Capitol images aren't real. They're shades to bright, hues to dark, emotions played differently, a life on infinities, and opinions and thoughts twisted to make you think things are what they seem. But they're not. They're double images, walking crossroads, always in sync. That is, until one falls short. A tiny speck is big enough to reveal the whole picture, a sad, despicable, twisted one; and no matter how hard we try to cover it up, it shows through, because that's the problem with Capitol images. They're to unrealistic, so when normal shows through, no matter how twisted it is, it's hard to miss.
-Cool breathe. Sickly sweet scent. The man's tall, firm, and quite brutally, if not suspiciously honest. A perfect liar. How does one tell the difference between what is and what isn't, when you've firsthand seen truth and sin perfected to such a way it's impossible to see between the cracks? You can't tell, so how can you see between bluff and honesty? You don't, you simply have to trust an instinct. But instincts aren't always correct, and when you realize that, it's usually too late. But in some cases, it's opposite, because were smarter than that. And we see the cracks. Were not all that good, no, practically none of us are. But I am; and I seen the crack. But I couldn't tell if it was for gruesome, painful honestly, or another perfected lie. Something was incorrect. But the small problem is, how can you tell the slight difference, when both sides are just as even?
"I want you to twist her memories." He states simply, a man hidden under disguises. A mask worn only to be known by all. Recognizable anywhere, yet not real. Covering a true layer, but of course, they can not see that. No one can, so as I sit here, staring at his Capitol educed, puffed up lips, white rose pinned on his shirt, the intoxicating smell of blood, that hangs so obviously on his form, I wonder to what lies beneath.
"Twist the memories?" I say, trying to hide my complete confusion. "Yes, Doctor Aurelius, I said 'Twist, the memories." He restates to me as if I am a dumbfound child. My mind is befuddled. Twist memories? How could you twist memories like that, for they are what stays with us longest? The scariest images, the horrifying screams, the blood put on hands…how do we change the matter of our already painful, broken memories? They remain most clear in our minds, like red a giant red splatter on a bright, white wall, in the middle of an all black room, seeing that's how it would apply in a situation like this.
Tributes have permanent blood on there hands. The innocent lives they have taken and can't rid themselves from haunt them. I can hear them scream. See them shake and thrash about in there sweat covered sleep. I've seen them as I go in disguised to Capitol appearances, where they'll be a bathroom, and sit and scrub at there perfectly redone Capitol hands, feeling for scars, marks, and clawing at themselves until they bring forth deep red blood that flows onto the sleek, white, marble floors. It's lifelong. Unforgettable.
You can't just twist painstaking memories like that.
"How would I twist something that…lasting?" I say, taking my time to carefully chose the last word. "You find a way." He says simply, his green, snake-like eyes daring me to say it can't be done. He knows it can be, that I did it on accident last month, and now that he has it, he most definitely plans on using his new weapon. The newest, unique jewel to his horrifying collection.
I stare back, my altered, amber eyes beckoning him to stop. Stop his madness. It's sick, and while I've attempted treatment on him, it doesn't work. He's double sided. One day, he'll be in his mansion, breaking things, screaming at himself, and sobbing upon his horrendous actions. Other days, he'll be back into his own sick game, calling forth murders and crimes that he committed and placing them on competitor's shoulders, never wanting to accept his own exploitation.
Two-faced. Double personality. A horrible, overwhelming sickness that I can't fix, and it's affected an entire nation of people. I think to all the tributes who have been slaughtered in the Games. I killed you, by extension. That thought haunts me every second, of every day. I can't, the brightest Doctor in Panem, find a cure for his madness, which causes him to rash out of the world, and slip away from reality. A snake, slithering between two people.
But at these points, it's not simple to see in who's shoes he stands. Blood-thirsty, yet guilt filled. Rash and emotional, yet vicious. A personality that seems to be combining itself together to a point where I couldn't pull the other out if it advances any farther. A morphed double face, in which half leaves tears and screams, and the other venomous and red eyed.
Pulling them apart though, as it is, is seemingly impossible.
But that's what I had thought about twisting memories.
Thank you for reading and follow for more. A new chapter up either later tonight or tomorrow. What did you think? Good? Bad? Any criticism wanted. Please review, no author can express that enough. I love you all.
-Cheyenne