellow citizens. I open my mouth and only a short gasp comes out and murmurs over the silence. She seems frustrated with me, for this is no way for a new Offering to act. She instead abandons me at the side of the podium and goes to interview Mayor Coleman, who is prancing about happily on the stage, and then moves on to Craig Montgomery asking if he thinks I’ve got a chance at winning.
Winning. I look down at my stringy arms and legs, good only for climbing up trees. All of a sudden the reality hits me. I’m going to be dead in a few days. Dead, as in never seeing my mother or my father again. Dead, as in not seeing my little brother and sisters grow up. Dead, as in never being able to ask Casey what his kiss meant. Dead, gone, buried and forgotten in only a few short days.
______________________________________________
Song for this chapter: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nsSR4VrmsRY