Azalea Rose Willow loves three things above everything else:
summer, the only season that mattered in her mind.
singing, alongside the comforting embrace of her guitar.
but above all, the easy camaraderie with the boy who lives next door to her, and...
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The weight of the papers in Azalea's hand mirrored the oppressive silence that had settled over the apartment. Evening shadows stretched across the room, a stark contrast to the vibrant spectacle of the parade earlier that day.
Finnick, ever the social butterfly, had flitted off to another party shortly after their return. Tomas, bless his pragmatic heart, had disappeared to wrestle Haymitch into a semblance of sobriety. Now, Azalea found herself alone, the stark reality of the Games crashing down on her.
The weight of the papers in Azalea's hand felt like a physical manifestation of dread. The Capitol's nonchalance about these forms, tossing them at her like a pre-game snack, only amplified the sickening reality. Games. Not a competition, not a test of skill, but a twisted spectacle where children died for entertainment.
They had casually tossed the papers at the tributes after the parade, as if they were a mere formality, like a grocery list or a dress fitting request. But the words on the crisp white sheets screamed a brutal truth – they were preparing for her demise.
Burial preferences. Organ donation. Condolence cards.
The starkness of it all sent a wave of nausea crashing over her. Filling them out made it feel too final, too real.
Two weeks. That's all that stood between her and the arena. Two weeks before she, and 23 other children, would be thrust into a fight for survival.
A choked sob escaped her lips, tears stinging her eyes. What was the point?
Suddenly, the weight of the forms in her hand became unbearable. She flung them onto the floor, the sound echoing in the silent room. Needing air, needing an escape from the suffocating reality, Azalea rose and walked towards the balcony.
The cool night breeze washed over her face, carrying a faint scent of flowers from the rooftop gardens. Stepping out onto the balcony, she leaned against the railing, her gaze taking in the glittering cityscape sprawled out before her.
The city lights below twinkled like a million mocking fireflies.
Down there, people laughed, dined, oblivious to the horrifying reality that awaited her in just two weeks.
It felt unreal. How could they go on with their lives, sipping champagne and attending lavish parties, while children were being prepped for slaughter? Didn't it prick at their conscience? Didn't they feel a shred of guilt for the blood spilled year after year?
A single tear escaped, tracing a warm path down her cheek. She didn't want this. Didn't want to be forced to kill other children, other victims in the Capitol's cruel game. They were all pawns, sacrificed for the amusement of a sick society.
The very thought of it sent a fresh wave of nausea through her. All her years of training flashed before her eyes – throwing knives, dodging attacks, wielding a sword. It felt mechanical, almost detached from the human cost it entailed. She hadn't trained because she craved violence; she trained because District four, her father, demanded it, because it was the only way to stay alive.
