d2 . nita chabra

In a world bursting from the seams with colour and dreams filled with the images that layer the world-

I see nothing.

That's the way it's been since I was born.

But that's not the part of me that should stand out. Not when I'm whooping your ass in training, spear to your chest as we fight on the mats. I'm good. My coach knows I'm good, my parents know I'm good, even if they pretend not to see it.

I don't blame them, I can't tell when they give me a disappointed look, or they feign a smile as I fight Miles or Samantha on tournament day. There are only a few names I can remember, voices that I care to listen for when it comes to career training. No one else is worth my time- I'm not worth their time. When they're forced to partner up with me it's delicately balanced. They're either filled with pity, unwilling to hit me, so they end up with their bottoms on the floor, my spear pushing into their flesh.

There are a few moments where I let my anger slip across, frustration at being belittled that way. I almost prefer the ones that simply refuse to fight me. Their blatant honesty a little more reassuring. It may rub against my skin, but at least there's no pity, it's just straight up unkindness. But honestly, that's what's to be expected from careers. it's what they're trained to be like, so I can't fault them for turning into the monsters they're raised to be.

My sisters stand a little taller than me. Ariel's voice is made of honey, a liquid that drips with warmth and care. She's gentle when she speaks, twisting her words to manipulate anyone that stands before her. She's two years younger than me and my parents look at her as if she is five years older. They hold her above me, cradle her as if she will be the next leader of Panem. But she won't be. She'll be in charge of their company. The company I was supposed to inherit, but the one they don't think I'm strong enough to hold. It's cruel, they pull back and refuse to answer when I push them to tell me why. They dance around the topic as they dance around one another, never wanting to talk about the distance that sits between them.

It's a world riddled with snakes.

It's okay.

(I tell myself that little lie in the hope that it might fill the hole in my heart. It doesn't work. But they say that if you lie to yourself enough eventually you'll believe it. Right?)

Cecelia is different. Her voice is rough like sandpaper against my skin. It's filled with jagged edges that try and hide her insecurities. You can feel the way her words try to cut the people around her, like throwing blades as she deflects her own pain. She's only sixteen, but she wears her words like armour and occasionally she'll slip and I'll hear a glimpse of the real her. I think she does it on purpose sometimes when she's around me, but she's scared that if she lets herself relax too much she won't be able to pull the facade up again.

Foolish, I know, but we all have our own ways of coping when the world hits us hard. For her, it's the little secrets she hides in the bathroom at night, the snacks in the cupboard that mother asks about because they're all gone. It's in the way father picks on the baggy clothes she chooses to wear or when Ariel asks her to just come on a run with her- she'll feel better if she does.

It's okay. Cecelia would say those exact same words. Hiding the scars beneath a fake smile as we continue with our days. I'm trying to pry her apart, get her to understand that I'm just as lonely and scared as she is. But it's hard to see help -even if it's in front of you- if you can't even recognize yourself. In the end, we're two strangers in the same house.

I feel a little aimless at times, lost to the sounds of screams, terror, and suffering that seems to be the foundation of this world. The people I meet tell me that it's a beautiful place to live. And sometimes I can hear it when I'm by the lake at the edge of the district, being swallowed by the sounds of nature. But reality comes crashing down as soon as you stray five feet away from that paradise.

The heartbeat of this worlds is sharp and curiously tangible. It hurts my fingers.