Hey, guys. So, I haven't been getting any submits for characters...I'll leave them up for one or two more days, then I guess I'll just have to make up my own characters. Also, please review! I need the criticism!
We all gather in one car- Wylie, Karter, Kyle, Dimond, Jonah, Erika, Jangerine and I. The two former tributes have stormy looks on their faces- Lips pressed into a thin line and gazes containing barely suppressed rage. A similar feeling curdles my gut- I don't want to be here, and I don't want to be with these people. Not even Kyle. I'd rather be at home, tanning, mixing paints, milking the goats. That's what District 10 was for.
I was not born to be a tribute.
All these thoughts clamor in my head as we step out of the train- Onto the cold, marble floor of the Capitol. Just as quickly, though, my anger shatters, replaced by so much sound and excitement and pure energy that I stagger back, blinking once, twice, three times. I feel nauseous; My head spins and my ears feel ready to explode. The feeling only gets worse when I realize what the noise is- Cheering. For me.
Wylie has shielded her face with one hand and she's scowling, pushing her way through the crowd. Dimond grins, waving and batting her eyelashes. Karter and Kyle both shuffle along, flashing the occasional grin, then hunching their shoulders as if to block out the noise. Cheering for us, I think.
Cheering for our deaths.
They want us to die.
They want it to be painful- to be bloody. They're not cheering for us, not really.
They're cheering for the tributes.
All these thoughts race through my head, one after another, and my legs wobble. I have to keep going, though- So I raise one hand and wave, plastering a smile on my face. I've never been good at that certain expression, not really, but the crowd goes wild.
"Backs straight, girls! Chins up! Smiles on!" Our escort trills out in front of us, her green-striped hair bobbing upon her head like some silly hat. "These are CAPITOLITES! Oh, the fame!" She smiles, twirls, and keeps walking.
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, if only because I'm on camera. Wylie can't stop herself- She flaps one hand, huffing. "Yeah, and they're here for us," She mutters.
I don't know what she means by that, but I don't ask, either.
It's over quickly- Not the part with the jostling bodies and bright, flashing colors and hoarse screams, but the walk itself; The smothered thump my leather boots create on the pavement. We step inside the train- I'm last- and I've barely pulled my foot through the doors before they close.
The train glides forward, not harshly, but quickly enough that I stagger forward and have to catch Kyle for balance. I've grabbed his shoulder in a claw-like grip, and his hand whips around; Before I know it, I'm against the wall, and he has a fist at my throat.
The car is silent.
"Kyle, dear," Jangerine murmurs. "Unhand the poor girl, will you?"
His gaze is stuck on mine- chocolate brown, but not at all warm. Filled with hatred, sorrow, confusion. He hesitates, licking his lips, and steps back.
I can't stop staring, though. I must look like a lost sheep- My eyes wide, lips open in a small o. I lift one hand, slowly, and place it at my throat, fingering the soar spot. My voice comes out as a squeak- Embarrassingly hoarse and quiet. "It's...It's fine."
Kyle stares at me for a moment longer, his Adam's apple bobbing as if he can't decide what to say. Finally he shakes his head and shoves his way between Jangerine and Wylie- Out of the car.
"The bedrooms are down the hall to the left, dear! Yours is the one with the red!" Jangerine cries after him. I doubt he hears, or cares.
Our escort pats down strands of loose emerald hair. "Well, dears. It's been a long day. You should all be off to your rooms; I'll call you in soon for dinner. And then.." She glances over her shoulder, and I realize that our two tributes are still here. They've been so silent I'd forgotten they were with us.
"We'll watch the recap," Jonah finishes. Jangerine nods, blinks, and smooths down her skirt. "I'll be in my room," She sings, and then she's off, her heels click-clacking against the floor of the train.
Wylie hesitates, then slings an arm around Karter's shoulder, which somehow surprises me. "Let's go, then, shall we?" She trills, and her accent is so ridiculous that I let out a snort. I slap a hand over my mouth, but by then she's grinning, and I can't help but pull my walls down for a moment. They join in my laughter- Three tributes, headed to their deaths, and all we can think about is the tone of a Capitolite. We get ourselves under control- eventually- and part ways.
"See you at dinner," She cheers, giving me a little wave. Her blue eyes flash, and then the door closes.
"Bye, Vale," Karter mumbles, and slips into his own room. I catch a glimpse of black walls before he, too, slams the door.
The first thing I notice is how absolutely, ridiculously, incredulously expensive everything looks.
The walls are smooth, painted a warm brown that matches the exact color of my boots; The sheets are wool, fluffy and creamy white upon the bed- Cherry wood, carved with so many elaborate shapes and letters that I have to switch my gaze to something else.
The carpet is woven of the same material as the sheets, soft and curly and rich in color- On one wall sits a mirror, all polished glass and silver. Pictures dominate the room- Pictures of tributes, young and old, of arenas, trees, deserts, mountains. It takes me a moment to realize it-
This was someone else's room.
The thought transforms into something ugly, something dark, something so wrong that I rush to the bathroom- and this time, I don't have time to appreciate the shining tiles, the flashing mirrors.
This was a tribute's room.
A tribute that died.
They lived in this room, and somehow, somewhere, they died.
I don't know I'm crying until I really get a glimpse of myself; My short hair wild and matted with sweat, my face streaked with dirt and smoke and tears. I haven't changed in hours, and I'm in my same old work clothes; A long-sleeved, hastily stitched brown shirt and a stained overall over ripped baggy pants.
The tears rush down my cheeks and gather at my chin. The thoughts roll over and over in my head, and my stomach joins in, goading me towards the smooth glass toilet.
I clench my shirt with one hand and retch with the other, not that it helps. My stomach is empty, and I'm left with nothing but a dry burning in my throat, and acid in my stomach. My lips feel cracked and dirty, and the inside of my mouth tastes sour. I feel hot, sticky, and horribly filthy.
I force down the bile and shove myself to my feet, trembling. You can't run to the bathroom every time something hits you, Vale. You're stronger than that.
District 10 is stronger than that.
My chest heaves, but I force back the sobs, rubbing my eyes with one hand until they feel hot and irritated. Step one, take a shower.
My legs wobble as I start towards the glass stall- all silver buttons and gilded patterns and glowing lights. I feel silly, being scared to take a shower, but they're rare in District 10; However true it is that we're in one of the better-off regions of Panem, we usually have tubs. We can heat water on the stove, but that usually takes too long; Most of us prefer a clean, cold bath. Soap is for special occasions, at least for my family.
I pause in front of the control panel- A thin plate of silver set with different sized buttons and switches and whatnot. I realize I have no idea how to work this- I don't even know how to turn the water on. There's no handle.
Why would you look at this, ladies and gentlemen! Vale Flemming, fourth tribute from District 10 of the fourth Quarter Quell, and the poor girl can't work a shower! Good luck in the arena! The voice of Caesar Flickerman echoes in my head.
I grit my teeth, fighting down the rising panic in my chest- the frantic beating of my heart, the sweat rolling down my cheeks, making me ever more uncomfortable. I know how to work a shower, just not this one.
Okay, I don't know how to work a shower. But it can't be that hard- Push a few buttons, flip a few switches, and I'll find the cold water eventually.
So that's exactly what I do.
At first, I get nothing- and then the lights flash, and my heart sinks, because I know I've done something wrong.
The glowing lights seated above the shower turn pink and began to rotate, blinding me. I stagger back, but there's nothing but a pretty wall behind me- I slide down onto my butt, my head throbbing. Hot water floods the stall, scalding my arms, my legs, my head- I cry out and throw my selves sideways, but there's a wall there, too.
Pink clouds gather around me, like mist; Curling around my ankles and head. It smells sickly sweet, like blossoms, and I want to throw up all over again, but there's nowhere to go.
I wrap my arms around my knees and wait for it to end. I sit there for maybe a minute before the perfume trickles out to a few stray tendrils of blossom-scented mist, the hot water trickles to a stop, and the lights flicker and go dark.
My breath is ragged. Steam surrounds me, and this time it's not perfume; It's pure heat, making me feel sticky and choked all over again. This is why I take cold showers.
My fingers grope for the door and when I find it, I clutch it desperately, hauling myself to my feet. I almost immediately fall again- My legs wobble and ache from knocking against the wall of the shower. I stumble over the lip of the stall and stand there in the cold air, shivering, feeling lost and stupid and generally miserable.
I peel my eyes open after a count of ten. The steam from the shower has spread about the entire room, so my vision is white; But I can faintly see the towel in one corner.
It takes me a while to dry off, mostly because I keep dropping the wooly fabric in my shriveled, heated fingers and staggering this way and that, into walls and toilets and sinks. When the deed is done, I scoot myself out the door and slam it shut so the steam won't spread to my own bedroom.
Clothes. I realize I have no idea what to wear- I didn't think to bring anything but the cloth on my back.
I shouldn't have worried.
It seems every drawer I open- Every counter I dare explore- are packed with clothes. Dresses, shirts, pants, jackets, skirts, socks, undergarments; Everything I've ever imagined and never worn. My head spins with all the choices laid out in front of me; All the decoration that I'd never been able to enjoy.
I can't tell if all this is to mock me- To remind me of the things I'll never have again, and have never had- Or to comfort me for the trials to come. To me, it definitely isn't the latter.
I eventually make up my mind. An ironed denim overcoat that swirls down to my knees, a light grey top, and baggy grey pants. I keep my boots- They're the best, and the only ones, that I own.
My hair is another matter. The best I can do is comb it through with my fingers- All the brushes snag and twist and one even breaks all together. When that's done, I try the sprays out of pure curiosity. They make me smell like oranges- Why those, I don't know- But I find it somehow interesting.
I face the door, not painted black but carved of pure ebony. There's a name etched into the wood- Penny- and my stomach heaves all over again.
Control yourself. They're dead, long gone. They're probably not even the last person to have lived in this room.
The thought calms my jangled nerves, if only a little. I suck in a breath through my teeth and swing the door open. I have a dinner to get to.
Well hello there! Sorry this chapter took so long, but I've gotten an idea. I think maybe I'll write stacks of chapters, three or four, and then let them all out on one day. Or should I just update one at a time frequently? Please review or PM me of what you think! Also, I'll be taking down the character list (The one on my profile) tomorrow, unless any new entries show up!
Peace!