So this is the longest chapter I've ever created, longer than the final update of Roulette. I must have really been inspired while writing this piece. If this seems eerily familiar to The Selection, I apologize in advance. Morgana's one-shot was concocted long before I knew of that series' existence. FYI, I haven't read the book, just a summary.

As an added note, I changed Dmitri's last name (accidentally gave him Nace's) and put up a poll on my profile.


Morgana Jankovic, District Five: Freedom

Place in the 61st Hunger Games: 8th Place


There are many things I could be doing right now.

I could be reading. Reading was soothing. An escape. Newspapers, pamphlets, instructions, manuals, guides, textbooks, books. Books were my favorite. Fiction books in particular. I've only ever owned two. One about a poor boy freeing a man sold to slavery. The other a series of stories based on the journeys and adventures of beautiful women. 'Princesses' they were called. Both courtesy of Mayor Sinnely. Years back, his son, Renard or something, went to go play a little Game and never came back. In his sorrow, the leading figure of District Five tossed his dead son's possessions into the streets, declaring it all public property. Thank goodness I was walking past. Thank goodness I was walking fast. The book about beautiful women, fairy tales as they're titled, is my favorite. Why can't life be a princess book? Meet the man of my dreams, marry him, live happily ever after. Simple. Happy. A done deal. Except this is real life, and things rarely, if ever, work your way.

I could be working. I didn't like working. I hated working. But it made money. Nevermind the monotonous tasks. Nevermind the walk home at hours no teenage girl should face alone. Nevermind the friendly boys and the eager manager more than willing to get you inside his office. It allowed me food, shelter, and means to avoid Mom and Dad's wake. As long as I got paid they could harass me and work me till their balls shriveled up dry and I killed over. Pride can take a backseat when my survival is at stake.

I could even be sleeping. Should be sleeping. How wonderful would it be to just lie down and go to sleep. Panem knows I deserve it, attending school then at the plant seven hours straight. If I just lay my head down on this pillow, hum a response when it goes silent. She won't notice. Her back is turned. Yes, she's still talking. She's still…

…..

"Morgana, are you even listening to me?"

I shoot straight up. The cushy throw pillow I was resting on rolls off the bed, giving me away. Damn.

"Yeah, of course," I say anyway, hoping I'm a little convincing.

She makes a face, bending to pick it up. "The drool running down your chin says otherwise."

Instead of doing something worth my dwindling energy, my night is occupied with talks of make-up and perfumes, etiquette and social graces, what color is best for my skintone and the perfect hair accessory. Feminine fusses the average Five girl could care less about. Though tonight, tonight I must pretend that it has been my life mission to coordinate my eyeshadow with my shoes and scour every piece of silverware in the kitchen drawers of Panem until my skin rips off.

"Because this is the night you've been waiting for your whole life," we say in unison. My tone sarcastic. Her tone a drug addict discovering the secret recipe to morphling.

A hum at levels no human should be able to produce comes from the teenaged girl. "See? You're finally understanding."

My bored gaze trails over to the dingy clock siting on the paint-chipped dresser. The front glass is shattered and the sides are scuffed with dirt marks but it still gives out the correct time. I think.

The Showcase starts in 45 minutes. Katarzyna is beside herself with glee. I'm beside myself in misery. Every few years, or whenever one of the moneybags die off, a contest is hosted. A suitor requests for a bride or a groom to wed. A Reaping of sorts, minus the blood, gore, and casual dismemberment. The wealthy, or the Elites as we call them, thought up the idea. Around the time of the Dark Days, the Elites would stick together, only marrying and reproducing with those of equal finances. They were convinced the perfect plan had been concocted, and for a while, it was. Until they realized one small problem: they were a very, very small social class. Twenty-four years into post-Dark Days Panem, cousins were wedding cousins, brothers were in bed with sisters. A secret romance between one father and his daughter is an old rumor still running wild in the sectors. It took for a physically deformed child, murdered soon after his birth, for the Elites to realize they were in trouble. A horrible dilemma was on their hands: Mate with the commoners, or face extinction.

Unfortunately, they chose the former.

It's a simple process: apply at the Justice Building, a representative arrives at your apartment number, you're rated on a variety of pointless qualifications that mean nothing if you've got the looks. If you get a call back, you're in. If not, have fun dying in the factories. You only get one shot. So that is why I've been trapped inside this tiny bedroom for the past two, three hours. Katarzyna took it upon herself to educate and enlighten me on all things frilly and feminine to prepare me for my showing.

My cousin and I have an interesting relationship. One of my only friends, we have quite a history. Growing up, there always seemed to have been a very one-sided competition between the two of us, despite a three-year age difference. I make a decent mark in school, Katarzyna scores the highest grade in her class. In the miracle Mom and Dad remembers and can afford to buy me a birthday gift, she doubles her hours at the plant to have the same pair of slippers. A boy tells me I'm cute, she's drooling over him the next week. An unspoken game of one-upmanship, one she'd never own up to if called out on her bullshit. I've never understood it: Katarzyna is prettier, smarter, better known and better liked than me. Green-eyed. Curves. Rare feats for a Five girl. Her parents have always had more than us too. Uncle Serban made sure of that. How, I have no clue. Just look at her place. Who can afford a vanity mirror and cheap makeup? Cheap makeup!

Couple of years back, Katarzyna applied for a suitor. Was the same age as me. Even made it to The Showcase. It was her dream since we were kids. She learned to strut before she walked, my aunt and uncle would say. Never answered to any nicknames either. Still won't, thinking them to be "low-class". She could just feel the ring on her finger till it was snatched right under her nose. A whiter-teethed, bigger-breasted girl got the position.

That was the first time I witnessed a breakdown.

Everyone thinks she's gotten over it, thinking time and a new marriage healed the pain. Yet the things she's told me, the things she's let slip out, says otherwise. She wanted to be a part of the Elites bad. 'I would have poisoned the broad had it not been too risky. I deserve to be his wife! Not her! I worked my damn ass off and she shows a little nipple and gets in? First-class fuckery I tell you! Sabotage!' were her words after one particularly rough morning.

Now, you'd think the girl had not a care in the world. All smiles and sunshine. Would never guess around this time three years ago she was ready to kill herself. That's another thing about my cousin: she wallows in delusion. It's her addiction. Her husband goes out doing Panem knows what or who and is spotted doing whatever or whoever? He's out slaving away at the plant silly. Nigel knows his place is at home. Those are scratches and bruises on her body? It was just a clumsy day and that's what she gets for nagging Nigel after a hard day. Women always know how to irritate a man. The sky is blue? Well actually it's a pleasant white and green polka-dot shade if you squint your eyes, tilt your head, and do a handstand.

My third attempt to sleep fails when Katarzyna emits another squeal, clapping her hands together.

"Oh Morgana. This is the perfect dress for you."

Her hand flies in then flies out of her closet. Skipping my way to the hard, twin-sized bed I'm currently lounging on, in her grasp is the outfit I will be wearing. Not may be wearing, because that suggests that I have a say in the matter. It's a lime green mish-mash of satin and chiffon. One-sleeved, bows and ribbons vomited everywhere, well above the knees. The throwaway strips and scrapes of District Eight have united to produce this abomination to all things fabric. Prostitute meets baby feces. What in Panem's name is she thinking?

"It's hideous."

"It's flawless. Absolutely flawless."

"I will not wear that."

"There's no other dress that will do, don't you agree?" The crime against humanity is thrown my way, me letting it fall on the cotton comforter.

Katarzyna nods her head in anticipation. "Well. Try it on. We still have your hair and face to do."

I do as I'm told. Reluctantly slipping off my work uniform, a faded blue jumpsuit with the District Five seal sewn on the back and standard-issued sneakers, I squeeze into the dress. One look in the mirror and one feel at my stomach and my suspicions are confirmed. The dress is impossibly tight. One false move and the ball will turn into a striptease. In an effort of forced cleavage, my boyish chest has been smashed together, almost, just almost revealing that I am in fact a girl.

"Take these." Katarzyna throws me a pair of white shoes. High heels. I've never worn a pair in my life. My feet are about as happy as I am about wearing them. They're a size too small and I feel the difference.

"Stop diddling around and let's get started on you," nags Katarzyna. With each step a little slice of hell, I plop down on the seat cushion and let my cousin work her magic. She's always been the fashionable one in the family. Give her a pair of needle, thread, and scissors and she'll make an outfit out of a trash bag. She actually did once, when we were younger. Clothes are her specialty but she likes to dabble in hair and makeup from time to time. Since the few friends I have know even less about being pretty than I do, she was the best candidate.

A slender hand is put through the brown knot that is my hair. It's trapped two seconds in. Her smile drops then reappears before my head can completely lift up. Laid out in front of me are her weapons: dull scissors, plastic comb missing a few teeth, brush, and a half-empty bottle of perfume.

The battle begins.

"Your hair. Full of curls. Pretty unique."

Translation: This is a mess. What did you give me to work with? A ball of yarn?

The comb is her first defense. It barely survives the assault, one stroke away from breaking in half.

"Styled right I could crop it to your diminutive face and features."

Translation: Your eyes are too big, nose too small, and what is with your forehead?

Brush and blush is her second attack. It proves to be effective.

"A dab of perfume and you'll be set."

Translation: You smell Morgana. Did you shower today?

Sprays, brushstrokes, scissors, and three hairballs later and I've been transformed. No longer am I don't-mind-me-just-trying-survive Morgana. I am now Ms. Morgana-will-be-finding-and-falling-in-love-with-the-man-of-my-dreams-tonight Jankovic. Hair somehow tamed into a curly bob, pink blush and lipstick enhancing my features, I gotta admit: I do look nice. No, attractive. A little sexy if I dared.

I still can't breathe in this dress.

Katarzyna seems close to tears, hand over her mouth, overcome with emotion. "My little cousin. All grown up!" I'm pulled into a bear hug and I tap her elbow in support. Seconds later, I'm shoved out of the way, falling face first on the white sheets of the bed courtesy of these heels. The cousin bonding time has reached its limit. Trying to quickly wipe away the bright lipstick mark smeared on the bedspread, I see Katarzyna has already turned her total attention to primping herself for the evening. She is like a madwoman; zooming around the room, shifting through her closet, styling her hair, and applying on truckloads of makeup all at once. Not once does she acknowledge my existence during the tornado.

I wonder how she feels about me? Getting a shot at The Showcase when her chance was stolen from her. She despises me right now, I know my cousin, but she hides her psychotic jealousy well. Just like everything else in her life. Glancing to where she sits, I notice her inspecting and plucking out each nose hair she discovers. She does know that she could escort me to the ball butt naked and receive not a glance her way right? Not to be conceited because I'm far from excited about this, but this is my Showcase that I'm attending. Her glory days are over. Time to hang it up and face the music.

I love my cousin and she loves me (I think), but the cattiness and ridiculous delusions have got to stop. She's married with her own place now. Game over. You win.

"25 minutes left!" shouts Katarzyna, straightening her bangs, leaving the mirror, then returning to adjust her cleavage. One final look over and she's satisfied, giving her reflection a pleased 'mm-hmm'.

I decide to voice one thought that's been running through my head all night and ask her a question I know she won't answer truthfully. "Katarzyna, how did you afford this stuff?"

Her trance broken, long black hair swings back and forth as she searches for the bedroom intruder. Spotting my small figure still sitting on the bed, a side glance is given my way, annoyed that I've interrupted her fantasy with reality. "Oh you know, my Dad knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a Peacekeeper. The usual. What's it to you?"

My hands go up in a small sign of surrender. That's always her reply. Either that or 'Nigel works hard to provide for the wife he loves'. Never any specifics. Only basics. "Nothing, nothing. Just curious."

"Well curiosity killed the clown Morgana," her hand wraps around my arm and I'm dragged out the room. "Now come on. I can't be late for the Showcase."

"You mean cat?" I correct her, shutting the raggedy front door behind us. The hinges whine as they come to a slow close.

Her head flies to the side, eyebrow raised in question. "What? Enough of your nonsense and let's go."

Rushing down the rusting stairwells, we make it outside Katarzyna's apartment and head off to where the Showcase will be held. Four seconds outside and already my nose is turning red. Warmth doesn't exist in District Five. We're given the following types of weather: cloudy, cold, freezing, freezing rain, artic, and death. Combined with the sun shocking the population with a ray of sunshine once every 25 years and being cooped up inside the factories, no wonder we're so pale and sickly-looking. Probably the Capitol's doing no doubt. Tonight the stars are blocked by the usual clouds and factory fumes with temperatures ranging from the mid-hypothermia to low there's-no-way-you-can survive-this. I'm sure to catch a mean cold in this skimpy patch of cloth. Something wet falls on my arm, then neck, then legs. Oh look, now it wants to rain.

Walking through the streets of Five, a light drizzle starts up, making the journey to the Showcase all the more difficult. I'm shivering and twice my heel catches on the uneven cobblestone. Katarzyna isn't fazed one bit, gliding in her sleeveless gown, smiling and waving to the passerbys like a queen to her subjects. During Showcase time, people often crowd the streets or peek out their apartment windows to watch the candidates make their way to the ball. The Elites take refuge up high, neighbors to the Victor's Village. The few hills District Five has are claimed by them. The moneybags made sure to retreat there so they're both economically and geographically safe from us. Our sector, Faraday, is the closest to the in this weather, a walk to the market seems like a fight to the death. With a district-wide event like this, you'd think there'd be a vehicle of some sort provided for us. Instead, the handsome coachman is your most willing family member and sparkling carriage your very, very sore feet. This is Panem we're talking about. Since when has the big city done anything right? Maybe I can turn one of these street rats into a horse if I think hard enough.

Braving the battle between Man vs. Nature, I go to find something to take my mind off my impending death. Inching closer to our destination, I see the Victor's Village sitting in the distance. Out of the twelve mansions that line the hill, three are occupied, two illuminated in soft candlelight. The living Victors of the power district.

"You know," I go to speak, teeth chattering . "Reaping's tomorrow."

A group of factory guys, some I recognize, stand posted by the entryway to one of the plants. Around my age, most of them, doing their usual: smoking cheap cigarettes and generally being wastes of space. One guy, the leader I assume, shouts something across the street about 'green dress' and 'in my bed tonight' and his lackeys join in on the jeering, hooting and hollering like hungry mutts.

"Yeah, what's so special about that?" Katarzyna's too busy entertaining the horny boys, shooing them away with a dainty wave. To think, she actually finds that behavior attractive. That's probably why she's with Nigel now. The girl's a Capitolite. There's no other way to explain it.

Flicking off one of the guys, I continue. "What if one of us gets reaped? You are eighteen and we've had to take out tesserae more than once this year."

"We won't get reaped. It's a non-issue," she says, grimacing at a toothless woman smiling our way. Rather her delusions or an incredible amount of confidence, Katarzyna has never feared the Hunger Games. Not once can I remember her coming down with Reaping Day sorrow or getting nightmares from it. The only time her mental illness comes in handy. The chances of me going in are slim but you never know. Three more years and I'm free.

A thought pops up. Let's see how self-assured she really is. "Well, what if I volunteered?"

A laugh so high-pitched, so grating that I have to cover my ears in defense breaks through the relative quiet. My cousin's hand rubs my exposed back for support, her expression one of a parent consoling their foolish child. "Now I know you're under a lot of stress. This night means everything to you Morgana, I know that. But what is up with these absurd comments? First questioning my finances then joking about the Hunger Games? I'm not sure where this is all coming from but you need to put an end to it right now." A black heel stomps the pavement.

But I wasn't joking. "Alright, alright. Just teasing is all. Calm down," I tap her shoulder as a sign of playfulness. She's not smiling.

"I will calm down when you start appreciating the once in a lifetime opportunity laid out in front of you. Your parents entrusted me guide you on your journey to becoming a Suitor's wife. I won't let Aunt and Uncle Jankovic down and neither will you," she tells me. I have to bite my tongue at the mention of my parents. I have never been a concern to them so why should they be for me?

We're to the main pathway of the Elites' headquarters. Walking up the hilly terrain has got my poor feet shouting for mercy, small, round blisters already forming on the sides and soles. At least no one will see them with the shoes being close-toed. Because of my pained walk, two girls have gotten in front of me, mastering the hills and heels like they were born to sacrifice their feet for beauty. Try as I might, I can't fight the urge to check out my competition. Both girls have on floor-length gowns swimming behind each. One is a bit on the short side but neither is as plain or awkward as I am. I hope they're the minority or this is going to be a long night.

Arriving to the front entrance of the Showcase, both Katarzyna and I have to shield our eyes from the sheer magnificence of the place. The entire estate is submerged in light, as if the owner absorbed the entire district's electricity and plugged it into this one house. To call it a house would be a bold-faced lie. It's more like something straight from the Capitol. Music and aromas float through the air, tempting guests to come explore. Groups of people flow in and out. Some are sprawled out on the unnaturally green grass, a complete contrast to the cracked rows of cement, loose cobblestone, dirt down in the sectors. A gaggle of girls zoom past us, holding onto one another, squawking and flying about the yard. In their expensive clothing, the four of them land face first into the grass then cackle as if that was the highlight of their life. Clearly drunk.

"How amazing," Katarzyna looks on over the pair, envious, misty-eyed, imagining her life as one of those inebriated girls currently doing cartwheels in the open.

And they have on no underwear. Moving on.

I drag her away from the life she'll never live to stop at the doorway, a grand wooden structure inlaid with intricate carvings. I knock once. No answer. Going to knock again, an older couple exits through the door, stopping their lively conversation to give me dirty looks. I hear the woman whisper and the man giggles a little too loudly as they make their way past. Well if that wasn't rude.

My small hand bangs on the wood, more force behind it. Why won't anyone answer this-

"Why are you knocking?" A boy answers the door, glaring at me then Katarzyna. He's a husky guy, a little on the short side, dressed to the nines in a suit I couldn't begin to guess the price of. Full, red cheeks with a privileged air about him. The appearance of someone who's lived the life of ease, who hasn't worked at the power plants a day in his life. Decent in the looks department, though I expect better of the Elites. Is he one of the inbreeds?

Katarzyna is too enthralled with the inside of the palace to remember to breathe, so I'm the one that has to speak.

"I'm sorry? I didn't think we could just walk inside. Thought that would be rude," I answer, folding my arms in defense and to bring feeling back to my body. Back in the sectors, you knock. Try waltzing into someone's apartment willy-nilly and see if you make out with your life.

"Are you," I have to recall the name of the Suitor I'm here for. "Teodor Olsen?"

Almost instantly his scowl warps into a welcoming smile and his bored posture perks up, as if realizing we're worth his presence. "Hans Olsen, his son. You two here to join the rest of the pickings?"

Pickings? "I am," I tell him. A low 'ugh' creeps out of my escort. She thought I was going to include her too.

The door opens fully. "Why come in." His voice speaks to me while his gaze speaks to my breasts, eyes snuggling inside the crease of my barely-there cleavage. Disguising my disgust for the boy, I manage a tight smirk and enter inside, too cold to do otherwise. How can I say no to the warmth damn near pulling me in? When we hear an extra set of footsteps trying to sneak their way inside, we turn around. Katarzyna is staring at us pitifully, hoping against hope that she can tag along.

"I'm invited inside aren't I?" her eyelashes bat twice as the top of her dress is ever so slowly adjusted. Is she really doing what I think she's doing? Please Katarzyna, don't do this to yourself.

Hans moves closer to her, using the back of his hand to stroke her cheek. Katarzyna just about loses her footing caught up in his charm, cheeks glowing pink. Foolishness.

His voice is soft, debonair. "My love." In the background I fight off the urge to laugh at the two. This is absolutely nauseating. Meanwhile a wild dog could attack Katarzyna and she wouldn't budge an inch.

"You are very beautiful and, if given different circumstances, would have been my personal midnight dessert to enjoy. However, you have not been chosen for tonight's Showcase for obvious reasons I'm sure. Goodbye."

The door slams shut and that completes my cousin's second rejection from the Elites.

Spinning on his dress boots, he addresses me again, chubby cheeks turned up into round, red tomatoes. "Back to more important issues."

An arm wraps around my waist as we make our way through the hallway. Now I allow myself to be taken over by the extravagance and excess of the Olsen palace. There is seriously too much stuff for them to do with here. Like really, what do you need with two bookcases in the hallway? Probably don't even read any of those books. As I'm drinking in the luxury, a slow sensation crawls down my body. Looking to my waist, I see a stubby hand making its way down, down, down until a hard grip clamps onto my backside.

"Excuse you!" I shout. I shimmy out of his grasp only to find myself locked by his side again.

"Yes madam?" Hans stares at me cluelessly, as if I'm the one with the problem. "Something wrong?"

"You touched me," I tell him, holding my upper body in protection.

Swiping his greasy hair behind his ears, he gives me his signature smile. "But I can't help myself around beautiful things."

Right there, a realization hits me. I will not like this Hans Olsen. Call it a gut feeling, women's intuition, or plain paranoia, but I know what I know and I know that this boy is up to no good. His type is a dime a dozen: cocky, self-assured, thinking themselves better than sliced bread. Hooked on teenage hormones and thinking with their little head. A man will always be a man, no matter his wealth, or lack of it. Girls have to learn that quick, or face the consequences.

Ready to tell off the teenager, two people, a man and his little boy, come walking our way. Instead I'm forced to lower my voice, careful not to cause a scene and ruin my chances so early into the night. We both nod towards the man, who seems too busy searching for a bathroom for his toddler son to care about us.

"Well, could you please not do that again?" I hate how weak I sound. I'm telling him not asking him!

He shrugs, unaffected by my request. "Whatever you say madam."

We continue our walking, distance between us now. A smirk is still set on Hans's face and I ignore it, counting down the seconds until I'm out of his presence. We approach a set of doors grander than the first, pictures of fat children with little wings carved into both. Hand on the silver handle, Hans turns toward me. I prepare myself for another round of sexual assault, arms locked to both sides.

"Ready to have your mind blown?"

"Just open the doors please," I mumble, done with his antics.

Silently, he does so and reveals the main area of the Showcase. One gigantic room, stretched from end to end, is covered in sights, sounds, and smells of various types. A dance hall, from what they're called in the fairy tales. There are people here, countless of people, talking, laughing, eating, and drinking away. The soft music from before has intensified, a loud, drumming beat with other instruments I don't recognize playing in the background. Music isn't something we can enjoy too much of in Five. Listening closely, I see that the record is a rendition of Panem's anthem made more lively and energizing for a party setting like this. I almost break out into a backflip when Hans lets go of my waist to hug some well-suited men sitting beside the doorway. Quickly I scamper away, looking back only once to make sure he isn't following me. He doesn't notice my escape, too busy chattering with the men and gulping down a glass of something bubbly.

Heels clanking the spotless linoleum floor, I go to find something to occupy my time with. I'm not really sure what I'm actually supposed to be doing at this point. Katarzyna only told me general information about the Showcase, minus the gushing and exclamation of how flawless the men were. In the corner of the room are thirteen girls, plain plastic chairs placed along the wall. Some look poised and very put together, sitting tall, trying their hardest to blend in. Most seem unsure of themselves, gazing around the ballroom, twiddling their thumbs, slouching, gnawing on a fingernail or two. All of them stick out, dirt marks in a sea of perfection. These must be the other girls. The "pickings", as Hans referred to them earlier.

Approaching the empty seat to the far right, thirteen set of eyes fall on me. I first think it's because I'm the last girl to arrive but paying closer attention, I realize what the gossip's about.

I'm the only one in a short dress.

Each and every girl has on long gowns putting the Victory Interview outfits to shame and here I am in this three-inch catastrophe I didn't even want to wear looking straight out of a back alley of the power plants. If these sector girls are staring at me, what are the moneybags thinking?

Running to the empty chair, I make sure to sit straight up, perfectly still, trying to salvage my ruined reputation. Growing bored of just sitting around, I go to stand and head for the food. By the doors are tables and tables of food. The majority of the guests are enjoying the feast so why can't I? A can of corn is all I've had to eat today and I'm feeling the effects. I see one awkward, lanky thing a little too eager over there, juggling two plates. A sector girl. I can't blame her; everything we eat is canned, dried, or frozen.

"Don't go over there," the girl that was beside me speaks. "It's a test, a way to see if you can fight the hunger. She'll be disqualified by the end of the night."

We watch the mannish scarecrow slaughter the buffet food. She must really be hungry. Sitting back down, me and my stomach grumble in response. I am too.

Eventually the grandfather clock by the entrance rings twice. 9 o'clock. The Showcase is beginning.

A whirlwind of events occur. An older man goes in the center of the room to introduce the man of the hour. Watching Teodor Olsen stand at his podium giddy, not a care in the world, I see where Hans gets his looks, and personality, from. He's like a taller, even heavier version of his son. Plump-bellied, moustache situated under his nose, the hearty, violent chuckle that shoots out of his body every five seconds annoys the hell out of me. I keep imagining myself stuffing his little fat lips with an apple and searing him until he can laugh no more. I'm not usually a violent person but he really needs to shut up.

The whole reason for tonight's Showcase is because of his deceased wife. Just a month ago, she died of "unknown causes". The woman was barely 25. Not wasting any time, Teodor decided to go back on the market and get him a new one. Neither widower nor son seem too torn up over the very recent passing of wife and mother. In fact, they appear happy for the change of pace. Too happy.

The night slurs into a blur. There's conversation, dancing, eating, conversation, and eating again. I'm introduced to countless faces I won't bother remembering. Teodor meets me a grand total of two times. The first time was the general greeting to all the girls while the scarecrow from earlier was polited escorted out of the ball. The second was when we happened to be by the punch bowl at the same time. Both moments his breath was thick with brandy and his intentions purely physical. His hands ran free over my body, petting my hair, caressing my back, squeezing my backside. I look around, out of curiosity and as a silent cry for help, since there're crowds of people surrounding us. No one says a word. Not even the women. This is expected behavior I assume. Encouraged.

Soon we're dancing again. I come to the conclusion that there'ss no real formality or structure to the Showcase. This is not a coordinated competition as I thought it would be. Instead it's a chaotic, drunken free-for-all , with us sector girls thrown in as the night's entertainment. Easing myself away from an elderly Elite just barely conscious, I'm freed from his wrinkly grasp and spun into a far more frightening one.

Hans.

My body instantly stiffens. "You again."

His head jerks back and forth in an odd manner. He's drunk. "As always my love, as always."

The music changes into a slower tune, calling for us to dance closer together. Hans takes it to the extreme, shoving his crouch into mine.

"Stop it."

"No."

"Why don't you listen to me?" I let out a sniffle and wipe the small run of snot coming down my nose. Great, now I have a cold. Thanks Katarznya.

A harsh chuckle is his response. "Why are you so feisty?"

Those around us change dance move and we follow suit, breaking apart then smashed together again.

"I'm not feisty. I'm just telling you my rights as a woman. You really need to respect us more. We're the opposite sex, not an opposite race. And don't you have a wife already?" I recall seeing a pretty blonde on his arm throughout most of the night. Whether that really is his wife or toy of the moment, I'll find out now.

My speech on female empowerment and attempt to embarrass him is completely ignored. It only seems to get him more aroused. "I like you. Tell me your name again? I forgot it."

My eyes roll. "None of your business."

We dip, lowering ourselves to the ground then coming back up. The move practically sprains my ankle, made weak from standing in these shoes all night. I don't make a sound, keeping my straight face. I deserve a medal for this.

"Well 'None of your business', it'll be entertaining having you as my stepmother," Hans purrs in my ear, almost slurping my earlobe. In District Five, most people have their children young as life expectancy is rather short here, especially for women. It's not uncommon for teenaged girls to be married off to much older men and be close in age to their stepchildren, in the Elites and in the sectors. But the relationship Hans is threatening at is very unusual. No one does those types of things with their children, no matter if the relation's through marriage.

I slap his hand away from my chest, squeezing it to the side. "What if I don't want to be accepted? I can refuse." If he likes feistiness, then so be it. I'm not one for arguments, but I'm not one to be bullied around by a man either.

His head is thrown back as the dance hall fills up with his cackle. "You won't refuse. What purpose does a girl like you have outside of my estate?"

My little fire is extinguished. Hans has a valid point. There are four opportunities for someone born here. Most live and die in the power or solar plants providing electricity for the Capitol, excuse me, Panem. If you're smart enough, you're "invited" to work in the Capitol labs that create and test out everything Hunger Games-oriented. Mostly boys get those jobs. They're rarely seen again. Their families get a lot of money though. If you're pretty enough, apparently like me, the Showcase is a desirable option. And then there's the Hunger Games themselves. Of course, we don't choose to participate in that. District Five has only two volunteers to their name. Neither won.

Mom and Dad signed me up for the Showcase. 'To get some use out of me', they said. The circumstances surrounding my birth depend on who you ask. Dad was infertile. Couldn't have kids and they didn't want kids. Then I came along and ruined their happy little marriage. The doctors call me an unplanned pregnancy. Relatives say I'm the family surprise. Sober Mom and Dad call me their curly-haired mistake. Angry/Drunk (they usually go hand-in-hand) Mom and Dad shout out words I don't want to recall. I've been sleeping on Katarzyna's couch for the past week or so after a big fight we had, so I don't what they call me now. I'm sure it's nothing you should say about your own daughter.

I should be thrilled to be here at the Showcase. Honored. This is my ticket out of the sectors, out of the empty life of factory work and canned corn. Yet is it worth leaving a life of poverty for a life of servitude? My life is worth more than being someone's sex slave and child breeder.

I shoot out the first thing that comes to mind. "I could volunteer for the Games. Reaping is tomorrow. Nothing can stop me from doing so."

I could do it. I could win the Games. Strange things have happened in the Arena. How else would Merand, the disfigured district drunk, have won his Games? Or Liselotte, the quiet bombshell? Even Olaf, the aging recluse, weaseled his way out of that horrid place. If they can do it, then surely there's hope for me. Right?

Hans doesn't think so. "You would die before the countdown even reached 20 seconds. Get real 'None of your business'."

"You can't have your cake and eat it too Hans!" I shout, angry at his aggravating ability to obliterate my confidence with every word he speaks. I'm drowned out by the clapping of the other partygoers. At once, everyone shuffles out of the dance hall and in the chaos, I lose a shoe. The Showcase seems to be over.

Arms wrapped around my back, I'm trapped inside his embrace. "Yes I can, and yes I will."

One kiss on the cheek and he's gone.

This must be some kind of demented version of a fairy tale. Hans and Teodor, the very ungentlemanly royal gentlemen. Katarzyna, the envious, mentally unstable combination of fairy godmother and evil stepsister. And me, Morgana Jankovic, the unwilling Cinderella of her very own horror story. Even the clock rang twice, midnight, and I'm standing on a near deserted dance floor searching for my other foot of heels. Is my dress going to turn into a bunch of rags too?

Crouching on the ground, I look up to see my white heel in the hands of my personal bully.

"Just wanted to let you know," he says, twirling the shoe in his chubby finger. "You and four other girls have been invited to stay the night. The second round of the Showcase. Do let me show you to your room."

I simply stand up, take his arm, and let him lead the way through the dark hallways of his palace, too exhausted to refuse. Too exhausted to put up a fight.


I'm sleeping in the assigned bed when a noise pops out by the door. My eyes fly open, partially obscured by the mountain of pillows making up the bed. Seeing nothing in the darkness, I try to go back to sleep. It's been a very long night. Combined with the antics of Hans and his father, pretending to be something I'm not for such a long amount of time, and sleeping in an unknown environment so close to the biggest pervert in Panem, my paranoia is on high alert. The wind could blow and convince me that President Snow himself is here to send me off into the Games.

Stop overreacting Morgana. If I just close my eyes, this terrible night will be over and it'll be morning before I know it.

A second noise, a steady one, tap, tap, taps louder this time. I shrug it off, chalking it up to my frazzled senses. Five glasses of champagne will do that to you. Or was it six?

When I feel a weight pounce on top of the bed, I realize that I'm not just imagining things. Someone is here.

Someone is on top of me.

Any ounce of sleepiness gone, the moonlight illuminates my bedroom intruder.

"Ha-"

"Shhh," a hand goes to my mouth, softly silencing my attempts to scream. The other slides its way down my body, falling in between my legs. My breath catches as I feel him break his way inside.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Please no.

No.

The hand comes from out of my private area, joining the other on the straps of my nightgown. In one swift move, the comfortable cotton is ripped in half and I'm lying in front of a teenage boy crying and bare-chested.

My eyes lock onto Hans'. There is no emotion there. Who is this above me? Is it the alcohol, or is this his true personality? Why is he doing this to me? Hans is sleazy and I knew he was a horny guy, all of them are like that, but to go as far as to rapeme? I barely know this boy but he can't be that type of guy. I can spot them, know when to keep my distance. I don't understand. How could I be so stupid and not see all the warning signs? They were right in front of my face!

One thing is clear and simple.

I won't go down without a fight.

A silent battle begins. Arms flying towards his face, we toss and tussle in the warm silk sheets. I kick, I punch, I bite, I growl, I scream. My hands fly to his undone tuxedo to yank him away, only to be pushed away and subjected to a slap twice across the face. Nothing works. Wiggling away. Scratching his arms. Spitting on his face. Nothing. Hans will not give up. He is so strong. He is just so strong.

"You want this. You know you do," he whispers, grinding his crotch into my backside.

I do not want this. I don't want this at all. "Get off of me! Get off of me Hans! Please!" I yell, hoping someone comes to my aid.

The halls of the Olsen palace are silent.

Flipping me around to face him, I'm slapped again, more force behind it this time. His words slur as he speak. "Quit pretending bitch. In that short ass dress you were wearing, you were practically advertising for me to do you. Now cut it out and take it. You're starting to piss me off."

Exhausting all other options, I leap from off the bed, tumbling through the pillow blockade. It's no use; he grabs at my dropped curls and my body is literally tossed into the air and plummeted back down, nightgown fully torn off in the process. Straddling my waist, grip on each wrist, the bigger boy subdues me with such incredible strength that there is no way I can escape now. I'm trapped.

I've lost.

So quickly I've lost.

Piggy is smiling. His signature smile. Slithering his leathery tongue over my locked lips, he whispers in my ear, cupping each breast in the process. "I'll have my cake."

Two fingers are shoved back between my crotch.

"And eat it too."

All I can do now is close my eyes and wait for it to be over.

Please let it be quick. Please let it be quick. Please let it be quick. Please let it be quick.

Smashing his manhood inside me, he thrusts in then out, beginning his business.

Does he care that I'm a virgin?


Twenty-eight agonizing minutes later, it's done.

He's by the door, buttoning up his suave pants and adjusting his immaculate tuxedo. I'm in the bed, motionless, bloody. Sitting in our fluids. My pelvic bone feels destroyed, and my private area….

My eyes stay locked on the ceiling. That's where they've been since it started. Closing them didn't work. It made me more afraid. Not sure if it was worth the image of a smirking, triumphant Hans ingrained in my head.

"That was fun." There's a giggle in his voice. He's satisfied. Got his way. "Better than the first two. Bravo. Well, on to the next."

Skipping out of the bedroom, he's just about to close the door before he opens it back up to deliver the final blow. Add more insult to injury.

"I've asked my father to pick you as his wife. He agreed, noticing your incredible potential. After this little test run, I fully agree. Ta-ta, Sleeping Beauty. Sweet dreams."

I don't recall Sleeping Beauty being awakened by the thrust of a penis.

Another laugh. I don't think I'll ever forget his laugh. "And don't you dare pull anything crazy tomorrow. No volunteering. Mom."

Not even an hour later, Papa Olsen is next. He wants his midnight snack too. The obese man is even rougher than his son, and my mouth finds its way on parts of his musty body I never want to explore again. Teodor at least spares me the talk and finishes much quicker than Hans, silently slipping out into the night once the deed is done.

My mind is made up. I can't take this.

I'd rather go into that Arena than face this for the rest of my life.

Mom and Dad will get over it. Their tears will be over the lost chance at striking it rich rather than seeing their only child go into the Games anyway.

Katarzyna won't care too much. She'll probably be on Hans's doorstep the moment I'm gone, rationalizing her actions in that fucked up, psychotic brain of hers.

If I die in the Games, then I die. Hans was right in what he told me earlier.

What purpose does a girl like me have outside of this estate?