"Just Think of the Fun Things We Could Do," - Delicate by Taylor Swift

A Poem of Swine and Wrath - The 40th Hunger Games

Stylist for the District 8 Female, Euphorba

Prologue Part 2

I am held up by chains now. The room around me is dark, and despite how much I've bragged about having perfect vision, the sight is anything but that.

"They're going to kill us, E!" Jupiter screams. "They're going to kill us!"

The chains pull back, iron weight digging into my skin. Trying to adjust the pain, I move my head to the left and then to the right. It's only a distraction, though.

Jupiter cries. "I peed myself, I think."

I feel the warmth, too, but in the dark, I can't tell if its blood or urine. Maybe its both. Disgusting, I think. I'm disgusting. Just like the little troll next to me.

"E," Jupiter says. A part of me wants to scream at her, another wants to mother her, protecting her from her own blind stupidity. "Are you okay? Speak to me. Please, I'm scared."

"What happened to Alessandro?" I ask. But then it comes back to me. I see Hektor. His body crumpling to the floor, like a tossed sketch of a dress, one with a heavy neckline and a tight bodice; repugnant and trash worthy. I see his see through shirt stuck to his body because of the blood, the gold turned crimson, the hair now slicked with plasma and the brains on the carpet. My beige carpet. Ruined. And Alessandro, pour, pudgy Alessandro, shot on the couch, ruining the velvet, stomach fat ever larger in death than it was in life. I remembered wanting to remove him off the cushions as I was pulled from the room, screaming.

Jupiter weeps louder, the chains rattling with the movement. Why aren't we dead? I should be dead, shouldn't I? Then the vomit comes, the acid launching up my throat and splattering my chest. It smells like eggs. I guess the cookies had them in it after all. I want to shake the stench off, but I feel myself sinking, inwardly, as the warmth runs down me.

"E!" Jupiter starts back up. "E, we're dead, aren't we? Whatever Marc did, I swear, I don't know. He didn't tell me anything, but Ogre." I think back to the joking, of Hektor and me and Alessandro laughing about the idea of Gamemaker Marcellus calling her Ogre as some sort of pet name. As some sort of play in bed manner. I want to smile thinking about it, but the darkness reminds me I can't. I can't laugh. Because where am I, and what did Marcellus do? And why did they kill Hektor and Alessandro, but not us? Not me?

A door opens and footsteps enter. With each step, I feel the tears running down my cheeks. For a moment, they feel trapped on my eyelashes, just hanging there, spill prevented, because I'm wearing water proof mascara.

"I don't know anything!" Jupiter screams. "Marc, I mean, Gamemaker Marcellus didn't tell me anything! I swear! Please don't kill me! I didn't even know Marc well!" She sounds like the girl we styled last year, Thimble. When her time came, she begged the boy from 1, Glitz, not to kill her. But being desperate didn't spare her from becoming his fourth kill. It only embarrassed her on national television. Panic surges in me as I start to realize the similarity between us and Thimble, Glitz and this man, prey and predator.

"You knew him well enough."

"No, I didn't. I swear," counter Jupiter. "We met for drinks. For fun. But never business. He has a wife. Children." Jupiter needs to stop talking. She needs to stop with the lies. We're in the dark. There's nothing he hasn't already seen.

"Are you going to kill us?" I ask, voice strained. I need tea. Need water. Anything to wet the dryness in my throat. Anything to help medicate down the fear so I can be brave. . .

"But you called him Marc?"

Jupiter whimpers. "I meant Marcellus. Not Marc. Marc was what he told me to call him. Once. One night, and. . ."

"While in bed?"

Jupiter screams. "Please, I don't know who you are. But I'm innocent. I swear, I didn't know he was a traitor. Was participating in treason, I mean. If I had-"

"You wouldn't have let him warm your sheets?"

"Are you going to kill us?" I ask again. Should I cut a deal? I could cut a deal.

"I don't know anything," I say calmly. "I'm just a stylist. I don't even know Marcellus. I just know he mentioned something about an Ogre because of Jupiter." It feels selfish to turn on my own prep team. But then again, there's loyalty verses survival, and I have days left to live. And no one isn't replaceable in this business. Cold, yes. True, definitely.

The man takes steps towards me.

"She's delicate, yes?" And stupid and moody and sloppy and going to get us both killed with her lies. . .and sobbing. . .and I want out. I want to go back to my couch and perfume and wigs and feathers and velvet.

Cold steel suddenly presses up against my forehead. I swallow. "Just think of the fun things we could do," he says. "You and I, if you're honest."

"She doesn't know about Ogre," Jupiter pipes in, her voice stronger, serious. I don't recognize it. She doesn't sound frail. Or weak. Or like a sweet bunny in a trap. Am I the only one who's prey in this?

The steps away, removing the gun, and I count each one like I did Hektor abs. Three, Five, Eight. Eight steps away from me.

"Jupiter, is it?" the man asks. "Now, I'm gonna tell you the same thing I did her. And listen real hard will you, before you pick back up the act." Heavy breathing. It's my own. And it smells worse than the time I ate a dozen oysters at Alessandro's viewing party for the opening day of the Thirty-Seventh Annual Hunger Games. I want to hold my breath. Want to disappear entirely.

"She doesn't know about Ogre!" Jupiter screams, the bravado vanishing, and the panic settling in. I become aware of the twitching of my ankles. I'm barefoot. My red bottom heals gone, probably in my driveway or street or van. . . I snap back to reality.

"Can I finish?" he asks.

"I don't know about Ogre!" Jupiter screams. "He didn't love me enough to tell me! He didn't mention anything but the name! I don't know what you want from us! I barely knew anything!"

"Finished," he says.

The gun fires. Jupiter stops and warm blood sprays my face. But I don't scream. I just lick my lips, shocked, suddenly wondering if this is all a dream, if I'm going to wake up tomorrow surrounded by fluffy, feathery pillows and a shirtless, sweaty Hektor.

I want to block it out. And so, I think back to crimson earmuffs, which makes me think of blood, which makes me think of the vomit and then the brains of Hektor on my floor. The room spins, and I am thankful for the chains.

They hold me up.

"Now," he says. "E, is it? Can I call you, E?"

Only the chains hold me up now.

"We're gonna have fun, aren't we? You're gonna style again, and me, I'm going to be a hero once you tell me what you know about Ogre."

A/N: Okay, well, on that note. That's it. Prologue Part 2 in the books. I kept them pretty short, because frankly, no one really reads the Prologue if its long and too much. . .

Questions!

1) What do you think the Ogre is?

2) What's everyone favorite quarantine past time?

3) Thoughts on the writing? Do we think "E" will be seeing our District 8 Female this year?

This SYOT is open until April 1st. Please submit! Tell your friends to submit to! I have about ten more spots open!

Also, review! A reader's thoughts are so important and essential to any writer's journey. Thanks, Corey, Amy, Sophia, Kev, and everyone else who reviewed! You're awesome.

Prayers for peace and protection for you all this week 3

Been praying Jeremiah 33:6 over our world currently!