TILTOO DELTRI - D2

You see the girl with the long brown hair standing before you long before she notices you are there, a figure straight from a dream. She does not move away, nor move even the slightest muscle, for that fact, as you warily approach the headstrong girl. But then, you stop, as you catch a closer glimpse of the woman’s face. Your senses are reacting to something, but you are like one in a dream, a human possessed. The woman simply stands her ground, the stubbornness present in her eyes, the very eyes that only milliseconds later – even lesser than that, a unit of time too short to measure – connect with yours.

The eyes, they glare at you. Unblinking, uncaring, just glaring, as if they hold the ability to rip you apart. As if just by staring at you, they are able to tear your body into several separate parts, tearing them into smaller, unrepairable pieces of nothing. Those cold chocolate brown eyes could be the death of you one day. They could even be the last pair of eyes that will ever glimpse a sight of the beauty and grace radiating from you that radiates in everybody. One day they may be the very pair of eyes that watch you fall six feet under as that cold pair of eyes buries what is left of your body. Maybe one day you will get the privilege of even being in the presence of such a magnificent being, even if only for a few moments. Even if those few moments were the last you would ever have above ground.

They say that the eyes are the passageway into someone’s soul, but as you focus intently on the dark pools of liquid mud there is no sign that the stranger before you even has a soul. There is nothing to give away the fact that behind those cold eyes is a ruthless killer, who spends her long boring days planning how she will next choose to torment the unfortunates surrounding her. The girl who digs the graves for the unfortunates who die too early on to be of any use to the world. This creature holds herself well, her flawless figure seeming to ooze confidence. She has everything. You can see it in her eyes, too, that she knows she has it all. Too conceited however, to see the small cracks in the porcelain doll. Yet they are still there, and she is oblivious.

But you don’t miss them.

Callused hands, evident muscles in her upper arms that do not belong on such a feminine looking woman, a dull glow in her face, the eyes missing the light that shines in everyone. You can see that whatever the mysterious young lady does for a living, she is very good at it. This life also appears to have taken a toll on the faraway figure standing only a few metres away from you, yet she looks as if she belongs on another planet. Her full eyes bore into yours, yet something tells you that behind the gleaming irises and nonchalant smile is a girl who is slowly falling apart. She might not even know it herself yet, but it’s there, as plain as the burning ball of fire that rests in the sky.

The girl takes a step closer to you, and you reflexively take a step away from the stranger. Moments earlier, you had been the one approaching the stranger, but that’s all changed now. Who is she? you wonder to yourself. Her long hair springs with the single step that she takes, and impulsively your eyes begin to search out the long tangled mane that sits atop the girl’s head. With a start, you notice almost immediately the clumps of hair that are missing from various sections of her chestnut brown hair. The seemingly perfect girl is simply an illusion. Nobody could ever be perfect, but she wouldn’t be far from it. You can feel your mind race as you become even more intrigued with the girl, and questions tumble around inside your head. The patches of missing hair, surely caused by stress and the pressure to perform well, are no problem for this girl, who looks wealthy enough to go and live in the Capitol. She could have that fixed in the blink of an eye. Is that where she was headed, then? It seemed strange that such an important looking, yet intimidating woman would venture out so far from the safety of her own home. This was your domain, nobody else’s. You had nowhere else to go but here, and this lady would no doubt be welcomed with open arms anywhere she pleased.

And that’s when you realise the danger that was always there, but you were too blind to realise until now. And by the time you realise, it’s too late.

Like a tiger, the woman leaps for you, hands outstretched and hungry to catch a prize. Her face has become distorted, and the mask she wore only moments earlier, showing such a calm demeanour, has now become the face of a wild beast. Her long, tanned legs lash out at you as she soars through the air, but her kick falls short of the target and she ends up sprawled on the dirt. It’s all you can do to stifle the laugh forming on your lips due to the girl’s obvious clumsiness and lack of coordination, and when she pulls herself up from the ground you are reminded of the fierceness of the situation. A war rages inside her eyes and spreads throughout her body, giving her the energy she had been searching for so desperately. She lashes out again, recovered from the momentary obstacle, and this time her aim is perfected as her fist comes to meet your face.

The last thing you remember is the whisper of a soft name on the wind.

Tiltoo.

personality.

Your eyes gently flutter open, but this is not the first sense to come into focus. Long before your eyes are even able to function properly, all you were was a useless sack, lying on the cold, hard floor of a dark, damp cellar. The smells of sadness and hopelessness fill your nose, making you nauseous and sick to the stomach. Though you cannot see it yet, you can feel the despair already rising like bile, making its way up towards your throat. You can taste the desperation, even when the cause is still to be determined. But you know that something is wrong. You know that you do not belong here.

The sense of vision is perhaps the most important one out of all five. It is almost impossible to imagine a world where you couldn’t see, but could only feel and taste and smell. The feeling of forever being dependent on other people to guide you along, with no sense of direction whatsoever. But it’s better than having no senses at all. Sure, you can’t see for yourself, cannot even begin to give justice to the marvellous world around you when you haven’t seen anything at all. But wouldn’t it be worse to have nothing at all? The simple little things that we take for granted are such luxuries that some people, if only a small handful do not have the opportunity of having. All that they will ever be is a hopeless lump of nothing.

That’s kind of how you feel now. Alone, afraid and totally dependent on others if you are to survive. Only nobody comes to your aid when you need them the most.

When your eyes do manage to finally open, the sight laid out for you is horrific. It is even more disgusting and foul than the image that was conjured in your mind, based only on your senses and instinct. It proves that no matter how great your other senses are, you are nothing without your sight. Never in a million years could you have pictured this based on only four other senses, all of lesser importance, meaning much, much less. Without sight, you are useless. All around you are walls, and not the ‘oh-look-there’s-a-nice-old-grandma’s-house’ walls, the ‘I-don’t-give-a-fuck-what-happens-here-as-long-as-you-don’t-leave’ type of walls. The walls have gaps, however, that remind one of a cell. Metal wiring lines the walls providing the convenient gaps that allow communication if it was needed. At least they give you fresh oxygen. Whoever is cruel enough to keep you locked up here doesn’t want you to die of lack of oxygen. They don’t want you to die.

Yet.

The cage you have been locked inside of is unbearably empty. Looking around you can hardly make out the shadowy objects in the dim light that is filtering through the small spaces in the walls. The floor you lay stretched out on is ice cold, and within seconds of regaining sight again you are shivering. A blizzard blows through the small gaps in the walls, whistling and making the eeriest sounds that you have ever heard. From your right you think you can make out the slightest of murmurings, hushed, hoarse voices belonging to men that are several years older than you. Instinctively, you think of the worst possible scenario. They are going to hurt me. Why else would you be here, locked in a cage, trapped like a tiger?

But before you can even begin to tell your mind to panic, to go into overdrive, because you know you will die here, a softer voice reaches your ears, wafting through the gaps in the left wall. Intrigued, you strain your ears for another hint of the musical voice travelling on the bone-chilling wind. The voice is as smooth as honey, as light as a rose petal floating on the surface of a crystal clear stream. It is intoxicating, and such a delight to listen to. When the airy voice pauses for breath, you feel your heart sink a little further down, as the voice abruptly disappears. Yet it returns again, the words too muffled to make any sense of them. But how are words possibly important when the most beautiful voice is playing on repeat inside your head? You wish to move, to pull yourself from the hard ground and make your way to the wall where the voice is originating from, yet you are frozen, stuck fast like glue. Your muscles are aching so very much, and you feel as if the only thing keeping you from losing consciousness is the sweet voice of the mystery woman.

Footsteps are moving closer to you, and instinctively you close your eyes again. Immediately you panic, the darkness coming to welcome you back to your nightmare, and it is all you can do to stop from screaming out as your eyes instantly flash open again. The footsteps heard moments earlier are coming closer, closer, until they stop. They are gone. You do not even realise the voice has faded to silence. You turn your head to the left slightly, and come face to face with the tiger who brought you here in the first place.

And suddenly, everything falls into place. The jigsaw puzzle pieces are arranging themselves now, but you do not care for such childish games. And neither does she. The voice was hers. The deceivingly sweet voice that kept you from passing out belonged to the enemy.

It all makes sense.

The worried whispers of other people – children, just like me, could they be? – barely reach your trembling ears before the tiger cuts them off with a sharp hiss. A voice, changed from rose petals to the sharp, dangerous blade of a glinting knife in a matter of seconds. Her cruel chocolate gaze searches around the room, and from the other side of the wall you see her slowly begin to smile, satisfied. The smile, however, is not friendly. It is one full of malice and hatred, power and danger. The woman was obviously used to having her own way. There was no doubt in her eyes that she always got her way.

Brief words pass the tiger’s twisted mouth, directed not at you but at the other bodies lining the cellar, yet the few words are enough to silence the other people surrounding you from all directions. The others’ trembling seems to vibrate around the room, and you can just imagine them crouching with fear, making the monster in front of you all the more stronger. As she turns back to you, the sickly sweet voice doesn’t faze you, now you know what you are facing, what lies beneath the shallow surface. Her words never meet your ears. All you are aware of now is what lies on the inside. You see the intimidating figure with fresh eyes, eyes that see straight into her soul.

You are no longer blind.

The witch’s heart is cold and bitter, tiny snowflakes falling from it and settling at the base. A bitter soul she is, the spirit that was once an uncontrollable blaze nowhere to be found. Buried under layer after layer of icy snow. It is evident on the inside and out that she simply does not care anymore, the hollow, dead stare that you would never have noticed, concealed so well by the mistress. A wave of sympathy passes through you as you notice how frail she truly is, no more than a hollow shell of the forgotten memory of a carefree girl, yet you would never be game enough to tell it to her face for fear of punishment. Her insides are eating their way out, starved for sunlight that may have once lingered in the wintery realm that is her soul. Such a broken girl seems to hold so much power over you, and you wonder briefly how she does it. How could she have gotten here, managed to fill everyone with so much fear?

But that is not for you to know. You probably never will.

I walk along this dusty road that is quite similar to the one that I travelled only days ago, even though they are on completely different parts of the District. I don’t know what had brought me here today, but my instincts had cried out, had begged me to come here, and I’d always gotten by with a little help from my instincts. And besides, if today was uneventful there was always tomorrow. I had time. I had all the time in the world. If only that had been the case those many lonely years ago.

Even after 22 long years I still cannot completely will those childhood memories to turn to a pure, shimmering fog and disappear without a trace. Make something so unfriendly and ugly transform into a pleasant and beautiful image, before fading away forever, like all good things do. Ironic, isn’t it, how I happen to have all the time I need right now, yet a few years ago I was desperately clinging to every precious second, afraid that they would float away before I could use them. And as it was, the time I did have was always spent doing the stupidest of things. Getting high on life, getting wasted, mucking around and roaming the streets late at night. That was how it was: spend all day training for the chance of a lifetime, and then let all the work go to waste when the sun set and the moon came out to play. That time wasted still haunts me today, and it makes me fear that the future that has been inevitably laid out for me will be quite unforgiving. Wasn’t that what I’d always believed? What goes around, comes around? Not like it could get much worse anyway, I suppose. But I could think of far worse a punishment than having to live in a rich house and digging graves for dead children occasionally.

I guess I’m one of the lucky ones.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always believed in a Saviour. Someone who is always there to guide me through the times ahead. I needed someone back then, and although I am one of the most feared in our tiny household, I still need someone there. The tough decisions are not for me, they are left to my Saviour. I pray every night, can you believe it? The tough, intimidating girl, who frowns down and spits on the innocent children who are incapable of helping themselves, prays. What would she even need to pray for? She has everything that some people would kill for. Mostly, it’s praying for hope. I seem to lack so much of it. It’s the hope for a better life ahead, that my Saviour will not punish me too harshly when my time comes.

When I’m with my Saviour, I’m in my happy place.

It might come as a surprise that torturing children and hauling their limp, lifeless bodies down into the freshly dug dirt is not something that makes me happy. After years of the same strenuous task you learn to adapt, and your body and soul changes accordingly. Although it is fun for me, it does not fill me with the sense of relief that comes from prayer. The whole process is a cleansing ritual for me. Some people pray because they wish to get out of that deep, dark hole that continues to loom far above their heads. Others pray for safety, both for their families and friends, but most importantly, their selves. The world is a selfish place, after all. I’ve witnessed that, first hand, too many times.

Back on the street, seemingly stretching for miles without end, I can feel my tiger-like instincts kicking in, searching out my prey. And in a sudden flash, I see it. There.

The timid creature is awestruck. I can immediately tell that they have been standing there gawking for a while now, and I instantly feel guilty. I need to be more cautious, more alert. Often when I was out on these ‘hunting sprees’ I would not make myself visible to the target until they realised it was too late. By then they would have fallen into the neatly woven trap, and would be on their way back to Altiar. If he was happy, then that was the best I could hope for. I realised that if I was to keep my job I would need to fix up my sloppiness.

But maybe all hope hadn’t been lost yet. Not for the first time I sent a silent ‘thank you’ prayer to my Saviour, as only his doing could have provided me with such a stroke of luck. The obvious good looks that I held may have also been a big contribution, but even the fact that I was indeed flawless could not have been enough to stop this foolish child dead in their tracks. Gosh, some people call me conceited. Where could they have gotten that from?

Today I was going to have to take a different approach.

The only way that animals survived in the animal kingdom was by trusting their instincts. Sometimes, when the animals were too numb with fear to function properly, their animal side kicked in and they began to act without knowing what they were doing. A hunter approaches a wild lion, taking care to not disturb a single leaf. They prepare the gun, ready to shoot, the lion still oblivious to what danger lurked right outside its line of vision. All it takes is a single breath escaping the hunter’s mouth like a whisper on the wind for the instincts to kick in. It is evident in the lion’s movements that it realises how trapped it truly is. They cannot see the hunter yet, but they know it is there, ready to pull the trigger at any second. The lion’s muscles, once relaxed, tense up and you can almost hear the cogs whirring away inside the beast’s mind. But the mind does not work when it is needed the most. So instead of waiting for rational thoughts to flood the mind of the hunted, they let the irrational kick in.

Some of the stupidest decisions are made when instincts are involved. At other times, those very reactions may be the ones that save your life.

I prayed that this piece of prey would not base their next actions on their smart, irrational thoughts. That was now my job.

A flash of surprise had already clouded my face momentarily, and I had to pray that the child had not noticed that I had been so caught off guard. I knew I had to stand my ground, and not back down, for timidness and stealth was no longer an option. As the child walked towards me, I did not move a muscle, going against all my animal instincts that screamed at me to pounce now. No, not yet. Soon. Step by step the small girl continued to approach me, stunned and amazed at my beauty, no doubt, before the inevitable halt came. Like usual, when things went wrong like this, she was mesmerised. What thoughts are running through your troubled mind, you poor, lonely soul? It was impossible to tell what this child was thinking, but what I was certain of was that the job had to be completed. There was no half-doing anything around here.

The game begins here.

I move forward, she steps back. The questions whiz around in her head, and I can only allow a few moments peace before I leap. And by the time I move in for the kill, she has figured it out, but it is always too late. A fraction too late. Even a single second’s earlier notice may have been the difference between her escape and my failure. It never turned out that way, though.

A hunted lion is not always as smart as one would think. Sometimes they are able to act on their instincts, able to subconsciously force their selves to move, to react, to do something. Anything. Without hesitation, they can very well save their own life, until they come face to face with death yet again. Death is inevitable. Is there really any point in even delaying it? I’m going to Hell, and I know it. Yet it is an instant instinct to hold onto life for that little bit longer, experience all those things you might miss out on if you were to disappear, like a meteor crashing to Earth, blasting everything to smithereens, including itself. If a lion does not let their instincts take over when they are being hunted, they are long gone. There’s no saving the poor creatures then. In the animal world, the only way you get by is on your instincts, and it’s no different for the human race, either.

The girl was paralysed, a defenceless creature, left abandoned by their instincts and irrationality, and a momentary satisfaction flooded me as I lunged for the girl. The tiniest distraction is more than enough to ruin an entire plan. That is all it takes for failure to succumb. The foot is destined to make contact with the girl’s fragile cranium, not causing any permanent damage, of course, because what use to us would she be then? But I realise my mistake before I miss my target.

I forgot to pray.

The foot meets nothing but air, empty air, and I can feel the atoms automatically moving away from my falling body, tumbling towards the Earth. And there I lay, all hopes lost, certain to become Bone’s source of laughter for the next few weeks, and Altiar’s source of anger. I had missed. I hadn’t prayed. I’m lying in the dirt. I’m a failure. It doesn’t take much for things to be permanently hammered into your mind. On average, something must be repeated a minimum of seven times to become engraved in your mind forever, permanent, inerasable. I’d lost track of the amount of times I’d been called a failure, and the harsh truth made my body feel ten times its normal weight. I refused to move. here was nothing good waiting for me, anyway.

Then the laugh escaped my victim’s lips, and Hell broke loose.

Before she knew what was happening, I was back on my feet, and my fist was already connecting with her smooth face. Just like that. As she fell, just like I had moments earlier, I looked at her in awe, taking in for the first time her youthful appearance, yet not really taking it in at all. As she hit the hard, gravelly road, I can feel her desperation and just how alone she was. A feeling of pity is felt all through me, and something similar to regret. Was this how my Saviour expected me to live the rest of my life? I can recall how I had once felt trapped and afraid, abandoned and so dreadfully alone all the time, and before I can even control the thoughts, I am spinning out of reality.

Late night parties in the District Square, sleepless nights with nothing but shit to talk about, feeling like I actually belonged somewhere other than a sewer. Laughing, crying, screaming, hurting, praying and praying each night, no matter what. Training with the other Careers and beating the rest of my group in archery and combat, no surprise really. Making friends, or at least sleeping with people who pretended to be my friends before abandoning me once they had gotten what they wanted. Getting high, wasting myself at such a tender young age of 16, or 17 – too long ago for me to even remember. The good memories becoming less and less, the bad ones recurring more and more often with each day. The pain I felt when I would cut my face just to see the blood bleed from it and convince myself that I would never be beautiful, cut my arms in hopes that enough blood would flow out to make them appear so much more dainty than what they really were. Those were the memories that would never leave me, just as everything else I had cared about had. Cruel, isn’t it?

The second I had hesitated was a second too long. At my feet lay an unconscious girl, a girl who had no connection to me, who was nothing like me if I could convince myself enough, a girl who deserved no pity. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But this had to be done. There wasn’t an option. So as I lifted my burden onto my back, showing a tenderness that did not exist, but was merely for show, I walked back the way I had come, back to Hell, because that was the only place I would ever belong from here on in.

=-=-=-=-=

Every step that I take seems to echo around the cold, dark cellar, and with each step comes a slight grimace escaping my fragmented body. I’d never been used to making much noise – I’d always been the quiet one. The shy one, who stood back and watched from the shadows, speaking occasionally but never for too long. I had never been the feared one, but rather the fearful one. Our little gang would roam District 2 late at night after being put through our paces during the day at training, waking up the sleeping citizens and causing havoc. And I had to join in. There wasn’t any other option for me. For us, it was either join in or die. And going against all my other instincts, I would shake myself back to reality and join in the fun and games. That’s all it really was to them.

My whole life has been about “fun and games.” Being reckless when I was young, and now watching the show whilst kids fought to the death, using the most pathetic of items. How much damage could a candlestick do anyway?

Walking into the cellar downstairs always made me shudder, reminding me too much of those long, dreadful passageways that led to dead ends and brick walls that were impossible to scramble over, even if you were running for your life. It would have been hopeless for you. The despair was overshadowed, overlooked, because there was no room for weakness anymore. If I grew soft, I became weak. And if I became weak, I didn’t know what would happen to me then. Something that I would prefer to not think about. My footsteps continue to echo, so much so that I can even feel the slight tremors that are a result of my foot connecting with the concrete running through my body, rattling my bones and making my blood run cold. Colder than usual.

I shift my gaze from the glum floor to momentarily gaze at the various cages lining the walls, and let out a harsh snicker. Better you little scumbags than me. That was the Tiltoo everybody knew and loved.

The bleary cages contained starving kids, bodies nearly eaten by maggots, eyes full with hatred that was aimed at me. I couldn’t see the unfortunates, but I knew they were there. Almost half of the people living down here – no, not living, being held prisoner against their own will, more likely – had gotten here because of me. If I hadn’t thrown them in here, they would still have a life. They might not even have had to learn what fear indeed was. But then where would I be?

“My Saviour, forgive me. Do not punish me. I’m doing the right thing here.”

Bone and Altiar were fast approaching me, or more so I was approaching them. I couldn’t even help the flutter that shook my heart and made it beat that little bit faster when Bone looked over at me. A heart beat like a hummingbird’s hovering wing. As delicate as a daisy petal dancing on the surface of the deepest lake. As quiet as a sleeping babies snores. Bone brought out the best of me, made me strive to be just like him, even though the feelings that I experienced whenever I was around him were definitely unwanted. It was like a competition for us, to see who could be the tougher one, though I knew he would always be Altiar’s favourite. He was exactly like the other men I knew. Maybe that was why I loved him so much. The others, however, didn’t matter to me. Bone does. At times, I would feel so worried he might hurt me. The fire burning in his eyes was so plain to see, yet I had never even bothered to ask how he really was doing. As long as I did my best to make him feel threatened by me, then maybe he might look at me that little bit more, admire me even. It was my job, after all, to make people treat me with respect. Bad attitude means no food for hungry kiddies.

The moment Altiar growled my name at me made me forget all previous feelings in a heartbeat, and I was immediately Altiar’s prisoner, ready to do anything he needed done. As I hurried over, he lost all previous interest in me yet again, and I stood there, waiting, watching, observing, silent in my own bubble of protection. The talking continued, and soon enough I had lost all intentions of listening to their conversation. It was the usual anyway. “… discipline them … don’t let them out of your sight … they’re so weak even you could handle them … stop being a wuss and just do it, Bone … I expected more …” And then finally, Altiar turned to me, waiting for me to speak as he always did. He didn’t like to acknowledge people lesser than him – that was so blandly clear. “Sir, we have a new child with us. She’s still sleeping, but I’m sure you will, er, enjoy her company.” Fucking creep. “I’ll go wake her soon, make sure she’s … properly settled. That she’s comfortable.” Nobody could ever feel comfortable here. “I’ll be back later to feed them, but we’re running low on food so they’ll probably only get a fraction of what they usually get.” They only ever get a mouse’s serving of food as it is. I didn’t have to wait to be dismissed; Altiar was already walking back up the stairs.

More walking was all that came from the brief meeting, bringing with it more echoes, more shudders, more grimaces, more memories. I sought out the cage of the fresh prey that had only been caught yesterday and saw that the girl was still knocked out from the beating she’d received from Bone, Altiar and myself when I came back here with her. She lay so vulnerable, an injured deer in a bear trap, and all I did was laugh at her. The laugh echoed, like my steps, but I wasn’t greeted by the dark memories collapsing in on their selves.

I was greeted with the face of my victim.

It’s amusing watching children slowly dying and then watching them deteriorate into nothing. Sometimes, when the kids come so close to dying in their locked up cells, we have to feed them more. It’s okay though – we can afford to go hungry if it means more entertainment for us in the future, because then it would be worth it. When people die, a little bit of them is always left behind. You could be the most hated, disrespectful, horrible person, but chances are something made you like that and it wasn’t actually your fault in the first place. See, everyone has some good inside of them somewhere. Except me. But besides that, everyone. So when they die, you can almost see the radiance ebb out of their body and touch everyone around them. It’s funny when people die though, especially people you don’t like. For me, that’s just about everyone. I’ve never liked people, and they’ve never liked me. Perfect.

I’ve watched so many people die, not just here in this house. You see the wasted victors of past Hunger Games who decide to retire back in their home District, and you see what effect killing people has had on them. That doesn’t affect me, but yet again, I’ve never actually killed someone. Times in my past that I wish I had, because there are some fucked up people in this world. What a better place the world would be without some people. People like me.

When someone dies, they let go of everything. It is a natural instinct to keep fighting on until you can’t any longer, and only then do we decide that it is okay to die. Lying there, half dead already and drunk with sleep and God knows what else, or maybe just drowning in your own blood, utterly defenceless. Once the blood stops flowing, everything stops. The heart can no longer function, and so it fails. It gives up the only job it knows how to do properly – keep you alive. And then, as the person breathes their last, the world stops. They are dead, they are gone, but their body still moves. They are dead, the blood no longer flows to the heart, but nerves and muscles have not yet accepted the news. What happens next is something you can never forget. The dead body, eyes wide open still, starts to jerk around because of the nerves that refuse to grow still. That is where the people turn away in disgust, but death is a beautiful thing. The transformation and purification of one’s soul, as they become one with Heaven and Earth if they deserve it. The jerking still continues, you reach out your hand in comfort, but pull away when you feel how cold their skin has already become. It seems to last forever.

But then it stops. And you’re gone.

The girl’s eyes slowly widen as she realises the truth, and you cannot help but smile sweetly. It’s a reflex. And the others know what is to come next, and I am already anticipating the worried cries, some comforting, some panicking. It takes no more than a hiss to silence them all, and as I do it I realise what a monster I truly have become. Eyes fiery red, perfect white teeth sparkling as they are pulled back into a snarl, the matted hair from years of pain and stress, things that not even Capitol beauty products can erase fully. The room falls silent yet again, and I stare at the girl. I don’t even know her name. Yet names do not matter, because what is in a name? Names do not paint the story of a million hours of bitterness that is unescapable. Names are nothing.

So I do not ask her name. I stare at her, and she stares back, and I know she can see who I am. What kind of person I am. She possesses an ability none other have ever shown, and as realisation spreads along her face, she sees into my soul. She realises that there is no tough surface that holds everything good inside. All she sees is pain and misery, bitterness and anger above all. There is nothing good, and the girl looks as disappointed as I feel. Yet something else is there in her. Something unwanted has come with the news that all I am is a witch.

Hope.

We need to contain that hope.

“Welcome to Hell, sweetie.”

But she’s not the only one going there.