shea kingsley, capitol {stylist}, fin
Jan 22, 2020 22:58:30 GMT -5
Post by Stare on Jan 22, 2020 22:58:30 GMT -5
“Shea!”
“What the hell is going on?”
“Is that - ?”
“Oh my god.”
“Shea, stop! Stop!”
She ignored the pounding on the locked door, letting it rattle on its hinges as glittering purple curled into harsh, unforgiving obsidian. The fire cackled unforgivingly, white scars on her hands evidence of the flames’ vengeful nature. The light it cast raced against the pale floorboards of an empty room, making her shadow jump and shudder even though she herself was still as stone. She kept feeding the fabric to the fire and it consumed it like a starved man, artificial logs jutting out into a protruding ribcage under the ashes.
By the time someone managed to force the door, it was done. Hands grasped Shea’s shoulders, fingers digging into her pale skin and shaking her, trying to pull her back. She heard shouts and curses and her name, over and over and over again, but her eyes were glued to the fire. She smiled.
“Shea.” Fern’s voice finally came through to her, an almost-whisper that was grated and broken enough to catch the stylist’s attention. The air was cold. Someone had thrown open a window to let out the smoke. “Shea, you promised.”
Her smile faltered. “She died.” Shea wasn’t sorry. Lots of people died in Panem. They starved or they were shot or disease cut them down or they were murdered for all the world to see, so that the citizens of the districts might know that the ghosts of their ancestors were not yet forgiven and the price to pay was a sum written in blood. “It was only for her. She doesn’t need it anymore.”
“You knew she wouldn’t make it,” Fern snapped, impatient. “They never do.”
None of Shea’s ever survived. At least this time she’d revealed herself to be a bastard sibling, probably destined for a premature death in the same way her sister had been. “It was for her.”
“She’s not writing your paycheck, though, is she?” Quartz grumbled, leaning against a wall and shoving gold-streaked hair out of his face. “Plenty of people would have paid good money to see that dress in a museum.”
Shea snapped out of it then, standing abruptly and glaring. “Why? Because it was so perfectly made? Because it hugged her scrawny, bony little frame just right? That dress was a disaster. It deserved to be burned.”
Quarts straightened in protest. “We worked for hours on it. It was perfect.”
“Stop embarrassing yourself.” Shea dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Nothing’s perfect.”
It was a fact her parents had never failed to remind her of. If she wasn’t the best then her efforts weren’t worth their time, and even when she’d become the best she still wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t tall enough, pretty enough, talented enough, perfect enough. And then they’d gone and died, consumed by flames not unlike the ones that leaped and danced in the hearth.
Freak accident, people at the funeral had murmured. So sad.
Shea had simply stared at the graves and spitefully mulled over the fact that perfection hadn’t been enough to keep them from burning alive.
Even after years of refining herself into the very image of elegance, so regal and poised that she commanded the attention of entire rooms, it wasn’t enough. All the compliments in the world couldn’t erase her dead parents’ expectations. It was more than just an aspiration for Shea - it was an obsession. Perhaps she was lucky to have it. She’d managed to become a Games stylist, after all. And at twenty nine, too. Maybe her parents would have been proud.
But the dying embers told a very different story.
She’d developed a reputation for burning every dress she’d made. Some people thought that it was a cry for attention while others dismissed it as an artist’s vanity. In truth Shea couldn’t stand any of the things she made. None of them were satisfactory, none of them were quite what they were supposed to be. Imperfection was bad enough, but evidence of it was what made her seek out the flames.
“Do you ever consider that it’s not just your work that you’re burning?” Fern’s voice brought her back to the present.
She brushed some of the ashes off her fingertips and turned her cold gaze to her assistant. Though she’d become well known for her ability to charm others, ever the ideal party guest or hostess, her projected warmth gave way to a surprisingly icy interior when it came to her work. With her team and her tributes she was sharp, short, honest but harsh. There was no room for kindness in a world of beauty and death. “You’re absolutely right. It was my design and your poor construction that I burned. I may have turned a blind eye to your sloppy seams this time, but don’t think I’ll be so forgiving next year.”
Fern spluttered for a moment. “Everyone loved that dress.”
Shea hummed, sparing the flames one more lingering glance at the flames as she made her way over to the door. Just like the ones that had killed her parents. “Do yourself a favor. Don’t be ruled by the opinions of others.” She always burned the evidence of imperfection. Always.
“It only holds you back.”
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