Welcome to Picking Up The Pieces! I've been waiting so long, planning and getting ready for the release of this story. Now it's finally here! I hope that you're all ready to come along for the ride. :)
This story is technically a sequel to my SYOT Seeping Wounds (SW), however, this can be read on its own. I'm going to be making a few references to SW, so if you want to understand them better, then feel free to read it. If you don't, I doubt there will be much of a problem. If you have any questions, then just ask me. :D
Submissions have now closed for this story. However, do feel free to read about the tributes anyway and tell me what you think! :)
Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games in any way, shape, or form. I only own the arena I've created ;D
"Let us be grateful to those who make us happy, they are the gardeners who make our souls blossom." ~Marcel Proust
Shea Thyle, Thirty-three, Capitol Citizen.
Wither like a weed, or bloom like a flower; the choice is yours.
That's what my Mother always told me when I was young. Any choice, she would say, came with a price, with consequences. Sometimes those consequences could be bad, but usually, they were good. Of course, you could never be sure if the results of your decision would turn in your favour, which is what everyone calls a risk nowadays. To me, taking risks and exploring the world is necessary to bloom as a person. You have to explore, to find new things that you enjoy and new people that you love. You have to push yourself out of your comfort zone, otherwise, you're not really living.
Exploring has always been my way in life. If there's something new I can try, then I'll try it. A lot of people tell me that I live too impulsively. I tell them that it's none of their business. If they let me get on with my life, then I'll let them get on with theirs.
That's one of the reasons why I decided to get this job. Being a chief gardener for President Snow seemed like too good of a chance to pass up, and it's one of the few jobs that I haven't actually tried yet. It's strange, being here. Everything seems to be so controlled…from the number of white roses in each flowerbed, to the time the President has his tea. Everything is perfect, not a second late or a petal out of place.
I shift a little, releasing the pressure on my knees and legs. After a few seconds, the sensation of tiny pins and needles spreads across my skin. I shift uncomfortably again. Oh how I hate pins and needles! Dusting off my hands, I stand up and admire my work, my legs still tingling. Another flowerbed filled with white roses is done. I'm standing in the centre of the Presidents garden, a circular area guarded by lush green hedges that arch over beige garden paths which worm their way around the flowers. This section is dedicated entirely to Mr Snow's roses, some of which are embedded into some of the hedges.
I've been keeping the garden in incredible shape, adding in some small sunflowers, and some ravishing tulips in the dark soil. I've been instructed to place some violets in the flowerbed at the edge of Mr Snow's garden before they're sprayed. Rumour has it that these plants are genetically modified to bloom the whole year around. My guess is that these new flowers are to replace the older ones that did not suit the President's fancy.
I flick my purple curls over one shoulder with a grubby hand. The dirt doesn't bother me, why should it? In life, sometimes you have to get your hands dirty. I've manipulated more people than I can count, and I've turned out fine. Well…I don't have a husband or children, but that's my own choice. I'm not one to be tied down.
Checking my sleek silver watch, the shining hands tell me that my day has ended. It's time to pack up and go home. I snatch up my gloves and the crates the flowers arrived in, taking a slow stroll to the gardener's shed. Wrenching open the door, the hinges squeal, brand new and smelling faintly of polish. The cleaners do a good job here, that's for sure. I toss the crates carelessly onto the floor, leaving the plastic holders to clatter as I slam the door shut. I let out a contented sigh, collecting my purple coat with glass buttons on the way. I love this coat; people always tell me that it brings out my green eyes. At thirty-three, I can still work it and get a few interested glances.
People are always much more feisty and excitable at this time of year as well, especially with the Hunger Games approaching. There's a certain hype around it that never dies. People rarely take drugs here in the Capitol, partly because they're too high off the atmosphere to need them. I'm equally as excited. It's a shame that District Ten didn't do so well last year. I was really rooting for that moody looking girl until she went and got stabbed to death in the bloodbath. No matter. I moved on. See, I tend to bet on District Ten most of time, because they're my favourite District! This year though…I might root for someone else. Maybe I should go for the ones who actually have some decent strength to display…
Anyway, I must get going. Shrugging on my coat, I clog out of the garden, swapping my garden boots for my kitten heels, and my gardener's hat for my chiffon bow. The President's mansion is an immense complex, and I have been strictly forbidden to explore anywhere other than my route from the back door to the front. Quelling my inner explorer has been difficult, but I've complied to the rules.
Until now.
There's something here that grabs my attention. As I approach the corridor off from the fourth dining room, I hear the faint sound of voices. Ahead of me, I can see two figures; one obviously the President, and the other a more recent visitor. The presence of Head Gamemaker Luca Fawkes piques my interest. The only reason that Mr Fawkes would be present here, would be to introduce the basis theme of this year's arena.
I feel my heart go into double time as excitement wells up inside of me, spilling over in proverbial droplets of elation and enthusiasm. I scan the area for Peacekeepers. There are very few in Mr Snow's mansion, purely for privacy reasons. Any of the Peacekeepers here mostly patrol the house, maintaining a level of security required for the President.
The arena plans…
My thoughts whisper to my desires as I bite my lip, unsure as to whether or not I should follow the two men ahead of me, or to go on my merry way.
There's a betting system in place where you can bet on both tributes and on what this year's arena will be. The arenas of each games are so anticipated that guessing it right could earn you thousands, if not millions.
I could be rich.
But should I give into my greed? I could easily get caught if I'm not careful. No! I'm better than that. I'll be fine, surely. After letting my mind wage a battle over my desires, I cave in. Unfortunately, President Snow and Luca Fawkes have departed from my general location. No matter. I should be able to find them. They can't have gone too far.
My heels click loudly on the staircase as my shoe meet the polished wood. Checking that the coast is clear, I pull them off, leaving my bare feet to meet with the gleaming steps as I pad my way upstairs. The next stage of my journey causes me the most trouble. The corridor I end up in is lined with ivory wallpaper, along with a rich chestnut handrail and a carpet reminiscent of autumn leaves. The corridor branches off to both the left and the right, of which I impulsively turn left.
Walking around the maze of rooms is irritating, and it soon becomes clear to me that I'm horribly lost. Sighing, I perch on the side of a large bed, the memory foam dipping slightly beneath me. The satin sheets rub gently against my fingers as I breathe in the faint aroma of coconut. My eyes find the source of the smell; a small burning candle, obviously used as a form of air freshener.
I'm a slave for satin and coconut.
I would have left the room, if I hadn't have heard voices.
"Do tell me Luca, how is your Mother doing?"
Fuck.
A brief spell of panic washes over me as the President's voice rings down the corridor. With a barely audible squeal, I quickly scoot over to the wardrobe in the far end of the room, getting inside and closing the door behind me. The wardrobe is pitch black and a little musty, but it's spacious. I desperately do my best not to cough as the dust tickles my throat.
"I've heard she's had quite a few problems?" Mr Snow continues.
"Pfft," an arrogant snort comes from the one and only Luca Fawkes. "She'll be fine. Nothing that a little medicine can't fix."
The two men laugh; the President's gentle chuckle mixing in with the louder chortle of the younger man. The two men's voices fade away as they move on. I wait for a minute or two before I finally decide that it's safe to go.
My heels click together in my hands, as I hurriedly jog down the hallway in pursuit of their fading voices. I feel a little sick to my stomach, probably because the adrenaline surging inside of me is too overwhelming to cope with. Ugh, get over yourself Shea! I tell myself. You're not this weak! We're doing this for a reason, think of the money!
I focus on my desire to win this bet, and the panic slowly subsides.
I'll be fine.
I know I will.
It takes me far too long to find the room the President has retreated to, but I'm relieved when I do. I press my ear gently to the door, hoping for some kind of clue to the arena.
"Well, we were thinking of making it from stone." Luca says.
"It's definitely the best way to tackle the problem," the President replies. "I believe that it would have the desired effect."
"Excellent," Luca replies confidently. "Then that's it. That's the arena for you."
"Most impressive, Mr Fawkes," the President says silkily. "I'm thankful that you've put in a lot more effort this year compared to the last. After all, last year, I had to give you a small…incentive."
Luca clears his throat uncomfortably, but maintains his composure.
"I'm sure that you will find me focussed on my work as usual, Sir." He says.
"Good," the President replies. "We would not like you to turn out like Ms Miles, now would we?"
I frown. Debra Miles was the Head Gamemaker before Luca. The reason for her resignation was as a result of a serious disease a couple of years ago. I remember it well. Everyone in the Capitol had to take a vaccine in order to stop the outbreak of this virus. Unfortunately, several people died, including Debra Miles, and the Capitol's most loved TV host, Caesar Flickerman. It was devastating news for the entire Capitol and thousands attended their funerals.
But what does the President mean? Why would Luca end up like Debra Miles?
Luca sounds equally confused.
"I'm sorry, but I don't understand," Luca says, forcing himself to be polite. "What would Debra Miles' death have to do with me? I've received the vaccine."
The President chuckles a little.
"Ah, Luca," he sighs. "Debra wasn't killed by a virus. She was killed by me."
There is a ringing silence as these words are announced. I cover my mouth in horror. Our good President…a murderer? No, it can't be! He was the one who saved us from the rebellion, who punished those who followed the Mockingjay. He was the one that returned our luxuries to us, the one who let us buy sweet smelling perfume instead of the crappy bland ones. Yet…he murdered Debra Miles? This is too hard for me to bear.
"Why?" Luca asks, his voice strained.
"Debra and her Gamemakers planned to give the Capitol several victors," The President explains. "Six, to be precise. Caesar Flickerman was reported to have been collaborating with them. I could not risk another rebellion, so I…removed them."
The President claps his hands together lightly, as if to finish the conversation. I stand there in horror at this news. There's no point in staying here. I must leave - spread the word - tell people about what really happened to Debra Miles and Caesar Flickerman. I feel empty. To me, Mr Snow was a strong leader. I've built him up high and placed him on a pedestal, and in a few words, he's smashed that vision into pieces.
I turn to leave, only for my blood to freeze in fear.
I'm staring straight into the barrel of a gun.
The Peacekeeper holding the gun grabs me roughly by the arm, his white uniform protecting him against my feeble attempts to escape his iron grip. I'm like a fly in a spider's web, desperately trying to get away from the mistake I've made.
I took a risk, but the consequences of my actions aren't good. They're very, very, bad.
The Peacekeeper opens the door without knocking, rudely shoving me to the floor. The President's eyes stare coldly at the Peacekeeper, while Luca's golden ones lock onto my own, which are filled with tears.
I'm scared. I was foolish. I was an idiot. Why didn't I just go home?
"I found her eavesdropping outside of this room." the Peacekeeper declares lowly.
The President turns to me, regarding me icily.
"Is that so?" he says, his voice rising in interest.
"N-no!" I cry, desperately trying save myself. "I didn't mean to! I got lost in this house on my way out, I swear!"
"Liar." The peacekeeper hisses, but the President silences him with a wave of his hand.
"You are my chief gardener, yes?"
I nod shakily.
"What's your name, my dear?" he asks sweetly.
"Shea Thyle," I reply, calming down a little.
"Miss Thyle," Mr Snow says. "Let me ask you something."
He pauses, possibly for effect, or for a reply from me, which I don't give.
"Flowers are delicate things, yes?"
"Yes, Sir," I reply slowly. "They must be treated carefully, and they are damaged easily if they are not properly taken care of."
"Very good, Miss Thyle," the President comments. "You seem very beautiful, almost like a flower yourself."
I don't reply, unsure of where the President is going with this.
"I wonder what would happen if that flower was actually a weed?" he says, eerily calm. "I'm sure I could always uproot it and find a new flower…?"
"Well, I-" I splutter, before answering him. "Y-yes…"
"Very good," he says. "Then you know what we do with weeds."
"No!" I cry. "Please, no! I've done nothing wrong."
"I think that I'll be the judge of that." The President answers stiffly, nodding at the Peacekeeper standing beside me. The Peacekeeper raises his gun and aims it at me.
I stiffen, fearful of death. I can't go, I can't! I still have my mark to make on the world. I can't go now.
I sob, curling into a ball. I was foolish to believe that my plan would succeed. Now I've lost everything. If only I'd exercised some self-control. Instead, my desires consumed me, drove me to do this. My curiosity got the better of me.
As the Peacekeeper pulls the trigger, my life flashes before my eyes. In my final moments, one thing comes to mind; it's an old saying my Mother once told me.
Curiosity killed the cat.
It also killed me.
I'm really looking forward to writing this story for your enjoyment, and I can't wait to choose the twenty-four tributes to face the arena this time around! Happy submitting :D
Also, if you have any general questions about me as a writer or Seeping Wounds/Picking Up The Pieces updates, along with my opinions on things and whatnot, then feel free to ask me anything via PM. :D
Over and out!
~Mental