NOW my (w a t c h) begins~ // Charade, Zoe

Several times during meetings like this, I feel like I ought to be kinder to Queen Wolfe. I regard her as goosebumps rise on my flesh, caused by the imaginary draught I conjure up every time a situation becomes as icy as this. Her eyes which were once beautiful, warm and unwrinkled are now weighed down by heavy bags filled to the brim with sorrow. The colour that was bright and dazzling is faded by constant tides of salt water, assaulted by tiredness and an immovable schedule. The lips, pale red with makeup but still cracked and uncared for never support a smile, but are dragged down at the corners by the heaviness of widowhood. She holds herself upright, but still looks frail and old. She is too weak to rule this kingdom. Whereas I, though I may not be hers of blood, am fit to rule over the whole of Panem. But I do not desire that. And sometimes I am grateful I am not this woman's son. Right now, as I regard her, I think what it would be like to come from her, to look like her as all her other children do. Apart from Aria – the only perfect one out of them all Sometimes, I am told I look like father. I would not mind being his son at all, but to turn out like this woman? I cannot imagine it.

And once again, I am filled with mixed emotions towards her as she speaks. "Wasting water are we? I’m not made of money. Shut that tap off before it leaves rust spots." I make no move to mute the drip, drip that is the only thing keeping me in the real world and out of the fantasies where I stab this woman through her wintry heart. She keeps ordering, accusing, "You left the bread out as well. If you are attempting to take more food out of my children's mouths than you already have, I’d suggest you at least take the time and have the courtesy to clean up after yourself." Her children's mouths. My fingers tighten around the side of the surface, knuckles turning as white as corpses. Here is where the conflict I have for Caroline Wolfe mostly occurs. Perhaps, if I had been one of her trueborn children, I could have avoided insults like this. Heart-wrenching attacks on the name I can't help but have, that make my hands shake and the blood pound cold and hard through my veins. I would have been the first born Wolfe, perhaps, and the rightful heir, and would not have to take it through unappreciated force and determination. Although this way, I prove to myself and, when I am King, to others, that I am truly worthy. Yes, there is a second side to the argument. Provoking mother amuses me, if only momentarily. I know it is cruel, but to watch her face twist up in fury that she is afraid to let out thrills me. I love to see her so ugly. I would never have wished to have been born to this woman. Would father have held me any higher then? Or would he only have looked at me the way he looks at Rajas now – with respect and pride, but as just another one of his children. I was his favourite, I was the one who was given his name.

Finally, after an infinity of excruciating minutes, I smile again, inclining my head in a tiny mock bow, and turn off the tap. Silence surrounds us like a snowstorm, crushing and deafening us with its power. "You must think me a crook, mother, taking all this bread for myself," I raise the new loaf, freshly cut with barely a slice taken off it, showing her just how much I have really stolen. "Sneaking about, taking from your family, wearing your husband's name like a badge." She tenses at this, and I know I've hit the tender spot I really want to. But now that I have started, I can't stop. "Well I'll tell you something, mother," I almost snarl, though my voice is quickly getting louder to fill the loaded silence, "I am a part of this family just as much as you are. And when you're dead and gone, just like him, I'll still be here."