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The odds had never truly been in Wyatt Callow’s favor.
It might’ve been a curious thing to say as the oddsmaker himself, but Wyatt, if anyone, knew it to be true.
Sure, he’d been lucky enough to have been born to a family that had a roof over their head. He’d grown up more well off than a lot of the other people in Seam. He had a roof above his head, a family that somewhat tolerated his existence, and well… Somewhat friends. Or business partners, rather. He wasn’t really sure he’d ever had friends in the exact sense of the word.
As Wyatt stood in front of the glass tube that was about to lead him to his probable — actually, almost certain — death and looked back at his 18 years of life, all he saw, all he truly saw, were the chances he didn’t take. The conversations he didn’t have. The feelings he didn’t lay out in the open when he should’ve. The endless possibilities behind him that could’ve driven him down different roads, and to completely unseen destinations, ones he couldn’t even bring himself to imagine.
The discussion he’d had with his father the night before the reaping — or rather the discussion his father had had with his established business partners in the presence of Wyatt — echoed in the nearly empty room. He remembers his father saying that if the odd chance of getting reaped into the Games on his last year of eligibility — which, again, was more probable this year due to the double amount of tributes compared to normal years — came true, he’d give him roughly a 40 in 1 chance of survival, “if even that”.
Guess you are a long shot, for your pa to hold you so cheap.
His district partner Haymitch's accusatory tone still ringed hollow inside his head. He remembered how the words had stung like ice cold water in his veins. Never pretended otherwise, he’d managed to say before turning on his heels to head out to the van, having barely managed to keep a stoic look on his face.
The thing was, Haymitch was right. He was harsh, sure, but nothing Wyatt wasn’t already used to in his day to day life. His father didn’t believe in Wyatt’s chances of survival — why would’ve he? He had no prior training in weaponry needed to take down 47 other kids. He had his wits, sure, but that meant little to none when he was sent out to an arena full of kids with weapons and a survival instinct.
Wyatt didn’t view himself as the hero of the story. Quite the contrary: in Wyatt's eyes, all he really was, and all he’d ever been, was a coward. Maybe his family business and calm, calculative demeanor had given him a shield to protect that cowardice, but it had been merely a front to stop him from facing the fact that the odds had never been in his favor to begin with.
As he hesitated yet again, he came to the most logical conclusion of the cause — that he was, in fact, utterly terrified of how the last few moments of his life were going to look like. He was afraid of dying a long, agonising death: he was afraid of the pain, and most of all, he was afraid of the end. He’d downplayed it in front of Haymitch, Maysilee and their mentors back on their first morning in the Capitol, but Wyatt knew that to be the truth.
When he’d go, whether it was right as the timer reached zero, or later on in the day, he only knew he wanted to go quickly. He didn’t want to prolong the inevitable any longer than necessary.
Wyatt Callow had suffered enough for a single lifetime. There was no point in suffering in death, too.
He knew he only had a few more seconds until he’d be forced into the lift by the peacekeepers. His life was about to come to an end: in a matter of minutes, if he was lucky. He had no way out — no way to fight, or plead to be saved.
He remembers Wiress’ stern look and advice to not underestimate his wit. It had brought him comfort in the moment, but right now the warmth of his mentor’s words were but a distant memory.
Oh, I wouldn’t bet on me.
Truthfully, along with genuinely believing in Haymitch's chances of winning, those words had been the most honest ones Wyatt had let out of his mouth since his name had been called at the reaping. No. Wyatt Callow wouldn’t have bet on his own chances of survival. Nobody in their right mind would’ve. Soon enough, he was going to die just as he’d always lived: a single grain in the sand, unnoticeable and unremarkable.
He wished things could’ve been different. That he’d been able to choose differently. Maybe then he’d had someone left to mourn him, instead of a mere oddsmaker, like he already knew his pa would. Perhaps his life could’ve had another purpose. Maybe, just maybe, his life could’ve been different: he could’ve been different.
As Wyatt stepped into the elevator with shaky limbs and leaned his head back, he let his eyelids drift closed. The only hope that remained in his mind was his district partners. As slim of a chance it was for any of them to make it out of the arena alive, Wyatt truly hoped they would have a fighting chance — even if he was destined to fail himself.
The distant memory of Haymitch, Maysilee and Lou Lou, and their arms around him, still spread warmth underneath his skin, also awakening the long lost memory of the familiar arms of the long lost chance at love he used to have back in 12. He let his mind hold on to both memories as the doors behind him slowly slid closed behind him, enveloping him in utter and complete silence.
It’ll all be over soon.