vertigo | stella oneshot

Darkness swirled in front of her eyelids and Stella glanced down, a knife in hand. She knew she was breaking the rules - the Training Center wasn’t open, it was hours after closing, nearly two in the morning, but she decided that she did not care. She knew that after breaking the lock, she would take whatever punishment the Capitol would decide to dish out, consequences be damned. But would they actually punish the most recent Victor? They wouldn’t dare. She was pushing her luck, but honestly could not care less. Reckless, reckless.

Her vision swirled in front of her as she gripped the knife, left hand coming up to caress the serrated edge, quite like the knives that she had thrown at the dummies when she was here before the Games. Before the Games. She swallowed, heart aching and lungs expanding as she gulped for air.

Remember to breathe every once and a while; do not drown within your own storm.

Her steps were slow and cautious, as if she was intruding on a sanctuary. Hollow spaces between bones, ribcages filling up with the absence of space - she yearned for the safety and security that another soul could bring. And yet she sought out dark places, devoid of sound, life, light. She savored her destruction, her downfall. A deep breath and the moment passed as the moonlight filtered through the high windows.

Stella walked towards the balance beam, stowing the knife in the holder on her back. She would return it to its rightful place underneath her pillow, the security in the steel more comforting than her favorite composition. Dancing across the balance beam and onto the cushioned floor, she paused.

Stella looked around and exhaled loudly, pulling the knife and the holder off of her back, tossing it to the ground. She was left with only her black tanktop and black pants. The only color she seemed to care for these days. The pants were tight enough 

Breathe in.

Execute.

Hold.

Stella felt her muscles pull and stretch, felt the opening of her rib cage from her slowly drawn in breath. She held the air in her lungs as her body bent just so, a juxtaposition of straight back and turned out leg, her chest pressing to her shirt so that the material stretched tight. The leg supporting her weight held her strongly, the other lifted straight out behind her in an angle just beyond parallel to the ground. A practiced overextension, one that not everyone could perform while maintaining good form, but Stella had worked for years to be able to manage.

She kept her hips in perfect formation, squared and stable, her arm extended out in front of herself, the other curved over the barre. It was her version of her favorite movie - an  arabesque.

And then she felt it. A tremor.