♕ how n̶o̶t̶ to live your life {victors} ♕

We wouldn't be on the cusp of autumn without the same menacing clouds rolling in from the ocean, the high pressure brewing familiar storms over the mountains to the east, or the same damn rain running down window panes that I never wanted to become accustomed to. But this is routine, of course. It's all routine now.

Snow sees these parties as aged tradition, they're as much a part of the Games as the interviews or the crownings, but this year is different; District Six has a Victor for the first time in living memory. Attendence isn't usually forced on us save for special occasions, and this has been deemed the case with Teddy Ursa. I've only ever been to one in the past, back when Harbinger became Eleven's second Victor in as many years. As I remember it, I shouted at everyone and then threw up. Nothing new there.

Since then, nothing remarkable has happened. Nothing worthy of throwing me on a train to the Capitol, and making me stand awkwardly, making conversation with people I don't like. How lucky I must be.

I wonder if the painted exaggerations of people will now whisper about me behind my crippled back, gossiping snidely about how Patrica Valfierno is slowly losing the plot. I can picture their clown-lipstick smiles and hear their murderous crow laughs already, the thought of them makes me feel as sick as ever. Their repulsive culture is the thing I hate the most about going to the Capitol.

Let them fucking talk. It's all they're good at.

As I stand before the mirror, trying to decide what the hell I am supposed to wear to this damn party, I begin to realise just how tired I actually look. When was the last time I got a decent night's sleep? Two months? Three? Not since before Rose told me she was clean and running for Mayor. I don't think I slept for half a week when she dropped that on me. My junkie little sister, Mayor? Thank Ripred she didn't get elected, she would have been a complete disaster for the District.

I run my worn hands through my newly-dyed platinum blonde hair, exhaling almost mechanically in order to expel any deep-lying anxiety that is lying in my chest. I really, really want a cigarette, but I shouldn't give in; I'm trying to quit again. I probably never should have started smoking again, but it's one of the few things that help keep me calm now. I fight the temptation just like I'm fighting everything else life is throwing at me at the moment, and I walk to my wardrobe.

I find a burgundy and orange floral dress that isn't exactly glamorous, yet would be considered formal nonetheless. Who's really going to give a fuck anyway? I'm hardly a style icon like Saffron or Leon. No one will give a shit about what I wear tonight. I pull on some black boots, and then as a last-minute decision I take my navy bomber jacket too, because I have a feeling I'm going to spend more time outside than not.

I don't like fancy parties, they remind me of District One, and I'm trying my best not to think about District One, not anymore. In my head, I shove it behind me, pretend it never even happened. My makeshift attempt at closure feels exactly that, and the glamour and splendour of Snow's mansion makes me think of nothing but those wonderful days with Diamond. I force those thoughts away as quickly as they come, as I trudge down our President's marble staircase and begin to wade through the rabble.

I have to take responsibility for my emotions, and that includes moving on from her, accepting it can never happen, and not indulging my selfish thoughts anymore.

Because it's really that easy.

The party is everything you'd expect. Loud, exciting, full of merriment, and here I am, a puppet on display for them all to enjoy. Come and chat to a Victor! Isn't it great? Isn't it all just so amazing. It's almost a parody of itself.

Fireworks spark overhead, lighting up the night's sky in dazzling flashes of amber and emerald - they remind me of when I was young and innocent, lying on tin roofs with Rose and throwing stones at other kids in the streets below. Those days are dead now. Schools of Capitolites swim past, chattering and gossiping, all just words, all just blah blah blah. Do they even have a single independant thought between them? Do they even think at all? I hear my name in passing, and I try not to take an interest; it's probably something dumb like a comment about my blonde hair.

I spot a couple of other Victors, all occupied with other people, or each-other. That's fine, I'm not really in a talking mood right now anyway. Maybe after a few drinks.

It seems pretty much everyone made it. Not like we had a choice I guess. Makes me feel full of dread when I imagine myself doing this in twenty or thirty years time.

I'm going to be doing this for the rest of my life.

You've got to feel for Teddy. Six's new hero probably still has that bizarre mixture of relief and fear. The relief that you're alive, and the fear of becoming this. It's the worst time-period, in my experience anyway. You've just killed half a dozen people and then you're celebrated like an icon. It's bizarre and mentally damaging.

I haven't actually seen him yet, he's probably the most in-demand person in the whole mansion right now with the exception of Snow himself. If I were him, I'd get very, very drunk.

Well, even if I'm not him, I'm going to get very drunk anyway.

I pluck two shot glasses from a passing tray and neck them both in succession. Holy shit. My throat feels like it's on fire. I can't help but cough at the harshness of the sambuca, which I really wasn't expecting given the colour of the liquid - I was holding out for it being a peach schnapp. Apparently not. Ripred. 

I feel my nicotine cravings gnawing at me soon after, and the phantom pain in my hand starts to play up almost at the same time. I smell strong perfume and it reminds me of all the reasons I don't want to be here. Fuck this. I shove past an entourage of stupidly dressed morons and into the night air, slipping a cigarette between my lips.

Everything about this night sucks.