Trigger warning: implied rape and abuse themes. Nothing explicit and no in-depth description of character-on-character violence, but it felt awfully taxing to write, so for any one of you who want to avoid it because they are really sensitive to the subject, I'd suggest either diagonal reading this chapter or skipping it entirely.

Daisy Jackson

District 6 Female, 15
Arrival to the Capitol

"Girl, get out of your room. We are eating breakfast in five minutes and leaving."

Fuck that. I back away to the very edge of the room.

I know I signed up for this, because I want to die. I couldn't get off my medication, off the variety of drugs I take. I couldn't drag a knife deep enough into my veins to end my life. I'm one of the most weak-willed people I know.

"Breakfast in five minutes!"

The man's voice grates my ears and I hiss in response because I have nothing to say.

As I said, I volunteered to die. I didn't volunteer for all this extra dumb baggage that comes along.

I don't want their fucking food, I want their drugs and for them to leave me the fuck alone.

I think I did the right thing volunteering for the Games. It's the last thing I have a grasp on and maybe I even saved some poor girl from death. No one normal wants to die like I do, after all.

There's thumping on my door. It's not stopping.

I don't know what the hell is going on.

I don't understand why my room is so big. I don't know why there's no sharp edges to any of the wood. The clothes in the closet are all soft and plush and I have to use my broken nails to scratch at my skin. It feels like it's on fire and I think it's the withdrawal kicking in.

It's only been a couple of hours, too.

I want to die so bad, why can't they just shoot me right now.

I know why. I was always smart, until my drug dependence took that intelligence and smashed it into a thousand tiny pieces because feeding my addiction is my priority now. I was smart enough to understand that they want a show, they want us to die nicely so that they remember us.

I only actually watched the Games twice or three times, so I don't really know, so I'm just guessing. That must be why they're annoying me with this god-awful knocking that ricochets in my skull. I dig my nails into my scalp, to distract myself from the thump. Thump. Thump. Sounds too familiar.

Reminds me of the bad things.

I also remember they send the tributes gifts. Maybe I'll get gifts. Maybe I'll have ketamine or morphling or cocaine raining down on me because I'll kill enough people before dying.

I pick at my elbow and gather myself off the ground.

"DAISY. COME TO THE LOUNGE RIGHT NOW."

The escort slams his fist on my door and I jump, baring my teeth in self-preservation even though he can't see me.

I muster the courage to speak.

"I'm …coming," I croak, voice hoarse.

I put on my clothes and open the door, walking to the place with food. They call it something fancy but there's just soft couches, chairs, no sharp corners.

There's lots of food. I never really went that hungry. I lived on the streets and I know a lot of my friends died from hunger or from the cold, but the drugs always somehow kept me going. My bones show through my skin, sure, but at least I don't feel hungry. Ol' Namie at the street corner always complained about her hollow belly but I never did, because that's what the drugs do to you. They destroy you from the inside out, make you want to claw through your own translucent skin but they also elevate you to space and beyond. Hunger and sleep deprivation are not things you can feel at that point.

"You need to eat something," the escort remarks helpfully, as I look on, eyes wide. I've never really seen that much variety in my entire life.

"What are those?" I ask, pointing at the small round plump yellow circles with red and green things inside of them. I can't really even describe them.

"They're called courgettes, Daisy. And here there's mini-quiches. They're good, try them," the escort prompts, although he takes a step back. He thinks I'm disgusting, no doubt.

"You should really take a shower, before we arrive," the man says, confirming my suspicions.

I nod, even though I don't really know where the showers are. I don't really care, because I'm suddenly so cold and itchy that I almost faint.

I smush my cheeks with my hand, my skin sagging slightly under my touch as I try to figure out what exactly I can eat without upsetting my already-sensitive system.

There is some sort of fruit I've never seen before, salads, pasta-dishes, eggs, little tarts that I think are sweet but I wouldn't put past the Capitol chefs to make them some weird flavor regardless. To a normal person, this would appear as the epitome of luck, to have the chance to dine on such fine products when hailing from an upbringing such as my own. I heard a few desperate kids volunteer to die in these Games every year to get the chance to try this kind of food.

After the war, it's not a surprise. But despite this the sight of all this variety turns my saliva into ash, in my mouth. I know what I'm really missing.

"Hey, uh…Do you – do you know by any chance… where I could get uh … morphling…" I stammer. I twirl my faded blond hair absentmindedly, trying to keep the raw desire for drugs out of my eyes.

The escort smirks. Honest-to-god smirks and I want to rip his face off for making fun of me.

I'm not a child.

He approaches me again and I eye him wearily, all food forgotten.

"No, Daisy, we don't have that stuff here. You'll just have to keep it together for now," he says condescendingly and reaches out to touch my shoulder. As though that gesture is somehow supportive. As though it's meant to make me feel better.

Instead, I reel away from the touch.

As though he can empathize with a girl who got addicted to this shit before she could properly count to ten.

These slimy fingers hovering near me, always grabbing, probing, possessively groping under the rotten pretext of comfort.

It's sick. I want to spit in his face and instead I drag my broken nails across my arms, retreating.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

He's getting angry, I can tell. They always get angry before they grab you where you don't want it. Where you really don't want it.

I wrap my thin shawl around my bony shoulders, crossing my legs and shifting even further away, glaring at him accusatorily. I don't want him fucking touching me.

"Why did I get stuck with the psychotic ones," I hear him mutter under his breath as he throws his hands up, quitting.

I'm not psychotic, I want to tell him. I want to scream about the touching, the beatings I've suffered. I want to cry about my mother's death that only worsened the abuse. I want to tell him that the best day of my life was when my father finally got arrested for "molestation and illicit substance trafficking", which is just a fancy way of saying he raped me and countless others, spreading drugs around the district and being a general asshole to anything that moved.

My own father made me this way.

I don't say anything at all because the escort wouldn't understand anyways. I just settle back into the seat, crossing my legs once again and scratching at my wrists, trying to figure out what to do next.

The boy that got chosen to be my partner comes into the room and senses the tension immediately. I don't know what his name is and I want to ask. Did he volunteer too? I don't remember. I want to tell someone that the only people I hate more than myself were the ones who created me, to at least explain why I'm like this. Maybe I could talk to the boy eventually. The details of the reaping are hazy, but from the way he avoids me, dropping his gaze and never looking into my eyes…

He's scared of me.

I'd be scared of me too. It's unnatural for someone to crave death so badly.

Somewhere along the line as he shuffles to the food, I realize he's that one rich guy's son, the one who owns the biggest factory in District 6. I wouldn't have even ever known this, except I've been dealing coke with one of their workers for the past three years. It was always an in-and-out operation, I was desperate to get the money for medication and… not-medication. The guy was always fair to me.

I've seen the kid with his parents. His mother…she leaned protectively over this boy. It's weird, because the past four or five years of my life have been under a kind of mist, as though a heavy shroud was drawn over my eyes. But those gestures of love…they pierce through like a needle. They hurt, a little bit. The drugs running through my veins attenuate that pain in my hungry heart for a moment or two.

This boy was loved, as awkward as he is. He's only a year or two younger than I am, too.

This thought scares me.

I flee the room, and from the corner of my eye I see the boy lift his eyes a little. I didn't even take food, but he doesn't seem surprised by the way I act out. He probably thinks he's seen dozens of poor girls like me, high like a fucking kite, trying to get by. I'm so much worse than those girls.

I close my door quietly, and start crying again. I can't fucking stop crying, I am in so much pain I feel like stomach is turned inside-out. I feel like my skin is being stabbed with hundreds of ant-pincers. I want to scream but I can't. The only thing I can do is melt down onto the floor and shake. My eyes water and search frantically around the room.

I spot a little machine on the night table, and for some reason it attracts my attention despite my mind failing me at the moment. While I'm still in terrible pain, the tiny fraction of my brain that is still rational reasons that getting invested in something right now might make this episode pass quicker.

I drag myself to the little black box on the night table, and click on the buttons with trembling fingers. Music starts playing softly out of the box, and I find myself humming along, even though the tears haven't stopped flowing. I don't know this melody, but it's soft and it soothes the ache somewhat. Not entirely, not even close, but it's better than before. It makes me feel not entirely alone. I can't even say it reminds me of a better time, because truth be told, my life was never pretty. I used to be pretty, but that wasted away with the drug abuse and homelessness and lifestyle I chose for myself.

I don't want anyone's pity, I've never wanted it, but some compassion would have been nice. Either way, this life, compassion or not, is almost over. As the song washes over me and I lean into the music, I think about how maybe I'll be used as an example to help people stuck in similar situations like me. Ever since I ran away from home, I haven't had access to any type of electronic device and this melody just feels so novel, so alien and yet so enchanting. A small part of me regrets having spent every last amount of money I had on drugs, instead of investing in a small device such as this one. I could have imagined a whole world with music like this, and maybe I wouldn't have turned out so screwed up.

I don't even know how much time passes.

The next thing I know, the door is collapsing in on itself.

No, that's not quite right.

It's the man again. He opened the door. I shut off the music on the box. I feel something like defeat mixed with a fair dose of panic rising in my throat, and I drag my forearm across my eyes.

God, how often have I been found just like this. What he did after though, this can't be happening. Not again.

"Stop whimpering like a pitiful cur, and get up. Up, Daisy."

I try to crawl away, but he grabs my arm and I go limp.

I don't even understand half the dumb words he's saying but I know they're hurtful and I'd be upset if I wasn't overwhelmed by the pain in my body, and the panic alarms in my brain.

"Where, what are you doing?" I ask quietly, hiccupping and disoriented.

"I'm not doing anything. God forbid. I wouldn't touch you with a five-foot pole if I could afford it, but the chariots parade is coming up. We need you looking presentable for when we step foot in the Capitol."

He pauses, and I squint at him, scratching at my forearm. I just wish they'd give me something, are they really that inhumane?

"You still haven't showered despite spending all your time here."

He wrinkles his nose.

"I guess the prep team will have an even more daunting task than usual."

He releases my arm once he sees that I won't stop resisting.

"Daisy, please stop this," he adds, a tiny bit of fake compassion seeping into his voice. I instinctively narrow my eyes. He wants something from me, and I don't know what it is.

"If you come with me, we might even be able to get you something. You know, something you were asking me before," he punctuates his sentence with a conspiratory wink.

It's disgusting and I practically drool as I trip over my own feet in my desperation to follow him. They might give me drugs.

I can barely hold my excitement, and my stomach does summersaults as I am led across hallways, doors, stations, security checks.

I honestly have no idea if we're in the Capitol already or not, if this sudden extension of the train became available to us and we're being relocated to some other world within this great machine. Who the fuck cares, I might get my drugs and ease my pain.

I am pushed inside a white room. I can't see properly, so I squint. I didn't even notice how the escort slipped out, because I was so focused on the beautiful merciful idea that I might finally get the hit I desperately need.

I look around and I see another door open. Three odd-looking individuals enter and I instinctively put myself in a fighting stance. It's three men.

I can't fight off three men, especially not ones taller than me. One of them is wearing scary-looking contraptions on his feet that look like the heels the strippers in District 6 wear but they're oddly shaped, just like the rest of him.

I'm really really scared again.

"Hello, Daisy Jackson," they say in unison and a bead of sweat runs down my spine. I can practically see it dip in and out with the shape of my bones.

"Hi," I answer back, hugging my clothes closer and keeping my feet close to each other. I don't want to provoke them.

"We are your stylist team," one man answers. Upon closer inspection, he's more of a boy, green hair raised high. His eyes shine with excitement, and the implications once again make bile rise in my throat.

"Are you going to give me drugs?" I ask timidly. It takes every ounce of courage I have left not to leap on the men and dig my nails into their faces, my defense mechanisms going into overdrive.

"Oh heavens, no absolutely not, we're here to make you looking acceptable for your official arrival to the Capitol," he retorts, all energy and smiles.

I stare at him hollowly.

"Now if you please, take off that hideous gown so we can scrub you clean. Even someone as… mess-inclined as yourself will look good," the other, taller and older man affirms, punctuating it with a forceful tug which sends me reeling into their arms.

I'm not giving them permission. As I said, I'm here to get killed and to shoot up and get high before I die if I get lucky. I'm not here for all this awful shit. Why can't they just understand that. I try begging them through my gaze. Maybe they'll take pity on me.

I've lived a horrible life, can't they see it from the sting trails along my arms, the bruises, the ripped-out hair which could have been beautiful and luscious in another life.

I whimper, because maybe that'll make them reconsider. It doesn't.

They're undressing me.

They're taking off my clothes and I realize that that's the last thing I want to happen to me. I don't want them to take off my clothes and see me.

I stubbornly keep my hands on my dress, refusing to let them move and lock eyes with the stylist.

"We have to take care of you, and frankly dear, you're one of the messier ones. We just can't let you go out in public in that state," the man says matter-of-factly, his hands running through my hair.

I want to bite his hand, rip his fingers off for touching me. I don't want him touching me.

I don't let go of my clothes. In fact, I lock my fingers in the fabric as though my life depended on it, and start hysterically screaming.

My last thought before my mind goes blind with panic as three people suddenly force their hands on me, trying to pry my own away from my clothes is that maybe they're going to undress me or even rape me, but maybe they'll give me drugs so it'll be all worth it. It won't, but it will.

I don't stop screaming.

Notes: All I can say is yikes. Daisy Jackson from D6, everybody. This was awful to write and kind of horrifying, considering the abuse and damage she's suffered. She's got one hell of a traumatic backstory and it shows. Her skewed view of the world and absolutely scrambled thoughts kind of adds to the unreliable narrator thing I'm trying to push so this was a challenge to write. Let me know what you think of her.

Onto happier things: Exciting news, we are halfway done through meeting the tributes! That means there's only twelve beautiful chapters until we see our gorgeous children interacting in training. Please pretty please let me know what you think of the kids as of now, since your opinion really shapes the way I go about forming alliances, structuring dialogue and the likes. I also live for criticism and praise, because I'm a vain creature...you heard it.

A dear friend of mine and I are working on a blog, so that should be up soon. Shoutout to twistedservice for being a helpful and inspirational human for this story. If you're here and somehow haven't read twistedservice's stuff, go check out Invictus, shit's hitting the fan in that story.

Peace and love.