A/N: Well, if this isn't the nerdiest thing I've ever written. Word counts correspond to the Fibonacci sequence at each given number.
(n=12)
She's practiced being sexy for years. It's all she knows how to do, and isn't that sad? She thinks she used to be different when she was younger, a cheerful, bubbly girl who was so honest she couldn't even think about being mean. Now she's smoke and steel, all severe angles and soft curves, and she'd sooner grind another girl deeper into the mud than help her back up. Her expressions are all fashioned to showcase her beauty and preserve her complexion from wrinkles; she hasn't genuinely smiled in years. Every sway of her hips, every slow lick of her lips is as carefully crafted as can be and every bit as fake. She looks like a child's doll with her pretty face and blank eyes and vacant mind, just waiting for someone to dress her up. Maybe, if she's lucky, they'll break her.
(n=11)
She's never hated a soul in her life before she came to the Capitol, but now she hates everyone. She hates her bloodthirsty allies, born to violence and blind to their own destruction. She hates her partner, always ready with a joke but never anything more substantial. She hates her mentor, praising her slight progress in one breath and crushing her in the next. But most of all, she hates the too-skinny, too-pretty girl with the wide green eyes who stares back at her in the mirror every night.
(n=10)
She's going to lose. Who would ever bet on her? Who would ever tie themselves to the pretty girl, the shallow girl, the silly, sparkling girl with no skills to her name beyond lewd speculation? She knows that if she were a sponsor, she wouldn't bet on herself. She knows herself too well for that.
(n=9)
They take her body and carve out the meat, the scars, the tiny flaws that made her alive. She supposes the single consolation she has is that she'll still be pretty when she dies.
(n=8)
She never talks about the family who'd starved her in the name of beauty. When she wins, they'll all be sorry.
(n=7)
Honestly, she doesn't even like boys, not like that, but she flirts anyway.
(n=6)
She dries her tears and paints over them.
(n=5)
Silk parts to her thigh.
(n=4)
"Again."
She smiles.
(n=3)
Everything hurts.
(n=2)
The
(n=1)
end.
(n=0)