BLURB: She will survive this world. She will survive and thrive, and grow strong enough to burn it all down. She doesn't owe this world anything, after all. Not anymore. (Olva Dimond is picked as District 12's Tribute for the 72nd Hunger Games along with her younger brother. Everything changes, and only Olva knows. But who the fuck cares? Olva doesn't.) (OC/Self insert) (M for a reason)
...
THREE
Refrain From Imitation
...
It's been three days, and the blood is still there.
Thick, red, ranging from a deep crimson to bright carnelian, it soaks her skin, her hands, wraps around her fingers like a warm, well-worn glove of wet, irrefutable accusation.
She has blood on her hands.
It doesn't quite wash away right, even after the full hour she's spent scrubbing her hands and arms and face raw in the shower. Even after the hot water spray has gone from red to pink to clear, the blood doesn't really disappear, a ghost of it clinging all over her senses. She could still feel the sticky warmth of blood in her palms and on her cheeks. She could still smell its coppery tang as it flowed and flowed and flowed out of Ollie's dying body, along with the smell of piss and innards and shit.
...
"Olva, I'm... I'm sleepy..."
"Then sleep," she tells him, the look of agony upon her face. But she smiles through it, because she doesn't want Ollie to be scared. "I'll be here, Ollie. I'll be here. I'll be just right here when you open your eyes."
She lets him sleep, sings him his favorite lullaby. She knows his eyes would remain shut forever.
...
She could hear the nearly inaudible drip-drip-dripping sound it must've made as it slowly left her fingertips and fell to the ground, a soft contrasting background to the blaring trumpets of the Capitol Anthem. In her mind the drops sound loud, deafening, and in her dreams she can't cover her ears, because her hands are so warm and soaked in blood. In her dreams she can never scrub the blood off her skin. In her dreams she can't just pinch her nose to escape the smell of it, because then she'd end up breathing through her mouth and having to taste it, and that, that was so so much worse.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I won, she tells herself with something like contempt. Every day and nearly every hour since Ollie's death. I won. It's over. I already won, damn it.
But that's just the thing. She won, but not really, because she lost, too.
Oh, she lost so, so much...
Olva won absolutely nothing at all, and she finds that victory tastes remarkably like ashes and blood. Victory sounds like Ollie's deep and dying breath. Victory feels like the blood she can never quite wash off right.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The water is scalding and nearly melts her skin off, but it doesn't seem enough. She expects it never would be.
An uncharacteristically hesitant knock brings Olva back from her thoughts. Because it's obviously her mentor, who never truly had a sensitive bone in his body, despite recent attempts. With a frown, she quickly dries herself and wraps a bathrobe around her body.
"Abernathy," she greets her visitor.
The man looks like death warmed over, like he's been through hell so long that he wonders why he hasn't died yet.
She hasn't the heart to tell him that death isn't quite eternal rest it seems to be.
"Olva," he says, feet awkwardly shuffling. "We need to talk about the interv-"
"Spare me," she sighs. "I know how to conduct myself in public."
The man just raises a brow at her.
"I know what I have to be out there: darling-of-the-capitol, wasn't-her-brother-such-a-hero, I'd-never-dare-blame-the-government-for-its-fucked-up-means-of-entertainment-sir!"
He coughs, lips twitching in what seems to be morbid amusement. "Well, maybe not a darling of the capitol, kid, that seat's taken."
"Not really. Odair is very male. Hardly darling material."
"...Irrelevant. I think. It depends on who's buying what he's peddling."
"I know exactly what he peddles. Information, flirtation, eye candy and dick. No need to walk around the bush with me. I know how the world works. I might have censored things around Ollie, but I've never been stupid."
Oh but she was. She'd been very very stupid.
Stupidstupidstupid-
The man eyes her with an unusually sharp gaze. "I never said you were. All things considered, you're good at putting up an act. You seemed pretty tame, right up until you eviscerated and nearly decapitated that last tribute."
She shrugs. "I don't see a problem. The government wants its yearly child murder fest, it gets its murder fest, as ordered."
He sighs and lands himself on the couch, immediately taking a swig of something definitely alcoholic from his hip flask. "That's exactly the kind of attitude you absolutely must not show on tonight's interview. You're the victor, kid. You have to act like you won something."
But she hasn't won, she thinks. She hasn't won, because the Game has just begun.
And then she'll win.
A/N: In case you haven't noticed, the chapter titles may seem a bit weird. That's because they're cut-outs from famous quotes/songs. Just Google a chapter title, and whatever pops up first is most likely what I grabbed it from. (Hint: yes, chapter one's title is from a song.)
Also, holy crap, the COVID-19 death toll's climbing. Stay at home, guys, and always wash your hands. If you absolutely must leave your home, then make sure to wear protective clothing/equipment. A strong mouthwash can be prophylactic, if you fear you've been exposed. This coronavirus pandemic is getting a bit insane, I can't wait for it to be over.