𝙂𝙄𝙍𝙇 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝙊𝙉𝙀 𝙀𝙔𝙀 ;; 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘎𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴¹

𝙄

Mornings in the desert are cold, especially during the Summer. With the sun acting as an eternal oven day in and day out, the only time there is any sort of reprieve is when the moon casts her blue rays on the Earth below, a calming site amidst a chaotic world.

    When Sienna was younger, her mother used to sit out on the porch, cuddling the young girl and her brother in her lap as she whispered old District 5 folktales. She would wrap her children up in her knit shawl, warm after spending hours hovering over the stove. As they sat on that porch, rocking in her wooden chair, Sienna always found herself staring into the moon's face, awestruck at the beauty while her mother talked of ghosts and spirits.

    But, those days have long passed. Ever since her mother got sick, ever since her father had poured all of his earnings into trying to heal her, ever since he lost his job after spending so much time with her, ever since she died... Sienna knows they will never find such peaceful nights again.

    Growing older is already a typically scary thing—change in itself is scary, never mind your skin outgrowing your bones along with the personal battle of puberty and hormones, but add in the fact that, as you grow, you must also face the most terrifying lottery known to Panem? Forget about it. How does any child sleep at night?

    It's Sienna's fourth time this year, waking up from a night in which she barely slept, nightmares plaguing every wink of rest she got. The only comfort was the moon's blue rays shining through her thin curtains and onto the bed she shared with her younger sister. But, even so, the moon had to disappear eventually, leaving mourning doves in its wake as they acted as a gentle version of a rooster—it's time to greet a day full of sorrow.

    Sienna gets up first, quietly pushing the covers off of her before swinging her legs to meet the cold floors beneath them. A chill still persisted in the room, although just from the open window, it was clear that the sun was already making its impact in the July heat. Sienna sighs, running a hand through her hair before turning to look at the clothes folded nicely atop her dresser.

    Sienna frowns slightly at the outfit awaiting her, a short sleeve beige dress that was really meant to be white, but time had worn it down to a faded yellow. Even so, Sienna doesn't have many complaints—she got it for cheap two years prior, and given the fact it still fits, she has no qualms. Over the years, poverty has taught her compromise in many different ways, including her daily clothes.

    She walks over gingerly, each step precise as to not hit any creaky boards and wake Missy from her soft sleep. She could feel her sister tossing and turning beside her all night, so she knows she was just as nervous and has no interest in waking her up before her internal clock. Missy was already a pubescent monster, no need to accentuate it with an early morning.

    As soon as she reaches the dresser—vanity, really, if you consider the shattered mirror of much use—her fingers find the lace of the dress. Once, this dress might have danced through spring festivals, its lace catching sunlight. Now, each frayed thread seemed stitched with dread. Every reaping, as the corset cinched tight, it felt like a promise—she might never return home.

    She looks up for a moment, and is quickly met with the broken glass in front of her. The mirror's cracks don't distort her reflection—they reveal it. Fractured, but unbroken. Like everything in District 5.

    The thought causes a shiver to run down her spine, and she turns away. Her throat feels tight, almost like she can't breathe, but that isn't much of a shock. This is her fourth year of being eligible for the Games—meaning four different slips of paper read Sienna Scott—but she's known this fear since she was eight. When her older brother finally turned twelve, she was sure her whole world would fall apart, and in a fit of anxiety, she would grip her father's hand and bite her lip, praying to God that any name besides Theodore Scott would echo from the lips of their escort, Rosalind Tremayne.