fleurs du mal / andromache [jb]

Has the Justice Building always been this big? I’ve been outside of it more times than I can count — sometimes me and some of the other girls would sit on the steps during lunch at school, eat our food, gossip, take refuge from early autumn heatwaves in its shadow. It’s always been something in the background of my life. No comfort, but no intimidation either. Today it looms large in front of me; it’s the last place in District One I might ever see. I look over my shoulder, but I’m flanked by Peacekeepers on every side and they’re blocking my view of the square, of the crowd, of all the faces I’ve grown up with. Right. That’s all behind me now, more than literally.

The room they put me in has high ceilings. I stand close to the door, shoulders back and chin tipped up. They’ll let my mother in to see me. The thought of her makes me want to cry and the sight of her pushes me over the edge. My chest is heaving with every tear and I fall forward. My head falls, forehead presses against her collarbone. My mother grabs me by my upper arms, gives me one firm shake that knocks my head back and straightens me up. I snap into position, facing her head on.

Her eyes are just like mine. It’s always been easy to see her face in the mirror in my own’s place — easy to repeat her words in her voice. And when I falter, because I will falter, I just need to remember one thing:

“You’re the best, because you’re mine.”

My mother strokes the side of my face.

I’m the best, because I’m her’s. I’m her baby, her project. I’m every last cent she’s earned and spent for the last sixteen years. I’m her best. The best. Because she never settles for anything less.

“Good, see?” She pats me on the cheek, fixes my posture where it doesn’t need to be fixed, and starts fussing at my makeup with the pads of her thumb and index finger. “Now, we can’t have you getting on that train with your mascara running, can we?”

My mother does everything. She smooths out my skirt and the back of my blazer. She licks her thumb and tucks away my flyaway hairs. She does everything except hug me, which is all I want. But this is as close to that as she’ll get, even now. Unless I win. If I win, then maybe. My dad isn’t here. None of my brothers are either. Why would they be? They’ll be drinking and shaking hands with diplomats and Capitolite contacts every night for the next couple of weeks trying for sponsors. They probably headed straight for the lounge as soon as my name was called.

That’s love too, in a way.

My mother turns me around by the shoulders to clip a necklace around my neck. It’s a circular pendent, simple, a gold disc.

“This is for you. It’s no heirloom, just a little something.”

“Thank you, mother,” I say. It’s the most precious thing I’ve ever been given.