death becomes us {hyacinth/drake}
Oct 7, 2016 3:13:49 GMT -5
Post by Python on Oct 7, 2016 3:13:49 GMT -5
H Y A C I N T H M O R T U U S ; |
Capitolites were effortlessly wealthy, yet Hyacinth had crawled on her hands and knees across cobblestones to keep her family’s status stable. Every rhinestone was worth more than her life, every golden cup worth more than a lifetime supply of food for District Twelve. It was infuriating, but not surprising. To see it all up close – gold and silver, rainbow and glimmer – was startling, but television had warned her of this reality years ago. The Capitol would always have everything they wanted, and Twelve would always be in the dust. They didn’t care if she had to spread her legs for survival.
They didn’t care if she had to be whipped for her sister’s sins.
She wished she could gather up every fruit and take it home. Their dining hall was lined with luxurious foods and fine wines. While she appreciated the offering to drown herself in numbness, alcohol had never set well with her. It was a fire to melt the ice in her core, and she needed that ice. It was her foundation. Break it down, and what was she?
She snatched an apple and returned to the training center. The room smelled ripe of leather, sweat, and metal. There were tributes here who were dripping in desperation, and it was evident in the time they spent obsessing over the combat stations. Others – like herself – wanted to be resourceful. She was proud of her own ability to start a fire with such few natural supplies. If everyone else wanted to be proud of how they wielded a sword, good for them. Anyone could kill them regardless.
She had yet to find bearable company. A few guys and gals had caught her eye, although she expected friendlier faces to reside in the lower districts. District Eleven happened to be nearby, minding his own business; not for very long, of course. She bit into her apple and made deliberate eye contact. One wink later, she hoped to capture his attention like a fly in a trap.
