This story recounts Cashmere's experiences as a tribute and the victor of the 64th Hunger Games told in fragments.
I didn't want to spend too much time on the Games themselves, and instead focus on the psychological 'sobering up' of a trained Career tribute as her propaganda-addled idea of the Hunger Games as a competition of honour, and of the Capitol itself, is shattered.
Warning: contains violence, forced prostitution and implied non-consensual sex.
The reality is shocking, but I don't let that hinder me. I can't afford distractions. I'm here to win. Anything else is out of question. So I grab the first knife in my vicinity and sink it into the opponent's flesh.
District 4. Poor sod. I shared a lunch with him one afternoon at the Training Centre. Sorry, buddy, but everyone's an enemy in these walls and I the worst of all.
It's down to final eight. By now, someone's interviewing my brother back in D1. I'm sure he's relishing the attention. Probably as much as that of the girls chasing around the academy.
My strong, quiet brother. I hope he'll never come to facing this.
My hands are dripping with blood in spite of being washed clean. They don't teach this in the academy—the revulsion you have to arm yourself with on your own. When the adrenalin of the day fades, we're all just people—sentient beyond the needs of the audience.
Worthless pieces in the Capitol's games. Celebrated if victors, unmourned if dead.
Murderers in any case.
If I'm a monster, I'll be the monster all way through. I'm the last Career alive. I'm the one going home. Seven others separate me from that goal. Time for a manhunt.
Someone has to die. Better them than me.
I don't recognise my hands. Gone are the scars, the calluses, soft pink skin gleaming healthily in their place. As if murder could be wiped out by cosmetic treatments.
My mentor steps through, grimacing, "Cashmere, this is your main sponsor—Pluton Helsing." A man follows in her step, podgy with puckered lips, his complexion dyed washed out silver that more resembles sickly grey on the sagged skin structure worn by cosmetics, and the hair of deep purple supposed to resemble Capitol's night sky. "I'll leave you two alone," she says after a moment of silence as heavy the boulder of guilt that weights down my shoulders now that the Games have passed.
"I've paid a handsome price for your survival." he says. His voice is affected and sly. "It's time you've repaid that investment."
So that's what this is about. Debts. Not only am I a murderer, I'm also a commodity. Despicable.
My memories of the Games flash by in a blur and find a single focal point that has led to this very moment. The sheen translucent gown sown with diamonds has sealed my fate ever since our chariot pulled out of the Remake Centre at the opening ceremony.
I cock an eyebrow, keeping emotion out of my voice. "And if I refuse?"
"Your loved ones suffer." he says. "Say something were to happen to that lovely boy, your brother—Gloss?" Pluton grins, revealing a line of gold-tinted teeth. "Wouldn't that be unfortunate?" The affected accent that's otherwise ridiculous grows into a vicious snarl.
If we were in the arena, I would be in a perfect position to bury a knife in between his eyes with one swift throw; but all my advantages—the years of training and perfect throwing distance—are wasted without a weapon and an escape route.
Here, on Capitol's hunting grounds, I'm powerless to stop him.
I can't let them hurt my little brother even though he's hardly a helpless child anymore. It's the older sister instinct I can't suppress. Better me than him. I'm already tainted.
"If you were to choose the contrary, however..." As he speaks, he reaches into his pocket to pull out a white gold necklace peppered with brilliants, holding it for me to examine. I recognise the craftsmanship of our district immediately. "My generosity knows no bounds."
I feel the bile at the back of my throat as the last remaining bits of my pride shatter when I make a few timid steps in Pluton's direction, spinning so that he can fasten the necklace around my neck.
"Clever girl." he says in voice that makes me shiver with dread.
He sweeps my fair hair to the side, revealing the firm muscles of my nape. He plants a kiss there after the cool metal embraces my skin and his slimy hands trace the curve of my shoulders and pull at the rim of my rob, sending it pooling down at my feet.
The doors of the train slide open to reveal the scenery of District 1 beyond. Familiar air pinches my nose. I'm finally home.
When I take the few narrow steps separating me from the ground, I make my way immediately to my brother even with the tears polluting my vision.
I wrap my arms around him eagerly. Not for the cameras. Not for sake of a dramatic reunion. I need to talk to him.
I hush my voice to a whisper when his own arms encircle me, promising to keep me safe from any other Capitol obscenities.
"They raped me." I sob silently in his ear. That's the praise I got for winning.
At the next Reaping, my brother steps forward as a volunteer. My hands are shaking as I hold him for what may as well be the last time. I know his reasoning already, but even so, he speaks up: "If I win they'll have less leverage over you. They can't kill me if I'm the victor."
My voice is barely a squeak when I ask: "And if you don't win?"
He frowns at the possibility but his voice is calm, "Then they can't kill me regardless."