rory maeve; district four | fin

where's my mind
maybe it's in the gutter
where i left my lover
what an expensive fate

She's always been pretty, poor thing. She got clothes for her birthday; I got a new target.

I guess I got lucky, looking average. No one was ever easy on me; no boys ever stuffed cheap roses into my locker in school just to see me smile when I opened it. They just chanted my name when I took someone bigger, or older than me down.

When it comes to career training, you'd be hard pressed to find someone as well-rounded as me, especially as a fourteen year old.

They call me prodigal.

And it all started when I found my home in projectiles. Spears, tridents, axes, and especially knives. You put it in my hand, I could hit a bulls eye with it.

Hollow sounds, the careless drumming of Scar's fingernails against our mother's tiled counter top.

"Would it kill you to be less prickly all of the time?"

"Would it kill you to be good at anything?"

I've always had fire on the tip of my tongue, lying in wait for the chance to explode. I don't give my mind time to consider my words, a certain downfall should I ever find myself in a compromising situation. I don't mind being disliked. Most people who have made history were hated in their time. The Games are a prime example. People root for their favorites, cry when they die, maybe even blame the person who killed them, as if it wasn't the point of the entire ordeal. But sometimes, those killers go on to win, and they're suddenly super star celebrities.

You don't make history for being liked.

So, if I have to be a bitch to get my crown, then that is what I'll do. At least I can say I have the talent to back my words up and the conviction to prove it, should anyone ever call my bluff.

Scar and I were always different copies of our mother. Scarlet was bright blue eyes and an undeniable femininity. Like our mother, a charming smile was all it took to take everyone around her and wrap them around her little finger.

I was everything that was left: short stature, pinched features, thin lips. Unshakable confidence, and long, spindly limbs. But, they walk like gazelles, proud and graceful. I walk like the things that eat gazelles.

Not that there is anything wrong with that. Lions are regal creatures, top of the food chain.

My competitive edge is something I inherited from my father, obviously. Without him, I would probably jump into the damn ocean and let it take me. I can already envision the countless shopping trips, and fucking brunches I would be forced into.

Luckily, Dad is always there to remind them that I have training when they want me to try on one of the dresses they've bought me.

It was him who first noticed how precise my aim was. Typical training in District Four is more of a recreation than in the other districts; something we sort of do for fun. My sister is a great example. But there are those of us who actually care. My Dad practically demanded that my Mom allow me to take on a full-time training schedule, and then he practically demanded that the trainers accept me to the program, despite me being too young.

"Let her throw for you," he said, crossing his arms over his chest, "just one throw before you make your decision."

Naturally, I fuckin' aced it. Hit the dummy right in its ugly blue forehead. I remember grinning, even then, my fingers aching for me to throw another. Not to kill, exactly, but to be great. That's all I've ever wanted: glory. So, I became the youngest person to ever receive a fulltime training schedule from my Training Center.

I was only ten years old. The person nearest to my own age was two years older than me, and I was small even for a ten year old. I was quickly singled out as the weakest of us, an easy spar match when someone was feeling particularly uninspired. They didn't take it easy on me, and I guess, looking back, that was a good thing. Now, people groan when they get paired with me.

I mean, I won't lie, there have been... moments, where I've wondered what it would be like to be more normal. To have friends. To go places. To have a life. But everyone gets nostalgic sometimes. I usually just nap it off and I'm ready to go, set of knives clutched at my waist.

Another day, one step closer to being what I've always wanted to be. I dream of that golden laurel resting on my head, the crowd applauding me; I feel the weight of a knife in my fingers when I close my eyes. The idea of becoming a murderer isn't exactly the most pleasant, but if it means achieving my goals, I'll kill them all.

One by one.

my v is for vendetta
thought that i'd feel better
but now i've got
a bellyache

song: bellyache