𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | 𝑭𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝑶𝒅𝒂𝒊𝒓

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐒𝐈𝐗.

Broken Glass, Bare Feet

Rosie felt lost.

Her life was beginning to feel like it wasn't her own, she would watch her body move around from above.

Perhaps it was some kind of coping mechanism, she would separate herself from the mounting trauma she was made to drag herself through. Each day was beginning to feel like walking on broken glass with bare feet.

Slowly, she was ripping her life apart. The shards cut her open.

Rosie was slipping away from those who truly cared for her.

That leap, the risk, the one that didn't pan out. It fucked everything up. It made Rosie realise how little control she had over her life—surely she should be able to choose who she got to love?

Rosie was furious at the world. Why couldn't she finally get what she wanted; when was it her turn to win a prize she wanted; what would it take for her to be free? Because, as she watched the 70th Annual Hunger Games from seated beside the man she wanted to strangle, she contemplated if the only way she would truly be free, was if she no longer lived on Earth.

"Your female Tribute this year, she's strong," President Snow spoke without any emotion.

They were watching said Tribute—Meg—pummel a boy's face in with a rock. Blood splattered everywhere, painting Meg's grimaced face. The girl was so bright and bubbly just a few days prior, now she'd turned into an animal in hopes she got to see her family again. Meg was strong, she had a good chance of winning. But, Rosie hoped she wouldn't. Meg was kind, but more than that, Meg was stunning. Dark, sun-kissed skin. Hair that was always picture-perfect, even covered in dirt and mud. A body most girls only dream of having. If Meg won, then Meg would have to live like Rosie—she'd stop being Meg Francis the girl who liked the colour green too much and had three cats, to Meg Francis, hot-as-fuck Meg.

Rosie felt two ways. Of course, she didn't want Meg to die, because realistically that was what she was thinking. But she knew that a small—but growing—part of Rosie wished she died in that Arena.

It had been three years since she was the one with a weapon, taking lives covered in blood.

"Meg is nice and funny. Meg likes cats and the colour green. Meg likes pain au chocolats, and hates bacon. That's who Meg is, not some kind of nameless killing machine," Rosie bit. She hated the idea that Meg would be boiled down to two things: her ability to kill, and her looks. Despite knowing Snow didn't care, Rosie wanted Snow to know Meg Francis.

Snow merely hummed, reaching for a remote so futuristic Rosie wouldn't even know how to start using it. He flicked the TV off and turned to look at Rosie whose arms were folded over her chest. "I have eyes everywhere, Rosemary Blue, do you know that?" The older man asked slowly—knowing full well that Rosie was aware, very aware. His tyrannical style of government hinged on him being able to know exactly what everyone was doing, he needed eyes everywhere to control everything. A microscope was placed on people of interest, one of whom—the main person—was Rosemary Blue Aldine.

He knew everything she did.

It was partly due to needing to make sure she stayed in line, if she got any bright ideas they'd have to be stamped out quickly. Rosie had the face for a revolution. But, part of him couldn't take his eyes off Rosie for what she reminded him of.

"Sure do," Rosie answered bluntly. "I need to pee, may I please be excused?" She had long since stopped beating around the bush, she knew—deep down—that Snow wasn't going to shoot her where she stood. Rosie felt content poking the bear; she assumed since no physical harm would come to her that she would be okay.