My name hasn't always been Anarcha, but if you think for a single goddamn second that I'm going to tell you what it used to be you're a fucking fool. I'd like to think you aren't, so don't prove me wrong, kid.
It wouldn't be the first time you've let me down.
Where do I even begin, Glamour? There is so much I never told you. So much I never planned on telling. But every day that goes by I think more and more of you. I'm not saying I miss you, but my home is riddled with keepsakes from our stint together. The 62nd was so long ago, and yet it's so vivid in my memories. I wake up at night, sweating from dreams filled with three-headed dogs and Tartarus the Hut. Cerberus is always chasing me, running me straight into the hand of the giant, and sometimes I think the dog is you.
Everything started with my first dog, didn't it? When my asshole of a father brought home that doberman, and innocent, naive little me thinking that would change everything. I didn't realize that six years of abuse, six years of unforgivable malnutrition and disregard for my brother and I... I didn't realize it wouldn't just end with a gift. I thought that was the end of everything, but it only got worse. Oh, fuck did it get worse, Glam. That dog was everything to us. We called him Omar, but we should have called him Omen. That's what he really was. But we couldn't have known how bad things would be in only a few short weeks.
You see, when my brother was four and I was born, I was shoved into his possession, his care. Mom got out, and I hold absolutely no ill will towards her for it. It was her or us, and I would have been selfish in the situation too. She found an escape and she took it. She got away from the menace that was my father, and I couldn't be happier for her. One day I hope to meet her, but I know it'll never happen. I don't go by that name anymore. She probably changed hers, too. We would have know way of knowing each other in a crowd. It's a dream, but it will remain just that.
The next several years, though, were the worst years imaginable. He'd come home shitty drunk, and if we were not done with our chores and down in the cellar when he arrived, we'd be bruised, battered, and scarred. There was a day he twisted my brother's arm till we heard a snap, but he had to bite his lip. Sounds weren't allowed, or the monster would only grow in his face. My brother was shoved to the ground, arm bent in an inhumane angle, blood pouring out from his mouth where he'd bit through his lip.
I lived in constant fear, in prolonged submission. That could explain some shit now, couldn't it? Years of being beaten, forced into submission, tied up and locked in dark rooms... now I want the power. I want the control and the exhilarating rush of adrenaline that comes with dominance. I command every room I enter because for so long I was lower than dirt. I changed my life for myself.
I just wish I could have changed my brother's, too.
When Omar arrived, he was just a puppy. Kinda like you, Glamour, but cuter. So much cuter. My brother was happy, something I had really never seen my entire life. And I was happy for that. We raised that dog. He became one of us, the family member we never had. Filled the void our mother had left, fixed the pain our father had created. I still am not sure why the dog was given to us. We were barely given enough food to survive as it was, but we didn't complain. Omar was hope for us. He was the kind of hope you were to me. The kind that was light and free but changed so quickly.
I try not to think about that night. Whatever fragmented threads of innocence I had been clinging to were plucked from my grasp, ripped to shreds, and thrown out to sea.
He came home one night, more drunk than usual. But something was different. He didn't come in angry, yelling for them or kicking furniture. He was silent.
That should have been the biggest sign of all, but we missed it. We sat still in the cellar, cradling Omar and waiting for the usual routine. But it never came. An hour passed, and we stayed huddled down under the house, unsure of what was going on. We couldn't hear anything above. So we waited.
The next morning, our bellies aching, we crept upstairs, hoping to find him gone, somehow just forgetting to torture us the previous night. But he was still there, slouched over the table, a gun laying loosely in his finger tips. Instantly we jumped back, and - God, Glamour, I don't know why I'm telling you this. It's been years since I've spoken to you. What the hell am I doing?
Whatever. I've started. I have to finish, now.
Let's cut to the chase. He woke up, he screamed, and he shot my brother. Shot him right in the fucking face. I had been taught not to react, not to show pain or anguish or distress, but I didn't listen to any of my father's teachings then. I screeched so loud and so shrill he had to grab his ears.
But he forgot he had the gun in his hand. Bang bang, and down he went.
I didn't stop screeching, Glamour. I didn't stop for hours. I stood there, beside my brother's blown off face, in complete and utter shock.
The next few years are a blur to me. Mostly because I blocked my foster care days out of my memory. I've tried to block out anything from my childhood, but you can't forget that shit. You just can't.
I know I never told you any of this. I did not want your pity. I did not want to be treated any differently. No one knows what I have been through to get where I am. Nobody knows, and I really don't know why I am telling you know, Glamour. Who knows if I'll even send this letter.
It really is crazy to think I went from this traumatized child into the powerful and attention-demanding woman I am today. I used to go days without bathing, my hair was a matted, greasy mess, dirt stained my cheeks. Now I'm so much different. My hair doesn't go 12 hours without a wash, and I constantly lather conditioner into my blonde roots. I guess being denied that luxury made it seem all the more necessary to me in my later years. And yeah, I do mean my later years. I'm getting fucking old, Glam. It's a goddamn problem.
Did you know I have to use a special age-defying facial syrup every morning to de-wrinkle my skin? That's right. My face is already starting to sag at the corners. Lines are cropping up under my eyes and at the corners of my lips. I guess shit like this is a side effect of living a hellish life, when you aged forty years in your first five. So, think of it as battle scars, then? That should turn you on at the very least. Anyway, yeah, literally SYRUP on my face every morning to strengthen up those pores and tighten up this clear ass skin. To this day I've still never had a single pimple, and I'm guessing I'm ages past that being a concern anymore. Just have to keep my skin wrinkle free, keep my hair luscious and radiant - oh, and I had eyelash implants. But I did them myself. It's why I use face syrup instead of just having surgery like the rest of the Capitol. I can't give someone else the power, Glam. Still can't. Probably never will. I can't go under the knife because I can't let them have total control over my body. I have to remain in control. At. All. Times. So, yeah, shoved some fake eyelashes into my eyelids so I'm forever mascara'd. Now these chocolate eyes are always popping above my signature pouty lips.
All that's left for me to work on is my body. But I think you know better than most people that my body is better than most others' combined. Flexible beyond compare, slender but toned, muscular and strong but sleek and agile. Everything anyone could want is right here in me. Hell, Glam, I have better abs than some of the slobs I'm sure you've got it in with since me.
I haven't stopped waking up at the slightest sound. That's one thing I'll never get over from my father. Luckily, every morning when the first people start bustling in nearby houses, I jolt up and get straight to work on this body. Squats and presses and lunges and crunches. Two hours every morning, and that hasn't changed. I actually don't think you ever even knew I did that; you probably assumed I was just naturally so fucking hot. But no, as much as I give off that air, I do have to work for this beauty. Like I said, I shoved fake hairs into my eyelids for beauty. I work for this shit, pup. I really do.
I keep up with what you're doing. As much as I put into you, I see myself in some of your work. Clearly I was an inspiration to you, but it's been nine years and you're still drawing from my influence. It's cute, almost, the way my presence has stuck around. It's like I've been haunting you all these years, the same way you've been haunting me.
Some of your influence finds its way into my stylings, too. Leaving Gamemaking and becoming Head Stylist is a big shift, but it was an easy one for someone who loves power and beauty as much as me. I get to oversee that all the Tributes look good, for one, and that is a direct reflection on the beginning of these Games you so passionately run; but, more importantly, I am in charge of all imports from the Districts for the fashion world. They send proposals, I turn them down and make them start anew. A fabric shipment comes in and it doesn't meet my quality, we send a video of us burning that hard-worked-for fabric. Make sure they know we are not playing. They can slave for days over this material and if it doesn't meet my standards it was all for nothing. I make sure these Districts listen to my orders the first time, or they will regret it. That's a promise.
A lot of responsibility comes with the title, too. I have my own penthouse office, I oversee all direction and production of apparel for every shopping center, every boutique, even every personal commission has to be run by me first. If I don't want it made or I don't want you wearing it, that's too bad. And if someone wants a personal commission for a one-of-a-kind outfit that I think would look much better on me, well, fuck your outfit it's mine. Simple as that. The power that comes with this position is a year round every day kind of power, unlike Gamemaking which is always cut too short. Always cut far too short.
I'm sure if I ran into the likes of Dom Copperview again, she'd laugh. She'd laugh at me for giving up Gamemaking and becoming the Head Stylist. It's probably a downgrade in that elitist head of her, but I love my work. You know how much looking good means to me. Now I am in charge of not only making sure that I always look high quality but making sure others can look half as good as me. It's an honor, really, to be in charge of such importance business. It's no Gamemaking, and it brings about an unfortunately low number of fatalities, but I love it, Glam. I love every second of it.
And that should be enough.
I've decided I'm not sending this. After nine years, you don't need this reminder of me. As much joy as it would bring me to know I brought you to your knees in submission once again, it isn't worth it.
For what it's worth, I still have a tiny space of room in my heart for you. No one else shares that luxury. And this is why I'm not sending this letter, Glamour. You can't know how special you are to me. Good luck with everything.
Post by Lauren Kinkade [Kay] on Oct 19, 2015 12:35:03 GMT -5
your compliments look good on me
The night before the Bloodbath, Glamour sat alone in the luxuriously appointed living room of his Penthouse. Normally by now Leon would have arrived, but not tonight. Tonight he had to be the mentor, had to impress upon Daria and Someith all the wisdom that had seen him through the Sixty-Seventh. Of course, they were at the disadvantage of his captivating eyes and blonde locks that called for a crown. Glamour stared at the replica crowns from the Sixty-Second and Sixty-Seventh, locked behind glass, seated upon dark velvet. He lifted his bulbous wine glass, letting the flickering candle light catch the red wine, trap the gold of the crowns in the swirling liquid.
A knock at the door just a second before they burst open. A courier preceded his Avox Bodyguard by only a step.
"Down Boy," Glamour said, lips stretching thin into a smile. It was only too easy to tease his servant. "I know it's late but I sent for him. You may go."
He waited for the doors to close before he produced a box from beneath the couch. No one ever saw him access his vault, not his servants, not his courier, not even Leon. The box was already properly packaged. "See that it makes to the airship tonight."
Long after the courier left, Glamour was still staring through the blood red wine at his prizes. But he wasn't thinking of either of the beautiful kings who had won. He was thinking of a queen. In that box, now being ferried across the Capitol and soon onward to the Arena, he had distributed the fragments of his heart as best he could. He did not know if his offering would be enough for Leon, if anything ever would. Just as he had never been enough for her.
He blinked and found himself staring at the first crown. He put one gloved hand to the glass and though the smudges were always washed away, it seemed to fit in its usual place. He'd locked the crowns away out of reach. The irony wasn't lost on him; what Anarcha had done to him, he now did to himself. But at least in the glass, he could see his own reflection.
"I hope you're watching," he whispered to the Queen. "Because tomorrow all of Panem will be forced to see me. Even you, Anarcha Bentley."
On an airship zipping over the mountains, a package with a pair of golden handcuffs rattled.