priscilla frasier }} ten }} fin

My father always told me I could be whoever or whatever I wanted to be. I made the mistake of trusting him, believing in an unattainable dream. Head in a book about neurosurgery, eyes glued to the television screen when the bioengineering specials aired, and palms filled to the brim with penned equations I simply couldn't wait to write down—I'm not an idiot. But I sure did fall hard for the dream my parents spun up for me.

Oh, to be so young and naive. Caught in such a blissful, beautiful lie. Part of me wishes I could go back to it—a very, very small part. I've got a good thing going on here in District 10. Shit town, cattle-brained fools will fall for anything, follow anyone who dresses in nice clothes and puts on a few faux diamond rings. And as it turns out, being the nerd who loves brains isn't nearly as fun as being a girl without a brain.

I've replaced textbooks with make-up palettes and a surgeon's table with an extra dresser. I spend hours on my hair and talk to other girls about lipsticks, boys, and—("Oh. My. God. What is she wearing?")—because that's what everyone likes. That's what they all respect. Short skirts, low-cut shirts, and high heels speak so much louder than a lab coat ever could.

Of course my parents worried—("Cilla, honey, are you okay?")—as most parents do when their child is failing classes. But they'd cheated me out of enough of a life already and their optimism was holding me back.

("I want to be a neurosurgeon!")

("Oh, sweety, we're so proud of you!
We know you can do it.
We believe in you.")

This is Panem; no one gets what they want unless they've got a valued commodity. Money, status, brute force, or sex. That's the way the world works. It's not like in the fairytales and it's not as simple as "working hard" or "trying your best". We live in District 10. We're the bottom of the pyramid; the only way we get anything is by giving the people sitting at the top what they want, what they like, what they crave.

I think I'll go on a date with an Emberstatt boy. Strong, tall, handsome, filled to the brim with status and the ability to reach all the way The Capitol. Or maybe one of the Lowe girls is still available. Or even Ansgar Todd himself—though I really would never call him my type. Too gloomy, too broody, far too righteous. I definitely prefer someone who can have a bit more fun. Eccentricity and easily noticeable. Someone who can help me climb.

I'll sit on the throne perched at the top eventually.

Watch me.

---

"Ivy, please, I promise they can't feel anything."

I say it gently, softly. I don't want to yell at her and I don't want to scare her, but I can only contain my excitement for so long. Usually I have to try and look at a rabbit's brain or something even smaller. A cat though? It's probably the largest animal thus far. And I read somewhere that the anatomy of cats is quite similar to humans—oh, this will be so fucking cool.

But she's a soft soul and I don't want to see her upset. So I try, for her sake, to hide the twinkle in my eye. But of course she always agrees—"Think of it as a donation to science."—even if I wasn't a real scientist or doctor. At least not yet. But I would be someday. And this was a good way to start my journey to becoming the best brain surgeon in all of Panem.

I didn't have many tools and though mom and dad had access to money, they didn't have access to any sort of instruments a brain surgeon might use. The closest they could come was veterinary supplies; I think Ivy is more interested in them than I am.

But it didn't matter. All the great doctors and scientists start out small with unsteady hands. I'd get better. I'd show the teachers at school the notebooks I'd filled with all my observations. I'd show someone I could do it and they'd help me get to District 6 or The Capitol to show them all my work. I know I can do it; I just need more practice.

Sometimes I'd cut too deep and the specimen would be ruined with a few minutes. Sometimes I'd spend hours staring into a brain, cutting gently and examining closely. I'd take all the notes I could and write down everything I observed. Sometimes I'd even stray from the brain to search for a time or cause of death. I made sure to write all those down, too. Just in case their was a chance I could nudge Ivy in the right direction the next time she brought a half dead squirrel into the barn.

This time it takes me awhile, but when I'm finally done I make sure to stitch up the scalpel cuts and cover him with my shirt which is smeared with blood. It's easier on Ivy if I make them look less like a science experiment and more like they're a sleeping child in a bundled up t-shirt.

We bury them all in the sunflower field. I like it best in the fall, when the flowers are in bloom and we can just sit for hours and talk about nothing until the sunsets. Most people don't like listening to me talk about neuroscience, but Ivy always does—even if she doesn't completely understand what I'm saying—she always listening. Her head resting on my shoulder, my voice mixing with the sounds of crickets and frogs, her stories splicing my long monologues into more palatable pieces.

She thinks I'm the smartest person in the whole world. I tell her I'm far from that, but she always insists. It always makes me smile. I tell her she's too much fun for District 10, too much fun for all of Panem, way too much fun to be hanging out with a science nerd like me. She tells me she's just being herself and that I'm fun in my own way. I smile wider.

"You can come with me," I tell her. "When I finally get out of here."

"Suvi can come, too."

---

Moments of weakness. That's all they are. Why I haven't burned every book, every stack of notes, and every memory of-- everything. Endless moments of weakness over and over again. Even now, after so many years, I can't bring myself to throw it all out. The notebooks hide in stacks beneath my bed, each one neatly labeled and dated. The books are hidden in the back of my closet, neatly disguised behind endless piles of clothes and shoes.

Even now, as I reach for the lipstick tube that has made it's way under my bed, I have to pause. Only for a moment. That's all I can allow myself. And it's enough to keep me sane, just a single moment every other day. Because in those moments I feel myself living through an eternity of happy memories.

And then the moment is over. I simply let it all go. Pretend none of it ever happened.It's easier to stay on task that way, to forget the good and remember that my dreams are dead. Remind myself that I find comfort in a lipstick tube, at the bottoms of bottles, in the eyes of those who adore me and those who fear me, in my reflection, in the camera lenses pointed in my direction, and on the lips of thousand strangers at a thousand different parties.

At least that's what I tell myself.

I'm a pretty good liar.