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TO GRIEVE ONESELF.
Celia Fairbrook was up and moving by the first sign of light. July 4th, a day learned to be dreaded had now made its way upon District 10. While it seemed like Celia's whole world could stop at any moment, alas the cows still needed milking and the eggs still needed collecting.
With an unladylike huff, the Fairbrook girl dragged the full tin buckets of milk from the barn. The small off-white house shared by both Celia and her father sat proudly atop a hill, overlooking their small farm.
While she couldn't complain about her duties as she loved spending time with the animals, Celia dreaded the days where cows, pigs, and chickens alike were sent to the slaughter house. Her father often prompted her to give it a try, hoping for his only kin to somehow shed her soft shell.
She hated that idea.
So, as Celia used her foot to push open the screen door to the house, her father only chuckled at her look of annoyance. The buckets were plopped on the wooden dining table haphazardly and next was the girl, who collapsed in a rickety chair.
"I'm telling you, Lia, the boys at the slaughter house aren't heaving around buckets of milk at six in the morning." He shrugged, wiping down the few droplets that spilled on the table. "We should be leaving soon." His voice was now quieter, heavier as if the weight of the situation put a strain on it.
Celia's jaw clenched in thought. "Suppose so." She crossed her arms, leaning further into the uncomfortable chair as she tried to find the will to move. "What'll the cows do if I'm chosen?"
Marcus Fairbrook stopped his wiping at the question. After a moment, a forced chuckle escaped his lips as he tried to lighten the mood. "They'll have to put up with me. Not sure how they'll like that, lord knows I don't fall asleep in the hay with them like others I may know."
Celia smiled slightly. "It only happened twice."
"Two times more than me." The man wrung out the towel and threw it over his shoulder, sitting in the seat beside his daughter. "Besides, you won't be chosen today. You know how many names are in that bucket."
The girl cleared her throat, moving her hands to rest on her thighs as she stood from her seated position. "I'll be upstairs." She spoke quietly, brushing past the chair her father occupied.
••
Celia stood among the rest of the eligible from District 10, crossing her fingers and praying to whatever God may rest above that her name is not pulled from the bowl. The television cameras loomed from their platform above the crowd, eager to capture whatever soul may be sentenced.
She could just barely see the back of her father's head from where she stood in lines with the other ladies. A fleeting sense of comfort took over her senses knowing he was near.
