Author's Note: Sorry its taken so long for me to put this chapter up; I've been having internet troubles...
Anyway, hope you like it, and please review:)
Time has always seemed so consistent to me. The time agreed with the clock; who, in turn, agreed with the sun; who obviously was in cahoots with the moon. It doesn't seem that way anymore; time doesn't seem like a constant any longer.
Months have fluttered and flown past inside my head, yet in reality it has only been two fateful days since my reaping. Two fateful days that I have spent in solitude: no one to confide in, no one to act sane or be myself around. Only weak, powerless Johanna has been seen drifting though this train, for she is the only one who feels safe inside this Capitol luxury. Regular Johanna is suffocated and alone, no longer allowed to roam inside the unpredictable, unreliable unknown.
No one has seemed to miss or even acknowledge my existence this entire trip, which is fine by my standards; I do not need their prying noses pretending to be concerned with my well being. I do not need their glances of pity aimed towards me- I will receive enough of those at the Capitol. All I need is to be back in the comfort of home.
Despite the distance of mileage separating me and District 7, I am still there in my over imaginative head, and these woken day dreams are more real than anything within this fake utopia where I'll be arriving shortly. Just like at home, I can still feel the soft drizzle of spring rain on my face. I can still smell the strong sap of cedars and Douglas firs, and I can still hear the melancholy sawing of tree after tree. My head and heart are back home with those who love me, as my body is arriving where nobody believes I will endure to the end of the week, where they will watch my death with eager anticipation.
Alder, my mentor, routinely informs me the occurring events of today and warns me to do as my stylist wants, then leaves me to myself. I do nothing but stare as my face reddens with tears. One of the days I have been dreading has finally arrived; I am truly in the Capitol now.
Tears flow easily as I maneuver my way through the crowd of cameras. They pay little attention to the wailing, crybaby with no chance of survival , but all cameras are pointed towards my district partner. Everyone wants to see Halsey, an actual contestant in these games, make his way out of the train and into the excessively colorful Capitol. I am ignored by the pestering crews of cameramen, for the audience only wants to see champions and bloodshed.
By the time preparations for the chariot ride are underway, I am already mentally exhausted. Words are thrown around at non-humanly speeds towards no one in particular, and await no reply either to continue. I am pleasantly surprised when the never silent team leaves the room I remain in. Just the same, I am pleased when I catch glimpse of my stylist.
She is aged, but not old. Altered, but not fake. Worn, but not destroyed. I can tell she has worked as a stylist for many Games by the looks of her. She seems to see the Hunger Games differently than other Capitol citizens. She sees less of the beauty and more of the horror they contain. The effects of getting to personally know one tribute every year, only to watch them die soon after, has taken a toll on her, and it's evident within her every move. I decide, right at that realization, there is some good inside the horribly cruel Capitol I was born despising. I decide not to hate Rayna, my stylist.
Even though I do not loathe Rayna, I do, however, hate her lack of creativity for my costume. I can recall a past game she was stylist of, possibly her first year, potential had glowed through her skin. Her designs were the talk of the ceremonies and no one could get enough of Rayna, but that had been many years ago, before the weight of the Games had gotten to her.
This year, she had no creative design to represent District 7. Instead, I would resemble a tree: a plain, boring oak tree, which ironically doesn't even flourish well in my District. The costume was itchy and drowned my helplessly inside the wide trunk.
As Rayna looked over her final project, concerning impression of excitement flashes inside her trampled and beaten purple eyes. She recalls my prep-team and they discuss my fate with equally discouraging thrilled looks flashing across their altered faces. Sure enough, they have cooked up an awful scheme I am forced to play along with.
My eyes widen twice their normal size as the inches of hair falls lifeless onto the ground. I know survival should be my first and only concern, but my hair has been the one thing that hasn't changed within these past few days. Every other belonging and possession have been unfairly ripped from my grasp: my mother, my friends, my home, my District, my woods, my body hair, my sense of security, and possibly even my life. Now even my flowing brown locks will just be added to the list of things unjustly torn from my life.
At first I am too afraid to look at myself in to mirror, in fear of who I will see staring back at me, for under no circumstance will I not see the same girl from a few days ago gazing back at me. That was inevitable regardless of the haircut. Following numerous oohs and ahhs and after several thin leaved twigs are woven through my new short hair, I glance at the stranger in the mirror. Her bulging brown eyes capture my stare and captivate my heart.
Maybe I am still the same girl I was before the Reaping. Maybe these Games haven't changes me so far. Maybe I still have a chance of returning home to fuel talk of rebellion. Hell, maybe I'll be lucky enough just to return home.