A warning to the people
the good and the evil
this is war
~This Is War, 30 Seconds To Mars ~
You had big dreams of changing the world, and a quiet confidence underlying it because you knew, even at seven, that one day you will. You had the best going for you, after all. Schooling with children of the famous, the freedom to be whatever you want to be; the world really was your oyster. Neither Mother nor Father questioned it when you told them of your decision. Instead, they smiled and waved as you rode away to Gondela Design College, taking the first tentative step towards that dream you had so long ago. It was better than you dared to hope for, and for the first time your plans seemed just inches away from your grasp.
It would be years until you realised that it weren't all what it seemed. Those children of the famous that you once shared a lunch table with? They're spawns of famously cruel devils, growing up to be just as bloodthirsty as their parents. And freedom. Let's not even talk about freedom. It was fine for you to be whatever you wanted to be, provided that you don't overstep that invisible boundary. Because the price for that is harsh. You've learnt it the hard way.
You've never told anyone of your dreams. Not even her, the girl with violet eyes and a love for beauty. Especially not her. Even then you knew that there was a price tag attached to your dreams, and you didn't want her to bear the punches when they come. Who would've thought that a boy with a heart as attuned to beauty as you would go looking for war? You were the one sketching forests when the others played mock battle; you were the one staying up late to finish stitching a design while the rest went partying. Sometimes, when you were surrounded by the giddying extravagance and fun of the Capitol, you asked yourself "Do I really want all this to end?" But the answer's always yes. You were forever the fair-minded, after all. And if a good thing can't be shared, then it may as well not exist.
Perhaps it showed through your work, through the edgy lace dresses and scarlet skirts. Maybe that's how they knew; maybe that's why they came. "Freedom", the first note has said. And you had pinned a square of snowy chiffon as a return message, adding a flowering print of your own blood to pledge your loyalty. Your heart was drumming like a crazed musician after that night. Forget Design College, this was the real first step.
"District Twelve", said another note that was sent to you during your last day as a designer apprentice. You scoffed at the message, wondering why they had even bothered when Twelve is the place all budding designers ended up. But you put in a request anyway, and as with many other things, you got your wishes. That's where you met her, the girl with the shy smile and eyes like wild violets. Portia, she had said. Such a lovely name. You complemented each other so well, with her eye for soft beauty and details, and your daring innovative streak. The late nights at work with her weren't really work at all, although you must admit the things you made together were quite brilliant. It paid off, all those nights. In the form of artificial flame and a pair of lovers on fire.
You knew from the first moment you set eyes on the girl that she would be the one. The one with enough spirit and impulsiveness to spark a rebellion, the one with a story full of tragedy to garner support. The boy was brilliant too, but he was Portia's lot. You spent all your hours perfecting the fiery theme, knowing that this will be the motif for the face of something great. And she didn't disappoint. Not even when she stopped your heart with her nightlock stunt. Especially when she stopped your heart with her defiant stunt. You knew she would try something drastic if she survived the vicious Games, but you'd never dreamed of that. It was quite the pleasant surprise.
Things were in full swing the moment they escaped the arena, although neither Katniss nor Peeta knew it. You spent nights after nights jotting down designs, seeing now for the first time the very real possibility of danger. It sent a jolt of adrenaline through your veins, along with a good measure of fear. Whispered words of brand new uprisings reached you as you slaved along for your Girl on Fire, and in the midst of all this hushed conspiracy you realised that your dreams of an equal world is hurtling along faster than you ever expected. The whirling half-plans, the snatched orders, they're filling you with a kind of excitement you've never felt before. You've already skipped to the months ahead when the war is over, to the glory and the beauty of a world where justice and freedom reigned. And in your hurry to reach the longed-for freedom and justice, they've tripped you over.
No one had ever laid a finger on you before, not even to bruise a cell of your body. So all this pain was magnified by the thousands and millions; the gashes seem to burn and the broken bones send a mind-blinding ache throughout your body. All in the name of the revolution. At least your Mockingjay had flown. She is the important one. You, you're just a pawn in this grand scheme. Nothing more and nothing less.
It's messy business, this revolution. Not at all like the fairy-tales where the fair united to take down the oppressors. It isn't anything like you pictured it. If there is glory involved, it's sure isn't meant for you. Somehow, in your fantasies of being part of this great turnover, you never saw yourself as the captured designer, bleeding to death. There is no smoke rising, no noble fighting, no brave warriors conquering the streets as the Districts unite in peace and freedom. Perhaps all that is yet to come, the sweet part in the inevitable bittersweet victory. But right now all you can taste is the bitter hatred that the war has brought about.
The wind whips through your hair as you step upon the scaffold. You wonder for the briefest moment why they even bother. A bullet through the head would've been much easier. But the Capitol has never been known to take the easy path. To them, everything is for show, especially when it concerns a spark of rebellion. You look into the sea of faces at your feet, an ocean of rainbow and naivety and manipulated puppets. There's a woman with bright blue hair, wearing a fluttering butterfly clip of your design. And a girl in a violet dress clutching her Katniss doll, complete with the fiery costume you spent months creating. They still haven't managed to put two and two together yet. Poor, clueless things.
They're arranging the noose over your neck now, their gloved hands alien against your skin. You stand squarely over the trap door, your heart as cold and dead as the necklace of rope around your neck. Do you close your eyes, or do you keep them open? Your eyelashes flutter shut in an unconscious choice, but at the last moment you snap them open. You're still clinging on to your ideals of a noble revolution, and you're determined to go out like a true hero.
A three-fingered salute rises from the west wing of the crowd, and a dozen other hands followed. As quickly as the fingers appeared, a round of gunshots leaves the square ringing with ricocheting bullets. The trapdoor falls from beneath your feet. Your last glimpse of the world is not that of a heroic rebel paying respect to your sacrifice. It's that little girl in the violet dress, her body as limp as her doll's, a spreading crimson mark over her chest.
So this is war.