✦ NIXIE WYNTER ✦ CAPITOL [FIN]

I am a melody.

It begins with the duet of my eyes, bright and strikingly blue, sparkling with poetry and just one of the first things people notice about me. They pull you in; lure you to them like the starting verses of the most beautiful sonata, but my idea of beauty is so very different from that of the gaudy messes that infest the Capitol with their ear-piercing colors and screaming attire. I seem to be the only one that understands the difference between accessorize and excessorize, preferring the softer hymns of slightly more simple accoutrements. Pink, I’ve found, is the prettiest of sounds. It has such a calming aura compared to other, louder colors; it pulses with light, airy tones and the pleasant hum of a lullaby, and I adorn myself with it in an attempt to completely flood my twisted senses with its tender croon. It’s in the thin, feathery strands of my hair, painted on the cupid-bow canvas of my lips and dusted on the smooth curve of my cheekbones. I wish its serenity would envelop me- become me, even- but unfortunately for me pink is only skin-deep.

My song continues with an unblemished, peaches and cream face of gentle whispers and light pink brows of hushed tones; a pastel chorus of delicate hues. Its verses slide down the smooth slope of my narrowed shoulders and transition into the bridge, carrying my song on fragile notes. I am built like birdsong, straight-waisted and delicate, yet resilient, my figure much more like the dirty vagrant children of the lower districts rather than that of a wealthy Capitolite, unfortunately. But my song is nothing like a bird’s cheerful melody- the bright, flashing chirps too neon orange in comparison to my soft-hued ballad. I know I’m different from the other Capitol denizens, with their wailing, raucous colors and blazing songs, each verse too loud or too bright or too thickly coated in glitter and rainbows. In a world of clashing sounds and colors- of broken rhythms and senseless, shrieking hues- I seem to be the only one in harmony.

I've always been a little different, even by Capitol standards. I don't see or hear quite like anyone else does - at least, as far as I know. I dance to the beat of a different drum, if you will. To me, the colors are the sounds. For instance, A flat is dark, mahogany-red, the color so much like the blood that stains the grounds of every Arena for one week a year, synonymous with the dying screams of countless District children. At the same time, A natural is the soft color of marshmallows floating on the surface of a steaming cup of hot cocoa, a delight to my warped senses. Synesthesia, the doctors called it. A perceptual condition of mixed senses. In many ways, my condition defines me. I wouldn't quite be Nixie Wynter, self-proclaimed Ice Queen and pessimist extraordinaire, without it.

You've heard (heard, seen - it's all one and the same to me) the introduction and the chorus of my song, and now it's time for the bridge. The bridge of a song is used for contrast, and mine pulls that off swimmingly. While I appear to be made of soft tones and slow, lilting verses - just chock-full of A naturals - it doesn't define me, it's not me. In reality, I am about as colorless as can be, all dull hues and completely unextraordinary.

A pessimist is a person who has had to listen to too many optimists. The entire Capitol fits the optimist bill pretty well - annoyingly so. I celebrate the brutal death of twenty-three children every year just as much as anyone, but I don't really get what all the hype is about sometimes. It's really the same thing every year - yay, a kid died. Oh look another one just got their arm chopped off - so I don't find it all especially interesting anymore. (Also, I don't particularly like the color of dying screams. Too bright a purple for my tastes.) The average Capitolite gets excited over the simplest of things, whether it be the newest teen trend or the untimely death of their least favorite tribute - a happy dance or a fit of excited squealing is sure to ensue, the latter of which burns my eyes.

I suppose that puts me out of the socialite business - though I doubt people would mind, as my blunt and snappish attitude makes me less than savory. It's not really all my fault; my condition isn't so much a blessing as it is a curse. The Capitol is a very bright, very loud place, and I am constantly plagued by excruciating migraines as a result of the assault on my senses. If your voice doesn't look nice, I don't want you to talk to me. That's just the way it is, and I have a tendency to tell it like it is. And in the Capitol, such a trait isn't really all that attractive.

There is an out, though. You'd be surprised how well something so dangerous can feel so good, how it can spin you into paradise yet be eating you from the inside out. The pros outweigh the cons in my opinion, though, so you'll never see me without a cigarette dangling between my fingers. I don't quite know why, but the smokey wonderland nicotine opens up for me seems to dull the colors just a little bit - makes just walking down a crowded street a tad more bearable. I don't mind the fact that I'll probably die hacking up my lungs at the age of fifty, since life really isn't all that much fun anyway.

Only one thing makes me thank whatever higher power is up there for my condition, and that's music. Classical music, the kind made up of violins and cellos and clarinets and wondrous, beautiful pianos. I frequent the various concert halls around the Capitol - I sit on the back row, where the lights are the dimmest and there are less people to disturb me, and revel in the glorious colors that such performances induce. They're never too bright or too loud or too distracting, always soft and melodic and a treat to the senses. It's better than anything a cigarette could ever do for me, more relaxing than any spa and more desirable than any chic new dress in the mall. It's in these places that I am truly happy.

Now for the outro.

The conclusion of my song, where all the pieces are tied together with a tidy little bow. My father has been a gamemaker for twenty years now - a rather successful one at that - but he's never been one for keeping his mouth shut. I suppose you could say that I'm constantly in the know when it comes to each years' Arena surprises, but I do well to keep them to myself. (Though there is the exception of Dom, of course. In my defense, the guy specializes at squeezing the juiciest gossip from even the most tight-lipped of individuals, the sneaky bastard.) Even after all the blood has been spilled for the year and one lucky child is crowned Victor, he gets to work immediately on the next Games. Needless to say, I don't see much of him. But that's okay - I find the deep baritone of his voice and the thick, sickly-green that radiates from it murder to the eyes.

As for my mother, I see far too much of her. The epitome of homebody, she's the reason I tend to spend my free time as far away from the house as possible. While my father's chair at the dining room table remains cold and empty every night, the seats surrounding it are often filled by my mother's social circle, the endless chattering of women - and the painful bright yellow that comes with it - and the clinking of wine glasses a constant song that floods the high vaulted ceilings and wraps around the thick marble columns in the hallways of our little chateau. I was thirteen when I demanded that my bedroom walls be sound-proofed.

I was diagnosed with synesthesia when I was nine years old. My parents had always contributed my odd proclamations of "your voice looks funny" and "I don't like the noise pumpkin orange makes" simply as some of the cutesy sort of things children say in their early years. (As the case with most synesthetes, I thought I was normal, that everyone else saw and heard like I did because it was all I'd ever known.) It wasn't until I was seven that I realized I was different. My English teacher liked to play music for us whenever we had a writing assignment during class, and one day the kid sitting next to me started complaining about how he couldn't write with the music being so loud. I told him that dark green was always loud, and he looked at me like I'd grown a second head. It sort of clicked then, and I didn't speak of the colors until I was nine and my math teacher told me that I needed to apply myself more, and I promptly told her that maybe I'd apply myself more if her voice didn't look like horse shit.

My parents took me to the doctor the next day, and that was when the term 'synesthesia' first met my ears. No one really knew what the think of it, as nobody else could possibly understand the things I saw and heard on a daily basis. For me, all it did was put a name to something I'd already known. However, that was when I decided to a little research on my "condition", a young nine year old girl flipping through the weathered pages of books in the libraries and clicking through files on my father's computer when he wasn't home.

I discovered a man named Ludwig van Beethoven, a famous and influential classical music composer from long before even the Dark Days. He was deaf, yet he claimed that he could see the music he composed, describing B minor as "black" and D major as "orange". He became my inspiration, and the reason I decided to try my hand at the old grand piano that had sat unplayed in the parlor since before I was even born. I remember the first time my tiny finger flitted over the weathered keys, the lovely dark magenta that flooded the room as I pressed down on the C minor key, the light, fluffy blue that B natural radiated. Beethoven opened for me a whole new world of rainbow symphonies, my fingers sounding out the most beautiful of colors. I quickly became a child prodigy, my condition giving me an aptitude for music that sparked the envy of many seasoned pianists in the Capitol. Music became my life, fingers spinning out endless piano recitals and entailing long days spent on the cushioned seat of a piano bench, painting the world the colors of Nixie Aurora Wynter, a song that hasn't ended just quite yet.