𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | 𝑭𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝑶𝒅𝒂𝒊𝒓

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

Ventriloquism.

Day after day, speech after speech, drink after drink, smile after smile. It felt never-ending.

The region's differences in landscape and the structures built within them changed, but the atmosphere was forever suffocating, constantly oppressive. No one wanted to see Rosie, just as Rosie didn't want to see their faces.

It was when she walked onto the stage on the seventh day of her tour, at District 6, that she saw one of the faces that haunted her. The girl's face she only saw in the desperate battle for the bag, and lit in the sky, was now displayed on a screen in front of her. Just in front of the screen was a small family, poignantly missing one member. A tall father stood strong, an arm looped around a shorter mother who had an infant on her hip and a girl who looked about Rosie's age stood in front of the parents. She couldn't tear her eyes from the family, the infant's red face as it screamed, not understanding what was happening. The parents who seemed empty and the teenager who looked angry.

Rosie wanted to say she was sorry, that she didn't mean to, she just wanted the bag—just like their child. She didn't want to punch her, she wanted to explain she wasn't violent. She wanted to request forgiveness for the part she played in their daughter's death, no matter how much she knew that simply wasn't fair. Nothing was fair.

So, Rosie just cleared her throat, looked forward at the throng of people and started speaking. More of the same: paying respects, thanking the families for their sacrifice, thanking the Capitol for whatever reason Zavir chose, and then saying something about how Panem thrives off The Games—everyone needs The Games, and none as much as those in the Districts. It's not oppression, no, it's a lesson, a reminder.

When she got back on the train after her District 5 speech, Rosie could see the silver lining of the whole event coming out, she just had to grit her teeth and bear it for a little longer.

She'd just been letting the time pass without acknowledging it, watching the news without taking even a second in, going through the motions. She was beginning to be desensitised to her face and the connotation she saw it in. Seeing herself covered in blood now didn't seem much different to her dressed up at the Tribute Parade which didn't seem much different to her at all Victory Tour stops. It was just her face, with a fake smile and a chirpy voice she seldom had a use for in real life.

Certain clips still dragged her back in time, like the one the Capitol so loved where she sang to Toby, that still got her. But not even seeing the lizards attack her really got a reaction anymore, those wounds had healed, those ones would heal—others wouldn't.

When she saw the physical wounds in the shower, the first lucid day after getting out of the hospital, she was horrified. Every inch of her skin had some sort of mark, that not even the creams could wipe away. She'd always had scars, a life in the Districts meant you would earn a few. Fixing breaking houses, leaping fences for food and climbing trees were all activities rife with opportunities to scar yourself. But nothing like the Games could scar someone. It scarred you on every level. Once the wounds on her skin had healed, she was left with pink scars still fading. She'd had a tube of cream sent to her from The Capitol every few weeks with the direction to apply on any unsightly scars, but it got tossed. If they were okay watching her get hurt they had to be okay with the aftermath, she wouldn't baby it for them.

Now, in the shower, Rosie scrubbed her body until it stung. It was mindless as she pondered what would happen tomorrow. He may not even be there, he probably had better stuff to do, while most of the Victors so far had made an effort to meet Rosie, not all did. She tried to soothe the slight upset she felt at that with the knowledge that, even if he wasn't there, he provided a good distraction. The thought of him, the hope to see him, saw her through the majority of her Tour, so that was enough—it wasn't, but she tried convincing herself it was. If he wasn't there she'd be very disappointed.