The guards dispose of me in some room in the Justice Building. Like everything in District 1, the room reeks of strong antiseptic. The walls, couches, carpet, and desks, are an untouched white just waiting for someone to ohhh and ahhh over them. I pace across the floor, impatient for the constant repetition to calm me down. It doesn't.
When Onyx and Em enter the room they group quickly at my sides, hugging and whispering into my skin. I sit on the couch with them, expecting one of them to tell me how unfair it is that the careers didn't volunteer for me, or ask how they're going to feed themselves, or any of the other things that I know are running through their heads. But they stay silent for little while. Finally, I use the remaining emotional strength inside me to comfort them.
"Shhh, Em, everything is going to be okay. Don't cry, Emmy, you're going to be alright." I hush her, brushing a little hair behind her ear.
"Oh Glimmer," she gasps in panic, looking at me with horrified green eyes. "Please try and win. Please. I love you so much. Please try and win. Please win, please." Em repeats herself until her voice cracks and she can no longer continue.
"Now, don't get worked up. Shhh, both of you listen to me." I speak softly and calmly, trying to keep my throat from closing up. "Remember that I am a career now. Careers are always the favorites. I'll dress up real nice at the interview and get lots of sponsors, okay? And we can live in Victor's Village when I get back and always have enough to eat." I promise them, nodding my head in confidence.
"You're smart." Emmy hiccups, barely looking at me. "Brave, too."
"I know." Is all I can manage to say. In my head of think of the others, muscular and quick, towering over me with knives and weapons I cannot even fathom. Girls and boys that look less like children and more like trained warriors. I think I have something stronger than a knife though, something more worth coming home to than any of the other kids.
They hug me again, and I notice big sopping tears leaking on my shirt from Onyx. She's been especially quiet this whole time. When she lets go and faces me, I speak directly to her. She is to apply for a job in the factories where nice clothes and a good reputation is not required. They are not to take tesserae, but may sneak food from the factory cafeteria after hours. The Cassius', an old couple that were friends with my parents will provide extra meals. Lock the doors at night. Remain quiet but friendly in public. Onyx understands the responsibility. I smooth her gorgeous blond hair and wipe the tears streaming down her face.
"Wear this when you're in the arena," Onyx begins with a strong voice that surprises me. She lifts a hand to her neck and pulls out a thin, silver chain with my mother's wedding ring dangling at the end. "You will always stay thinking of us. Maybe when you're starving or cold you can remember to… fight."
"No," I push it back into her hand gingerly. "No, Onyx, I can't take the only belonging of Mother and Father into the arena. That's…" Suddenly I trail off. The awe of her sacrifice leaves me at a complete loss for words.
"You've been our mother." She says quietly, clasping it around my neck. I don't fight this time.
"I love both of you so much."
I look back and forth between both of my sisters, drinking in their appearance before the Peacekeepers rip them away. I read their uncertain eyes, big gleaming tears glass over their green irises. Bright pink blends from their cheeks faintly into a snowy complexion and colors their noses. Long, lanky bodies with sharp hip and collarbones hug me. Rushing waves of blond hair blanket my shoulders and chest when they are near and smell of smoky fires and peppermint.
I hear footsteps coming from the hallway, distant at first but getting closer. Em panics again and grabs at my dress.
"Glimmer. Please win, please."She sobs into my neck. I bit my lip and nod even though she can't see.
Then the footsteps stomp right outside our door and the Peacekeepers flood in, sternly reminding us that time is up.
I pull Onyx and Em in close to me, who now are sobbing uncontrollably, for perhaps the last time in my life. I kiss them on the forehead just before the peacekeepers clamp tight on the back of their arms and carry them away. I sit on the couch, my spine rigidly straight, forcing myself to keep a composed appearance. I desperately want to cry and run to them and whisper that everything is going to be okay, but the words mother, mother, mother, mother bounce around my skull with every beat of my heart. So, I just sit there with my hands folded in my lap with a calm expression plastered on my face as they shriek my name. The way I'll remember them is a weeping goodbye with a million worries hanging on their lips.
Without their presence in the room to drink up I feel dehydrated.
The door will not open again so I take time to look at my mother's wedding ring. The band is only millimeters wide and fully encrusted with dozens of little diamonds. Slightly raised above the band is a rounded emerald that sparkled no matter which way the light touches it. The inside is smooth silver, interrupted by a delicate cursive script. LET YOU FEEL MY LOVE.
I wonder what that meant to my mom and dad. I run my finger over the words and still no remembrance surfaces in my thoughts. With my ring still chained around my neck, I slip my finger through the band and admire it. Mother must have had long, skinny fingers like me. There are a lot of memories from my childhood that I can't recall, but I do know that my mother loved this wedding ring very much. My father specifically got that one because the emerald was just the color of her eyes, and he would sometimes joke that hundreds of people in District 1 have blond hair and green eyes, and now he can pick his beloved wife out of a crowd.
It feels strange wearing the ring despite the fact it fits so well, probably because I'm so stuck on the fact that someone should be wearing its twin. I have thought a lot about marriage, frankly, but now that I'm going into the Games the lack of loving admirers will not be an issue. It is hard to imagine settling down with a husband partially because I've been ignored most of my life by most of my district, but also because I can't imagine someone getting in between my sisters and me. I like to think that I would be a good mother, though.
After Marvel's friends, family, teachers and whoever else claimed to be of acquaintance said their goodbyes; the Peacekeepers enter to take me in a rush. We're escorted out a back door, into a car, and taken to the train station. Since District 1 tributes are popular winners every year, we receive a lot of media attention from the start. The mayor encourages us to play this up by inviting friends and family to gather on both sides of the tracks and bid farewell. The station is crawling with reporters and cameramen, all trying to get glimpses of the promising tributes. I catch a glimpse of myself and remember who I'm supposed to be. I wave and smile at the crowd looking at no one in particular, hoping my smile is genuine. A grin plays around Marvel's lips but mostly he just looks bored.
The doors shut behind us and the wheels begin to turn. Marvel and I make way to the dining table promptly on account of how impossibly quick the train is accelerating. I don't even realize until the moment I sit down that the stomach churning scent is a full weeks worth of food, sitting right in front of me… I don't even have to work for it. There is lamb, fillet, and duckling. Piping hot soup Dahlia says is mixed berries with something called champagne. There is vegetables too; green beans, squash and eggplants. Enclosed in a dish of ice, there is a bright colored, round dessert called sorbet. All I can think about is the fact that District 1 is the next-door neighbor to the Capitol to begin with; surely our journey will take two hours at most. I cannot comprehend why all of this would be necessary.
We sit across from Dahlia, who seems extremely uncomfortable to be in a room all alone with us. She crosses and uncrosses her legs, fixes her hair, helps herself to the equivalent of three meals, all the while avoiding eye contact with us.
"Hey sweetheart. It isn't like I have a spear in my hand yet." Marvel sneers. Dahlia opens her mouth to say something, but is interrupted by the door opening. She looks quite relieved.
A man and women glide elegantly through the doors of the previous train car, holding each other arm-in-arm. They walk poised and delicately, even the man moves with a dancer's lope despite his size. I meet their eyes just before they reach the table. Both of them are studying me carefully, lips parted in awe.
"Cashmere, it's a pleasure," Marvel greets them as if they are old friends. He rises, takes the girl's gentle hand, and kisses it. She redirects her focus to Marvel. "Gloss, you as well." He says to the man as he shakes his hand. Mimicking my fellow tribute, I stand up and shake my mentor's hands. I recognize them from the Reaping Stage.
"Eat up, you two!" Dahlia chirps as I release their hands. "It wouldn't be a bad idea to put on a couple of pounds before the big, big, big day!"
I think it is a good idea we're sitting because I believe I am about to faint.
"You are a very fortunate young lady," The women named Cashmere remarks, her polite voice littered with frost. "An opportunity to bring honor to your district without the heart-breaking, tragic years at the Academy."
I remember the dream I had the night before the Reaping where I was trying to volunteer for Onyx, but my tongue was too heavy with the words and my throat tightened suddenly.
That is what looking at Cashmere feels like.
She has a classic beauty to her. Well proportioned and muscular; every inch of her long arms and legs are toned. She has long golden hair that drapes across her shoulders and reaches towards her hips. Her face could be a dolls; high cheekbones, ski-slope nose, and famous green eyes of District 1.
Gloss is beautiful too, but in a different way. His hair is light brown, dark at the roots and lightening from there. He is tall and strongly built with broad shoulders, but his body is the only thing that looks vicious. Gloss has hazel eyes that study you, insisting an aura of confidence. His face is tan, but weary, and wrinkles are developing around his forehead. He is statuesque and asserts a feeling of authority throughout the room.
"I am surely blessed," I say sweetly, softly tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. I don't know why I'm keeping up the act in front of them; Cashmere and Gloss are only here to help me. They understand what I'm going through, they may even be my best hope of survival… But I don't trust them, almost the same way I don't trust Dahlia. Cashmere and Gloss are one of them now and it only feels right to play up the angle I've created for myself and leave the old Glimmer back home in District 1. Hopefully if I keep it up long enough it will become second nature.
Cashmere forces the corners of her soft pink lips into a smile, and then refocuses her attention to Marvel once again. I start picking at food from the table, the Reaping has really washed any feeling of appetite but it seems wasteful not to eat. I can't help but notice Marvel sampling every dish on the table when it looks like he has never missed a meal in his life. The way he slides the meat onto his plate seems like bragging as my hipbones and ribs jut out from under my dress.
"We expect great things from you, Marvel. Ranked- what was it- 3rd out of 5,270 possible career tributes from your district? That's…" Cashmere's voice fades into background noise. Marvel and I eat so quickly you could hardly tell which one had no parents to supply for them and which one did not. I want more but don't make a move.
I can feel Gloss staring at me still, the weight of the heaviest burden I have ever felt multiplied by 10. Thankfully it is easy enough to ignore his gaze because he is sitting diagonal from me on the opposite side of Cashmere, but I am tempted to glance over. It's no secret one of the two most breath-taking people on Earth are looking at me…
"But once I get ahold of my spear, it's not going to matter who my allies are or-" Marvels deep, assertive voice brings my attention back to the table. I didn't realize how he sounded until I heard Cashmere's voice. She's polite, but cold.
"Enough. We'll discuss this all later, but we've nearly arrived."
Dahlia drops her eyes at the spoonful of pink sorbet she has yet to enjoy and wrinkles her brow. Making a very petite, hmph sound she pushes her chair out and waddles over to the train window.
"I've made this trip many times before, hon." Cashmere directs her voice to Dahlia. "Please sit." There is something in her voice that sends shivers up both sides of my neck. So cold.
"Once we stop at the platform, you will be sent to the Remake Center where you will meet your makeover team and get ready for the tribute parade," Dahlia says in that ridiculous Capitol accent, the end of her sentences rising an octave as if it is a question. "And, since you're the first ones to arrive, you'll have extra time with your stylists! Don't you know the best-looking tributes always get more sponsors?"
"Sponsors?" I question, looking back and forth between Cashmere and Dahlia.
"We'll discuss it all later." Cashmere insists, waving me toward the door. Looking at her glistening green eyes make it hard to react.
The train has slowed significantly, giving Marvel and I our first chance to look at our murderer's notorious empire. We can't help but flock at the window like children.
The magnificence of the Capitol cannot be overstated. Towering mountains, the edges and tops of them looking knife like and razor sharp surround the city. The streets and buildings are the same dismal color of the mountains, a haunting dark gray, but it's the inhabitants that make the whole scene so breath-taking. The unusually dressed men and women create a beautiful color spectrum with their painted bodies and dyed hair. Shimmery gold, polished pink, and bright blues scatter endlessly among the streets.
I think about Onyx and Em a bit. Truth be told, they're always there, my poor children ripped away for me, because they have settled in a permanent residence in the back of my mind at all times. We watch the Hunger Games every year, but I wish they could see what it looks like in person. The cameras do not do it enough justice.
"Ready you two?" Dahlia squeals excitedly, forcing a sudden sickness into my stomach.
Marvel doesn't look to Cashmere or Dahlia or me for comfort before stepping out into a bloodthirsty crowd of adoring fans. He rolls his shoulders back and steps confidently, almost arrogantly, out of the train.
And Gloss still stares.