a little party never { killed } nobody // crocetti, open

{I know crossroads where I see them, see them
I want it to be over, I want it to be over
So I swim to you while I'm sleeping
Through sage green rivers of England}

I've seen it all: gore, alcohol and riches beyond a peasant's wildest dreams but discomfort still finds it's way into the room, filling the atmosphere around me like a toxic gas.(But haven't I seen it all?) My reflection shuffles uncomfortably in the suit, tugging at the black tie tightly wound around his neck with his fingers and chewing on the inside of his lip. Even his hair feels artificial, drowned in harsh chemicals so it doesn't get messy and highlights proudly painted across it; it seems to perfect in my eyes. This doesn't feel right. We both feels the chains of riches beyond our wildest dreams rattling around us with every twitch and movement.

Unlike most, the uncontrollable lust for power always remained culled in my brain - it just seemed to bore me. I've hidden behind the bars of introversion, letting nothing but the light through and kept myself shackled to the wall and let time blur by. After all, not even the tendrils of temptation can slip past lock and key - I was never tempted anyway. Sit in your prison and let time blur by, my policy to survival was always unshakable.

A piece of laminated card and it all comes crashing down. One invitation and the whole room fills with clank! All directions the restraints I willingly subdued myself to collapse to the floor, weak and battered. I knew before they even told me - I have to go.

I raise my thumb to my lips and quickly recoil before I can start chewing. Even my fingernails had chemicals scrubbed into them to stop me from chewing them further into ugly stumps. After all, it's said that judgement falls across us all when we shake hands with someone. Ugly hands means an ugly first impression and first impressions are the key to people's lives and with that their hearts, souls and blood. I dread the thought, I don't want the taste of iron against my lips again... I need it.

I breathe in as deeply as I can and find my mask resting on the table. A masquerade. I slip it onto the bridge of my nose and it remains stitched there, hiding my anxiety and anticipation. It doesn't matter what it can and can't hide, if a shark smells blood then you're time is up.

When I step out the door I swear I hear the clink of metal across my ankles.

I don't know if more of us are coming but I decided to throw that care and question out of the window. With every footstep the chains drag across the street with a higher screech and a heavier drag, I don't belong here. Call it pessimism but the tugging in my gut tells me this birthday party is anything but a celebration. It's a storm and with a storm comes the intention to kill and maim. If the people who I heard are coming are actually coming (Birches, Hammerfells, di Angelos) then this a storm that I don't seem very likely to survive.

It's funny, upon leaving the mansion I would usually feel a sense of freedom and relief. A sense of danger averted and chains escaped. I bitterly laugh, this time I've slipped from chains and straight into the arms of danger. Swing the prison door wide open and break the chains, time won't blur by this time no matter how much I curl in the corner and will it to.

'You have to go.' It wasn't a suggestion, it was a command thrust into my throat to the bottom of my lungs; I have to obey.

My movement is automatic all the way to the oversized Crocetti mansion. The illusion of celebration decorates the exterior and even I pause at the front of the house and just stare.

The eye of the storm stares back.

I breathe in slowly. The pressure from the storm's gaze is like the weight of a thousand suns. Each second ticks as slow as a century and I feel one of my heels twitch. (You have to go.) It wasn't a suggestion, it was a stone cold command shoved down the top of my throat and into the bottom of my lungs. My movement is automatic, my legs move into the pupil of the storm - I leave the chains behind.

"Okay."

With every footstep I swear the eye of the storm dilates. The lights seem to get brighter with every step I take to ascend to the doorway. The eye of the storm towers over me and I feel my knee shake and almost buckle under the pressure of it's gaze. "Invitation." I'm taken aback, the guards seemingly to have appeared from out of nowhere. They both look big enough to snap my neck like a twig if I provoke them enough. I quickly stick my hand deep into my pocket and pull out the laminated card - my ticket to the storm. "I'm Raven Blackmore." I tell them, it seems not even a mask can hide the shake in my voice, and they take it and step aside.

(You have to go.)

A command shoved into the bottom of my lungs, my legs move of their own accord and I step through the doorway into the storm.

I've seen it all. The biggest fucking lie I ever told myself. I've seen gore, alcohol and riches beyond a peasant's wildest dreams, but I've never seen the interior of a storm. I'm not ready for this, a world were time cannot blur.

Chandeliers cling to the ceiling and hang above us like a threat. The room is illuminated with golden lights and the air is woven with songs I'd kept myself shut away from for years. The illusion of celebration is strong but fuck my stupidity, I know a storm when I'm standing right in the middle of one. No amount of paid dancers, rich people wearing masks of pleasantry and drinks decorated on tables can tear my attention from the brewing storm that threatens to tear every single one of us to shreds. I know that these families aren't normal.

For example, the Hammerfells. I've never met a Hammerfell personally, and from the looks of the 69th and the 70th Hunger Games I don't want to.

The exterior of the storm was almost enough to break but now that I'm stood on the interior I feel myself crack. Desperately I search for something, someone, anyone. My eyes shoots left, right, centre, side to side until I let out a sigh of relief. I spot a glass of readily poured champagne on a table and quickly pace towards it, I grab it and take a quick sip. It calms my pounding heart, for now. I was always warned about the consequences of drinking something I never poured myself but what's the point of caution in a place like this?

I've seen gore, alcohol and riches beyond a peasant's wildest dreams - but fuck that, I've never witnessed the inside of a storm.