tullia nall / capitol / fin

capitol citizen
aged twenty-seven

a glance in the mirror

It rarely became a challenge. Long legs swinging forth, features so striking that the rest looked on in boiling envy. Short hair, skin that glittered with the sensible amount of powder. Thin, willowed woman, strong as a bow. Shallow, swallow people around would kill for her looks. They would foolishly change themselves to achieve it, all in vain. Vanity, ha. Could it be so bad if it were deserved? Tullia needn't compliments, she always said. That's what she told herself. Yet she gobbled those words like she was starved, even if they were empty; empty words were like empty calories. Just don't think about where they come from. Does the body really know the difference between a calorie and a compliment? Did Tullia? No. Only one was ever worth it.

pursed lips to spread evenly

Sweet baby, sweet honey; lovers do as they do. Tullia took never one, but many. They loved her, though she rarely loved them. She took them so they could stroke her ego and her skin. Undeniably, she saw the greed in everyone around her. She thought them pathetic, the people. They were malleable like clay. She told people she merely dabbled in art, which was somewhat true. It was nothing but a job, an artist, and people adored her for it. Most days it frustrated her, art. Yet, when the moment came, she was delighted in how easy it would impress. People applauded her, schmoozed her for it. Praise was addicting and Tullia was always, constantly on the verge of a relapse. It was her hit. People did two things: sustain and disdain. She needed them to keep her going, yet she loathed them. She always showered after a busy day as to wash away the interaction and anxiety it caused her, but wake the next morning on a search out for more. Art never demanded an explanation, Tullia felt it was most intimate that way. Paint and clay usually, commissions and shows and her name attached to piece with a price prettier than the work.

a check at her back

Never like a shadow, no. She was never quite subtle enough for that. One may call it shyness but Tullia pretended it was poise. Never would she admit that she was actually afraid. Afraid to be seen, on the inside. Oh, she was desperate to be seen. To be noticed. But not to be heard; should she say something wrong? People crucified each other for wrong words. The social atmosphere slowed and flowed like exhaust or perhaps water. Tides changed, and Tullia could read them like the moon. Did the moon read or create the tide? She liked to think she created them, but no, she only washed in and out with them. She liked to think she was the influence, but she was but the influenced.

adjust and re-adjust

If only one could eat allure. Why did people always compare the richness of her skin to food? Did delicious equal beauty? It was not a major issue, just an ironic one. Do people know how to appreciate anything without a metaphor? It didn't seem like it. Entertainment never stood on its own; it was always explained with something else. Dancers were feathers in the wind, the Games were struggles of nature like food chains, citizens howled at comedians like wolves. That was how the Capitol saw the world, as did Tullia. She figured she was clever enough to recognize how her world was discursive, but didn't have the energy to fight it beyond acknowledgement.

tilt of the chin

How long does a grudge last? Could it outlive the holder? Tullia was convinced a grudge had the potential to be immortal. But, it would need to be a big one. She hadn't spoken to her sister in years. How else does one react to fraud, to theft? From her own kin? Her sister stole her creation, useless art, passed it as her own. She was praised for it, and not Tullia. No. That was the last time her older sister would walk all over her. There were only the two of them and Tullia always got the seconds. Never really second-hand materials, no, not in this city. But second-hand love from her father and mother. Attention, though Tullia always got what she wanted. Childhood was yellowed by a hazy cloud of envy, greened with jealousy. Tullia turned out more beautiful, though. Tullia knew that much. Her parents kept photos at their high-rise home, with fluorescent lights highlighting her sister's flaws.

hooded eyes staring at themselves

Deepest desires? Perhaps that was why she required validation? Was it because she was born without want? It seemed like nonsense here, where nobody needed anything. Tullia scoffed at the ridiculous consumption. The lengths, the absurdity people endured for this nonsense? Senseless fashion? Tullia knew sophistication, restraint, style. People wasted hours searching, Tullia spent hours searching. There was an essential difference there, Tullia always thought. She walked with her head tilted ever so slightly, superior. She was taller than most, like a bird of prey amongst pests. She scorned this culture, yet actively participated. The drama of her life around her was worthy of an eye-roll, but not for Tullia herself.