Flowers in May | Finnick Odair

Chapter Three

I grit my teeth as my appointed prep team circled me. I stood, naked as the day I was born, being eyed judgingly by complete strangers. All of their eyebrows were scrunched together in concentration as they decided how to best start the scrub down that was to take place. To wash and rewash my body until there was only raw flesh left in its place, hair ripped from follicles and nails trimmed.

But no one touched the scars that littered my body, only eyed them warily before moving onto the next area of concern.

They talked over me, not bothering to introduce themselves. Not even as an accidental hiss slipped through my lips did they acknowledge they were working on an actual human being. Just continued to talk in their capital dipped high pitched accents.

Once finished, I was left hunched over venerably within the room, trying to shield myself to the best of my abilities as I waited for my stylist to enter. But if they were anything like the people I had met so far, I was wondering if I was better off left alone until the Games began.

The hiss of the door in front of me signalled the entrance of another. My head poked from above my cradled knees, hoping that the hatred and disgust burning within me would extinguish before reaching my eyes. They were the window to one's soul, I was once told.

"How despicable we must seem to you." This man whispered, sounding almost sorrowful to see me in such a state. He was a small statured man, but his hair was spiked creating the illusion of additional height. The ends of his hair was dipped in a bright green, along with his eyebrows. He reached his hands towards me, hands cradling a small piece of clothing. "Please, put this on."

Hesitantly I grasped hold of the offering, feeling the cotton between my fingers. I wondered to myself how much labour was required to make this one item. The hours that a person would have worked. What their lives were like in their district.

The man walked to the small seating area to the side of the room, back turned away from me. Slowly, eyes never leaving his figure, I pulled the small slip over my body.

"Thank you." I said pleasantly, trying to not let my obvious disdain enter my voice. I stalked towards the round sofa opposite of where my stylist was now sat, perching lightly on the edge of the seat. Ready to move if necessary but still polite.

The man smiled kindly, his flicked moustache, the only element of hair that was not dyed green but blue, moved upwards with the tilt of his lips. "No need to thank when you've been disregarded in such a way, Zalia."

"I'm sure all tributes were treated in the same." I tried to assure, knowing that the words that I spouted were lies.

Something seemed to click behind this man's eyes as he tilted his head downward slightly in a near nod. "Of course." He agreed, his tone too neutral to be real. "Anyhow, you can call me Xavier. I will be your Stylist."

"Pleasure to meet you." I greeted politely.

Xavier lips thinned grimly. "The opening ceremony is to take place today. I had devised a plan for your costume, but with recent events I believe we may need to modify it slightly."

"Modify it how?" I asked cautiously. Some tributes in the past have been known to be paraded around in see-through clothing, or better yet no attire at all apart from the coal dust or thin straps concealing them. And after this experience, it wasn't out of the question.

"As you know, District Three is known for their technological prowess. This year's outfits were to depict the cables that you manufacture and design." He explained, flipping open a book that lay on the lowered table between them. There before them sat magnificent drawings that I was too ashamed to think of as beautiful.