Always Home Chapter 3
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.
A/N: My friend who knows nothing about Lure made me this banner.
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:
Chapter 1: The Boxer
Chapter 2: Dare You To Move
Chapter 3:
I am woken by a loud knock. I open my eyes to find myself curled up on the floor of a large empty room with high ceilings and wood paneled walls. Windows look out across the District square where, however long ago now, my name was picked.
“Luke!” The heavy wooden door swings open and my brother runs in on wobbly legs.
I pull myself up on my knees as he crashes into me, my arms enveloping him in a tight hug. My parents and sisters walk in nervously behind Ethan. I can see tears strain behind my sister’s eyes, seconds away from falling.
“Come here,” I whisper gently to them, opening up my arms for them to rush into as well. I hold them tightly as they cry cold circles into my shoulders. “Sh, girls, it’s alright.”
“We’ll never see you again!” Natalie wails.
“You never know, Nat, I might win.”
“Luke, you promised to never lie to us.” I stare up at Faith; pieces of her hair have pulled loose from her braid and fall over her eyes, shielding the tears in her eyes.
“Well, I’ll try.”
“I don’t want you to die,” Natalie mumbles into my shoulder.
“I don’t want to either.”
“Luke’s going to die?” Ethan asks curiously, looking up at me.
“Hey, buddy, don’t think about it.” Ethan turns back to our parents, panic on his face, wondering if we’re teasing him as we sometimes do about eating all the pancakes. My parents look down, unable to look their two-year-old in the eyes. “Ethan, look at me.”
Ethan turns back to me, huge drops of tears swinging on his long soft lashes, “Why?”
I shrug, having no answer for him. Why does his brother have to go off to be killed? Because the people in power say so? Because this is what we do every year and no one has ever tried to stop it? There’s no explanation good enough to justify the interruption to his world.
When Ethan realizes I am not going to answer him, the tears that were waiting suddenly flow from his eyes and he buries his small body against mine. As the children sob into my clothes, I look up at my parents who tower over me, a stoic look on my mother’s face, my father looking morose and a little bit sick.
“Girls, Ethan, come here,” my mother snaps coldly. Slowly the girls part from me, walking backwards to my mother, drinking in the last moments they have with their older brother.
“Come on, Ethan,” my father says more gently, bending down to scoop the hysterical child into his arms. Ethan attaches to my father like a leech and continues his wailing.
I stand slowly, facing my family, watching my mother, waiting for words. “Well?” I ask finally, when the words never come.
“Luke,” my father interrupts our stare down. “There’s so much I want to say and yet no words I can find to say them. I remember the first time I saw you, your mother stepped off the train from District 9 with a bundle of boy in her arms.” He smiles nostalgically, pausing as the vision crosses his eyes, “You had these large expressive eyes, and with one look you captured my heart. Now, fourteen years later I have to watch you board the same train, only this time…” his words catch in his throat and he buries his face in Ethan’s hair.
“Bookends,” I mutter.
The door opens again and two men wearing the familiar uniforms of The Republic police walk in, “Time’s up.”
“No!” Faith screeches, running back to me, holding on for dear life.
“Faith, it’s alright, don’t worry about me. You’re safe now. None of you will ever have to go to The Reaping. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Your name can never be called.”
“I don’t care! I want my brother!”
“Faith!” My mother’s tone is sharp, and she wears a look of embarrassment on her face.
I slowly pull Faith away from me, holding on to her hands and bending down a bit to look her straight in the eyes, “Take care of Ethan and Natalie for me. You’re the oldest now.”
“No…Luke…”
“I’m sorry.”
“Now!” We all turn as the police officers rush in. One grabs Faith who kicks and screams her way to the door, the other ushering my parents out like cattle.
“We love you, Luke!” is the last thing I hear.
I rush towards the door as it slams shut and grab on to the handle, tugging as hard as I can against the lock. The door doesn’t budge. I press my back to it and let my body slide down to the floor, hugging my knees against my chest. Faith’s cries of protest echo in my head, the vision of my brother’s pain filled eyes stays in my mind, and the wet hot feel of Natalie’s tears on my shoulder are still stuck to my skin.
I feel a slight push to my back as the door creeks open again. Another figure is shoved through the slight opening, stumbling inside my empty room. I look up at the figure to catch the familiar eyes of Casey.
“Casey!” I jump to my feet and collapse into his arms, feeling him hold me close.
“How are you holding up?” He asks, his hands smoothing comforting lines against my back.
The terror that I’d held in for my family finally comes to the surface, and I feel my body shake against Casey, racked with sobs. “I can’t win, Casey, I’m going to die.”
“Listen to me, Luke. Are you listening?”
“Yes, of course,” I sniffle, lifting my puffy eyes to his.
“You only remain a victim if you allow it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, don’t sell yourself short.”
“I don’t know what to do, how to defend myself, how to fight and kill.”
“Run, Luke. That’s all you need to do. Find the tallest tree you can climb up and hide, wait them out, let the others kill each other first. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid; just run and hide.
“But you said that was stupid...”
“Promise me!”
“I promise.”
Casey hugs me tighter, nearly suffocating me and whispers in my ear, “Don’t let them win. Don’t let them take you, Luke. You’re too good for them.”
“I won’t, I promise. Now you have to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Take care of my family. Whatever happens, don’t let them starve.”
“I won’t. You have my word. I’ll bring them food. I’ll look after the kids.”
The police officers emerge again through the door and growl, “Time’s up.” I pull back from Casey’s embrace and wipe my eyes. This is the last time Casey and I will see each other and I don’t want my eyes clouded in sorrow. I want him to look into me, see my true feelings, how much I love him, how much I need him, not the fear The Republic has given me. Casey nods in understanding, his eyes as clear and open as mine.
“Now!” They yell as before, marching towards Casey.
Casey grabs my face in his hands and kisses me hard. The kiss is rough, intense, needy. Neither of us is thinking, we’re feeling each other, committing the feel of our hands on each other’s skin, the way his lips taste, his breath feels, to memory, before it’s taken away.
Casey is yanked from my grasp. The police grab Casey’s shoulders and drag him towards the door.
“I wish I had more time with you!” Casey yells before the door slams once again separating us.
I collapse again onto the floor, burying my head in my hands, willing myself not to cry, not yet, not where they can see. My body shakes with realization that my entire life has been taken away from me. Destroying my life one piece at a time before they take my blood and breath.
I hear a creek and look up once more as the door opens. Craig Montgomery walks in and stares down at my huddled mass on the floor.
“Luke, the train’s waiting.”
My breath hitches as I stare up at Craig. Slowly I get up, my body groaning with the strain. It feels as if I’ve been awake for days.
I follow Craig out of the building where a few people linger after the ceremony, lined up from the town hall, where I have been kept, to the waiting train. They watch me solemnly, like a funeral procession, heads bowed, eyes downcast as I walk stiffly to the train car. I step up on the platform, holding the handrail to the train and look back. I stare across the sea of grey for a familiar face, but find none.
My heart sinks, feeling as if I’ve already lost. They will move on, my family, the district. Casey will get new friends; my siblings will soon have their own families, next year another Offering will be picked. Will I be remembered at all? Or will I get lost in the names of children who have gone before me, will continue to go in after me into The Reaping and never be heard of again? I gaze over the faces of my district one last time, desperate to see someone familiar, a memory to hold on to, but the faces and bodies blend together, a mass of gray sadness. As I step into the train car my heart has never felt so tight and yet scattered in so many pieces.
I enter the train and am blinded by the sheen off of the sparkling decor. The train car is glimmering, clean and opulent. Crystal chandeliers twinkle and clatter above me like chimes. Large tables, piled high with food on silver platters, stretch the length of the train car. I walk over slowly to one of the tables, my fingers brushing against the silk tablecloth. Cakes, pastries, sweets the like I’ve never seen before start my mouth watering. Large glass pitchers are filled with strange colored liquids. I turn my head back to look at Craig who has made himself comfortable on one of the many couches covered in fabric I’ve never seen before, dyed in colors as wild as Mayor Coleman.
“What is all this?” I whisper in wonder.
“Welcome to The Republic, kid.”
“But why? For me?”
“For everyone.” Craig stands and walks over to me, grabbing one of the curious looking pastries and taking a bite. Red jelly flows out from the center of the crust. “They like to treat you well before they send you into the arena.”
“Why? It doesn’t make any sense. Why waste all this food, and these beautiful things on people they care so little about?”
Craig pops the rest of the pastry into his mouth and shrugs. “For fun? Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”
I follow Craig down a hallway to the next train car. I raise my hand to open the door but jump back as it quickly slides away automatically. Craig huffs, as if unamused, and pushes me forward.
“Here.” He says at the first door on the left. “This is your room until we reach The Republic.” I step through the automatic door to my room. Craig does not follow me, instead he continues down the hall and the door shuts again.
I take a look around at my quarters. There is a large bed that takes up most of the room. Across from the bed is a dresser made of oak with ornate gold pulls. Above it a mirror hangs in a gold carved frame. I step in front of the mirror and am shocked at the haggard appearance that reflects back to me. I hardly recognize myself. My blonde hair, usually crusted up in spikes now lays greasy and matted to my head. My eyes have circles around them, dark and cavernous. The usual spark that accompanies my sweet and gentle chocolate eyes has now faded into gut retching fear. My skin looks ghost grey instead of the usual sun tinted gold.
I turn away, disgusted, and lay on the bed, the mattress soft and bouncy beneath me. I slip off my shoes and curl up, pulling the covers over me, cuddling into the soft fluffy blankets. In my emotional exhaustion I fall into a deep dreamless sleep.
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My eyes flicker open. The bed bounces beneath me as the train is now moving, rumbling from side to side. I shake my head and sit up in the bed. Out the window the world moves by quickly.
I slip out of the comforter and my bare feet tingle on the vibrating floor of my compartment. I walk to the window and look out. The world passes by in a dizzying streak and I nearly fall over from the sensation. I’ve never been on anything that moved so fast. The electric poles pass quickly by the train window. The lines and poles remind me of filmstrip I’ve seen The Republic load into their cameras for recording the events of The Reaping. Now it makes movies of my misery.
Suddenly my compartment door slides open and Craig Montgomery walks in, face hard and glaring. “Let’s get on with this. We need to work out your strategy for the game.”
“Look, no offense, but I don’t want your help. Every other Offering has died doing what you say, so I’d like to figure this one out on my own, thank you.”
“You think I like doing this? Every year getting to know a kid and then watching them die? I give them my best advice and it never works. Don’t you think I spend every waking hour, which are more and more of the hours of the day as the years wear on, going over and over strategy and skill and technique and any conceivable way to win this damn thing? Look, kid, I was your age when I went in and I survived which means it is possible. Now I understand that just because I won doesn’t mean I know how to beat it. I know that I won on a fluke, but I’m the best chance you’ve got.”
“No, I am,” I say decisively. “I’m all I’ve got. I don’t care about all the ways you’ve been thinking about over the years to win this thing; it doesn’t work. So now I have to think of the best way for me to die with some dignity left, before The Republic strips it away from me by turning me into their puppet.” I take a deep breath through my panting. “I’m going to wait it out as long as I can and then when it nears the end and I can’t hide anymore, I’ll kill myself. Take away the pleasure from The Republic of watching me be murdered. I’ll exercise my last right, to die on my own terms.”
Craig stares at me open mouthed. I can imagine that he’s never heard of an Offering so willingly accept death. The others go in with the thought they can win and they die. I go in thinking I can die, because I’ll never truly win. They have already won by making me their pawn. Even if I survive I’ll end up like Craig Montgomery - a fat, shifty-eyed man who does nothing more in his life than think about The Reaping every second of the day. He is still trapped on The Reaping field, facing his opponents. His spirit has already died there.
“Fine, you do what you want. At least this time your death won’t be my fault.” He runs his bulbous fingers through his gray, thinning hair. “Come on,” Craig’s deep voice booms, “It’s time for dinner and a recap of today’s events.”
“What?”
“Every year the new Offering watches the footage of the other District’s cauldron picking. It is supposed to give you a glimpse of your opponents to size them up and begin to create your strategy.”
“Well I have no strategy and I’d rather not see the people who are out for my blood.”
“Too bad, kid. Those are the rules.” With a firm grip to my wrist Craig yanks me out of my compartment. My legs feel like jelly on the strange jolting floor and my body is tossed this way and that, but Craig keeps his hold on me and drags me to the dining compartment. A table is set up with exquisite china and silver utensils. Craig shoves me down in a seat in front of a TV screen built into the compartment wall. He sits beside me and once seated, a back door slides open. People dressed in pressed shirts and slacks come in carrying tray after tray of food that smells of the fields in District 8 at harvest time. My starved stomach growls from the scent alone and my mouth starts to salivate. I have always wondered what kinds of food The Republic made with our bounty. The people wordlessly begin to fill my plate with meat and vegetables, rolls and gravy. They fill my crystal glass with a dark liquid I’ve never seen before. As soon as Craig and I’s plates are stacked full the people leave and the TV in front of me flickers on.
A black and white screen reads “District 1” and fades into their citizens gathered around a stage, the children of Reaping age corralled into the same lines. Lucinda Walsh takes the stage and repeats the same words she says at every cauldron picking. She reaches her hand into the cauldron and a tense hush falls over the crowd that even through a TV screen hours later I can feel inside my own heart. She reads “Chris Hughes” from the paper and the crowd erupts in applause. The camera searches the corrals of children until an ogre looking monster, gnarled face and claw like hands, walks proudly to the stage. His voice is low and gargled, his words mangled from a thick accent as he speaks words I can’t comprehend into the microphone he’s choking with his fist. The crowd erupts once more into cheers and Lucinda Walsh seems very pleased with this reaction. She walks over to their Mayor who is beside himself with pride and excitement. A line of past Offerings also gathers on the stage. District 1 and 2 have many winners to choose from to be their mentor, for they have won the most games in the 70 years of The Reaping.
The screen goes black again and “District 2” appears before fading into a similar scene, only this time a girl’s name is called, “Katie Parretti” and out from the crowd a 5’7 muscular 16-year-old girl appears. She has long wavy blonde hair and her face is pure gold, maybe it was stained from the work she does pressing gold nuggets from the mining District into bricks. She walks with grace to the stage and grabs the microphone from Lucinda Walsh whom she towers over considerably. “I am honored today to be your Offering for these Reaping games.” She says in a sparkling clear voice. Her eyes, flaked with gold, scan the crowd with importance. They cheer for her as the Mayor of District 2 is interviewed, saying that she is the most beautiful girl in their District and that her beauty alone will save her from murder, for who would want to destroy such a gorgeous sight as she?
Once more the screen goes blank and “District 3” appears on the screen and the name read this time is “Will Munson.” He’s an older boy, standing with the 18-year-olds. He has the unlucky fortune of being picked on the last year he is eligible for The Reaping. The only way to describe his look is sad. His eyes are like a basset hound; his clothes ill fitting, and his posture poor. He doesn’t look scared. He looks confused but still promises his District he’ll try his best. The screen goes blank once more on poor Will Munson.
The screen returns to tell me we are now in District 4. Lucinda Walsh with her pinched face and beaked nose once again reaches into the cauldron and reads “Alison Stewart” from the paper. A skinny, streamlined girl is pushed through the masses of kids towards the stage. Her shoulders stick out like square wings and her arms look three times the length of her body. She has the perfect body type for a swimmer, which her District needs since they are the fishing District and live at the edge of an ocean. Alison Stewart takes the stage and flips back her high tight ponytail of straw brown hair.
“I hope to do you all proud.” She says into the microphone Lucinda Walsh has pressed into her hand. Her voice is nervous, but from her posture her nervousness seems more from standing in front of an audience and cameras watched by millions of people than for the idea that she is now being sent to die.
“District 5” appears on the screen and yet another cauldron picking scene is shown, variations of the same scene. This time Lucinda Walsh says “Jade Taylor.” The District falls into a hush, not the horrified hush of finally knowing the poor child who will be slaughtered, but a hush of fear for themselves. Fear of a dark skinny girl with curly wild hair and fierce eyes who commandingly takes the stage. They whisper to each other about her, as if this girl already has a deadly reputation. Though she is small, she looks as if she could kill. Her face and hands are worn hard from the manufacturing her District specializes in.
“Get ready boys and girls,” She speaks into the microphone with a wicked smile, “because I have a taste for blood.” Lucinda Walsh applauds happily with this, her bony frame jumping for joy, her long wrinkled hands clapping together excitedly.
“Well, well, it looks like the cauldron picked the right girl for the job! This is shaping up to be the best Reaping in years!”
“And one more thing.” Jade adds ripping the microphone away from Lucinda Walsh, “To all the other Offerings watching, I hope you enjoy long slow painful deaths.”
Her words echo in my head as the screen goes blank. I know I should be scared, I know she’s talking about me. But The Reaping field feels like a dark fairytale, so far off that I can’t be scared. Jade Taylor acts like a caricature, what she assumes the model Offering would be, but something behind her words seems disingenuous. She’s a scared child, same as me.
“District 6” appears. This crowd looks more subdued. Looking at some of their bodies I can tell they are starved and weak like me, a sharp contrast to the rich Districts of 1 and 2. Once again Lucinda Walsh says her speech and reaches into the cauldron. “Maddie Hyatt!” Lucinda Walsh declares with a happy squeal. The crowd is hushed and I hear a woman scream as a tiny girl with wavy chocolate hair that falls into her eyes - reminiscent of Casey - walks to the stage. Maddie mumbles into the microphone, voice choked with tears, her hidden eyes dripping salt down her cheek. Lucinda Walsh, like with me, looks displeased by Maddie’s reaction and disgustingly makes her way to their Mayor. As their Mayor speaks, I can’t take my eyes off Maddie, who is wasting away in the corner of the screen. She looks so fragile. Her body is still undeveloped; she still has baby fat in her cheeks. She can’t be older than thirteen.
District 7 is next, the District that mines all the gems, minerals, gold, coal, and steel. Lucinda Walsh reads “Noah Mayer” and a large boy appears from the 16-year-old group. He is stocky with broad shoulders, hair as dark as the coal he mines; his eye squinting against a sun he rarely sees. He looks like an ox, muscles bulging against his old dress clothes. His words to the crowd are lost as a man I presume to be his father yells out, “You go get them Noah! This is the man I’ve taught you to become!” With those words, the ox-like Noah Mayer shies away from the microphone and takes the long walk off the stage towards the train.
District 8 appears and I watch as my name is called. My face goes blank, eyes wide, skin pale, mouth open. I watch hands push me up to the stage. I can see my legs tremble, threatening to crumble under my own unbearable weight. I watch myself as if remembering a dream; feels vaguely familiar but untouchable. Lucinda Walsh is shoving the microphone into my face and looks absolutely disgusted when my mouth hangs open and my eyes glass over. She walks to Mayor Colman who is flouncing around the stage in his pink and orange striped shirt, purple starred tie and purple corduroy pants. He looks like a sunset and flitters like a humming bird. I see myself collapse as he is speaking to Lucinda Walsh, and then the screen goes black.
The white letters read on the black screen read “District 9” and they fade into the next cauldron pick, the scene much the same as all the rest. Crowds of people and caged children, Lucinda Walsh and her scripted speech recited with the same affect to each word. This time the name read out is “Reid Oliver” and after some scuttlebutt in the rows of 17-year-olds out appears a wiry, be-speckled kid with auburn hair that curls around his ears and against the nape of his neck. He takes the stage on similarly shaky legs as mine, but his face remains stoic. If he is feeling anything, you can’t tell. The only part of his body that speaks is his mesmerizingly blue eyes. Blue eyes strong enough to capture you through a camera lens artificially recreated on a screen. Lucinda Walsh, much the same as with me, is shoving the microphone in his face. He glares at her; only his eyes speak for a moment until he finally takes the microphone into slender fingers. They grasp the microphone as if it were a delicate object. He turns from Lucinda Walsh to look at the crowds and straight into the camera lens.
Without anger, without fear, without any emotion except a hint of annoyance, he says clearly with a dismissive shrug, “I don’t care.”
Reid drops the microphone to the stage and a gut-wrenching screech zings through the air as he walks off the stage towards the train station to be taken away. The cameras fade quickly to black and reappears with “District 10”.
Reid Oliver’s words echo in my head as the picking of the Offering for District 10 begins - “I don’t care.” Lucinda Walsh calls out “Kevin Davis!” and a boy looking near identical to Casey, same wheat colored hair, same build, same height, walks to the stage.
“Well say something, my boy.” Lucinda pushes the microphone into Kevin’s face. Kevin looks up at her, as if his brain can’t really comprehend what’s going on. I remember that feeling, as if the world is frozen, everyone’s voices sound like they are coming through glass, muffled and foreign.
Kevin looks at the microphone and suddenly grabs it in his fist. “Let’s kill some kids, yea!” He shouts out to the silent crowd, pumping his fist in the air.
“We have a fighter in this one!” Lucinda Walsh cackles gleefully clapping Kevin on the back proudly. I notice Kevin’s self-assured smile falter for a second before the screen goes black.
In District 11 a young girl named Ameera Aziz is called. Her skin is the color of molasses, hair severely straight and jet black. She steps up to the microphone timidly, yet her back is straight, chin up, trying to convey confidence, but her voice betrays her. “I will try to fight with honor for you all,” she says, quiet as a mouse, with an accent that I wonder if all the people in her district share. Lucinda Walsh turns away from her and the screen goes black.
At District 12 Lucinda Walsh picks the name Gwen Norbeck. Gwen steps on stage, a skinny girl with blonde almost white hair cut short against her face. Gwen turns to face the camera. She stands straight and strong, her head held high as tears rundown her cheeks. As always Lucinda Walsh shoves the microphone into her face, demanding a speech. Gwen simply pushes Lucinda Walsh’s hand away and stares out at the crowd. Her eyes, beamed to me from hours before, seem to speak silently to her district. I search her eyes to find the meaning behind them but the screen turns black.
In District 13, a tall, skinny, bright-eyed, long-necked boy of not more than sixteen stood on stage, answering Lucinda Walsh’s questions politely. This boy’s face was soft, doughy but in the sweet cherub way. He had dark eyes that felt inside my heart like melting chocolate. His black hair was swept back with a tiny amount of grease. He smiled and nodded politely to Lucinda Walsh and even gave his Mayor a hug when she came over for her interview. Something inside me stirred, like it did when I looked at Casey secretly. He was attractive, no, scratch that, he was gorgeous. He looked safe and pure and clean.
“Ladies and Gentleman give another round of applause for your Offering, Reg Addington!”
The crowd erupts in excited cheers. Not for the game, but for the boy. I can see on the tear-streaked faces of his district that they all love him, the soft, gentle, polite, beautiful boy.
I am to kill him and his mission is to kill me.
My throat tightens around me like morning glory winding around a tree. My eyes burn with mists of tears and my nostrils begin to drum around collecting mucus. I don’t want to kill him. I don’t hate him. I have no reason to murder innocent children like myself. They have done nothing to me. We have done nothing wrong.
I wish I could hate all of The Offerings. It would be so much easier to kill them if I did. I wish I could hate them, but I can’t. The Republic put us here, children thrown into a stadium to be murdered for sport; they are the ones I hate. I don’t want to play their game. I don’t want to be their pawn. I refuse to murder anyone. Like Reid Oliver, I’ll take a stand -even if that leads to my own death.
“Luke?” I look over towards the voice. Craig Montgomery’s face is swimming in a haze. I blink my eyes to clear the smog but the images in the room begin to fade. Suddenly I can feel my heart shaking like a train inside my chest. I gasp for air as a sudden weight presses down against my throat like fingers pinching an apple off the stem. I reach for my drink to cure the lightheadedness but all I can see is the twinkling of fireflies as I feel the glass in my hand shatter.
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This chapter's song: Chapter 3: If I Die Young