CLOCKWORK ━ Hunger Games

- who [chpt. 2]

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CHAPTER TWO. WHO.

The lights are dazzling. Mesmerising, enthralling, encasing you in an icy land of your own self, mirror-specialised, unliving. An eternal ghost walking through high heavens. You see glitter and rainbows, a burning light melting your mascara, a scandalous amount of foundation burying your imperfections, your worn eyes and wrinkles gone, leaving only flat, uncanny skin. Wearing a suit, you wave and grin, the victorious, free from slavery and chains of death. Immortal. Abhor twists in your eyes, squirming quietly in your face, a mutated joy, but the audience mistakes this abhor, this green-nausea disgust, with confidence. To the world, you are the victor, the survivor. Arrogant without fault, powerful, a vanquishing God, who destroyed his competition fiercely, without spirit, mechanically; a man to be feared. Brave beyond worlds, an enigma – "Ladies and Gentlemen, Vienna Kentwell!"

Inside, is a different story. Viciously conflicted, sprinkled with squirmy tears, sniffles; a child inside, wondering if he'll ever go to outer space. Almost idyllic, dry eyed and calm, split down the middle. One half of you is beautiful, white, pure as spring tulips; the other a deep, dark monster, found in the trenches of the bottomless sea. A different story, where good and evil is a blurry line of unconsciousness, where morals became ideals and ideals become dreams. Your face contorted into two, gravity chaining it down: it is the games that have caused this, a rupture in eloquent heart, spatial, exponent-deprived nothingness – they died! What should it matter?, part of you asks. And the quiet, thicket-infused reply . . . because they died in spite of you.

The post-game interviews are the now; a calligraphy of ink stains, a calling of the stars. An after-party, the chandelier massive, where conversations become blurred bullets to dance around, playfully, a dagger-edged smile as you pose for the crowd. You are humpty dumpty tumbling down the brick wall; the cameras are acrid chamomile, little worms, they are flowers blossoming into weeds, and just like that meek little egg, you are the hero, the lovely, the knight in shining armour, above turmoil. Nothing hurts you. Marinated vain floods your empty cheeks, you twist and turn, down the lime hill into an algae-infested lake: you can feel the ugly ornateness of vain, of terribleness, bringing color to your face. Don't let them see your trauma, the way your eyes close and see another tribute, ghost-faced, haunting your vision—they are only human, they shouldn't see—and so you twist and turn, away from yourself, placing a mask upon your face.

A mask, so tight it slips, kissing your cheeks with marble, so pristine, so flesh-wounded cold. The straps tied around your neck are choking you, depriving you of air. You gaze upon those below you, demanding respect, eyes an analytical poison.

They do not give you respect.

They do not clap. Nor chant. Nor cheer. Silenced, they are uneasy, wide-eyed. Flickerman's eyes become ovals, devoid of any smile, making him a vine-wrapped abyss of a man. He too is strangled by white noise. Somewhere within you, you see him take a deep breath and smile. He is composed.

You are not as fortunate. As the audience's faces turn blotted, and their mouths whisper disgraceful, orange-viper hatred — Oh God, they hate you — you panic. Every dancing light has abandoned you, your foundation turns heavy, seething your throat, betraying you, revealing the tired eyes you stare at every single day in the mirror. Like a melting mosaic, you are human as long as they love you, and now, you are a monster ready to be torn apart, too ugly to be seen— so volatile, a flower smothered in the corner of the muddy garden. This can't be happening.

And yet it is. "Did you feel anything in that arena?" Flickerman asks. He's caught onto the Capitol's vile thoughts. "During . . . Emalia Abacus's death, perhaps? Or at the end. What went through your mind, Vienna?" It's a simple question, really – a gaily, half-assured humility response would correct everything, glue the critics shut, prove your stormy worth. But you can't lie to them, and so . . . your mouth freezes, captivated by the cold air. It would be too hard. You can't lie.