the empress / liza interview

It's not the questions that is the hardest part of the evening. They're pretty basic comparatively. Not too invasive, surface level inquiries, easy enough to answer.

It's the face I have to wear when I answer them. Lathered in powder and blush and eyeshadow and liner. All things I don't normally wear and as a result make me feel like a total clown. It's the mask I need to don in order for the Gamemakers to even care about what I have to say. It's the story I have to tell to get the audience to want me to live past the Bloodbath. 

It isn't me. 

It's a stupid show.

So, when they ask me what I think of the other tributes, I gossip with Risky. I talk about Nylon's blonde hair and whether or not there's any brains in there. I whisper about Arc's dog and whether or not they'd subject such a cute animal to the horrors and cruelties of a Games' arena. Something I'd never do. I don't bat an eye when Laurence is brought up, though my throat goes dry and my chest tightens as my heart starts to race.

I become who it is they want to see. An excited girl with a bit of a silver-pointed tongue to match her dagger's point. A caricature of myself, exaggerated and dramatic. Pliable and molded into something to fit their narrative. If it were for anything else, I'd refuse. Turn up a nose at the thought of selling myself to the rich for a chance to sit at their table. But for this? For popularity among those who's cash could save my life?

Absolutely, I do. 

I'll be their gilded and golden monstress, their hellion in ribbons and lace. Risky can ask her questions and peel away the layers of me, piece by piece. She'll never get to the center, never find my core. They don't deserve all of me. Only what I allow them, what I slice off and segment and manufacture for consumption. 

Hello, I'm Elizabeth. 

Liza snickers.