The moment I'm off the stage I tug the crown off my head, wincing as it pulls at my hair. But my mentor snaps at me to "Put the bloody thing back on your head." I cannot stand him: I'm sure me winning was more of a shock for him that it was anyone else, because he had called me weak and pathetic at least five times a day during my training, and when I had received my six he had actually tried to lob a bowl at my head. Our relationship certainly hasn't changed now that I've proved him wrong, if anything my winning has just made him even angrier. So I choose to ignore his comment and leave the crown hanging loosely from my fingertips.
By the time we've made it back into the prep room, I am desperate to rip my dres off. The corset is too tight, and digging into my ribs, constricting my breathing, which is already coming in strange gasps. I hook my fingers under the top of the dress and try to pull it away from my body. "Stop it," Spark, my mentor hisses, tugging my fingers away from the material. My prep team whirl around me, removing my make up with gentle hands, but I want to scream at them. I don't care about the damn make up, just take the dress off. I'm wrenching at it urgently because I swear it's cutting off my circulation. Cleo finally notices that something is bothering me – she's not exactly the most observant of stylists – and she waves her hands for prep team to stop what they're doing. "Can you take it off?" I practically gasp at her and glance down at the dress. The patterns of green sequins reflect my pasty cheeks and the expression I then notice on Cleo's face is the closest I have ever seen her look to being concerned. "But, I made sure to loosen it off." I'll never understand their strange capital fashion, where they insist on everything being held so tightly together than it's actually painful, and it is true, I had demanded that I wanted it looser, because there had been no way that I was going to sit for 3 hours in a dress that would most likely make me pass out.
The dress is finally off me, and I sink into the chair Cleo slides in my direction, resting my head back. "I need to do the fitting for your dress for tomorrow," Cleo says waspishly, "so don't sit down for too long." I ignore her, and close my eyes. Tomorrow is the interview, and no matter how bad it was to watch my time in the arena, I am aware that it will be ten times worse to actually have to talk about it. To have to explain what was going through my head as time passed in the arena. I don't want people to judge me, not that I care about the viewers in the capital, because the more blood thirsty I appear, the better their viewing experience will probably be, but what about the people back home? What will my family, and my friends think about what I did? I wonder if they will tell themselves that I was just playing the game, or whether they'll feel that what I did was completely irredeemable. Even I haven't worked that out quite yet, and I keep my fingers crossed that they have yet to judge me. But they will be shocked, this much I know. Because I saw the pain in my mum's face as she hugged me, and I had known that she believed that she would never see me again. I had tried to avoid the eyes of my friends as I said goodbye, because we had all known that my chances of survival were next to nothing.
"Flo," snaps Cleo, the impatience in her voice clear, "I need to fit your dress. In case you decide this one is too tight as well." I guess I hurt her feelings by suggesting that her dress wasn't the be all and end all of design masterpieces when I had wanted it altered. Tough, I think, I wasn't going to risk falling unconscious just to spare your feelings.
The rest of that day passes slowly and I choose to hide myself away from my team, burying my head in my pillow. At one point, I think I can hear people knocking at my door, but I made sure to lock it earlier and so I just press my hands over my ears until they've gone away. It's much easier lying there, humming tunelessly to avoid thinking, than having to face the others, and let them give me tips on how I should be presenting myself at the interview. I just want to be myself; I've had enough of acting in these games. 'Play at being weak and innocent when you reach the capitol,' 'Try and at least pretend you're proficient during training,' 'I want you to be eccentric and cheeky during the interview.' I feel like who I used to be has slipped away from me, because I've had to play so many different roles these past few weeks. It's probably what kept me alive, but I still resent being changed. At the Reaping I had told myself that at least if I died because I was weak and incapable, at least I would die as myself. But even that luxury has been taken from me now, because I'll never be myself again.
That night I try and fight sleep for as long as I possibly can. I keep ordering food, because I think if I can distract myself with food then I won't be able to fall asleep. Then I start ordering the most sugary foods I can think of, because maybe all that sugar in my system will keep me wired and stop me from closing my eyes. My plan actually works surprisingly well for a while, but at some point early in the morning, I lose the battle to keep my eyes open and I drift into unconsciousness.
The rocks loom overhead. Everywhere I look is flat stone that is impossible to scale. There are deep shadowy holes metres above me that might provide a safe refuge, but I have no way of reaching them. My body wants to give up, exhaustion ripples through me and threatens to bring me to my knees. This is just a memory from the arena, and I force myself not to be afraid because I know how it ends. But then I feel something in my hands. It weighs my arm down, and I'm so scared to look down because I know what it will be. Knife. I see their faces in front of my eyes, hear their screams as they realise what's happening. See the hollow look in their eyes as they realise they're about to die. And my arm swings the knife.
I wrench myself awake before I can see them die, and I clutch my fingers to my mouth to stop the scream from erupting. My whole body is drenched in sweat, and mechanically I stand up, and drag my aching limbs into the shower. I soak my body in icily cold water, and I refuse to even shut my eyes in case I drift off again.
I'm first up for breakfast the next morning, but the sight of the feast that has been laid out for us turns my stomach and I have to retreat back into my room until I hear the others get up. Spark practically screams my name when he realises that I'm not planning to come out of my room any time soon and I heave myself over to the mirror, because the last thing I want is him to start pounding on my door. He sounds as if he's in a foul enough mood already. I sigh as I catch sight of myself in the mirror, my skin is pale and the dark circles under my eyes have grown even further. The prep team are going to be horrified when they see me and I can't help but feel a slight pleasure as I think that my horribly sleepless night has at least served the purpose of annoying them.
I'm right, because when I turn up at breakfast Cleo almost faints at the sight of me. "Didn't you get any sleep at all last night?" I just shrug, and adopt a blank stare that I know is bound to annoy her even more. "You have your interview in less than four hours, and I'm not a bloody miracle worker." I couldn't care less if the whole of the Capitol saw me for the mess that I really am, but of course, seeing their new champion with huge bags under her eyes wouldn't exactly be a great advertisement for the Games. I can only hope that my outfit won't have high heels, because I can barely lift one foot in front of the other, so there's no way I'll be able to even move in heels.
I sit still while I'm prodded and poked by the team. They've had to call in another recruit in desperation, and yet still I can see them panicking as they swirl powder onto my cheeks and try and make me look human again. There's only about twenty minutes left to go until the interview when they finally stop, and shrug at each other. It's obviously not their most perfect work, but it'll clearly have to do, because I still have to get changed and make it to the interview studio. I barely even notice as they slip the dress over my head I just register that it's green, of course. Thankfully, Cleo presents me with a pair of brown, soft suede boots that fit cosily onto my feet and I can't help but flash her a grateful smile that she hasn't tried to force me into heels, but she just glares back and propels me towards the door.
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