“You’re just wasted, aren’t you?” I ask, taking my hand away. I don’t even want to remember I have this woman’s blood running in my veins at this moment. Instead of answering me she just laughs. Without any inhibitions. Paz almost falls out of the couch. And I want to slap her. I want to slap her so bad. “And sooo wasted, my son.”

I looked at her, widening my eyes. She was actually telling me that. “And mommy needs a little fun, so let me talk to you before I go,” she said, barely controlling her giggles. I just sat there, not allowing her to touch me in the most slight way and looking back at the hall, making sure my sisters wouldn’t storm me and see her in that state. For the first time, I notice her outfit - or the lack of it. I’m not lying, I would love to see the girls my age wearing such a thing but this woman is a mother. Of four! And three of them didn’t receive any motherly attention, like it isn’t enough her not telling who our fathers are. The skirt doesn’t cover what it shows and the top is more of a bra than anything else. The dark makeup and weirdly short hair makes her look younger. It’s the first time I notice this new haircut and I can’t be sure if she just cut it or I have been too oblivious of her actions to notice it before. “You know real men like to have some hair to pull, you cheap slut.” The words leave my mouth without me thinking about them and I try to hide my shock. Maybe if I wasn’t spending so much time with the guys I wouldn’t say this. Paz just smirks at me, like she’s a random girl I met somewhere.

“I was here to tell you that you need to treat women how they deserve.” She stands up. “And I meant to treat them right, but I can agree with you. Some just deserve to be treated a little badly and you know what, Jarel? They like it.” Those last words are said on a rough whispers on my ear. And I just want her to go back to the depressed stage she stays at with only the alcohol. Suddenly, her voice gets back to normal as she walks towards the door. “I advise you to be with the girls in your room when I come back, or you will have some messed up shit to explain.” The she walks out, childishly hitting the door.

I spend my day with my sisters, playing with them around the house and outside. When the night falls, I immediately take them to our room, kiss them goodnight and sit on my bed, thinking. The Reaping is tomorrow. This is my last year and, with the amount of tesserae, I wouldn’t be surprised to be picked. At least Neillie and Savannah didn’t remember it today and I guess being scared won’t help, so I just sit there, looking at the ceiling. It doesn’t take long for me to hear my mom entering our house with what it sounds like two other men. I want to get out of there and tell the three of them to get out, but I don’t want to face my mother right now so I stay in place, lying down, constantly blinking my eyes like that would help the moans to go away.

The morning is fuzzy, but I remember walking down to the Town Center with mom. We live in the poorest zone of District 9, which implies that we need to walk a couple of miles before getting to the Justice Building. The image of our shadows on the floor is pretty clear inside my head. And I’m happy it was that way, because that’s one of the last happy memories I have with her. But this isn’t what this is about.

The Town Center was full with kids walking with their heads down and visibly trying to be strong. I gripped tighter on my mom’s hand, my small fingers squeezing hers. “Jarel, it’s fine,” she said and kneeled on the ground, in front of me. “They are choosing the boy and the girl that are going to the Hunger Games. You know about that.” And I did. I saw it every year but, for some reason, it didn't impress me. Until that day.

I can’t remember those first years of Hunger Games. In fact, I was still born during the rebellion. I lived for two years without the fear of being picked to die. But it’s not like I remember those now too distant times. And mom never enjoyed talking about the fights that took over Panem. But I’m drifting off...

The sun was burning my skin that day, but the older kids didn’t seem to care. Now I understand they were too scared too notice the sweat on their foreheads. Mom took me to the middle of the crowd and we just stood there, watching the a boy and a girl getting up on stage. The terrified expressions on their angelic faces made me cringe. Then they entered the Justice Building and everyone was silent for a second. Not even the wind dared to disturb the mourning of the ones who were still alive. Like it settled, the silence disappeared, abruptly and with a strange indifference.  

A small group of people were crying, but the others just engaged in the everyday conversation. “The weather is nice today,” some said. “The harvest is going to be great this year,” other exclaimed. Then there were the ones who talked about what just happened, brave enough to touch the subject. Those poor things, we have to help the families with the funerals, was the sentence I heard the most.

Mom started talking with a man I didn’t know, so Miss Molein, an old lady that never got married, took me home and I stayed with her for the night, as I did so many times since my mother got back to leave her lost tenagehood. But I didn’t sleep. Instead, I thought about what I saw. The whole night, my ears were filled with screams, my eyes with blood. I wasn’t scared, just horrified by this reality. But that’s this thought that I clearly remember, even ten years later:

No life deserves the end of other twenty three.