Knitting for Victory [[Zoe]] <3

I can hear the mumbling coming from the kitchen - the sound of hushed voices who claim they don't like to be overheard but really just crave the consequences of their greatest secrets being discovered. I know what they're doing and I know what they're talking about, but I try to ignore it. Maybe if I ignore it then it won't be real. But that would never work, and try as hard as I might, the fact that the mumblers are mumbling about me is too obvious to cast-off with will alone. They're always talking about me in one way or another. Because I'm their prized jewel, their one in a million shot at the bedazzled glory and honor that being a victor could bring to one's family.

They aren't alone in that sentiment, and that's what truly scares me. They don't care who you are or what you want to do. They don't care about your relationships or your actions beyond what they hear from your trainers, and they are just anxiously counting the days until you are sent off to either your death or to a well-earned victory (a triumph that ends in the loss of the last twenty-three people you will ever meet without the crown of championship resting on your head). You don't survive? Tough luck, you didn't deserve to win in the first place! You can rot in the endless pit of the other failures for all they care. It's your own fault!

I live in a world that will always root for the winning team. You can't be disappointed if you don't place your trust in someone who doesn't have a shot at superiority. Do I have a shot? Who will decide if I live or die? It's always been an unstable life, I'm the eldest and therefore I must succeed. I must set a good example for Olivia by following the standard regime for a potential tribute in my district. And when I'm eighteen, I better volunteer or else I'll regret it for the rest of my life....yeah right.

I'm too weak for conquest. The tip of my sword is too shy for the hardy body of my enemies. they say to keep your enemies close, so is next door close enough? I know that the purpose for this little powwow of theirs, that is our families, is to introduce a little control and chaos into our lives. I never met the boy, but I hated him already. In all honesty, he sounded like a self-righteous arse and I wouldn't mind giving him a piece of my mind. But that would be letting them win (I hate when they get like this), and that would just prove their countless doubts to be true. It was a lose-lose situation on either side.

In the end, I choose to simply pretend it isn't happening - that the calculated footsteps that are rapidly approaching the only barrier I have left are just a product of an over-active imagination. Instead I pull my off-white yarn from its basket and let myself get lost in the roar of its constant clicking and clacking. The warm body of Darling, my ancient, overweight cat stretches itself across my empty lap on the newly embroidered couch.

I would love this room if it wasn't for the distinct impression of desperate wealth. We aren't poor, per say, but we certainly aren't as spoiled as the majority of our neighbors. It was a wonder we even ended up in this neighborhood with our history and all. My parents worked for the riches they now held in abundance high above our heads. You mustn't touch fate, Bianca. If I wanted to see a cent of it, I had to prove myself to be worthy of its blessing.

Why can't I come from a normal family?

I ignore the quiet click of the door as it swings open on its freshly-polished hinges (they had done a lot to impress the wonderfully prosperous Graives family). My eyes burned crimson pain as I desperately focused on the steady drums of my threaded artwork.This isn't happening. They aren't real. If you think about something else hard enough it will all go away. "Bianca, pet, your friend is waiting for you in the kitchen."

"Go away."

"But Bianca -- "

"Mama, can't you see I'm busy?"

"Now you listen here, Miss Bianca Sandrino!"

"GET OUT!" I scream my objection this time, my voice rising like the vicious snarl of a street-cat defending its new-found plunder from any thieving felines. The woman shuffles from the small foyer with a huff of impatience and I return to my solitary thoughts. I don't care if their little plaything had heard our routine interaction, I was too distracted by pretending the whole thing had never happened.

Knit two, purl two, slip slip knit, yarn over, knit one, yarn over, knit two together, purl two, knit two. Next row, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.