family ties. beth and marietta

The thing is that the Brydges are nothing special. In a District full of the richest and most influential civilians of Panem, the Brydges were nothing but a suburban fantasy drowning in the extravagance of old money families who made their cash in some gold rush years ago. My dad was some no named trainer who was only known for having really tall career kids. 

And me, I was a mediocre career who wasn't particularly well skilled in anything but being tall. Despite my dads bests efforts to turn me into someone notable, I'm clumsy, I'm not really that strong, and I lack the power and the drive that seems to come naturally to the other career kids. 

"You're hopeless," the words escape his lips once every three months like clockwork. It always ended in a quiet and awkward dinner time, until I would clear my throat and excuse myself and my mom would lecture him in hushed whispers until he followed after me.

He would shuffle his feet back and forth awkwardly, and mutter a quiet apology before following it with him telling me how much potential he saw in me and he hated to see me waste it.

What he really meant to tell me was that I was everything he wasn't and he didn't know how to handle the fact I didn't want to live out his wasted teenage dreams. 

And it never got easier hearing those words, despite having age on my side now.

And the change room smelled like shit and my mouth was dry and tasted like vomit and my tears poured in between the deep, heavy breaths that I took from being out of breath and I looked like shit and smelled like BO and I had pit stains and -

Man, I'm a mess.

It was the last fucking lap and my legs gave out, collapsing beneath me as the contents of my stomach spilled out onto the track, reminding me how badly spinach protein shakes tasted coming back up.

"What kind of career can't run a sub-thirty 5k?" My dad would yell as he frustratingly threw his clipboard aside as I quickly picked myself up and ran to the changeroom, because the only thing more humiliating than my lack of fitness was crying in front of my father. My knees jolted with pain and my quads were crying and begging for forgiveness and god, my body was not made for long distance running.

And there I was, sobbing like a baby because I was seventeen years old and I still hadn't learned how to stand up to my father.

Yet, when the door creaks open as someone enters, panic runs through me as I pick myself together, but it's too late as I find myself face to face with one of the other girls who trains her (and actually probably enjoys doing it).

"Sorry," I avoid eye contact with her, because humiliation and embarrassment runs deep within my bones and I know I can't handle confrontation without crying more and goddamn, I really am a pathetic career, aren't I?

My feet shuffle awkwardly as I wait for the girl to respond, hoping she would fail to acknowledge me and go back to whatever she was doing before.