Cashmere had lost before, but having a tribute come second was a new kind of cruel. It wasn't the breakdown sadness she faced the year prior, but instead an angry outburst. Tired of the helpless feeling that accompanied mentoring tributes. She had been convinced that this was the year that she had the victor, and that was swept out from under her at the last second. She couldn't quite manage to hold onto success yet again.
She slipped away from the others the first chance she had. This wasn't her year to celebrate. She couldn't be there when the victor's mentor made their rounds amongst the others, boasting their success. Gloss would be there to congratulate him for both of them. He got along well with the older victor from district two who produced the winning tribute for this year's games. An egotistical man still remembered for the brutality of his win many years later. His gloating might have led to unpleasantries on her part. She removed herself from the situation to ensure she wouldn't say something she'd regret. Something she no doubt would be punished for.
She didn't take failure well, nothing needed to be added to the anger of loss or she'd likely bubble over. Anything but calm and collected was saved for the time she was alone. She still tried to keep up the perfect victor facade like the majority of career victors. The public saw her as a Capitol darling, overly feminine with a hint of sex appeal. They didn't want savagery on her part. It wasn't an appealing look on her outside of the arena. The bit of a temper she had served her well as a tribute but had to be hidden away after she was crowned. A feisty blonde was fun to bet on but needed to be tamed before you wanted to see them face to face.
Her room and solitude were just upstairs. There were only moments before she could be alone. A familiar face accompanies her in the elevator. "How's your first year of being a mentor treating you?" She grimaces as the words leave her mouth. She might as well be taunting the bronze-haired boy. He didn't have the winner, so it couldn't have been treating him too well. Like her, he wouldn't be bringing anyone back home to his district.
"No better than yours, I'd assume." It's hard for her to tell how the boy is truly feeling. The small smirk that his lips had curled into could have been genuine, but she assumed it wasn't. She knew quite well how easy it was to fake emotions. Something about him made her believe that he'd be at least slightly afflicted by the death of the tribute he was responsible for, even if the tribute was three years his elder. "You're not down there celebrating." He's still smirking but there's a look in his eyes that she can't quite place.
She looks into his eyes, steadying her gaze that had been fluttering around at random. "I'm most definitely not." A bitter laugh escapes her lips, finding dark humor in her failure and the blunt commentary on it from the boy in front of her. Before she can say anything else, the elevator comes to a stop and the doors open up to her floor. She gives nothing but a curt nod before rushing towards her room.
A wave of vanilla and rosemary meets her as she enters the room she had been living in during their stay at the Capitol. It was an odd combination produced by her using whatever fragrance or product she grabbed first. Not caring if they matched or not. The scents didn't matter as long as her hair was silky and her skin was smooth. That's what the people truly wanted to see from her.
The mirror in the bathroom shattered when her fingers met it. Thin cracks branch out in all directions from the place of impact in the middle. Fragments of glass tore the smooth skin of her knuckles. Reveling in the sting. Glad to have a distraction. Even if it only lasted for a second. She just wished the moment of impact could have lasted longer.
Seeing her face in the broken mirror made sense in ways that she never would have imagined two years ago. She was nothing but fragmented parts of her former self. The pieces didn't quite fit right anymore and nothing was as simple as it seemed. She had always dreamed of becoming a victor, but never realized the tragedy it entailed. She realized the brutality of the arena but didn't realize that it wouldn't stop after she left it victorious. She was only thankful to be alive.
She slid down the wall, staring at her hand as if she was surprised by the blood welling up through broken skin. Pulling out the small shards of glass embedded in her knuckles. Staring at the blood-covered pieces that she had grasped between her fingers before dropping them. Blood dripped onto the white tile of the bathroom floor. Scarlet drops contrast the porcelain.
This year hurt as much as the last. Letting her almost taste the success before ripping it away from her. Ripping them away from her. She just didn't want to admit the pain this year. It shouldn't have hurt anymore. She should have been over it. She told herself she was over it. Yet it was still affecting her enough that she needed to find solstice in violence.
She pulls the small fragments of glass out of her knuckles one by one. Working them out slowly, and grimacing in the pain. Secretly glad to have a minor distraction from her anger. Even once her hand is cleared and cleaned, she continues to sit on the cold bathroom floor. Staring at the drops of her blood on the tile. Not having a reason to stand and leave the room.
She thought that this year she wouldn't have to avoid another family's eyes. That she could send them their child home instead and give their district a victor again. She was hopeful too soon. She thought she had the winner and she thought wrong.
The golden boy died in the final two and she couldn't help but laugh at their naivety. A dry laugh without humor. His naivety killed him. Hers allowed her to still hope. She didn't know which of them was the bigger fool. Neither would learn from their mistake. He ceased to exist and she ceased to change her ways.
The others knew their hope was dead and buried. Gloss had lost hope long ago if he ever even had it. She couldn't know for sure, but she hoped that he had at least a bit his first year. But even that was different. It was her in the arena his first year. His sister. His flesh and blood. She was hoping for strangers. She was the only one left with hope for anyone anymore. All because she was still a naive girl.
The face of the golden boy still plagues her mind when the lights are turned off. He was joined by her first loss who would stay forever eighteen, while Cashmere continued to age. A year ago she was a few months older than the girl, now she's newly twenty and almost two years older than her. She sees their faces in random people in a crowd and in the nightmares that leave her screaming into the night. Reminding her of another child she couldn't save and another victor she couldn't produce.