beatrice morrisen | four [fin]

Beatrice and her sister in a room together. Who do people look at first when they enter? It is always the one with the glowing crown.

”Beatrice, you need to work on your balance.”

”Beatrice, you still have not perfected your throw!”

”Beatrice, where is your strength?”

Beatrice, a sculptured eleven-year-old prodigy, a back turned to the child on the television screen fighting for her a life. Sometimes Beatrice cannot decide if Annie being reaped was a blessing or a curse. Of course, she begged whatever blasted god out there who was listening for her to return, for the love of a sister…or the attention of her father to turn to the new celebrity in the family?

Trish she calls herself, Beatrice too much of a mouthful to say more than once in a sentence. Life seems like such a cruise in the early years for her. A youngster with popularity, whose focus was dressing up with the little girls and only attending school and the occasional career training on an evening. Jut a little extra curriculum activity, it was Annie who was supposed to be their father’s little moulded prodigy. Well like every child, her father lost interest in his little toy as soon as it was plucked from his grip, destined for landfill.

No more mother to go running too.

No more mother to plea for safety.

Time was always limited with her mother, even before the sickness took away every ounce of strength from her. Trish’s father sent her mother away, a distraction from the career training. A reason to rebel ever stepping through the training academy doors. Soon there was no more time for Trish to spend with her friends, to try on new dresses and recreate the stories and adventures they would play in the rockpools. Training became tense but not as severe as when Annie departed on the train.

”You have got your victor, why are you being so hard on me?” Occasionally Trish bites back but the repercussions are enough to keep her mouth shut. Greed must infest inside of her father, quickly remarried after her mother’s death. Her stepmother wipes away her sorrow, but she is no replacement. She is just another toy for her father to play with.

She looks like them all. Trish shares the features of her mother and father. Blonde hair bleached by the salty ocean and the constant rays of the sun. A complexion painted by the sky and muscles chiselled by her own father’s arm. Except ”You are too small to carry that sword!” If there was a way to make her a little bit taller, her father would definitely use the method on her.

Despite her father’s opinion, she does carry some effort in the training. She tells herself that she has no choice. Blackmail guides her life even though her sister has opened the doors to the victor’s house for an escape. Awkwardness limits her to once weekly visitation. She just can’t do it right now. Her options are to either keep accepting the shit from her father for the next two to three-years in hope that she is not reaped or live in the constant shadow of her sister. Her sister’s shadow does not extend to her father’s home, there is barely any talk about her from her father only the occasional slip up from her stepmother. ”That girl betrayed all of us.” Jealousy rips through him, no offer of a room in the victor mansion for him…

Maybe jealousy rips through Trish too. All that popularity, all the cheering for her sister. To be able to see the Capitol every year and attend the most extravagant events…and the dresses! Oh, how she envies the outfits the stylists dress Annie in. Carrying around a weight of gold that is decorated in silver, a lifestyle that she would happily trade for if it did not come with the baggage of having to be in the Hunger Games.

Trish still loves her sister. She does not resent her entirely, bitter thoughts of how lucky she has become do haunt her mind…quite often. But she has been so careful never to share the thoughts with her. Maybe she can turn her back on her father as soon as she hits nineteen. He has not been as hard on her as he was on Annie. Allow him to mould her to be the perfect career and then wave goodbye as soon as she is useless to him. There is always her brother to be his new favourite toy. Maybe she can hop on the train one year with Annie, have a little taste for the lavish lifestyle.

Maybe she can go back to be the carefree little girl, whose only worry was getting sand in her knickers and saltwater on her new dress.

Maybe it could have been her father who took ill, not the mother deserved all the world…

All these sickening thoughts fill her mind sometimes. Would father be harder on me if Annie died? Of course the quell twist bats away that thought but really how would he be treating her if she came home and finished twenty-fourth? There would be no victor’s house for her to flee too.

Would I have won if it was me? There is still the chance for that question to be answered.

Trish does not know if her life would be better now with or without a victor in the family. She just wishes her sister’s victory could have been shared more evenly. If only the chain from her father was a little bit longer, she could hop on that train with her now and experience the glitz and the glam. She just wants to be a little girl again. She does not want the possibility of dying being the only real option of breaking free.