Annabella Moreau, 19
Daughter of the president.
I used to always say that Fairytales were God's gift to little girls. Everything about them was so enchanting and intriguing. Ball gowns, dancing, laughter, pure joy, true love and happy endings are something that every small child longs to have. The funny thing about fairy tales, though, is that they have a way of coming true. If you're lucky, you'll get one straight from a storybook. If you're me, you'll get one where a happy ending seems impossible.
Every night, before she put me to sleep, my mother and I would cuddle up in my bed and read the stories of princesses in far away places. They were beautiful but more importantly, they were happy. I remember running my fingers lightly over the glossy pages and closing my eyes. I would wish with my whole entire heart to have a life like that. My mother, of course, was quick to reassure me that I would always be her and my dad's princess, no matter how old I got.
I was only eight years old when she got sick. It started out slow, but eventually, she wasn't able to get out of bed and I had to wear a mask to go in her room and visit her. She would always try and make a joke and tell me that every princess loses their mother, but if that was true, I didn't want to be a princess anymore. My father and I Were in her room for countless hours every single day until the day she left us.
I sat in my room reading all of the old picture books that we used to read together, leaving stains in the shape of teardrops on every page. Happiness always came for these princesses after they met Prince Charming, but I was nowhere near old enough to meet mine and since my father had such an important job, I never saw him. He slowly turned into a mean and terrible man right in front of my eyes.
I filled the void of basically becoming an instant orphan with the people from town. As I got older, I started appreciating the different ways people lived their lives. I was curious about the reasons behind people's smile wrinkles, the worn out skin on their hands and the reasons for the sadness that was so permanently etched into their eyes. I spent most of my days in town, conversing with people and listening. I slowly started to realize that every single person I had come across had their very own picture book in the form of their life and I wanted to read them all.
After a long day in town, conversing with the people, I wanted to go speak to my dad. Although, trying to do so it quite the task.
"Knock knock," I sing-song, as I tap on the door.
"Who the hell is it? Don't you people know that I am trying to run an entire damn people are absolute peasants, I should just let them all burn!" His voice booms out of the wooden doors.
"It's Anna, papa," I whisper quietly.
"Why didn't you just say that?" He asks, his voice becoming instantly more gentle.
"You didn't give me the chance," I tease, giving him the look that he knows to mean to calm down. "I know you have been stressed lately, so I brought you lunch and some flowers," I smile.
"I am not a thirteen-year-old girl, Anna. I don't need flowers. What is for lunch?" he snaps.
"Shrimp Fettuccine, papa," I say quietly, sliding it towards him. "What are you doing, papa?" I ask him, looking at all the papers he has spread out in front of him.
"The reapings are soon. I am sick and tired of the filthy rodents that some would call citizens of Panem. They can never just accept the things that come their way. This year's Hunger games is going to show them, I can promise you that," he says, his face reddening with every word uttered.
"You shouldn't talk about people that way, papa," I tell him. "Besides, you're the President of Panem, you could just do away with them. They serve no purpose. It's just plain cruel," I say, furrowing my brow and crossing my arms.
"This is why I don't discuss these things with you, you are simply a little girl. Life isn't a fairytale, Annabella. Leave my presence this instant," he growls, shoving a spoonful of fettuccine into his mouth.
"I'm just going to start killing everyone," I hear him whisper to his assistant as I close the door.
I let loose the pile of light brown hair from the top of my head, it hits the small of my back before taking its normal shape. I remove my earrings, slip out of my blue dress and into my favorite pair of yellow sweat pants.
I walk over to the dresser and reach for the bottom drawer, where I store my most prized possessions and pull out my old favorite picture book. I move the canopy that drapes over my bed out of the way and sit down to read it. The smooth pages bring me comfort that nothing else can but the tear stains remind me of something that is all too real.
Fairytales are full of great things, they are beautifully crafted stories of love and light. However, every fairy tale has a villain. I pull the colorful book toward my chest and tears stream down my face as I realize that in my fairy tale, the villain lives downstairs in an office eating shrimp fettuccine.
I fall asleep cradling the book, and dream about happy endings.
Astor Moreau, 56
President Of Panem
"You don't think that might be a little much?"My assistant, Karen asks me, with her squinty bug-like face all shriveled up in concern.
"Listen, Karen. I have given these peasants chance after chance and every damned time, they screw it up. They always want more," I tell her, shoving dry pasta into my mouth.
"Not everyone can of such high class," she says, sarcastically.
"If you would like to make jokes Karen, I can gladly demote you to the presidential jester. You're already quite foolish, It might be the perfect fit," I stroke my beard and watch her squirm uncomfortably in her seat. It brings much pleasure to see people squirming at my expense.
"With all due respect Sir, all I was trying to say is that a basic arena seems to do the trick. We mustn't do anything extra gruesome to teach the people of Panem a lesson. They haven't rebelled in quite some time, sir," she says, nervously playing with her blonde hair.
"Listen closely, you cow. I am in charge, and what I say, goes. These people are on the verge of a rebellion and the way I handle that would be greatly frowned upon. These fools should consider themselves lucky that only twenty-four children get the brunt of this," I scowl.
I slam my feet down on my desk and lean back in the office chair.
"Well, what were you thinking?" She asks me, slowly standing and getting a notepad ready.
"Blood, fire, screams of children, money," I tell her. "Violence sells," I smirk.
"You are a sick man," she tells me, throwing down her pen and paper down on my desk and walking out.
"Don't you dare leave! Get back in here this instant," I scream after her but she doesn't return.
Rage fills my body, my blood boils and I can't control it. I grab the vase of roses sitting on the edge of my desk and throw it at the wall. The sound of the glass shattering impact is deafening. Rose petals fall from thin air, creating a blood like an effect on my white rug.
"How fitting, let the games begin."
Hi! :) Welcome to the prologue of my SYOT, the one that I will actually be finishing. (Too soon?)
I know that this one was short, but I have three more prologues planned for while I am waiting on submissions. I am so excited about everything that I have planned for this story and I hope that you all will give me another chance to prove that I can finish another one.
There will be rules and a form on my profile. Please feel free to send me a tribute as I would like to get started on this one as soon as possible. :)
Happily ever after,
Jenna
