ask yourself {patricia/diamond}

[rook]

♕ { p a t r i c i a v a l f i e r n o} ♕
victor of the 68th annual hunger games

make me home
we are these walls
this would be a pure disaster
life spent on the surface for you

My artificial left thumb trails over to my right palm and gently presses against the dry, coarse skin. The tendons in my hand are sore, having tightly gripped weapons of war for hour after precious hour. I stand six-foot-dead on my feet, in the middle of the Career academy, feeling ten times heavier than I actually am. The naive flock of teenagers disperse, and go back to whatever it was they were doing before I arrived, because I am an exhausted resource now. I have told them everything I know, and then more on top of that. I have told them lies about the Hunger Games, and techniques I didn't even know existed, because that's what the powers above feed me. Chewed up propaganda to spit at these kids.

When I won, they thought that they had a rebel Victor on their hands, despite me never having any intentions to insult or damage the Capitol. I never wanted that, because from the start I've had too much to lose, even if too much is one person, and that one person is my little sister. She is my everything, and I have to keep telling myself at every stage of this vile process.

Just another week and I can go home for a year. Everyone has a weak spot, some kind of leverage that can be used against me, and 99% of the time, it's family. The Capitol have known that, and used that to make me the obedient little Victor they wanted. In fact, they have me wrapped so tightly around their pig fingers that they can even make me dance. They have decided to send me out to Districts One, Two, and Four every year, to give a seminar and demonstration to the up-and-coming Careers.

Shivers still run up and down my spine every time I think of that phone ringing, and President Snow's cold voice seeping through the speaker. The President himself rang me, and whispered into my ear that I would do everything he asked of me, or he would pluck Rose from my life. The threat holds weight, and it always will, until the day I die. I'm their puppet, and so I'm stuck doing seminars, not because these Careers need it, but because the Capitol want to punish and humiliate me for my actions.

They want to put me in my place, and that place is a million miles from my comfort zone.

My limbs are sore, and my upper back feels like it's crushing my lower back, compressing in on itself. I stretch out, breathing so deeply that my mouth retracts into a heavy yawn. My eyes relapse over in fatigue, and glance around the room, hoping that no one sees how normal I am. Pale blue light paints the room in a too-bright morning light, so stark that I grunt and shield my eyes as I reach for my kit bag. I'm wearing sneakers and skin-tight nylon leggings that make me look incredibly stupid, but oddly in-place with the Careers here, so I don't mind, I can blend in easier. I wear an overly-feminine pink crop top, picked out by my idiotic stylists. It's something Lethe would wear - The thought of that is enough to make me light-headed, so I swig at my water bottle and wait for the room to empty-out.

"Thanks for today, Patricia," The instructor places a hand on my shoulder, and I shrink slightly, eyes dropping to my feet, "I think they really learned a lot from you."
His voice is sharp, and his features very delicate. I have no doubts that this slender, yet robust man was once a Career himself, but now acts as a link between the Capitol and me. They didn't learn anything from me, because all I did was memorise the facts and statistics that I had been given to read out, all the while grimacing at the thought that I was brainwashing those kids into thinking the Hunger Games were just that - A game. I wanted nothing more than to tell them the truth about it all, how the whole Career mentality is fucked, and that the only way to survive isn't to overcome fear, but to use fear. Fear keeps you alive. Fear keeps you fighting.

I tell myself that every night, when images of Pearl's illuminated green face flashes on the cave walls of my mind. I preach to myself, try to justify it all to myself, because if I don't, then I'll end up crying myself into a broken sleep, shaking violently, wanting nothing more than for someone to take me in their arms and tell me that it's ok to do the things I did. Had Pearl not embraced me that night in the caves, and told me the things she did, I doubt I could have carried on. I doubt I would have kept it all together, because I am terracotta that is badly glued together. I am nothing but shards.

Doing the physical demonstrations was traumatic. Having to try and compete with actual Careers, in a safe environment, with no danger - There's just no drive for me. And when you have the physical scars that I do - Bad back, artificial hand, weak lung, fragile chest - Not to mention the psychological damage too, is it any wonder that every single one of them wiped the floor with me? It was humiliating, and painful. The way they queued up with smiles on their face, waiting their turn to beat a Victor.

The question and answer session was particularly difficult, because I had to lie for a lot of it. I had to tell them that I didn't hesitate to kill Cha Leviane, even though I refused to kill her less than a day beforehand. I had to explain that my ruthlessness was what made me a winner, when really it was simply reckless abandon. Lie after lie, awkward pauses, and avoiding the question. What was your favorite kill? Killing Galaxy, because it brought glory to my District. Who was your toughest enemy? The Careers were by far the hardest to kill. What weapon worked best for you? A sword is very useful in the right hands. Who did you hate the most? Anyone who stood in my way. Why did you leave Pearl? Because I wanted to win, and allies hold you back. Lie. Lie. Lie.

When really, when really, because it meant I could go home, the Careers were the weakest of the bunch, any weapon works, I hate myself the most, and because I loved her.

But I can't speak my mind. I can never, ever speak my mind again. I'm a drone now, nothing more. That's the cost of winning the Games, and whilst I hate it, it's worth it. It's worth it to keep on living, and seeing my sister grow up.

"Thank you, sir." I mutter, zipping up my kit bag and swinging it over my shoulder. The glint in his eye in unnerving, and so I press past him without giving him any leeway to engage me in conversation, or something more than that. I stride through the hall, towards the massive glass doors that cage me. With all the lies, and the false words, the weight of what I did little over a year ago presses against my chest, like I'm lying face down on a bed of needles. Anxiety grips me, and it won't let go. I start to think that maybe it's a cage I deserve.

i need the waves
the deep escape
i need the waves
the deep, deep, deep, deep

word count: 1255, graphics: rook
theme: the deep by data romance

[Python]

Diamond Millison

There were some things in life a girl couldn’t miss, and Patricia Valfierno holding a training seminar at the career center was one of them. Oddly enough, she hadn’t heard the news from the head instructor – she heard it at a party instead, ankles deep in a drunken stupor when one of the Frays found her arm and pulled her ear to his mouth. Diamond Millison wasn’t fool enough to fall prey to a family name so irresponsibly, but she was considerate enough to humor him with chit-chat. He casually mentioned the heavily anticipated arrival of the 68th Victor, and it came as a surprise. Either her mother wasn’t brushed up on the latest celebrity news, or she had neglected to inform her. Not surprising, considering how Diamond had acted during the dinner last year.

The morning of said seminar, Diamond stirred late out of her bed with no intention to take any of it seriously. What did they expect Patricia to offer? Advice? There was nothing a career in One hadn’t heard before. Patricia's fighting skills were limited to what she had learned in the Capitol and the arena. Diamond didn’t expect much from the seminar itself, but she wanted to attend for Patricia’s sake. She wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to meet her again. They weren’t old friends, exactly. Not even acquaintances. Regardless, it was imperative to see her again. Ignoring that aspect of Pearl’s life wouldn’t be honoring her death or respecting her properly.

She slipped into her black spandex, thick and sweat-absorbent. She had no plans to actually participate, so adding that little touch of mascara and lip gloss was harmless. Hair tied back, she bounced downstairs and found an empty house. She knew her mother was probably busy with the company, perhaps too busy to invite Patricia to dinner if it was possible. She shrugged; the two of them would communicate better without her overbearing presence anyway, and she would rather speak to Patricia as equals. Career or not, the redhead was on par with all of District One. She didn’t need the physical expertise to prove it.

When a curious crowd gathered in the center, Diamond huddled near the back, blending in with the many muscular careers and their stretchy outfits. Patricia was dressed in unfitting, blinding colors that made Diamond question her stylists’ choices, although her mother would probably have a giddy field day about it. There was a Q&A portion of the seminar, ridiculous and obviously scripted. She wondered if anybody bought into it. Galaxy’s death bringing glory to her District? There was no glory in the lower Districts, her mother had told her that long ago. Concepts of pride and championship were limited to One, Two, and Four. That’s why those tributes received particularly high PTS scores so often.

”Why did you leave Pearl?”

Another generic answer. Idiot, she thought, of course she isn’t going to tell us the truth. That was what they wanted to hear – that allies hold somebody back, and therefore were disposable. They wanted confirmation for everything they had been taught in the past. It was partially true; allies could be disposable, but that wasn’t how Pearl and Patricia’s relationship played out. Diamond had witnessed first-hand the genuine feelings welled up inside her. The word “ally” didn’t even apply. They were best friends.

A few bodies shifted in her direction, acknowledging her presence at the mention of her younger sister. Diamond ignored them. There was no reason to draw an audience when Patricia had taken the stage. There would inevitably be a physical demonstration after this, perhaps utilizing dummies or volunteers. Diamond sat out of it, favoring the benches instead. Watching Patricia getting knocked onto her ass time after time was neither a lesson nor an entertainment. It was pointless, a waste of a career’s time and of Patricia’s body. Whoever had arranged this seminar was either completely out of their mind with confidence, or they wanted the careers to revel in her humiliation. It was stupid either way. Everybody here knew Patricia was just a girl from Five. The ones who stole the chance to knock her down were simply amused by their own easy victory. As she suspected, nobody was learning any valuable skills.

Diamond made it apparent to the lingering stragglers that she had no interest in conversation. Her eyes were instead glued to the instructor and his special guest. She stood up and stretched until they separated, then intercepted Patricia before she could escape through the door. ”I’m glad you were able to share your wisdom with us,” she said, donning a sarcastic grin, ”I sure learned a lot.”

[rook]

♕ { p a t r i c i a v a l f i e r n o} ♕
victor of the 68th annual hunger games

it's like a bad dream
something from the back of a magazine;
black and white and cheaply put together like a slasher film
i'm torn in opposite directions
the plot sucks but these killings are gorgeous

"I'm glad you were able to share your wisdom with us." Comes a familar voice, and I turn my head to see Diamond Millison at my side. The unnverving grip of the Career trainer's gaze fades away, because for the first time in what seems like months, I see someone who I actually consider a friend.
"I sure learned a lot." She says with no lack of sarcasm. I smile warmly. It's nice to have someone make fun of me, and this whole situation. I haven't had someone make fun of me since before. I know she's only teasing to cheer me up, and so I play along. She knows how ridiculous it is that I have to travel here every year to give the same dumb lecture. It's not even a lecture, so much as a meet-and-greet, then sign autographs, then get my ass kicked. And why? Because I was a rebel, and this is my punishment.

"Oh, good." I say, pushing the glass door open for her, and following Victor's daughter outside into the nine-in-the-morning sunshine. The light is stark and harsh, but I welcome it. The sun's long fingers pry open my tired eyes, whilst the fresh air fills my lungs with some vague sense of purpose.
"I was beginning to think it was all for nothing, but if you learned something then I'm glad I came." I smirk, my pale skin soaks in the gentle sun. District One is busy as always, with smartly dressed civilians darting past at right-angles. There is a sweet scent in the air, almost sickly, I expect artificial. It's like a toned-down version of the Capitol, and the caricaturistic people that pass by me make me both want to laugh and be sick at the same time. Peacekeepers are dotted on corners like toadstools, static but alive, some glancing in my direction with a finger pressed to where their ear should be. I'm constantly being watched, but that's something that I've gotten used to this past year. It's not going to go away, so I have to live with it as best I can.

People play this card in the Games, and it makes me angry. It's the "better to die as who I am, than to live as someone I'm not" card. It's bullshit. Dying is only better than one thing, and that's if you're suffering so badly that you need to be put out of your misery. Am I miserable? Yes, but not in the sense that I need someone to put a bullet through my head. I'm alive, and not just for me, but for my sister too. It is far better to live as someone you're not, to keep the people you love safe, than to die because you're too fucking stubborn to adapt to the world.

Galaxy said I was selfish, but Galaxy was a fucking idiot. If I'm selfish for having the emotional and physical strength to survive the Hunger Games, not for me, but for my sister, then what does that make the rest of the world? Galaxy split open my chest and poured a thousand truths into me, she told me that I thought everything was about me. What the fuck did Galaxy know about me? Nothing. She only knew my name and my District. In the arena I was selfish, sure, that's why I won. Sheer selfishness. Maybe that's why Pearl's dead. And yet I have the nerve to look her sister in the eye and smile.

The stone pavement is almost white in the sunlight, the color of marrow. I tread across my empire of bones, eyes glued to my shoes. My chest hurts with every step I take. Usually it's okay, but after taking a few bumps in the performance center, I'm starting to feel my body a bit more. My sternum feels like it's got something wedged in it, whilst the end of my right arm is sore, where the stump meets animatronic substitute. These scars are the only friends I have now. Scars and Diamond.

My eyes trail to her attire. I've seen her dressed in her finest evening dress, when the Millison's hosted me during my Victory Tour. I've never seen her dressed to kill. She is more curvy than I remember, and more sleek, like a dagger. She is aerodynamic, and streamlined to cut someone's throat. It makes me want to laugh. Careers plan everything down to the most minute detail, so that every decimal point is in their favour, but it all goes out the window when that gong sounds. There are no statistics, odds, or gameplans, only fear, desperation, and instinct.

I know that Diamond isn't like other Careers. She's honest, and genuine. I feel like she only goes along with it because it's what her mother wants, and maybe she wants to please her mother more now that Pearl is gone. Pearl never liked any of it, she was very much forced to be a Career. She said that Diamond was more dedicated, and focused. It was like Diamond was a real Career, and Pearl was pretending. I'm not so sure anymore. Maybe she's been doing it for so long that she no longer knows if it's what she wants or not. How the hell should I know? I barely know the girl. Barely. I clench my jaw.

Bottom line is, most Careers think they know everything there is to know about murder, but the Games is so much more than murder. Diamond is modest. She knows the score. I respect her immensely, and I can see the good beneath her wry smile and ever-thinking eyes.

Last time we met, Diamond gave me a painting of Pearl's. It was one of the last things she ever painted before she was Reaped. An eye, and in the black infinity of the pupil was the reflection of a blade. It's ambigious, as all art is supposed to be. The idea is that the eye is clearly terrified, but the person holding the sword is unknown. It's either someone else trying to kill the person, or the person themselves who's doing the killing. Either way, the person is afraid, and that's the message behind the piece. I think what Diamond wanted me to know by letting me have the painting was that she knew how afraid I was.

Well she doesn't. She wasn't there. She can understand how afraid I was, but she can never know. Not until she's been there herself, and I pray to Ripred that day never comes.

I have a few hours to myself. My representatives have been giving me more and more leeway, and whilst it still isn't a great deal, there are periods where I am allowed to go and do as I please, unattended, for a short while. I've earned that trust, and they know that I'd be stupid to betray that trust. They know that I don't want to go back to how it was on my Victory tour. No sleep, no rest, I couldn't even pee unattended. It's not right that I have to be monitored at all, but I think that the freedom I have now, whilst still not a lot, is a damn-sight better than none at all.

And so, with the luxury of a few hours in District One, and probably the best companion for my visit at my side, I actually smile.
"So, Brunch?" I ask, shoving my hands in my pockets, "You're paying. I'm broke." I joke.
I have more money than I could ever spend, but it's nice to maintain the poverty-striken reputation of a District Five girl. Never forget your roots.

the creepy crawlies, a case of revenge
i had the martyrs that i bartered from the barons to the bandoleers
karaoke, a feminine flaw
i had a feeling this was not the end

word count: 1273, graphics: rook
theme: pulp fiction by motion city soundtrack

[Python]

D i a m o n d

Her sarcasm was welcomed. There was a mutual understanding that this idea of “teaching” careers should be ridiculed, because everybody learned so much from this experience. The thought, again, made her eyes roll. If anyone should be hired to give out free lectures, it should be the actual career district victors. Where was Opal and Peridot during this demonstration? Why couldn’t Cricket or Julian grace them with their glorious presence, and perhaps pass on their wisdom and skill? What about Leon? There were sure to be boys and girls swooning over his golden lion’s mane, if all else failed. Of all the potential teachers, why Patricia? The rebellious red head?

The more she contemplated, the more she felt a lingering tightness in her gut, a taut wire strung from heart to stomach. There was something wrong with this. Not morally, but logically. It didn’t make sense to send Patricia here. There were better resources, better qualified victors. The rationale was skewed. She considered asking Patricia about it, about who funded the idea and what their reasoning was. Then they stepped out into the morning sunshine, the heat warming their cheeks, and Diamond suddenly felt misplaced. In her own District, she could not possibly be the odd one out. Her eyes wandered across sidewalks until she found them; Peacekeepers stationed too close together in a higher number than usual, fingers pressed to devices in their ears.

Diamond couldn’t help the smirk that appeared a moment later. She was the odd one out, because she had a Victor glued to her side. ”So, Brunch?” Patricia asked, splitting her concentration in two. "You're paying. I'm broke.”

She laughed, not because the joke was funny, but because she normally didn’t feel so publicized. Irony was a killer of humors. She was a victor’s daughter, yet the moment she found herself arm’s length away from a completely different one there was a sudden peak in interest. Eyes roamed over her like she was a statue. Most citizens were used to seeing famous faces pass by, but this was something different entirely.

”Brunch is good, but only if I get to choose.” She finally looked at her again. A year’s work could end in wonders; she was completely different in the way she carried herself, radiating brilliance instead of dimness, like the moon vanishing to make room for the sun. She wasn’t all dolled up like the last time they had met, nor was she flaunting fake smiles to hide a type of pain that couldn’t be hidden so soon after a Games. She didn’t doubt Patricia as a genuine person; the tears that had flowed during their last visit were telling enough. But this was a smile, it was a warm kind of genuine. ”I hope soup and sandwiches isn’t too “low class” for your tastes,” she added. She wasn’t in the mood for any gourmet shit.

Despite the watchful eyes, she felt relaxed. Today’s morning heat was a massage instead of a burn, and she would be taking Patricia to her favorite corner café. Making the best of a rocky start, her mother would say. Whatever. She was pretty sure any restaurant would be better than the training center. It had become a dull aspect of Diamond’s life, colors fading to grey because she was blinded with boredom. Nothing in the center ever changed. In fact, today’s seminar was the most riveting event that would happen all year.

Thankfully, the past was the past. She was now beyond her final Reaping, and therefore free from the responsibility. Now there was the matter of figuring out what else to do with her life. There were still expectations since she was the daughter of a victor, now “retried” from being a potential tribute. One option was becoming a trainer. She would rather be Reaped than spend the rest of her life in the training center, so that was the first idea she struck out. Another was inheriting the family jewelry business. She still didn’t know how she felt about that one.

Enough about the future. The future would be boring compared to today. ”You have a lot of eyes on you,” she muttered, still smiling about the white uniforms stationed at every corner. They were hardly conspicuous, and would probably follow the pair like paparazzi without cameras. ”Do they think you’re going to commit a crime?”

Not that Distirct One was notorious for crime or anything.

[rook]

{ p a t r i c i a v a l f i e r n o}
victor of the 68th annual hunger games

god i'm scared to think back
about everything that has come before me
our time and future histories
my I've wandered this library for years now
killing time whilst time slowly killed me

The Peacekeeper presence isn't so much unnerving as it is irritating. I've earned this much free rein, and there's no reason why I can't prove to them that I deserve even more, but still I feel like I'm seen as the anti-Capitol rebel that I exercised in the Arena. They have to understand that I was only trying to escape that cave because I couldn't see any other way forward. I didn't think I was a fighter at that point. I didn't genuinely believe I could keep on killing, and killing, and killing. Getting out of that cave was a priority, but once I realized what I was, and what I was capable of, I stopped.

They have to know that. How long will I be a rebel in their eyes? They know that they have me in a vice, with my sister's life being threatened. Just thinking about that makes me angry. My stomach boils sour every time I think of that fucking white rose on her bed. How fucking dare they bring her into this? Of course, they can't just kill me now that I'm a public icon, at least not straight away. They have to bleed me dry, and that starts by targeting my weak points. When I look at the Peacekeepers situated on each street corner, a horrible dread fills me as I realize that they're speaking into microphones and telling someone who it is that I'm spending my spare time with. I avoid Diamond's gaze. If this continues, she'll be leverage against me too.

Leverage, leverage, leverage. There's nothing you can do to fight it, not unless you want to lose everything. I have to keep being someone that I am not, to keep them safe. I have to be the good, well-mannered, temperate Patricia, and not the aggressive, quick-tempered, intolerant person I know I am. Maybe that's why Peridot has no friends. Maybe he reached a point where he realized that when you become immortal, you have to watch everyone around you slowly die. I am untouchable, but everything I know and love is very much fragile.

"Brunch is good, but only if I get to choose." Diamond demands, and who am I to refuse her that? I don't know this District. I've only been here on my Victory Tour, when Cricket threw knives at me and Diamond gave me the painting. It wasn't until later that I met Peridot and Opal, and I'm yet to meet Julian. Those Victors think they're above me, part of some exclusive group of Victor friends, and I'm on the outside with the likes of Katelyn and Leon. Regardless, I'm sure Diamond's choice of ambience will be more tolerable than the hell of that stainless steel Training Center.

"I hope soup and sandwiches isn’t too “low class” for your tastes." She jokes, and I smile. I think back to the days where I would go nearly a week without eating anything substancial, trading drugs for food with strangers on the street. Those were rough days, back when I was nothing more than a petty criminal. Trix n' Ruze, the original double act. The thought of that brings a smile back to my face. Oh how we owned those streets, in an underhand sort of way. We dodged gangs of drug runners and Peacekeeper patrols, hacking what we could, scamming who we could. Things were more simple then. Dangerous, yes, but not on the same level as the game I'm playing now.

We press onwards down the street. The white lines of Peacekeepers don't let up as we venture further down the chrome boulevard, in fact, they seem to thicken the further we delve into town.

"You have a lot of eyes on you," Diamond observes, and my eyes flicker and rest on hers. I smile. It's something I'm used to now, but with her being the daughter of a Victor, I would have thought that she would be used to this kind of security. I guess not - Ruby is a different class of Victor, one who openly supports the Capitol. I'm not on good terms, and maybe they expect me to cause trouble. I almost smirk. Surely they don't need this much security when they have so much leverage on me back at home? Maybe it's for my protection.
"Do they think you're going to commit a crime?" She says.

You know how they say that the light from the stars takes thousands of years to reach the earth? Well, that's how I feel when Diamond asks me the question. Her words take so long to register, because I'm so distracted by her mouth twitching or where her eyes are looking. It takes a good few seconds for the weight of the words to press into my mind, and I blink. She's at risk. Being with her now, being seen as her friend with all these Peacekeepers around us puts her in more danger than she's ever been in. I swallow hard. I can't let her get caught up in this game.

And yet some fucked-up part of me wants her to be.

"I don't have the best track record with the Capitol," I admit to her, walking at a slightly quicker pace, "But I'm trying to work on it."
If they had it their way, I'd be dead. I don't want her to worry. She doesn't need to know about the white rose on my sister's bed, or how they practically starved me on my Victory Tour. It's bad enough she knows about the humiliating Career seminars, where I get my ass kicked by a long line of brainwashed teenagers. I try to hide the pain in my eyes, smiling and basking in the morning sun.

I realize just how hungry I am as the soft smells of different delicatessens waft in the hot breeze. My stomach growls aggressively, and I sigh.
"Where's this sandwich store, then?" I ask with a hunger induced edge to my velvet voice.

but i know
time, time is precious
and time will forget us
and time, time is precious
and time will forget us

word count: 997, graphics: rook
theme: books by tall ships

[Python]

D i a m o n d

She thought of her own mother’s notorious name, and imagined how glamorous it must’ve been for her in the Capitol all these years. When a fresh victor from One rose from the ashes of fallen names, the country erupted in uproar – at least that was how the Capitol portrayed it. Somehow they were the favorites. There was a lacking in equality, and she could sense it during each Victory Tour. Some were stiffer than others, some completely lacking an interested audience. Patricia’s was respectable. Leon’s was a close second. Colgate’s was a bore, with half the audience yawning and wishing they could make up for wasted time. The lower the district, the bigger the disappointment.

Her mother’s track record seemed spotless. Compared to Patricia’s, it was a polished porcelain statue, and most of it was probably due to bias. The generation change was another factor. Older victors were older news, but respect swelled with every birthday. Whether or not people still whispered about Ruby Millison’s infamous betrayals, she was a lasting idol. She had all of the perks, all of the everlasting riches and glory. Glancing at the masked faces of the white-uniformed soldiers, Diamond couldn’t help but ponder the unfairness of this situation. Her mother’s fame had come without the suspicious security measures. What had Patricia done to leave a smudge in her track record?

It would be nosey to ask, but she knew the more illegal it was, the more she would admire it. Fuck it, honestly. District One was ridden with crime ranging from petty theft, graffiti, and illegal drug marketing to murder, kidnappings, and gang activity. Nothing Patricia did would be unheard of. Frankly, she didn’t care. Crime lurked around every corner, and worrying about it was too exhausting. Privilege at its best kept her far away from any dangers. Rob or harm the daughter of a victor, you might as well vanish. Another documented “missing persons” case, because the Peacekeepers would take that name off the record and wipe their asses with it. The DC or the graveyard would be the final destination.

It was a nice perk of overflowing fame. She could keep her name out of radar, do what she wanted, yet remain untouchable. Pearl could’ve enjoyed those same blessings, had her name not been the one weakness to be exploited before she was nineteen.

”Sounds serious,” she muttered, only half-sincere. She couldn’t take Peacekeepers seriously if they were hired to stalk a victor who could barely scratch a career. The Capitol itself was even less of a threat, but only on the surface. Most of its components were barred behind the camera lens. There was so much of it she would never see, and so much of it her mom was probably blind to.

They rounded and corner and a neon sign landmarked their destination. ”It’s right here.” She pushed through the door and bypassed the stunned waiter, not so intent on waiting for his star-struck trance to pass. She knew the drill anyway, and slipped into one of the booths. Menus were present, but Diamond was a frequent. She always knew what she wanted.

”So, is this the part where we reveal all of our secrets to each other?” She smirked and propped her elbows on the table, intent on a light-hearted conversation. Their first time meeting had been for the sake of accepting Pearl’s demise and passing on memoirs. Today, there was no room in her schedule for stress or tears. She had nothing but good news.; life was average and Pearl’s dream was alive, the art gallery having finally been modeled, built, and opened for viewing. Maybe Diamond would take her there, if she was up for the history. After all, forgetting the past was never an option in this day and age.

[rook]

♕ { p a t r i c i a v a l f i e r n o} ♕
victor of the 68th annual hunger games

are you insane like me? been in pain like me?
bought a hundred dollar bottle of champagne like me?
just to pour that motherfucker down the drain like me?
would you use your water bill to dry the stain like me?

The sky is a colossus. Clouds trip and stumble over the rolling hills, before rising up above the town below. The sky haunts me. Every time I look up, I have to clench my teeth to stay composed. It's not the sky, it's that I can see the sky. It's that I am able to see the sky. It's that I was thrown down in a cave, deep, deep underground and left to die, left to be stabbed and cut and bled to death under a hundred-thousand tons of cold rock and stone. Buried in a tomb, where the sky was nothing but a dream.

But I got to see the sky again, where twenty-three others didn't. I climbed out of that tomb, stained in blood, fresh and raw, like a piece of meat. Eyes yellow, skin pale. I was barely human, but I was alive. Now when I look at the sky it blinds me. It blinds me with searing pain because it's my reward, the reward I got for killing and slaughtering. And it's not that I feel guilty, because I don't, it's that it makes me angry. I never asked for this, but here I am, queen of decay and desolation, standing on top a mountain of rubble.

Two years ago I was screaming until my throat was raw, plunging a sword deep into the chest of Crusader Rhodes, watching the behemoth drop to his knees. I screamed again as I kicked his body into the pool of mercury and watched him drown in blood and chemicals. Now I'm sat ordering coffee. I'm not pale-skinned or yellow-eyed, my hair isn't straw and my pores aren't drenched in the blood of other people. I've been cleansed, and pampered, and dressed nice, and been set on my way. The Capitol can continue to dress me up to be something new and dainty, but underneath it all I'm a killer, and I always will be. They wanted to put me in the Games and change me, make me something horrible, and that's what they got. They can't then decide to make me all innocent again.

The anger boils inside me, and it makes me sweat in the middle of the sandwich shop. The starch-heavy scent of fresh bread floats in from the kitchen, which makes my stomach turn. My appetite is polluted by anxiety-driven thoughts. I lean back in my chair, folding my arms over my hideous pink crop-top.

"So, is this the part where we reveal all of our secrets to each other?" She smirks and leans forwards on her elbows. She has nice arms. My eyes trail out the window at the busy District, and the Peacekeeper presence which now stands on post outside the store, refusing anyone else entry inside. I would have told Pearl all my secrets. It's weird, when you're thrown into the incomparable situation of the Hunger Games, and told to kill everyone else, that you console in others. Pearl could have easily killed me, and likewise I could have killed her, but we needed each other. We needed to stay sane if one of us was going to survive. I mean it when I say that I have no regrets about killing any of the people I did, and that I would have killed any of them. But Pearl? I don't know. I needed her, and she needed me. I don't know what would have happened if it was the two of us left. Part of me is thankful that I don't need that question answered, but another part of me needs to know.

Diamond already knows a lot about me. I cried my eyes out to her over a year ago, blabbed all my feelings in a typically un-Patricia turn of character. Tch. You can only stay so strong for so long, right?

I'm not as fragile now.

"Secrets? What secrets?" I smile, eyes lingering on hers, "Haven't you heard? My life story is all over television."
The story of Patricia Valfierno, the girl from Five who was a star pupil, an expert in computational studies. Such promise. Loving family, caring group of friends. What a tragedy it was for her to lose all of that when she was Reaped.

What utter horse-shit.

Never had parents, never had friends, never even had a fucking house. The lies they feed this nation. I was a criminal, who hacked computers and extracted money so that Rose and I could afford to eat and survive. I was a scavenger, a rat, nothing but vermin. I was tossed into the fire and expected to survive, but I've been surviving all my life. Surviving is what I am. They paint me as something so different that it makes me angry every time I see myself on a screen.

"Why? Do you have something to tell me?" I ask her with a slight edge.

are you high enough without the mary jane like me?
do you tear yourself apart to entertain like me?
do the people whisper ‘bout you on the train like me?
saying that you shouldn't waste your pretty face like me?

word count: 815, graphics: rook
theme: gasoline by halsey

[Python]

D i a m o n d

White lies were extinct. The Capitol had a lie for every color in the spectrum – black for the toxic, the ones concealing death and suffering in favor of sharing the glamour of victor life. Nobody would understand that a champion’s life was not perfect until they faced death themselves, directly or indirectly. Diamond hadn’t counted on joining the less ignorant population, but Pearl’s death was an eye-opener. The Games weren’t a sport or a drama. Inside of that cave, her sister never saw sunlight again. She cried, killed, screamed, mourned, and suffered in that place. Now the Capitol preached about how interesting and fabulous Patricia’s life was after the “loss.” It was a goddamn joke. With the Peacekeepers stationed at every corner, not even half of it was true.

She could think of a million other lies the Capitol had fed to her family. Red, sexy lies about scandals that never happened. Blue lies that painted the TV screens with fabricated sorrow about the “tragic loss of so-and-so,” before transitioning to a crowd of cheering capitolites, who clearly didn’t give a shit about whatever that tragedy was. The wreckage left behind never made it to the screens. Her interview about Pearl’s death was painfully superficial. They emphasized her words and emotions, but nobody knew about the silent nights, the awkward Ratmas, the ghost sitting at their breakfast table, the endless stream of memories and regrets. Their audience would feel a mild tug at their heartstrings, then propel through their meaningless lives without a second thought.

”Why? Do you have something to tell me?" she nudged, tone sharpened by the edge of a razor as if driven by a hunch. She debated mentioning the gallery; it was either too soon or it wasn’t, and either Patricia would visit or she wouldn’t. It wasn’t a matter of complicated deliberation, and no matter what the outcome, Diamond wouldn’t hold it against her. ”Not anything juicy,” she replied offhandedly, eyeing the waiter as he paused at their booth. She ordered her usual entrée with lemonade. She had a dozen secrets at her disposable, nights of ecstasy and sin that would horrify her mother and her entourage, but they weren’t relevant. She was certain Patricia had dark secrets of her own. All were best kept behind closed doors with locks and chains on the handle.

”Pearl’s dream was to open her own art gallery,” she continued, voice hardly an octave above the background buzz of voices and clinking silverware. At most it was an exaggerated fantasy, yet Pearl often forgot that their family had the resources to make it possible. It was her insecurities hindering her from the pursuit. She was never “good enough” for her own standards, even when art was her most unmistakable forte. With such split competition and a tyrant mother’s approval on the line, it wasn’t a wonder that Pearl’s self-esteem made a steady decline. Diamond had to constantly reassure her that the pieces were impressive and worthwhile. Nobody could be completely useless.

”I don’t know if it’s a good idea to bring it up now, but I am.” She sipped her lemonade upon the waiter’s return. Too sweet, but she was in no mood to nitpick. ”I decided to open one myself, since she isn’t here to do it.” She probably never would, she realized, but decided to leave it out of the conversation. This gallery was supposed to honor her dream and her memory, not defy an alternate reality. It was popular anyhow – probably because of her status as a tribute, but she liked to comfort herself with the idea that maybe people returned because they actually admired the artwork.

”I can take you to see it, if you want.”