DREAM GIRL EVIL || the hunger games

II. crack baby

[ chapter two, crack baby ]

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CALLIOPE

     Caleb would call it sadistic, and for a twisted moment, Calliope figures it's a good thing that he isn't around to bear witness to this new development.

     It's not as though it was originally Calliope's idea. She'd been working on a drawing—she was supposed to be, at least. Calliope is not an artist, and at best, she can make a sad attempt of the lemon tree in her backyard. There's been improvement over the years, since they first took up a talent, as expected of all Victors, and chose drawing as their own. But not enough to make them considerably good or even remotely mediocre. Art had never been her strong suit, after all.

     Calliope's mother views it positively: to have a talent, a hobby to keep her distracted. She was the one to suggest Calliope spend some time seaside, around the old fishing docks, in search of inspiration. If they wanted a trip to the beach, they would've opted for the shore right by Victor's Village instead. It's closer, more private and sanitary, and it isn't a glaring symbol of an unforgotten past life. But her mother claimed nostalgia to be a helpful tool.

     Maybe it is. Maybe it's helpful for her mother that Calliope stay busy and out of her way as much as possible. Maybe it would be helpful for Calliope if the Docks were at all sentimental to her. If they were inspiring enough, safe enough, pretty enough. If they weren't plagued by the threat of high tides, the rotten smell of seaweed and fish guts, the never-ending humidity, the clanging and churning of boats' machinery. Maybe the whole thing would even be good if the purpose of having a talent to begin with served Calliope's needs and desires.

     Once her mother got started on how it'd do Calliope well, there was no point in rejecting her advice and insisting that she'd rather douse herself in gasoline. Their mother is all smiles, all well-meaning intentions, all optimism and looking on the bright side of grim, hopeless situations. It makes Calliope sick. It makes her wonder what went wrong that she can't find it in herself to do the same.

     Even before the Games, back in a time where Calliope might have considered their family to be a mildly happy one, she was never one for positive thinking. A pessimist, Caleb labeled her. In a little corner room inside the Justice Building, in the middle of demanding to know why it had to be him and why he couldn't have left well enough alone, in a flurry of screams that he was going to die. He crouched down; shaky and soft-voiced, he said, "Always a pessimist."

     And now, a sadist.

     Because despite her best efforts otherwise, Calliope has now found herself looking forward to their morning routine. The Docks are an unsentimental hazard. Still, they provide a familiarity that pulls the most vulnerable memories of rare days spent on their father's boat counting the catch of the morning, spent collecting rocks on the winding road back home, spent with their mother washing the sand out of her hair. The Docks haven't been so peaceful in years, much less in the last few weeks.