Post by countlivin on Apr 23, 2019 4:41:58 GMT
Chapter 14: House Arrest
Marten Lewis
Somehow, the moonlight lit up his house just as well as the sun did. It was one story, but wider than a normal home, as they had to cram more family members inside than an average home in District Four. Marten opened the rickety wooden door slowly, not sure what he would find inside. He had lived here all his life, yet today it felt strange and alien.
When he stepped in, the floor let out a loud creak, and he was shocked to find the place was unlit and empty. Normally at this time, his cousins were jumping around the living room, his uncle would be playing poker at the table with his wife and Marten's mother and the house would ring with the sound of music and laughter. It was eerily quiet.
He stepped through his house for a few moments wondering where everyone had gone. But the searing pain was then too much to overcome. Within seconds he found the bathroom, and with a thrust of his hand, he pulled open the medicine cabinet and found a brown bottle of liquid. He wasn't sure what it was called, but he knew his mother always used it whenever he cut himself when he was little. He tore his shirt from his shoulders and poured the entire bottle down his neck.
It stung harshly in every place where the knife had drawn a wound. He couldn't take it, and buckled over, gripping the rims of the sink with enough force almost to crack it. For the first time, with every bit of the wound aching like hell, Marten could finally tell for sure what Poole had written into his back. "I AM NOTHING." It felt awkward to read words by touch rather than by his sight, but he couldn't see anything transcribed on his back. The cuts pulled open slightly when he poured the brown liquid onto them, but the way he felt them close again, he knew it was going to leave a scar...
Marten fumbled through the cabinet and found a roll of gauze. He found the end of it, and pressed it down to his lower chest using the sink. He passed the roll around him over and over until his entire back was covered in white and red. He took the small medical stapler on the top shelf and clipped the end to one of the other strands beside it. He felt blood soak into the back of the bandage, but not nearly as quickly as it had stained his shirt. He moved his arm around in every direction it could slowly. It hurt, but far less than it would have if it had not been treated.
Satisfied with his job, he closed the cabinet and looked into the mirror he uncovered. He saw a man whose sweat had made his once curly blonde hair droop into almost straight form. His round, firm face was coated with dust from prison. He saw a man who had been beaten to death by the world around him. He saw a murderer in that mirror. When he was young, he used to come in this room and look himself in the eyes. He used to wonder whether in his later years, he could look at himself and be proud of who he had become. Now, with Ronn's blood on his hands, he wasn't sure whether he ever would again.
A woman stood outside the door. In her hand was a short kitchen knife poised at his throat, but she was so shaky, he wasn't sure whether it could be trusted to hurt him very badly. Her hair was light black with some gray in it, and her eyes were the same shade as Marten's. Once either of them realized who the other was, all the hostility was dropped. It was his mother.
She wrapped her arms hard around him. He wanted to grunt in pain from the cuts on his back, but he fought through it and hugged her back. "I thought you were gone..." she cried into her son's chest. She was one of the shorter members of the family.
"I'm right here, Mum," he replied. She didn't let go just yet.
"I was so sure when they announced you'd been arrested, we would never be allowed to see you any more, like what happened with your father... How on earth did you get out of prison?"
Marten thought back to the events of that evening. His father had sabotaged the Peacekeeper's attempt to execute him, but in doing so, he had cost another life. Mum was already worn so thin... He wasn't sure if unleashing the truth on her might just break her down completely. It felt as though she were on thin ice.
86% of readers chose to [A. Tell her about your father.]
"Dad saved me…" Marten replied. "A Peacekeeper was torturing me… Dad talked to him and convinced him to stop. He got the keys and escaped…"
"What do you mean, he got the keys?" his mother inquired further. Marten found it harder to admit what he'd seen than he thought it was. It had been so surreal…
"He… he killed him, Mom. Broke his neck… stole his keys…"
"Oh my god." She leaned against the wall, yielding a nostalgic creak. She stared at the ground, her head in her hands. "They're going to kill him… The last time… Oh god."
Marten wrapped his thick-muscled arms around his mother. He could barely listen to himself say the words aloud. He couldn't even imagine what she was feeling, having suffered worse than any with the death of Grandad. He felt her tears soaking his shoulder.
"Marten?" came a voice from the end of the hall, thin and melodic. Aunt Myra was standing there, a mixture of relieved and confused. Now that Grandad was gone, she was the only one taller than him in the Lewis family. Once the moment had passed, she joined them immediately, tightening the hug tenfold.
The three of them went to the kitchen and sat down at the long, studded dining table. No one was here, yet Marten still felt the need to sit at the left end—his usual place. Aunt Myra and Mom sat down next to him. "Where did everyone go?" Marten asked his family.
"Honey, they're all at the Town Hall," Aunt Myra replied.
"What are they doing there?"
"The District… is being forced to choose a tribute this year…" she sighed. "Bandy and Travs took all the kids down there this evening."
"What?" Marten bursted out. "I thought the Reaping was cancelled."
"It was. This ain't the Reaping; it's worse. They're voting…"
"A vote?" Marten felt as though he should be scared or even surprised by the news, but he wasn't. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours that none of it fazed him anymore.
"Marten…" Mom sighed, a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "You're a fugitive now…"
The thought hadn't even occurred to him until now, but he supposed she was correct. He was, indeed, an escapee from prison. Although it was his father who'd released him, he was sure they'd come looking for him eventually. District Four could never just give up a murder case like this. Marten wasn't afraid. He was guilty of killing the carpenter's son, and would willingly bare his neck to any punishment that came his way. He just wished he could sit down for one more meal with the whole family…
Marten replied with a solitary glare. "I am," he finally said. "I've got a bit of time before they find me, though. I want to stay here."
"That's fine, hon," said Aunt Myra. "Stay as long as you can."
His mother shot him a look of desperation, pulling a lock of sandy blonde hair behind her ear. "Is it true what they said? You killed Ronn? The carpenter's boy?"
"Yes."
"They're going to kill you, aren't they? With Zak, they knew they made a mistake… They won't make it again."
"Most likely."
Mom began weeping silently into the table, distancing herself from it all. Myra leaned over and wrapped an arm around her sister-in-law. "I've had to bury too many family members this week," she cried. "Why can't things go back to the way they were? I hate this District!"
"It's okay, Marten's here now. Everything's going to be okay," said Aunt Myra, offering a shush. She was trying to calm her down, but with her husky frame and deep voice, she had never been very good at it. When her efforts proved unsuccessful, she turned to her nephew. "Did he deserve it?"
"Yes."
She visibly relaxed. It was as though it made the act of murder somehow better… He knew she had been waiting to hear that answer ever since she'd heard of the incident. "That's all we need to know," she sighed. "Do you want something to eat, honey?"
"I'm starving," he responded with haste. It had been an entire day since last he'd eaten. "Can you make me your poached eggs? I always love them that way."
"Of course," she replied. She stood from the table and began to cook, lighting up the stove with an oily pan full of sizzling eggs.
"You used to be afraid of the water," his mother told him, tears in her eyes but a smile on her face.
"What?"
She sighed. "I don't know if you remember this, but when you were four years old, your father and I used to take you down to the river to teach you to fish. It was your first time…" she interrupted herself with an unexpected laugh. "The way you looked at me when you stepped in, it was like you weren't even sure what the water was."
"You're right," he replied. "I don't remember any of this."
"We happily waded you into the water, and every step you took, the tighter you clung to my leg. At one point, your father had enough of it and just kind of yanked you off. He set you down in the water where you couldn't touch the bottom, and you were panicking like hell… I tried to tell him to stop, but every time he just told me this was how he learned from his father, and that it was the only way to learn."
"Let me guess. I drowned." Marten smiled, hoping he had lightened the mood.
His mother smiled too, and took a moment to respond. "No. Actually, you looked like you were going to for a moment. If your head would have gone under the water, we would have scooped you out immediately. You were in no real danger, but at the time, I was worried sick for you. All of my panic was for nothing though. Before thirty seconds had passed, you had learned to swim."
"What's the point of this story, Mom?"
She brought her hand to his cheek. "That day was the first time I realized just how tough you were. I wasn't capable of understanding your father's methods then, but I'm starting to see them now. You have a strong will, Marten… Nothing can break you. Me? I'm not like you Lewises. I can't throw a fishing line… I can't swim for my life… I can't handle it when people are killed around me. You can, though."
"Yes," said Marten. As much as it pained him to admit, he didn't feel any remorse for Roon or for Poole. When he thought of either of them, he felt regret, but no sympathy. Both got what they deserved. And that realizations scared the hell out of him. He knew that he should feel sorry for the people he killed and watched die. He knew he should feel sorry for their families, but he couldn't feel anything.
"The world is going to throw in your face anything it can get its grimy hands on," his mother continued. "When it does, don't let it change you, Marten. Be that little boy your father set down in the river. Be like a stone in the creek. Let the world flow around you, yet stay adamant. Please? For my sake… I don't think I could stand it if you were broken too."
"Have you been preparing that, Mom?" Marten asked, chuckling.
"Every single day," Aunt Myra said softly from the kitchen.
"It's true," she said. "I know I've been waiting to say this for the longest time… I wanted to tell you when you were a man… And I can't see any better time than now. I don't approve of the things you've done, son. I hate it, but I know you. And I know you're going to do everything in your power to make it right."
"I will, Mom."
"But don't you think for one moment that—"
As she said that there was a loud pounding on the door, bringing the entire house to shake. There were two people shouting outside: one of which was his sister's. The other was vaguely familiar. Marten stood and stepped forward quietly to make out the words. His mother and aunt did the same. He expected the door to be opened by Uncle Bandy and Uncle Travs and all his cousins, but this was unexpected. Half of him was even hoping it might be his father…
"Please, sir!" Willy pleaded. Her words bled through the paper-thin walls. "Don't go in there! Our family has suffered enough already!"
"And you don't think other families feel the same way, girl? Get the hell out of my way." The man's voice was gruff and angry.
"No!" There was another slam on the door. Marten's mother anxiously clutched his shoulders.
"Who is that?" Mom asked softly.
Aunt Myra stepped forwards cautiously and whispered, "It's that escort from the Capitol. What's he doing here?" She began to open the door slowly, leaving the conversation outside exposed. Willy stood up, shocked that the door had fallen from behind her. "What's the meaning of this?" Aunt Myra asked to the pair standing outside.
In the entryway, there was a man of average height, wearing a greasy mop of black hair and a mustache that didn't quite reach his chin. His jaw was thick, yet clean-shaven. He was a rather ugly man, but made up for it with his impressive voice. Marten knew him as the escort who normally hosted Four's Reapings every year. His name was Marc Bishoppe.
The man frowned in the entryway and pulled down the flaps of his suit to stand up taller. Perhaps he hoped to appear more intimidating to people who towered above him. "The meaning of this, miss, is that the citizens of Panem have come to a conclusion on who they will choose to occupy the position of male tribute in the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games."
"They've chosen me?" Marten asked, stepping out from behind his aunt.
"That would be correct, sir," replied the escort, "although, I'm sure it won't surprise you. You are charged with the murder of a good citizen of District Four, are you not?"
"This is an outrage!" cried Willy, still outside the door. "Send him back to prison, lock him up, but you aren't going to use my little brother as a pawn in your game!"
Marten felt his mother's fingers digging into his shoulders. "So why was it you?" Aunt Myra asked offensively.
"Hm?" He opened his ear. "I beg your pardon?"
"Out of all the people to send to gather the tributes, why did they choose you to pick up a murderer?" She puffed up her shoulders, but he stood firm.
Bishoppe raised an eyebrow, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "I am the escort, am I not? If you choose to become violent, and I advise that you do not, I can simply have guards at my back within moments. Mr. Lewis, I would ask you to understand, that this truly is the best option for you."
"The word option implies I have a choice," Marten said, his knuckles turning white.
Bishoppe chuckled under his mustachios. "You're correct, being that you don't. Your peers have unanimously decided it should be the citizen with the least to lose. You have a life sentence to your name. Imagine this is your trial, my boy. And in the eyes of the court, you have been served."
Willy stepped into her home and slammed the door behind her, shaking the house once more. Marten hadn't even noticed the man had simply walked inside. Yet, now all five people stood in a circle arguing about his fate. "You can't break our family apart further!" Willy screamed in his face. "You can't break our spirit!"
Marc Bishoppe took a moment and sighed, wiped the spittle from his face and flicked it onto the floor. "I'm afraid I do not need to, Miss Lewis. I only need him for one month. And if everything goes well for you, he will emerge not only a victor, but a free man."
"They'll forgive my crimes?" Marten raised a suspicious eyebrow.
"My good sir, all victors are murderers." He bowed, hoping to look impressive. "The only difference is you will have a few more deaths on your hands."
"I don't have a choice, do I?" Marten sighed.
"You do not." Bishoppe shook his head.
"Don't do it," Willy pleaded, hugging her brother. "Don't go with him."
"The stone in the creek," his mother whispered. "The stone in the creek…"
Marten didn't want to be a tribute, but could he truly send another to their death in his place? In all likelihood, that man would be far more worthy of a full life than himself. "You're going in that arena," the carpenter's boy last words had been before his blood decorated the river, "and when the timer hits zero, if you're lucky, you'll make a minute." The memory was almost haunting now—even more than before. Had he known?
Marten sucked up his gut and spoke the words. "I suppose… I volunteer as tribute."
End of Chapter 14
Marten Lewis
Somehow, the moonlight lit up his house just as well as the sun did. It was one story, but wider than a normal home, as they had to cram more family members inside than an average home in District Four. Marten opened the rickety wooden door slowly, not sure what he would find inside. He had lived here all his life, yet today it felt strange and alien.
When he stepped in, the floor let out a loud creak, and he was shocked to find the place was unlit and empty. Normally at this time, his cousins were jumping around the living room, his uncle would be playing poker at the table with his wife and Marten's mother and the house would ring with the sound of music and laughter. It was eerily quiet.
He stepped through his house for a few moments wondering where everyone had gone. But the searing pain was then too much to overcome. Within seconds he found the bathroom, and with a thrust of his hand, he pulled open the medicine cabinet and found a brown bottle of liquid. He wasn't sure what it was called, but he knew his mother always used it whenever he cut himself when he was little. He tore his shirt from his shoulders and poured the entire bottle down his neck.
It stung harshly in every place where the knife had drawn a wound. He couldn't take it, and buckled over, gripping the rims of the sink with enough force almost to crack it. For the first time, with every bit of the wound aching like hell, Marten could finally tell for sure what Poole had written into his back. "I AM NOTHING." It felt awkward to read words by touch rather than by his sight, but he couldn't see anything transcribed on his back. The cuts pulled open slightly when he poured the brown liquid onto them, but the way he felt them close again, he knew it was going to leave a scar...
Marten fumbled through the cabinet and found a roll of gauze. He found the end of it, and pressed it down to his lower chest using the sink. He passed the roll around him over and over until his entire back was covered in white and red. He took the small medical stapler on the top shelf and clipped the end to one of the other strands beside it. He felt blood soak into the back of the bandage, but not nearly as quickly as it had stained his shirt. He moved his arm around in every direction it could slowly. It hurt, but far less than it would have if it had not been treated.
Satisfied with his job, he closed the cabinet and looked into the mirror he uncovered. He saw a man whose sweat had made his once curly blonde hair droop into almost straight form. His round, firm face was coated with dust from prison. He saw a man who had been beaten to death by the world around him. He saw a murderer in that mirror. When he was young, he used to come in this room and look himself in the eyes. He used to wonder whether in his later years, he could look at himself and be proud of who he had become. Now, with Ronn's blood on his hands, he wasn't sure whether he ever would again.
A woman stood outside the door. In her hand was a short kitchen knife poised at his throat, but she was so shaky, he wasn't sure whether it could be trusted to hurt him very badly. Her hair was light black with some gray in it, and her eyes were the same shade as Marten's. Once either of them realized who the other was, all the hostility was dropped. It was his mother.
She wrapped her arms hard around him. He wanted to grunt in pain from the cuts on his back, but he fought through it and hugged her back. "I thought you were gone..." she cried into her son's chest. She was one of the shorter members of the family.
"I'm right here, Mum," he replied. She didn't let go just yet.
"I was so sure when they announced you'd been arrested, we would never be allowed to see you any more, like what happened with your father... How on earth did you get out of prison?"
Marten thought back to the events of that evening. His father had sabotaged the Peacekeeper's attempt to execute him, but in doing so, he had cost another life. Mum was already worn so thin... He wasn't sure if unleashing the truth on her might just break her down completely. It felt as though she were on thin ice.
86% of readers chose to [A. Tell her about your father.]
"Dad saved me…" Marten replied. "A Peacekeeper was torturing me… Dad talked to him and convinced him to stop. He got the keys and escaped…"
"What do you mean, he got the keys?" his mother inquired further. Marten found it harder to admit what he'd seen than he thought it was. It had been so surreal…
"He… he killed him, Mom. Broke his neck… stole his keys…"
"Oh my god." She leaned against the wall, yielding a nostalgic creak. She stared at the ground, her head in her hands. "They're going to kill him… The last time… Oh god."
Marten wrapped his thick-muscled arms around his mother. He could barely listen to himself say the words aloud. He couldn't even imagine what she was feeling, having suffered worse than any with the death of Grandad. He felt her tears soaking his shoulder.
"Marten?" came a voice from the end of the hall, thin and melodic. Aunt Myra was standing there, a mixture of relieved and confused. Now that Grandad was gone, she was the only one taller than him in the Lewis family. Once the moment had passed, she joined them immediately, tightening the hug tenfold.
The three of them went to the kitchen and sat down at the long, studded dining table. No one was here, yet Marten still felt the need to sit at the left end—his usual place. Aunt Myra and Mom sat down next to him. "Where did everyone go?" Marten asked his family.
"Honey, they're all at the Town Hall," Aunt Myra replied.
"What are they doing there?"
"The District… is being forced to choose a tribute this year…" she sighed. "Bandy and Travs took all the kids down there this evening."
"What?" Marten bursted out. "I thought the Reaping was cancelled."
"It was. This ain't the Reaping; it's worse. They're voting…"
"A vote?" Marten felt as though he should be scared or even surprised by the news, but he wasn't. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours that none of it fazed him anymore.
"Marten…" Mom sighed, a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "You're a fugitive now…"
The thought hadn't even occurred to him until now, but he supposed she was correct. He was, indeed, an escapee from prison. Although it was his father who'd released him, he was sure they'd come looking for him eventually. District Four could never just give up a murder case like this. Marten wasn't afraid. He was guilty of killing the carpenter's son, and would willingly bare his neck to any punishment that came his way. He just wished he could sit down for one more meal with the whole family…
Marten replied with a solitary glare. "I am," he finally said. "I've got a bit of time before they find me, though. I want to stay here."
"That's fine, hon," said Aunt Myra. "Stay as long as you can."
His mother shot him a look of desperation, pulling a lock of sandy blonde hair behind her ear. "Is it true what they said? You killed Ronn? The carpenter's boy?"
"Yes."
"They're going to kill you, aren't they? With Zak, they knew they made a mistake… They won't make it again."
"Most likely."
Mom began weeping silently into the table, distancing herself from it all. Myra leaned over and wrapped an arm around her sister-in-law. "I've had to bury too many family members this week," she cried. "Why can't things go back to the way they were? I hate this District!"
"It's okay, Marten's here now. Everything's going to be okay," said Aunt Myra, offering a shush. She was trying to calm her down, but with her husky frame and deep voice, she had never been very good at it. When her efforts proved unsuccessful, she turned to her nephew. "Did he deserve it?"
"Yes."
She visibly relaxed. It was as though it made the act of murder somehow better… He knew she had been waiting to hear that answer ever since she'd heard of the incident. "That's all we need to know," she sighed. "Do you want something to eat, honey?"
"I'm starving," he responded with haste. It had been an entire day since last he'd eaten. "Can you make me your poached eggs? I always love them that way."
"Of course," she replied. She stood from the table and began to cook, lighting up the stove with an oily pan full of sizzling eggs.
"You used to be afraid of the water," his mother told him, tears in her eyes but a smile on her face.
"What?"
She sighed. "I don't know if you remember this, but when you were four years old, your father and I used to take you down to the river to teach you to fish. It was your first time…" she interrupted herself with an unexpected laugh. "The way you looked at me when you stepped in, it was like you weren't even sure what the water was."
"You're right," he replied. "I don't remember any of this."
"We happily waded you into the water, and every step you took, the tighter you clung to my leg. At one point, your father had enough of it and just kind of yanked you off. He set you down in the water where you couldn't touch the bottom, and you were panicking like hell… I tried to tell him to stop, but every time he just told me this was how he learned from his father, and that it was the only way to learn."
"Let me guess. I drowned." Marten smiled, hoping he had lightened the mood.
His mother smiled too, and took a moment to respond. "No. Actually, you looked like you were going to for a moment. If your head would have gone under the water, we would have scooped you out immediately. You were in no real danger, but at the time, I was worried sick for you. All of my panic was for nothing though. Before thirty seconds had passed, you had learned to swim."
"What's the point of this story, Mom?"
She brought her hand to his cheek. "That day was the first time I realized just how tough you were. I wasn't capable of understanding your father's methods then, but I'm starting to see them now. You have a strong will, Marten… Nothing can break you. Me? I'm not like you Lewises. I can't throw a fishing line… I can't swim for my life… I can't handle it when people are killed around me. You can, though."
"Yes," said Marten. As much as it pained him to admit, he didn't feel any remorse for Roon or for Poole. When he thought of either of them, he felt regret, but no sympathy. Both got what they deserved. And that realizations scared the hell out of him. He knew that he should feel sorry for the people he killed and watched die. He knew he should feel sorry for their families, but he couldn't feel anything.
"The world is going to throw in your face anything it can get its grimy hands on," his mother continued. "When it does, don't let it change you, Marten. Be that little boy your father set down in the river. Be like a stone in the creek. Let the world flow around you, yet stay adamant. Please? For my sake… I don't think I could stand it if you were broken too."
"Have you been preparing that, Mom?" Marten asked, chuckling.
"Every single day," Aunt Myra said softly from the kitchen.
"It's true," she said. "I know I've been waiting to say this for the longest time… I wanted to tell you when you were a man… And I can't see any better time than now. I don't approve of the things you've done, son. I hate it, but I know you. And I know you're going to do everything in your power to make it right."
"I will, Mom."
"But don't you think for one moment that—"
As she said that there was a loud pounding on the door, bringing the entire house to shake. There were two people shouting outside: one of which was his sister's. The other was vaguely familiar. Marten stood and stepped forward quietly to make out the words. His mother and aunt did the same. He expected the door to be opened by Uncle Bandy and Uncle Travs and all his cousins, but this was unexpected. Half of him was even hoping it might be his father…
"Please, sir!" Willy pleaded. Her words bled through the paper-thin walls. "Don't go in there! Our family has suffered enough already!"
"And you don't think other families feel the same way, girl? Get the hell out of my way." The man's voice was gruff and angry.
"No!" There was another slam on the door. Marten's mother anxiously clutched his shoulders.
"Who is that?" Mom asked softly.
Aunt Myra stepped forwards cautiously and whispered, "It's that escort from the Capitol. What's he doing here?" She began to open the door slowly, leaving the conversation outside exposed. Willy stood up, shocked that the door had fallen from behind her. "What's the meaning of this?" Aunt Myra asked to the pair standing outside.
In the entryway, there was a man of average height, wearing a greasy mop of black hair and a mustache that didn't quite reach his chin. His jaw was thick, yet clean-shaven. He was a rather ugly man, but made up for it with his impressive voice. Marten knew him as the escort who normally hosted Four's Reapings every year. His name was Marc Bishoppe.
The man frowned in the entryway and pulled down the flaps of his suit to stand up taller. Perhaps he hoped to appear more intimidating to people who towered above him. "The meaning of this, miss, is that the citizens of Panem have come to a conclusion on who they will choose to occupy the position of male tribute in the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games."
"They've chosen me?" Marten asked, stepping out from behind his aunt.
"That would be correct, sir," replied the escort, "although, I'm sure it won't surprise you. You are charged with the murder of a good citizen of District Four, are you not?"
"This is an outrage!" cried Willy, still outside the door. "Send him back to prison, lock him up, but you aren't going to use my little brother as a pawn in your game!"
Marten felt his mother's fingers digging into his shoulders. "So why was it you?" Aunt Myra asked offensively.
"Hm?" He opened his ear. "I beg your pardon?"
"Out of all the people to send to gather the tributes, why did they choose you to pick up a murderer?" She puffed up her shoulders, but he stood firm.
Bishoppe raised an eyebrow, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "I am the escort, am I not? If you choose to become violent, and I advise that you do not, I can simply have guards at my back within moments. Mr. Lewis, I would ask you to understand, that this truly is the best option for you."
"The word option implies I have a choice," Marten said, his knuckles turning white.
Bishoppe chuckled under his mustachios. "You're correct, being that you don't. Your peers have unanimously decided it should be the citizen with the least to lose. You have a life sentence to your name. Imagine this is your trial, my boy. And in the eyes of the court, you have been served."
Willy stepped into her home and slammed the door behind her, shaking the house once more. Marten hadn't even noticed the man had simply walked inside. Yet, now all five people stood in a circle arguing about his fate. "You can't break our family apart further!" Willy screamed in his face. "You can't break our spirit!"
Marc Bishoppe took a moment and sighed, wiped the spittle from his face and flicked it onto the floor. "I'm afraid I do not need to, Miss Lewis. I only need him for one month. And if everything goes well for you, he will emerge not only a victor, but a free man."
"They'll forgive my crimes?" Marten raised a suspicious eyebrow.
"My good sir, all victors are murderers." He bowed, hoping to look impressive. "The only difference is you will have a few more deaths on your hands."
"I don't have a choice, do I?" Marten sighed.
"You do not." Bishoppe shook his head.
"Don't do it," Willy pleaded, hugging her brother. "Don't go with him."
"The stone in the creek," his mother whispered. "The stone in the creek…"
Marten didn't want to be a tribute, but could he truly send another to their death in his place? In all likelihood, that man would be far more worthy of a full life than himself. "You're going in that arena," the carpenter's boy last words had been before his blood decorated the river, "and when the timer hits zero, if you're lucky, you'll make a minute." The memory was almost haunting now—even more than before. Had he known?
Marten sucked up his gut and spoke the words. "I suppose… I volunteer as tribute."
End of Chapter 14