PETALITE SHORE | DISTRICT ONE | FIN

[bg=B0355D][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true]

[bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true]

She tucked a strand of that pretty blonde hair behind her ear as her footsteps- careful and quiet, brought her closer to the center of the room, where a wide table filled with weapons was located. Fingernails perfectly coated in clear polish clicked across the cool metal surface, searching for a weapon to keep them company. Swords were too mainstream, she liked to be different. Spears? Honestly she had never really wrapped her mind around them. Knives? Perfect. Like her, they were tall, frail and deadly. Pretty to look at, but dangerous to mess with.

Her eyes, the color of the sunset that day when only yesterday they were as green as the healthiest forests, lit up with excitement, and glossed lips twisted into a smile. Her hands clasped a pack of knives- an entire assortment of blades that were all used with different technique. Time to show them what she was made of. She locked her jaw, easily seen through cheeks with a healthy blush, and pulled on a mask of determination. She felt a slight chill on her exposed legs as her quick, easy stride quickened, and a loud growl came from her mouth as she revealed sharp white teeth like an animal hunting it's dinner. Her footsteps were still silent like the night, even when she ran as fast as she could. (One of the perks of having a metabolism that made weighing a decent weight for a career impossible.)

The simple black tank top she wore clung tightly to her hips as she charged forward, pulling the knife into the air and feeling air bounce off of it. Her ponytail danced around on the back of her head as she brought a solid knee into the gut of a dummy. She twisted on her toes, (Maybe all those years of dancing had paid off after all.) And slammed a frail shoulder into another one. As both of them fell to the ground she did the same, rolling onto her knees and sending the first blade sailing through the air until it was lodged into a plastic skull, scarlet liquid that looked way too real splattering from the incision.

She wasted no time, grabbing the biggest blade and running as fast as she could again, straight toward the wall. As her nimble fingers laced themselves through the rough fabric that covered the wall, she was careful with each placement of her feet, until she reached the top. She stabbed the blade into the wall above the netting, and pulled herself up just high enough for her to get her feet on a small wooden platform. She was the queen, now. She smirked at her siblings, all of them still on the floor, doing things that would never help them to stand out, like hacking a dummy with a sword. Cute.

Another tear slid down her cheek and soaked into the soft pink fabric that was her pillow. Silent, always silent, was her sadness. (Mother always said there was no room for sadness, that it meant being weak.) She was right, of course, and Petal was no exception to that rule. It wasn't as if she cried often, she really didn't. Petal was a lot stronger than people realized, and she wanted it to stay that way. Deception, Manipulation, those were her games. Pyrite was always the one that was best with weapons, and Phena was the best at keeping her resources handy. Petal played the mind games. If nobody viewed her as a target, they would forget all about her, wouldn't they? At least until it was too late.

But, at times, things got to be too much for her, like that, when it seemed like no matter how hard she tried, she came out the weakest. Maybe she was the weakest, who knew? No, not the weakest, but still weak. Phena was beginning to get rusty, barely even bothering to show up for training anymore, and if anything, Pyrite's temper was only getting worse. The three of them needed each other. They were each strong where the others were weak. Although, at times, she feared she needed them more than they needed her. That was fine, though. Each time she needed them, she remembered exactly what not to do in that situation the next time. Being with them made her stronger.

Dancing seemed to be one of the only things she could relieve her stress with, other than crying into her pillow. And since she had worked so late with her parents, she hadn't had time to get to the studio in time, and she hated dancing in her home. There were always eyes watching, judging her if she ever messed up, which was rare, so she had no other choice. Her feet kept pointing themselves, begging her to stand on them, and move across the carpeted room that was completely her own, but she just knew that as soon as she did someone would walk in. She wasn't ashamed of her dancing, she just didn't want anyone to see her doing it. It was one of those things that she wanted to stay only her's. Her siblings all had things that made them happy, Opal with her garden, Beryl and whatever the hell he was doing when he disappeared in the night, and dancing was her's.

One day, when she was reaped, when it was her turn, she would show all of Panem what she was made of. Maybe then it would be okay for her family to watch her dance, because the games would be her thing, and no matter how much the other's tried, they wouldn't be able to take them from her. They could try, but they would fail.

Dinner was always so loud, but her parents demanded they do it together. Like they were a real family, or something. She looked at the vast assortment of faces that surrounded her, and paid no mind to the two empty seats at the far end of the table. Emerald was dead and Opal would be soon. Her father sat at the head of the table, brown eyes and dark hair and a face made of stone silently chewing his dinner while her mother, a pretty blonde with eyes so frigid they gave people shivers scolded Morganite for arguing with everyone. Again. Honestly, she had no clue why my parents wanted so many kids, other than the fact that, in District One, everything was a competition, even seeing who could have the most arena-ready children. Most of them had proven their parents right, but their entire lives it was Emerald they claimed was the best. So sad she had perished.

Opal, the sister that spent every waking hour outside messing with that foolish garden of flowers Pyrite had destroyed after hearing what Opal said in her interview, was in the games now, and actually doing a great job. Petal would have been better. Petalite Shore is one of the more known of her siblings, and an actual child, not one of the many that was adopted. (Her eyes quickly found Aventurine, and the untouched plate of food in front of her.) She snarled in disgust. Why had her parents adopted? If they weren't good enough for their first families, why in the hell did they think they were good enough for this one? There was no room for mistakes in the Shore household. We all had to be perfect all the time. Maybe letting these illegitimate children pick up the slack the rest of them left was a good thing, but they still needed to earn their rights to call themselves Shores.

In school, when she heard one of their names called, and she felt eyes looking at her with questions. "Since when are they part of your family?" People would ask. "When are your parents going to stop?!" It was true, her parents had taken it too far. She wished every day they hadn't adopted so many children. That many more people that had opportunities to bring fame to their family wasn't a good thing. At least to Petal, who wanted to be the one that did that. In school, people seemed to forget that she was a strong competitor, which was a good thing. She wanted to see the surprised faces when she stepped out on that platform after returning from the capitol. She wanted to see her mother's eye widen when she showed her the golden crown the president himself had placed on her head. She wanted them all to say they were sorry for doubting her. And they would, just wait and see.

other

codeword: Odair
lyrics: "lies" by marina and the diamonds
palette: drama queen
face claim: maggie grace