disclaimer: i do not own the hunger games.
i look at my reflection and i feel my lips twist into an ugly sneer.
i hate it. i hate me. my lips are too thin, my eyes too far apart, my cheekbones too sharp.
i cover it with makeup – paint the too-thin lips jewel-blue, outline the eyes in glitter, colour the too-sharp cheekbones with powder, until i no longer recognise myself. the gold, jewel-studded tattoo that curls across my cheekbones and forehead glows like the sun. i smile at my reflection. it is grotesque, but beautiful in its alienness. it is perfect, because it is not me.
i tug a wig, bright yellow, over my lank brown waves. i choose an outfit – it is beautiful, gauzy and white, like a wedding dress. it is perfect for a day like this. the dress speaks of happiness, and today is the happiest in the year.
i look in the mirror and smile.
i am unrecognizable.
i snatch up my hairbrush and force my painted lips up in a smile. i imagine the hundreds of faces in the crowd – the hundreds of faces that are so much prettier than mine, so much more beautiful. my grin grows wider, and i lift the hairbrush to the lips.
"happy hunger games," i recite into the hairbrush, "and may the odds ever be in your favour."
the thought of the beautiful bodies lying dead makes me smile.