fin // eight // arnelle rasoio

Although her tongue is as hot as her cheeks feel, the razor blade that sits hidden on top of it is still as cold as ice. Arnelle's teeth are gritted, in an attempt to stop the small but lethal rectangle of metal digging into her own gums and slicing them like butter. To have blood oozing from the creases in her cracked and smiling lips, dripping down her pointed chin, rust-red on bronze like roses in soil, and onto her white Reaping best would be most unsightly, and would give away the cunning, deadly secret. Beside her, her younger siblings stand with similar fake composure, the jutting of their proud lower jaws indicating that several of them have the same weapons concealed behind their matching plump lips. Arnelle isn't afraid of being caught. As her parents told all their children as they handed them the blades one by one, the tools were precautionary methods of defence, and to be afraid of being detained for protecting one's self from danger is as immature as it is irresponsible.

On the stage at the front of the District Square, the Capitol escort pushes his painted fingernails into the fish bowl full of boys' names. Without realising it, Arnelle reaches her own long-fingered hand out and clasps that of her brother. Her fingernails are unpainted, as plain as her face is. Though some might call her features boring without any colour, Arnelle herself believes she doesn't need to add cosmetics (which are already a frivolity she'd never want to waste money on) to her features to consider herself beautiful. The warmth of her brother's hand gives her solace. She has always sought comfort in her family, a clan fastened so strongly by loyalty to one another that they can never be torn apart. Or perhaps what fastens them isn't loyalty, but the thick, web-like strings of secrets that wrap around their name.

There's no one in particular that Arnelle and her siblings are looking out for as they contemplate the blades nestled in the caverns of their mouths. Rather, they are there in case of an aimed attack, or even the beginnings of a riot at the epicentre of which the Rasoios might find themselves. The children always have these defensive weapons with them, at the bequest of their parents and older, wiser siblings. Whether the blades are sewn into the hems of their coats (a family of tailors and darners, this method is the Rasoio speciality) or hidden up sleeves in extendable casings, the reliable weapons are never far from their fingers, where they can be dexterously and discreetly used.

Arnelle herself has never had the pleasure of making another person bleed. When her older sister, Caimile, describes the guiltless joy in a victim's screams, Arnelle can only imagine it. The thought makes her lick her lips with bloodthirsty desire. Every Reaping, and at every other public occasion, Arnelle hopes to all heaven that this time would be the time she could finally use her skills and tools to dominate another person. She knows that when the day comes, her family will celebrate her first maiming with her. More than that - word will spread to the other notorious gang families of the District, of which there are many undoubtedly. Gang mothers will begin to fear for their children, now that another Rasoio has drawn their first blood. Gang teenagers will try to hunt her down, but, in Arnelle's fantasies, they will always underestimate the power of her united family. She can't wait for the day when her name runs across the lips of every sensible person in the city.

Even with that glorious day in the future, the girl knows that her appearance is enough to intimidate those around her as it is. Like every Rasoio, she towers over the other teenagers her age, a lighthouse amongst shingles. Her dark skin gives her eyes the impression of being blazing hot, and the way her face is set in a naturally tight sneer adds a sharpness to that heat that is enough to make her considered unapproachable. However, Arnelle is satisfied with the status quo just how it is. With her family, table conversation tends to be about who owes the family debts for their work, and how those debts are to be paid - sometimes explicitly violently. Arnelle isn't sure how being brought up in those discussions would convert into small talk - or even if she really knows how to talk to other people at all. Since her older siblings exceeded Reaping Age, and the constant, hanging fear which goes with being within its bounds, they appear to be immediately wiser, and more engaging. So close to beating the Hunger Games herself, Arnelle enjoys the company of adults much more than teenagers her age or younger. As a result, although the girl is sharp and intelligent, she despises the days she has to spend at school. When she can, she prefers instead to spend time alone, thinking, or scheming, for the benefit of her family's infamous business in debts and favours.

The escort has now called both names, and as it does every year, Arnelle's heart clenches one final time and then relaxes for good. Another year, her family safe, together once again. The girl knows that, should their names ever be called, it would be her duty to volunteer to save her younger sisters. It's something her mother explained to them as they were very young, at the same time she began to teach them to weave on a loom, and tuck their trademark razor blades into the fabric they were weaving. The bond between the siblings, each protecting each other with their strengths whenever they could, sacrificing for each other when the situation required it, is more important than anything. And although Arnelle often thinks of herself and her own situation, she could never - ever - forget that.