I feel like a fish.
Back home, we have big fish markets every Sunday. The fish mongers each have massive buckets of water in which they keep their fish, alive, before they skillet them and whack them into an ice tray so you can buy them. If you erase the skillet part and put that at the end of the process, you've pretty much got my situation.
At the moment, me and my fellow fishes are in the water buckets – a large rectangular room that extends to an overhand, through which is a large concrete aisle, for lack of a better word. And we are awaiting the scrutiny of the Capitol, awaiting to be displayed and flaunted like the fish to buy.
When I end up in the water bucket, the first thing I see is Otto.
And I thank my lucky stars that I ended up with Flern instead of his stylist, Verniin.
Otto's reaction when he sees me is different.
"Oh heck."
And upon seeing Otto's costume, little else comes to my mind either.
Verniin seems to have found some sand and glue – and that's all Otto's wearing with the exception of an incredibly large shell and some of that tulle covering his nether region. It seems Verniin is extremely proud of his accomplishment, however even Coa, whom I would classify as being the very definition of Capitol eccentricity, seems to be holding a dislike towards the costume, what with her patronising expression and fleeting eyes that try to look at everyone but Otto. And when her eyes land on me, she wears an expression of pure happiness and relief – one that I highly doubt I will see again.
"Oh, Margaret – "
"Mags."
" – you look stunning."
Coa smiles and her eyes go soft for a minute, and I know she's being genuine.
"Thank you Miss Linth," I say with sincerity, and her smile brightens considerably. I may have just secured a get out off jail free card for this morning's debacle.
Otto sidles up next to me.
"Wanna trade stylists for tomorrow."
I grin, taking in his pleading eyes and serious expression.
"Why? You're rocking that whole just-been-breadcrumbed look. And as for the shell; you'll send hundreds swoooon-ing."
He grimaces. "Not the look I was going for."
"You should have seen mine before."
"What do you mean?"
And so I describe the previous monstrosity that would have sent me to my deathbed. Otto's eyes bug out – and to abnormally creepy dimensions.
"So she let you change it?"
"Yeah kinda. I gave her some ideas, like the covering in shells, but she extended them."
He sighs. "You do look good."
And I do.
Flern and I cut down the layers of tulle, so that now the skirt doesn't bulge but rather hangs loosely, with the front being shorter than the train of the back. Above the skirt is a layer of fishing net, hazardously sewn to the bodice and covered instead by chiffon that gives the appearance of rippling water.
The bodice is still a cerulean taffeta, however the once revealing dip that exposed the majority of my torso is now covered in shells; big ones and small ones, ones of elegant simplicity and others of intricacy. Some are even woven into my hair, which for the most part is down. The shells are attached to the leftover tulle that Flern has sewn not only over my torso, but also my arms and neck, creating an effect of uneven edges that is surprisingly likeable.
But that's what District four is; it is the water and the waves that present the possibility of the unknown. The beautiful surface of shells and calm water that shelter the choppy seas and poison barbs of venomous fauna, of which the rainbow of fish and utter beauty abide within. It is a cacophony of pretences, both positive and negative. And in that aspect, District Four is an emulation of the Capitol. Cue the tulle. The ridiculous taffeta.
There is one thing to District Four though that will never be compared to the Capitol, nor any other district. Beauty.
Not materialistic, but the natural beauty of the water, the beauty of a District united in one love, the beauty of a District who rose from the ashes not necessarily triumphant, but with their dignity and dreams still intact. We are the District that the Capitol could grab no full hold on – for we are the water. And as anyone knows, the water shall always quench the flames.
So on the back of the skirt are small sprinklers and hoses – minute and only visible to the expectant eye, and they shall spray jets of water. And in one form or another, I shall rebel against the Capitol as I parade down that stretch of concrete. Because District Four is the District of water, and I am part of that. And nothing the Capitol does can take that away.
...
A loud voice reverberates through the enclosure as everyone grips their chariots, introducing the concept of the parade. All the stylists and escorts have already left the enclosure to watch the event, leaving us only in the presence of a selection of heavily armed peacekeepers. I glance around me nonchalantly, taking into account each District's costumes. I'm not stupid – I know what this parade is. A demonstration of the Capitol's power and how they have control over us in all aspects, even in matters trivial enough as fashion. But to us tributes? We already know that. What this parade is for is to get sponsors; the most. From what I can see, it looks as the One have got that down pat. Both tributes are sheathed in crystal and lace, creating an angelic appearance that will no doubt capture the heart of any soft-hearted Capitol-ee. The tributes from two appeal to a much different audience, no doubt the one eager for fame subsequent of a win. Each has slipped into black leotards with large rocks attached. Although not necessarily 'amazing', their expressions of determination and, for lack of a better phrase, 'we-will-kill-you' convey their intentions. Other district's, however are just plain pitiful. Take 10 – livestock. Dressed as cows. Nice.
The voice pauses for dramatic effect, before calling to the audience;
"District One!"
The shimmering pair glide forward into a screaming crowd, waving and kissing and sucking up. I look up to Otto.
"You want to appear united or separate?"
"What?"
Gosh he's thick.
District Two roll out.
"Do you want to appear as one unit or separate individuals?"
"I don't care," he says, "as long as we don't do that."
He's referring to District three who have just rolled out, copying District one and two for the most part and waving like lunatics with big grins.
"Don't worry," I reply, because there is nothing to grin about.
"District Four!"
Otto and I burst into the light of the parade ground, greeted by a short silence before the crowd explodes into a cacophony of cheers. Otto was playing his part well, sending suggestive winks into the audience and long kisses, but me? I was different. I was reformed and resolute. Because the Capitol owned so much of me, yet just because they owned my fate, didn't mean they owned my decisions. I was not going to play their game, consequences be damned. So I looked ahead. Fixed a steely gaze on the large podium four hundred metres away, ignorant to the shouts and screams of my name. And my dress rippled and the sprinklers attached let out jets of water and the wind whipped through my hair, but no hold did it find because in that moment I was emancipated. I was rebellious. For water is uncontrollable, unpredictable. And I was the water; the water was me.
...
Coa knocks on my door before bounding in. No doubt that bulge in her pocket is a spare key.
"Up and at them Miss! We've got lots, lots, lots to do."
One 'lot' would be sufficient, Coa, especially at such an ungodly hour after last nights festivities. After we had reached the end of the stretch, the creepy man from the television commercial who told us originally about the Hunger Games stood up from a throne of sorts and gave a heart warming speech concerning our imminent deaths. Up close, it was obvious that he was quite young, no older than eighteen at most. However as such didn't absolve my fears, as for one to hold power in the Capitol usually meant they were cunning, manipulative and dangerous. Yet for the man to be still a teenager; my imagination can only begin to comprehend the sick and twisted way his brain worked.
"You ready, Mags?"
I smile, actually smile, because Coa got it right.
"I'll see you in the dining room in ten. Today's your first day of training, so I had Flern hang up some garments in your wardrobe," she says before she leaves.
With extreme tentativeness, I roll out of bed and approach the door, as one would if they had known a serial killer was lurking behind the two oak doors of their wardrobe. For despite Flern's finesse in creation, her imagination is severely lacking in terms of fashion. The door squeaks as I pull it open, and I see pink. Hot pink. A lot of hot pink.
I pick a pair of pants up and hold them against me in front of the mirror, before throwing them back into the pile with disgust. There were feathers down the sides of the pants. Pink feathers; as if Flern had delved into her dress up box and attached a feather boa to the side.
Otto hollers from his room, adjacent to mine, "Coa, I don't have any clothes!"
"Don't worry, Otto! Verniin's just fixing some measurements. Come eat breakfast and they'll be done by the time your finished."
The peaceful silence once again regains it's dominance of the apartment, but not in my head. For my head is ticking, whizzing, fizzling. And as Otto stomps past my room, I know what to do.
...
"Why Mags! You're actually here on time!" Coa beams as I sit down at the table. I know she intended the statement as a compliment, yet I still have to bite my lip from scowling at her. Instead I busy myself with breakfast, heaping food onto my plate without a second glance.
"Where'd you get those clothes?" Otto grunts from the seat opposite, indicating to the garb I'm currently wearing; a loose black t-shirt that skirted my knees but now rests at my hips credit to some haphazard cutting skills, and a red pair of shorts that have been hacked in a similar fashion. I shrug.
"Wardrobe," I say through a mouthful of toast.
Otto looks at me for a few more seconds before shrugging as well and turning his attention back to his plate.
His brain is the size of a peanut.
For wasn't entirely incorrect in saying my clothes were sourced from a wardrobe, because they were. Just not the wardrobe he's thinking of.
"Speaking of clothes, Otto," Coa begins, "You'd better go get changed. Training starts in forty five minutes, and you don't want to be the last ones there!"
Otto merely nods before scarfing down the rest of his breakfast and heading to his bedroom.
"Now Miss Mags, are you excited for training?"
I heap another forkful of eggs into my mouth.
"Nope."
Because I honestly see no excitement in preparing for your deathbed. To my surprise, Coa merely nods before turning her attention back to her coffee, swishing it around the sides. It's moments like these that she looks almost normal, and I can think of her as a friend trying to help rather than one preparing me for the slaughter.
"What're you good at, Mags?
"What?"
"What are you good at? At home. You ever used a knife for fish, any weaponry, camouflage?"
"Uh … I can make a mean fish hook."
Still gazing into her coffee, she smiles. And I think that without all the capitol eccentricities, Coa could be beautiful.
"Do me a favour in training; make lots of fish hooks. You want everyone to know your strengths; it will increase your chances of good allies, and also strike a little fear in others – if you're so competent in a certain aspect and their not. You got it?"
Although, personally, I think it's crappy advice, I still treasure it. Maybe, just maybe, Coa isn't that bad.
"Yeah, I got it. Thanks, Coa."
And then he screams.
...
"What the hell is this!?"
His eyes are wild, bulging out, and hair unkempt, credit to the constant motions of his hands as he attempts to pull it out.
"What was he thinking!?"
By 'he', Otto is referring to Verniin. And the subject of Otto's rage?
A wardrobe full of hot pink, feathers, sequins and glitter.
Coa is spluttering, on the verge of hyperventilating as her arms flail and she delves into every draw as to find a suitable attire for Otto.
"Well are they your size? Maybe the were meant for Margaret!"
I would pick her up, but then I'd disrupt the show.
"But they fit Coa! They would be massive on Mags!"
I hide a smirk and thank the inventors of lycra and the philopshy of one size fits all.
Coa groans and races out into the hallway, returning a minute later with a phone clamped to her ear. Verniin's high pitched voice can be heard shrieking through the device.
"What do you mean pink! I had black and blue and red! Masculine colours, Coa! Masculine!"
"Well there it's not in the cupboard Verniin, it's all Malibu Barbie!"
"What do we do then?"
Coa lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Send up some new clothes!"
There is a short silence before Verniin talks again, this time soft so that it is inaudible for Otto and I. Coa pales.
"Ok." And with that she hangs up the phone.
"What did he say?" Otto asks.
"He can't sew clothes in twenty minutes."
Otto's face goes slack.
"You're gonna have to wear the pink."
...
A bit of a shorter chapter :) Apologies as well but I have forgot to add a disclaimer to previous chapters - I do not own the Hunger Games.