Sorry for the slow update. I lost all inspiration at one point.
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES.
Father would not be pleased if he knew I am here. I am supposed to be in my seat in the VIP box with servants attending to my every whim. I don't like it when they fuss over me. It makes me feel like a helpless child.
Instead of obeying his rules, I stand with the crowd. Among them, cheering and screaming and even sweating. It makes me feel normal. No one recognises me. They are all too focused on this year's victor. He's a rugged male from District 2. Blond haired and blue eyed, he greets the audience with a smirk. He looks like perfect victor material.
He kneels and waits patiently. The golden Victor's Crown glistens in the light as father places it atop his head. The crowd applauds and screams with bliss. I mirroe their movement by chanting.
I close my eyes and imagine myself there, standing alongside father, smiling synthetically at the people of the Capitol. When I concentrate on that thought I see myself there, the golden glow of the crown gracing my artificially-blonde hair.
I push the thought aside, though. It is absurd.
Yet familiar.
Instead I watch as Cato bares dazzling white teeth and curves his thin lips upwards. He thanks father and shakes his gloved hand.
Turning towards the spectators, he speaks, "Thank you all for this, I look forward to being your Victor!" He winks and the crowd swoons.
It's barely even quarter-way through the Victor's ball and I've never been so jaded. I cross my legs – even though it isn't ladylike – and pick at the beads on my one-of-a-kind haut-couture dress. It's a soft grey thing that looks like smoke to me. I rub my temples as I have a horrid throb in my head.
I glance across the room and watch as squeamish, young socialites gawk at Cato and giggle. The older Capitolites are much more discreet when making eyes at his bulky frame.
Father, however, seems to be completely oblivious to the whole thing, reading off the Treaty of Treason II to our guests. In a way it's almost humorous.
The throbbing gets worse.
After a presentation on the rebuilding of the recreational areas, father announces that it's time for the first dance. He has a quick word with the all-too-popular Victor, who looks at me fixatedly.
I look back at him with my eyes practically burning into him, hoping to unravel his reasons for glaring at me. When I look at him I see blood-lust.
He doesn't seem too bothered and if he is then he's hiding it very well. Then again, I don't think that the 'ferocious glares' of a nineteen-year old girl who's recently undergone brain surgery is all that intimidating.
My eyes water and I ward off a coughing fit.
Father glances in my direction and then at Cato's and chuckles before quickly retaining his solemn face. He speaks with Cato some more before giving him a pat on the shoulder and briskly pacing through the crowd to his seat.
Cato slowly walks through the empty dancefloor and stands in front of me. "Care to dance, princess?"
"Of course." And I'm not a princess, I'm the president's daughter." I say as he drags me to the floor.
As the orchestra begins to play a lively, yet classic composition, I lay a hand on Cato's shoulder as he encircles a burly arm around my waist. He grasps onto my free hand with his own.
We sway across the floor in a haphazard fashion, trotting on each other's feet and stepping out of harmony. "Sorry," I say, "I'm not really into dancing."
He sighs, "It's alright; I'm no dancer, either."
We continue our graceless dance at the same uncoordinated pace, he twirling me until I'm dizzy and me plodding on his leather shoes numerous times.
It is a miracle I do not collapse from the pressure I feel in my head.
When the song ends, I break away from Cato's powerful hold and shake his hand.
As I reach my seat, a few women, all around my age, surround me. They prod at my shoulders and giggle, asking me what his breath smelled like and how soft his hands were.
I mumbled answers to their petty questions, not even bothering to look at them all. They laughed and shrieked and talked about bedding him.
It was a tradition here. When a victor who was over the age of sixteen was crowned, he or she would be bought and sold for their bodies. It was a truly disgusting practice.
I gag slightly and my fingers begin to tremble.
I feel my jaw clench and my fists curl. If father wasn't in the room, I would yell obscenities at those pretentious young Capitolites, regardless of their social standing or the fact that this was one of the most distinguished events in whole year.
I feel my eyes roll back a little and my throat tighten. My legs suddenly feel heavy and sluggish. For about twenty seconds I see images of a small girl who is swinging on trees like a bird before I suddenly see another vision of her, blood marring the face of fledgling beauty. I hear her laugh as black spots consume my vision and I grope for sight.
The last thing I remember is hearing someone scream.
Thank you to anyone who has read this story. I sincerely appreciate it.