Silk Gingham D1 {fin}
Jun 11, 2019 4:49:22 GMT -5
Post by charade on Jun 11, 2019 4:49:22 GMT -5
Silk Gingham
Sixteen
Female
District one
Blond, deadly, and bored.
That could have described any of the Gingham sisters really.
But only one of them was a dancer. Silk was always the most graceful of them. Where Velvet was a bull in a china shop, and Nylon a snake, Silk was like the tiny figure atop a music box, possessing a gracefulness that lent itself to her pursuits of the finer arts. She wasn’t built for swinging swords and cracking whips. There was an elegance to her both in and out of the training center. It was pitiful that more of her siblings didn't strive to be more like her.
From a young age, her schedule had been one of the busiest, her drive to succeed was rarely tarnished as she juggled ballet lessons and career training with aplomb. This usually meant that her free time was spent on beauty sleep, as there was no point in hanging out with people if she wasn’t the best-looking one in the group. She could only imagine the horror if she showed up without her face on. She’d be laughed off of the archery range. Such a thing simply would not do. Silk had a reputation to maintain.
Archery was the most aesthetically pleasing of the weapon disciplines, which was why she had taken to it like a fish took to water. She aimed down the sight of her lavender bow and imagined that the target down the range was one of her sisters. Silk rarely missed, but there was always room for improvement, as her mother had ingrained in her being.
Prim. Proper. Prude. Those were a few of the words people used to describe her, often when she was loudly wondering what her older sisters were going to do to embarrass her next. Velvet was all bark and no bite these days, and Nylon, well. Between the revolving door of lovers and those filthy soirees that she dared to call parties, it was a wonder she hadn’t contracted a disease yet. She told Nylon as much whenever Nylon managed to earn her ire, but her mess of a sister always responded with rolled eyes and a dainty wave, dismissing Silk as being passive-aggressive.
Puh-leeze. Passive-aggressive? Her? Sounded like the kind of insult a dirty, jealous nobody would come up with.
No offense, sweetie.
Nylon just didn’t understand that a real party had classical music and proper dancing. Not that flailing and grinding mess that they did in the clubs. No, parties were meant to be a sophisticated affair. Like the masquerade ball she’d attended last week. Of course, she’d been the only member of her family to attend. It was honestly sad that none of her siblings were on her level.
It was lonely at the top.
The arrow thudded into the center of the target. A bullseye. But then, could anything less be expected?
I’m a princess, and don’t you dare forget it.
Silk inspected her nails, feeling extremely bored. There was no challenge in this. She placed the bow back on the rack and unslung the quiver. The annual games were truly barbaric. Tributes treated their fights like a hack n slash movie. Their banter was rarely tasteful, and their movements anything but dignified. That wouldn’t be her. One day a visiting Capitolite would sweep her off of her feet and take her away from this dreary existence.
She’d have a closet the size of a living room, and a doting sugar daddy who showered her in money and jewelry. Silk pictured it frequently, a gossamer gown draped over her body while she reclined and was fed grapes by shirtless, hunky avoxes. It’d be a much better time than she’d had with her ex. She’d just broken up with a boy for irreconcilable differences too. He’d asked if she wanted anything from the boutique and when she’d said no, he hadn’t gotten her anything! The nerve!
Rude.
Anyone with half a brain knew that answering no to that question meant “surprise me.”
Men don’t deserve me, she thought bitterly. It was tragic, really that the way things were going, she was destined to wither away into a wizened old cat lady, unloved and unmourned. She’d have to shed a single tear for the tragedy that was her life. She placed the back of her hand against her forehead and whimpered softly. If by some terrible twist of fate, she was reaped for the games, she would win. And still look fantastic while doing it. Knowing that she was better than the hussies that frequented the training center gave her a small measure of comfort when she was feeling down.
I just want to be rich without having to work for it. Is that so wrong? I already work at being beautiful, that counts as a job right?
