stencil make // fitz & lore

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l o r r a i n e

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Oddly enough, I've been happy with the bruises and messy hair. It makes me feel like I'm getting somewhere, finding things out, I've never been a girl of hard work. Don't get me wrong, I've gotten in fights, I've thrown hands and used some scissor nails, but that doesn't win death games. There's a grit in thinking about killing Silk. 

Determined, y'know- "qué mierda?" 

These bitches are spooky, goddamn. The bathroom door swings on its hinges and I try not to make eye contact. I mean, I'm not one to police bathrooms or anything, just trying not to get stabbed in the stall. Fair, fair, right? I scratch the back of my head and there's a second where we just awkwardly look at each other before I shuffle past to go to left most mirror. There's smudges on the glass, small dents like somebody's tried to break it apart unsuccessfully. Dummy proof, they don't let us break things around here but each other.

Oooh, that line was emo. I try and fix my hair some, the diy lip stick staining the corner of my mouth and warm water can't scrub it off right. I'm checking my forehead for bruises, fixing my hair the best I can but every time I look over my shoulder that other tribute is still there. Clearing his throat and shuffling against the wall, playing with his thumbs and scratching the tiles with the end of a plastic fork - "can I help you?" Like, at all? 

Freaking me out just a little bit. 

"As long as you don't kill me or anything," at least, not in the bathroom. Give me a little respect, damn, "fair?" 

[pogue]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: 000000; padding-right:15px;padding-left:15px;] F  I  T  Z    M  E  Y  E  R  S [attr="class","scrollbar"] Something about being in the Capitol is makin’ me lose my wit and grit, pops out already loosened screws that’d been stuck in my brain for far too long. Always been book smart, yeah, cross the wires and turn the gears and watch a machine come to life but fuck, the lack of your own common sense really comes to the forefront when you toss your life away to a needle and a bottle and a boy that hates you with whatever’s left of his heart. Kye spread a little blue and black flower underneath my right eye when he visited me in the Justice Building, expletives and venom dripping from both of our split lips before Peacekeepers pulled apart. And I thought I was the fighter, damn, that little twink can really throw a mean right hook for how skinny he is. I press a finger to the bruise now, feeling the familiar sting of pain ebbing out from underneath the surface of my skin as I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Fading bruise and cracking heart and eye bags that scream hangover but hm, not looking half bad for a dead man. It’s only when the bathroom door swings open and I’m met with a scowl and a swear that I start to realize the little birdy that whispered of stick and pokes in the bathroom, the women’s bathroom at that, might have just been lying. Again, common sense is the only thing I’ve ever lost a fight with. I don’t know her but I recognize the face, yeah, Capitolites had compared her volunteering to mine and whispered about how much more graceful it was. But I mean, set a low bar and everyone’ll be able to clear it, right? I still have the taste of vomit in my mouth (but that’s from last night, at the very least). ”Whoa whoa, not trying to kill you. Yet, ha.” It’s timed with a finger gun and a wink and an awkward silence that falls in the air before I finally lean back against the bathroom wall, shrugging. ”Not gonna lie to you, someone told me there was free stick-n-pokes in here and I took the bait, I guess.” And there’s that little voice in his head telling him how dumb it sounds when it drips from his lips. But hey, when you’re about to die in a week it’s not like the worst thing you could do was tattoo M O M <3 on your arm. I pull back the sleeve and it’s one step short of a massacre, years of midnight whiskey laced tattoos spread over my forearm, canvas of a hundred little stories that will never be worth telling. ”Got the canvas for it though, y’know?”

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l o r r a i n e

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Not to sound like the class traitor I am, but I love the lighting in this place. Every light is bright and cool, cherishing the orange of my skin; the only thing that could make this better is if I was fucking alone. Specifically right now, no offense but I've got some bad memories, but overall being the only tribute here would be grand, I can't lie. There's a future like that, y'know. 

I can see it, imagine it, throw my life away for it. 

"Yet, ha," I'm still stuck here. Part of me is eager to get the shit over with, kill or killed, skip the week and wait for the results. I think that's the impatient part of me, I'm used to autopiloting through the bad parts anyways. Gripping the sink as he talks, "ha. Jokester," I hate men. There's a time and place for some corny jokes and this may not be the window of opportunity he's expecting, still kind of endearing though. 

I go back to fixing my hair some, trying to pick camo dye out the black of my hair but I keep glancing and seeing him awkwardly in the corner. There's a second where I clear my throat but he beats me to it, swears he won't lie to me but part of me hopes he does. What can I say, I love me some fuck boys. I'm convinced I can't be the only asshole in this arena -- you know what, that's probably why I love hating Silk and Grim so much. 

Like, thank god, I'm not the only bitch! 

"Woah," it's a nice collection, I have to admit. "My stylist would be in love with you, damn," I say, leaning on the sink counter to look at him. Squinting and pulling my hair behind my back, maybe I should let her give me a face tat for the tribute parade. The only thing holding me back is that she can do that to a tribute who will die, y'know? I'm not that easy. 

Alright canvas, let's get to work. I try and pop my neck while eyeing up his sleeve, trying to decipher each piece apart from each other, and I've got to say I'm a little impressed. "Alright, alright, you found the glory hole," congrats! I accept your offer and raise you the second bathroom stall, "give me oneee sec, and-" I close it behind me of course, privacy is important. 

And I've got to keep the stache somewhat hidden. I can't trust these idiots to keep their lips shut, but I've got everything wrapped up and stocked in the toilet paper holder. Tarp wrapping taped together, holding contents of stolen needles, inks and medical tape together. I've got a cute little signature drawn on the front with a diamond above the i, "here we go!" 

I shut the holder again before opening the door, motioning him into my little workshop. It's wide enough for two people, barely, and I show him the toilet like it's a goddamn throne. Something about this reminds me of home - I'm convinced I can't do something for other people, I'm doing this for the nostalgia, okay? 

"If you snitch I'm killing you first, by the way." Shaking the black ink as I talk, "name?"