more than I bargained for [lalia]

[Meghan]

| Cassius Birch; District Two|

|BIOGRAPHY|
| PLOT WITH ME |

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So you're death is painless
When all that I ever was
Returns again
I'm all that I am
And I'll get it right
When I get it right
'Cause I'll get it right
When I get it right

My youthful eyes have lusted after her curved beauty since the moments I laid eyes on her graceful spiral (her entrance into the games had been immensely more impressive than the greeting of my tallest finger) onto the stage and into the arms of her destiny. Life was like a performance for the impressive-flow of the arena's greatest artist, and she had wasted no time in divulging her intentions for the games. To perform for the audience through fantastic murder and death.

I was enchanted by this nonconforming contortionist of a career. The way she could fly around the training center like it was her stage and we were merely common citizens, forced to observe her splendor with broken hearts at our own inadequacy. Not that it surprised me, how deep my pit of failure was, for I never held the ambition to really live past my own grand entrance. (who could see me past her glimmering pizz-zazz. we already had a victor of my sorts, why would we need another?) I was of no consequence to her.

Yet, I was still in awe of her majesty. I still watched as she seduced the gamemakers with a promise of what was yet to come. She was the shiny, new jewel and I was the washed-up could have been. I had pursued her on the train with little success, rendering the meaning of "discontentment" to sink deep into my soul by the time I woke up on the fourth day of training. After a groggy shower and deep swig of my morning energy for the bitter drink was found in droves in this spoiled city I stumbled out the door and towards the area where another great feast was surely waiting. I had almost torn myself completely from the empty hall and the quiet whispering of my bed when my distracted eyes fell upon a site so unexpected I found myself staggering back towards the wall in my surprise.

Cricket Antoinette, stripping.

But I'm slowly changing out of phase
And I don't know why it is
It's an ever-changing simple thing that I know
But don't know why it is
That I'm longing for
A sweet embrace, which I miss

text =738C8A,
emphasis = 47857E,
thoughts = 3D5C59,
hearing = 85ADA9,
speech = 455453,
other = 0F8A7D

Word Count: 392

[L△LIA]

[bg=292226][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; border:1px solid #000000; opacity: 1;] she's got a body just like an hourglass but i'm taking my time i wanna be the sand inside that hourglass take it slow-oh-oh gonna make it last This must be what it feels like to be a Tribute from District Four. I've never seen the ocean or its mammoth waves that could swallow a person without even knowing anyone was there, but I'm certainly drowning in fabric. Every day it seems Katric finds more and more layers to burden me with. Tunics, pants, skirts... she even attempted to put me in a floor length dress for my interview, before the rest of the team made her see sense about the idea of putting a contortionist in something so constricting. In District Two I rarely wore anything more than corsets and stockings, performance attire that left my limbs unbound, and often much less. It is only my devotion to these Games that keeps me from howling like a banshee any time my stylist steps into the room; a performer is always conscious of the importance of appearances, even when such things are nothing other than a necessary evil. However, I am the perpetual Victor and freedom is always mine in the end. The door to our District suite hasn't even closed behind me and I'm already pulling the long-sleeved shirt of my misery up and over my head. A body with a lesser obsession with movement might be accused of attempting to claw the fabric off in this situation, but even in my borderline-desperation to be unhindered I am still fluid grace incarnate. I can't help the way each step flows into the next as if all of this were simply part of The Infinite Performance Of Cricket Antoinette. It is. After all these years, I don't remember how to stop. Every breath is a stage cue and the curtain never falls so long as my lungs are still urging me on and on and on — Fabric twists against my grasp like a greedy lecher, clinging and grabbing until I've tossed it across the room, as far from me as I can manage. I only realize Cassius is there after the offending shirt has landed at his feet, but I just grin wildly at him, reveling in my small accomplishment. Releasing the button of my pants with the most casual flick of my fingers, there is a faraway moment of objection within my second-heart. (Who knew tattoos had souls of their own with ratcheting pulses that say: I dislike something about this.) My recognition for the sensation is fleeting in comparison with the urge to free myself from my threaded shackles and so I don't stutter for even an instant as I begin shimmying the fabric down my hips, each sway bringing me one step closer to salvation.

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