poster child prodigy | 73rd poppy & justice

Chrys' fingers linger when they find fresh bruises blooming along my upper arm, carefully covered by ruffled sleeves and a sloping neckline. Even gentle touches ache, bringing forth unpleasant memories and letting them simmer beneath my skin. They know better than to say anything, the slight downward slope of their lips is the only indication they noticed them at all. "And I'd say you're ready, dear." A beat of silence between us and I just know Chrys is biting down on words, so unlike their usual self that I can almost taste the pity laced in their long exhale.

It makes my skin crawl.

"Thanks," I stand, eager to put some distance between us. It's easier to breathe with my back turned to them, even if I can still feel that sharp gaze of their's seeing too much of me. God, they'll be easier to handle when we're a couple of shots deep, meaning- "Let's get going then, babe." My smile is candy red and just as synthetic, winding my fingers through their's but I don't bother looking back to see if they've kept pace.

I love busy nights. Neon lights flashing technicolor across my cheeks, turning my blush hot pink, then sea green, then bright yellow. The bustle of intimate conversation drowns out all that screams between my ears and I can lose myself in a horde of half-drunk strangers.

We were supposed to be meeting with some other careers in our year, though I can't even remember the first half-hour of pleasant conversation. It's like reciting lines to the script of a dreadful play, but most don't seem to care if the performance is convincing. The perks of being a pretty face, I guess.

It's harder than it should be to shake memories of breakfast this morning, I drink too much and too deep. My face feels hot and sticky and Chrys' presence beside me has become too comfortable. I crave the scratch of sandpaper, so overwhelmingly unpleasant that it's all-consuming. "I need some air." I squeeze Chrys' hand before sliding out of the booth and into the heart of the nightclub.

It's suffocating, just like I thought it'd be. Sharp pains inch up my sides whenever I collide with unfortunate strangers and I guess I just trained too hard last week.

I must have just trained too hard last week.

I don't know what I'm looking for until I've found it. A familiar face, a shit-eating grin I've seen plastered across the front page of every newspaper. No wonder this place is stupidly fucking packed. He's leaning too close to the girl beside him, she's dripping in gold and jewels and so becoming for our new victor.

Our first meeting had been terribly unpleasant and, frankly, I love to hold grudges. They scratch like sandpaper.

"Fray! You bastard!" It's loud enough that the crowd parts for me and that power feels good, "With my own mother?!" Liquor leaves me too bold, hand pressed to my chest in feigned indignation, "You're sick." I turn to his companion, smirk melting into a pained frown, "Not to mention three of my sisters."

I've got none.

"i'm only honest when it rains"