three strikes, you're out [stylists]

[brad bradford ★ d5b [arx]]

I was brought up as a southern belle;
I   grew   into   the   queen   of   Hell.

I grab my bat from behind the bar and charge in with a few curses and a raised voice—"No fighting in my bar, jerk-offs!"—shoving the two drunken men towards the door. They don't separate, instead only knocking over another table and breaking a few more glasses. Fuckers are lucky I just got a raise and I'm in a good mood; I'll only hit them once.

I crack the bat across one guys ass. He yelps and turns on me with an enraged, drunken glare. I just shove the tip of my bat into his chest and glare back, pushing him toward the door. He shoves the bat away, looks at the guy who gave him a broken nose and starts to speak, but I'd rather not have this all start up again.

"OUT! BOTH OF YOU!"

They move slowly, cursing at me as they go. Ties straightened, hair brushed back, and if it weren't for all the blood dripping from their noses and lips, they'd look like they just came from a fancy business meeting. It's always the white-collar assholes who come in here and stir up the most trouble, griping about money. And it's always this time of year—when they've lost all their money because someone from a lower district beat out the Career.

My regulars laugh at the bar as broken glass crunches beneath my feet. They've already flipped the tables upright again, swept the glass beneath the pool table with their boots, and sit poised and ready for another round. Any chance they get to see me kick some money-grubbing asshole out of the bar is a good day in their books.

I'm not one for smiling, but I throw a smirk in their direction as I make my way around the bar. The past few days have been too good for me to stay mad.

I didn't think I'd ever see a victor from District 8 in my lifetime, let alone be the one to design her outfits. And I certainly never thought I'd get the chance to travel outside the Capitol. I'd heard stories from my father, but over the years I'd started to discredit most everything he said.

Especially now that I'm slowly gaining praise for my work—all that useless criticism he'd thrown at me when I was young was a lie. People liked what I did; he was simply jealous. And now that he's been fired, I'm sure of it.

My smile grows at the thought of it—someone younger, newer, better—replacing him. It's the only thing that could've topped Shelby Leviane winning the quell.

"Behave yourselves," I look up and down the bar, the grizzly looking men and women I've come to know as family raising their glasses as a sort of answer. "Seriously, don't make me have to use my bat."

I've never really cared what anyone else thought of me. I've never really cared for the high fashion that most stylists for the upper districts presented. And I've never needed approval from anyone to keep doing and creating and stitching the things I loved. I don't care if they hate how tattooed my skin is and I don't care if they think this bar smells too much of smoke or cheap beer. If no one shows, I'll know none of them are worth befriending anyway.

Friends have never been my forte. But the younger the stylists get, the more I feel like I can relate. They're getting more and more original, more talented, smarter, prettier, and in truth—I just want to keep up.

ADESSIA SILVESTER

[Deleted]

S A R D O N Y X .

"Hello-?"

Crowe's don't leave any stone unturned, Sampson and myself, he continues on his own path; I couldn't be prouder of my starlight son. A smile of my own on him, a star smile and I love myself through him in every way I can - in every way a grieving mother can. "Drius, baby-" my finger twirling in a phone cable wire, the stone on my thumb flickering in my eye, "are we getting old?"

Isn't that such a silly thing? Being scared of being? What a frightening thing. 

I've always thought I managed to make the world spin on its sides, Daman clasping his palm in mine, slow dancing in the residential hall - I always dreamed my son strong. Never did I picture where I would be. And that's part of the fear, isn't it little girl? Damandrius's deep voice on the other end of the line, a night away and it's ridiculous to believe love can come this late. "Onyx," he says, warm, my hand placed against a matte lip. "What's the point of fearing it?" 

And I didn't hesitate, passion on my lips. Not in that sense, not in the ever climbing business or my own personal endeavors - I drape my body, midnight gown and black feathers. I cannot be scared- I have nothing, and I can no longer wait for the moon to whisper the answers I already know. I stare at my mirror wall, a mother staring back at me, the door to my left, my chambers to my right; I can not hide any more. 

It's haunting in my moonlit steps - behind shades, behind hats, behind guilt- I'm being over dramatic, I know it through heavy pounding of my veins. Fast walking through the capitol square's in heels, keeping my eyes down past Petelia Quartz and her prying lions; I'm cheating my son out of happiness. Damandrius is wasting his time with me, I wasted the time I was given, I know this now, my heart pounding in sync with stiletto stomps-

"Hello-?" I just need a friend.

The bar door swinging behind me, the smell of alcohol and smirnoff in my nostrils - oh no. Oh no maybe I've made a mistake. I blush, feather coat up to my cheeks, I don't drink- Adessia is here, she's young, younger than I am. Is that bad? I keep my head buried, dear mother I wished I would be invisible- green sets in my heart. Jealousy painted between my face and Adessia, pulling the shades from breaking our contact. 

"I think I need a drink, Adessia." 

It's feels sacrilegious, onyx stone on my thumb, acrylic nails pressed to the bar table, palms rubbing on the top of it - I haven't drank anything in years, the weight of the moon in the form of a headache, "I'm guessing you don't have shakes, huh?" A tired laugh, pressing my cheek to my palm. 

"No cherry please- ha."