cilla rowe // d2 [done]

I'm no fool.

I've never been under the impression that all this training, blood and sweat has been for something other then nothing. The probability of me being reaped are far against me. Besides I clung to no death wish, in fact I loved life and the idea of wasting it on some moment of glory, where the chance of me being famous lasts a little longer then the span of my finger width. twenty-four to one odds of victory. They weren't good, and by the number of victors rearing their heads from district twelve my chances of survival looked even slimmer. In all honesty the lower district (that being every district aside from the career) had a larger number of a victors then we had. So putting all this information together left me dumbstruck as to why anyone would ever volunteer for the games.

Didn't they know they were going to lose.

I've explained this to my loving parents numerous amounts of times, that the chances of a single victory to my death was far greater. But they were your stereotypical career parents, blinded by some crazy-ass dream that their one and only daughter would become their champion. They held no such hopes for my charming brother. They gave up on him the day he walked into the house and proclaimed his life forever to be entwined with his magical friend. I couldn't blame him, that magical girl of his was a lot more charming, good-looking and better then the sleeze-bags I hung out with. I'd do her myself if I was into that sort of thing, but I don't swing that way.

So with him very much out of the picture I was forced to act. Grab a spear, sword or knife and throw it at some poor dummy until it was pronounced dead by some egotistic maniac in a skin tight suit -- ugh they ere disgusting, always trying to grab you and show you, and teach you, making sure they could get as close as possible and touch you in all the right places. Some of the girls liked it (it was the only action they were ever going to get) but I didn't. I mean it wasn't because I was some virgin girl saving herself for her hero and lover, some knight in shining armour ready to pull her down from her tower and tear her clothes off and take her as his own.

Hell no. 

Nah I wasn't into all those cliches and things. I was just waiting for some guy to challenge me, to fight me and just tell me he wanted me, who gives a shit about fairy-tales and perfect endings. In a world so broken and chaotic why not do what you wanted. When your parents were sure they wanted their child dead then why not make the most of it all. I didn't want a relationship with some guy, I just wanted one to grab me, kiss me and fuck me. But so far, no good. Not a single fella had tried. It was rather disappointing, in my opinion, by no means was I terrible on the eyes, I thought I was average, if not slightly more up in the scales. 

I once tried to explain the lack of romantic interactions to father, I'd never tried with mother, not with her dying and all. (You might think that's rather heartless of me, but my mother, aside from a victor crown had never wanted anything to do with me, yeah I'm obligated to love her, it doesn't mean I've got to care that she is dying, she wouldn't care if I was. Look at the way she just tossed my brother aside as soon as he found an imaginary friend. Yeah he might be 18 years old, but everyone's allowed their own things). Father had said it was probably because of the way I talked to people, he said if he didn't know me he wouldn't want to be friends with me. I'd told him to fuck off and he had said 'exactly.'

I'm all hard edges and uncertainty, a shattered mirror, the very idea of bad, but a heart flickering with good. Brother and I are close, he tries to tell me that underneath all the bluntness, foul language and big words I'm not so bad. There's a just a few ragged edges you've got to get around first. He says that with mother dying and all I'm pretending to not care, but he can see it. He says that in the depths of those brown eyes of mine they're hurting, like haunted ghosts. He says that underneath that blank face, those cold eyes, that array of coloured hair there is a numbness, a cold chill, hate. He told me that his way of getting over it was by talking to Charlie -- his imaginary friend, it was his way of coping. And he said mine was anger, yelling and breaking things. I've wrapped myself in shattered glass so that no one can get past. I told him to shut up, because that isn't true. Why would I care that mother is dying. If she wasn't dying she would be on my back telling me to work harder, train harder, be better because she is ready to watch me die in blood and fire.

Well now she is the one dying. She doesn't have a choice in the matter, just as I seem to have no choice in the matter of training, being breed to fight. Father pushes at me still, though, crying sometimes, tearing into me with those guilt tricks he loves so much. Making it seem as though it is mothers dying wish to have her daughter get her limbs sliced off. I tell him no, but I really don't like the way it makes him angry, he tells me I'm betraying their love, and he'll hit me. And then all at once he'll stop and he'll cry some more and say he is sorry. That's when I run to brother and he'll spout some bullshit and I'll get oh so very tired. And I'll run outside. I don't know where I can run anymore, it all seems like a curse, home there is pain, training centre pain. But I've grown up only knowing those two places.

So I'll kick some rocks, pout a bit, and build up another wall made of glass, it'll be shattered, broken and dangerous, and I'll ask myself why no one has decided to love me yet. But it's such an easy question to answer. They'll get hurt, they'll cut themselves on the glass, bleed and die. I think iI've become a train wreck with only two options, pain turns into either self-loathing or unbearable guilt. I just got to jump and get the hell off before we crash and I go down with them all, you see my families like a glass ball, rolling on the ground, hitting little rocks here and there, little cracks and nicks litter the surface. It's just waiting for that drop to fall and shatter.