.:| Broken Glass |:. (Justice Building Standalone)

Crawling in my skin
These wounds, they will not heal
Fear is how I fall
Confusing what is real

No one comes.

In the room of blank walls and pointless portraits, I sit alone. The clock on the wall seems to tick the seconds backward, whispering in that quiet clicking language that my time is running out rather than forward. My back is straight and my head held high as I gaze at the chestnut doors, daring them to swing open and reveal someone, anyone. They don't. The panels of wood remain stubbornly still, and the clock ticks on, a constant reminder that the end is now clearly in view, standing dark and devious on the not so distant horizon.

Tick, tick, tick...

In this district, there is no pride or bravery in volunteering. There is only selfishness. They don't understand that I don't want this – that the Arena is the last place I'd ever want to be in my life. All volunteers go in because they want to win, and because they were born killers. So there will be no consoling, no I'm sorry or good luck, because I am despicable and everyone but me seems to realize it. As time passes, my back begins to curve, shoulders slumping down and face burying itself into my hands in defeat. No one is coming for me. No one cares. When I fall, pale as a ghost with eyes wide and unseeing, lips silenced for eternity, no one will care. There will be no tears for Destiny Lenstil.

I picture a thousand different deaths, a thousands different ways that I will fall in a thousand different locations slayed by a thousand different teenagers or mutts. The color drains from my face and I cross my arms over my chest. Tick, tick, tick... I'm going to die. It's as certain as certain can be – death is approaching me, ignoring my young age, and very soon, it will strike. But not until I have been properly scarred with hundreds of nightmares in my mind.

I leap to my feet, unable to stand it anymore. I have to get out of here. I have to tell them that there's been a mistake – that I don't want to go in, that I take back volunteering. I approach those stupid unmoving doors and pound against them with my fist. “Let me out!” I shout. “I take it back!” There is no response, and my stomach flips. “Can you hear me?” I yell. “I said I take it back! Throw the stupid circus freak in there – I don't care! Just let me out!” Still, no response. They must be able to hear me, but they aren't reacting. Don't they realize what I'm saying? Why aren't they letting me out? Unless... unless what I did is irreversible. Panic begins to set in, slipping into my veins as icy cold cyanide and freezing me over. My eyes widen, and I take a step back and slam the side of my foot into the door. It was built solidly, though, and doesn't budge. “Let me out!” I shriek, throwing myself against the wood and dragging my hands down the smooth surface, fingers clawing. “Let me out of here!”

After a few minutes of screaming and fighting, I give up, drawing back and looking around wildly. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I remember the sentence that spurred all this insanity. The best kind of heroism is sacrifice. But what if I don't want to be a hero, Mom? Did you ever think of that one? With a howl of frustration I turn away, fingers digging into my palms and teeth grinding. There has to be a way out. There has to be. I shout a few curses at the door and punch it again, though more to channel my rage than anything else. The clock ticks in the background, alarming me to the fact that I'm running out of time. They'll come and take my on the train soon, and then there will be no escape. Tick, tick, tick...

There's a vase with a few dainty flowers on the table by the velvet couch. I pick it up and throw it at the door with all my might, shrieking. It shatters into a thousand fuchsia teardrops, making quiet music as they hit the floor. The golden blooms float more slowly, gently landing in the quickly spreading pool of water. Tick, tick, tick... I stare at the mess, at the yellow roses lying like fallen warriors and the pattern of glittering pink shards against brown, and my tense limbs go suddenly weak. I drop back into a stiff chair and begin to sob, voice loud and echoing in the silence, in the emptiness. My back shakes and the tears pour down my cheeks and I break down, every part of me trembling and my mouth blubbering out incoherent thoughts, pieces of how this can't be happening and I'm going to die. “Let me out,” I wail pathetically. “Ripred, just let me out.”

Is there no hope?

But there is. There is hope – a tiny unreachable ray of light in the far distance, but still something to strive for. I could win. I could defeat them all and stand tall and proud, and then I'd be more free than any other person in Panem. I'd be rich and famous and my mother would be so proud of me if she was alive. I could shove it in my father's face that the daughter he left behind was a Victor and see what he thought of that. Lifting my face from my hands, I press my lips together into a tight line though the tears still fall. Tick, tick, tick...

Very carefully, I pull off my headband, staring at the hard metal and curved surface. I could win. That kind of freedom is unimaginable – the freedom of a Victor. No more being caged in fear of the Capitol or the Games. I'd be strong and tall and wonderful, and everyone would admire me. Slowly, legs trembling, I stand. Tick, tick, tick... I'll be the most beautiful, the most glamorous, the most amazing of all the tributes. I'll smile and wave and impress the crowd. I'll train hard and long in the Capitol.

Turning around, I chuck the headband at that stupid clock. The glass cracks and crumbles, and the whole thing falls off the wall, crashing as it hits the ground. The first to fall to Ms. Destiny Lenstil. Yes, I'll be wonderful. I'll be impressive. I'll be strong.

And then I'll kill them. I'll kill them all.

There's something inside me that pulls beneath the surface
Consuming, confusing
This lack of self control I fear is never ending
Controlling