96th Tribute Interviews

felicity carrow,
district three 🛠️ eighteen.

"I must say, your district made quite the splash at the Tribute Parade. Tell us what you were feeling up there! Confident, nervous, excited?" The sounds of a room settling wash over me, bravado bleeding out underneath the pounding lights. I swallow, barely feel myself blink — "What?"

Someone laughs, several someone's. I don't understand the joke.

"What has impressed you most about the Capitol since you've been here?"

My brows furrow this time, my mouth twisting. My expression looks back at me from a screen I can see in the back, and I can't help thinking how little I look like myself. Lips painted red, and a face slicked in shimmering creams. I've never even curled my hair before, nevermind the intricate brain I wear now. 

Flickerman doesn't get a reply. His manufactured smile doesn't falter, but I don't expect it to.

"What about the other tributes? Intimidating? Interesting? Irritating?" Caesar goes on, but there's something synthetic about his grin that I can't take seriously. Everything about him looks as if it's made of plastic; round, high cheekbones; cookie monster wig; a jacket full of tiny sequins that catch the stage lights enough to blind. I don't know why any of the stylists bothered to try and outshine him; there's no light left in the room after he's refracted all of it.

"How confident do you feel about the games now that you've seen your Training Score?"

"Peachy," I try, fidgeting with the bottom of the vest Orland put me in. "I'm definitely going to win."

He seems to like that, I think, though his expression doesn't change. Leave it to me.

"Tell us what a typical day in your shoes is like back home. Do you work? Do you have any hobbies or secret talents?" he asks, but something about the deep sigh that take my whole body encourages him to move right on. "What about romance? Cute as you are, I bet there is someone back home waiting, right?"

"Yea, I'm sure all twelve of my boyfriends are placing bets on my survival now."

I think he thinks I'm playing ball with him, or something, because his body angles towards me and he laughs before looking to the crowd. I follow his gaze, but now to look at the crowd, instead looking for all the exits.

Can't get out of here soon enough.

"And your family?" he tries, but I wave him off. "Right, sensitive subject, I'm sure, but... could you tell us about them?"

The crowd roars; I think they're getting ansty, maybe, I can't be sure, but I feel their buzzing voices all over my skin like little needles. Their voices rush past my ears, unsettling ghosts in my bones, lifting tiny mountains all over my forearms in the shape of gooseflesh.

Memories of my Dad flutter by, his arms wrapped around either side of me while I sat at his workbench with him and helped him fix a switchboard.

"I want to know: What is it that you'll be fighting for in that arena? What is it you want to get back home to?" But I don't hear him anymore, grief wrapping her pretty fingers around my throat and choking the senses. The room distorts, and I'm shocked when I look at my lap and realize I've left little marks of blood on my thighs where I dug my nails into my palms. Distantly, as if through water, I hear Caesar, "I'm afraid we're almost out of time. Parting words to the crowd?" A hand on my shoulder that startles, and I think about a girl in a water tank a thousand miles away I'm never going to be able to save. "The tributes? Your friends and family back home?"

"Let me go," I choke. "Let me go."

And I stumble offstage.