fury toska | district one | fin

Poetic justice that they name me Fury and that is what I am meant to embody. Wrath, anger, passion all wrapped up into one hundred and sixty pounds of flesh, blood, and muscles. Maybe it is poetic injustice because I do not have bloodlust inside of me. Maybe it is just teen angst, but what, dear reader, do you think I have to be angsty about? What brings me melancholy, you ask? 

Well if you must know, its a girl. It's always a girl, isn't it? We spar together, like any self-respecting Career worth his or her salt. We call it training but in my head, I always think of it as a test of my will. We spar together and I play the fool, the klutz, and she gets the better of me each and every time. Do I let her? Of course fucking not.  Am I at a loss for words every time her blonde hair sparkles in the sunlight? Am I struck dumb every time I get a glimpse of the curve of her hipbones or arch of her spine? Maybe. Call me a hopeless romantic if you wish, but you just need to see her, man. She is....phew, she is something else, you know?

Are we built to sacrifice ourselves to bring glory to our families? Of course. We're death walking, dripping in glitter, steel, diamonds, and rubies. We're martyred for the cause, auctioned off to the highest bidder in the Captiol. The weight of our blood and muscles worth more than the weight of the most valuable gold or gemstones.

My name carries with it baggage. An idea of a boy molded into something. For something. A boy with fire in his eyes and hell on his tongue. 

They call me Fury but they should have called me something else. Something easier to carry. Something worthy of a girl like her.