elena salazar. seven. fin.

and I thought that maybe it wouldn't be so hard if Jacinta had died. We had spent our lives like tides - in and out, far apart and close together, changing with the seasons and the years. I had learnt to live without her, and then learnt to live with her, and when she volunteered to die I learnt to live without her entirely, all over again.

And then she came back, very much alive. Like riding a bike, I hadn't forgotten how to live with her. We readjusted - but I pedaled away, my bike and I, circling around and around and around the neighbourhood wondering when I'd get off this ride, when my tired, spindly legs would stop pushing me forward, when my rough hands would stop clutching the handles so furiously, when I'd stop biting my chapped lips out of nervousness, when the wheels would stop turning and something would just stay the same for once.

She came back and I hit the breaks, head-first over handlebars, grazed my hands and knees and cried. I stayed away, unsure, scared of gears and cogs and drowning in Jacinta, no Jacinta. Jacinta, no Jacinta. Round and round and round.

The world kept reminding me that she was alive. I got back on my bike again. In some ways the dull ache in my muscles and the way my knuckles turned white-hot, the wind in my long, dark hair, it was all comforting. Around and around and around we went. But Jacinta was here to stay, my father promised. We celebrated, champagne glasses and our finest dresses - Jacinta, ours, gloriously ours. My head kept spinning, cog in the machine.

Because she doesn't feel like mine. Not when she stands on the stages of 11 justice buildings, not when her name is stitched into the stars above this nation, not when she steps off of the train and her feet hit the platform of Seven. She is theirs. Theirs, my parents, their associates, the Capitol's. My sisters', my cousin's, everyone else's but mine.

My parents turn towards the carriages meant only for celebrations - all pearls and ties and smiles. She is home, my sister - this time for good. My father makes a lot of promises but  I have half a sense not to trust anything my parents say.

Dark hair and dark eyes, Salazars. Charmers, snakes, not to be trusted - I don't even trust myself, let alone my parents. I trust my sisters, however. There's something about banding together to navigate this world of whispers from glossed lips and closed doors locked with hidden keys that makes you put your faith in the ones that don't completely shut you off. Dad would always come and tuck me in to bed but Mom barely uttered 'goodnight'. He's wrapped around her little finger, sterling-silver bent to be her accessory, she wears him like jewellery and as much as I love him, I cannot trust him.

But I know that I could never, will never, trust my mother.

I don't want to follow in their footsteps. In fact, I don't want to walk in their shadow or along the path they've paved for us. My sisters trail behind them, like good little obedient daughters, but my own feet stay planted on the concrete platform. 

"Aren't you coming, Elena?"

I stare off to the side, smiling at yellow paint and handlebars resting against the wooden walls. "No," I sigh.

"I think I'll take my bike."