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TURNS OUT TIME moves a lot faster than Cora could've ever even have anticipated. She's had ages to prepare - really, she shouldn't be complaining at all. If anything, Cora should feel pumped up - yes, sad, but still, pumped up. Or at least some level of extra adrenaline should be coursing through her veins, enough that she's at least more alert, more awake, heck, more alive.
And yet, she feels like a zombie. And looks like one, too. The day she has been dreading, the day she has spent nights tossing and turning thinking about, the day that has sent her reeling towards the toilet to throw up her lunch, has finally arrived. Reaping Day.
Back when she was younger, Reaping day had always meant a day where she could dress up. Now that she looks back on it, it was a bit weird, her primary focus being on her appearance rather than the fact that two children were going to be marched out to their death. But even so, growing up, it meant that Cora could wear her pretty, little plaid dress with her matching pretty, little ribbons. She had been naive back then, her Snow name making her believe she was untouchable.
Thankfully, Cora has changed since then - gosh, the Hunger Games were one way to pull her back to reality, faced with the fact that Cora is, in fact, not special because she's a Snow. She could still be Reaped, she could still be sent off to the Capitol to compete, she could still have to kill to live.
Something about this time is different though.
Maybe it's because Cora has spent the majority of the time leading up to today not really doing much at all, merely existing with the acceptance that she could potentially be shoved back into a hell hole of an Arena. After the whole execution fiasco at the Drain, Cora found going outside more and more off-putting. The notion of accompanying her mother when she went out made her feel sick inside, and the furthest she was willing to travel was around Victors Village.
Whilst Blight and Torres had eventually got their shit together and woke up at the crack of dawn for some form of training and exercise, Cora has locked herself up in her house, wandering from room to a room like a ghost. Mostly, she's been trying to remember every detail of her home, however small or seemingly insignificant. She wanted it all engraved in her memory so that she could recall it as clearly as the hologram projections in the Capitol. Now that, she believes, would be more likely to help her survive in the Arena, memories of her home grounding her and reminding her that she had some place to go back to, something worth fighting for.
Right now, Cora is trying to recall it all, attempting to summon the familiar sounds of her home. The noise of the TV running, the smooth patter of her mothers slippers, the birds cawing softly outside her bedroom window. Cora forces her mind to concentrate, trying to ignore the dull thud of her heart pounding against her chest.
