show me the stars {wholock!blitz}

Of all the high places to climb, trees are my least-favourite. Trees are old and their arms are wonk,y and they're easier to slip and fall through than to jump off of and soar against the sky for a split-second. You'd think after 17 years I'd learn from my mistakes. But according to my Aunt I have no sense of obedience and I'm hellishly stubborn, so with great difficulty I ascended a tree on top of a hill at dusk and sat in it's branches, watching time pass in the busy parts of the District and waited for the stars to come out and hopefully whisk me away.

I remember wishing for someone to take me away - or in one sick, narcissistic moment every single year, wishing the Capitol did it for me as I stood in my line like a good little girl. People told me tales of girls who run off with strange men in the dark of the night and are never seen again. (I wonder if that happened to my mother. Ran off with a stranger because she knew she couldn't handle me – which nobody could.) And although the prospect of escapism sounds romantic ("Romanticising death is a sign of suicidal teenagers!" screams Aunt Sharon in my head, but I smirk back and think "Then all our Careers are doomed.")