Hunger Games Entries

Task 2 - The Chariots

"Ow!" I wail unintentionally as my eyebrows are plucked.

"We haven't even gotten to your chest yet," the beautician beside me says, pouting.

I don't believe that I have that much hair on my chest, but she ignores my uneasy face. She sticks a long white strip on my chest and yanks it off with the strength invested in her muscular arms. I scream in pain, and my stylist chuckles a little.

This is what I am faced with after a two-hour-long session in the bath. I've had my feet scraped clean to the bone by pumice, my neck scrubbed clean, and my skin thoroughly exfoliated. My fingers and toes are pruny as a result. But that's only the beginning.

Next they put cold stuff on my face, neck, eyelids, and lips. I've never gotten anywhere near makeup in my life. I've seen Mom get dressed for occasions, but Capitol makeup is something entirely different. When the substance is put on your face, there is a weird sensation. As if there are microbes alive in the chemicals, doing something to your appearance.

Their final touches focus on my eye area. Cold glue and funny rock-like stickers, spray paint, and the grazing of a pencil tip against my already-defined eyebrows.

Another assistant brings a mirror to my face, and I nearly gasp at my appearance. My face is caked in...stuff. They have made my skin slightly tanner, and my eyelids a bit lighter. The obvious splotches on my neck are now gone. I'm no longer a sickly, pale boy from the shadows. I look like a tribute now, or should I say, a sacrifice.

Our stylist commands me to stand up and turn around while he inspects if any of my flaws are still showing. He murmurs to himself, nodding his head.

"And we're done. Good job, everyone!"

I've never experienced this much physical pain in years. I don't think having my fingers crushed by a hammer or getting hit by a club could even contend with the pain of beauty combined. All I've heard all day are the sounds of wax strips being pulled off with full force, the obnoxious noise from spray cans aimed all over my body, my stylist's ramblings about my "unruly hygiene", the faint noises produced by the suffering of others, and of course, my own occasional screams.

I look at my pale hands and my sad, scrawny legs. Baggy golden sack-like dresses and skimpy silver tights are not my thing. The tights' stretchy metallic material, slightly itchy, hugs my legs tightly, displaying my poking kneecaps and what miniscule muscles are on my calves. The dress is populated by shiny beads of striking silver, gold, and matte white that vary in size from a baby's eyeball to a pea. They are stringed vertically by intricately-woven silky threads from the collar of the dress, and their ends dangle over my knees. I can see my face, my right eye sprayed in silver paint, on each of the beads. I look at them in intrigue - each of these must cost a lot more than our family's weekly spending. The dress also has a turtleneck covered in the same beads, but larger, and more sparsely sewn on. These beads are more translucent than the rest, supposedly so that people can see my face, unobstructed by giant sparkles coming from the beads.

My dark hair must have gone through around nine hair treatment sessions - five shampooing, three conditioning, and one fringe-chopping. The stylist said that my fringe hid my eyes, and he claimed it "the easiest decision he's ever made". I feel weird - like I'm exposed to the world, I guess. My hair is now spikier than ever, gelled to rock-hard stiffness. I am now a porcupine in a shiny one-piece.

The corners of my eyes have been embellished with shiny white gem-like stickers, three beside each eye. The girl beside me is wearing virtually the same attire as mine, only her dress covers her legs. She's also had her nails done in metallic gold, decorated with the same white gem stickers used on our eyes.

My shoes are what my folks at home would call a fascinating luxury, but all I see on my feet is a pair of uncanny monstrosities. Made of the similar material as the dress, they are supposedly hand-braided to look like grains fresh from the field. The sole feels squishier than mud, and is ten times softer than Coreen's smooth hair. The glossy coating on these shoes is remarkable, though a little over-the-top. My feet look edible.

"Can you please reconsider the dress? I don't look very tough in these," I complain to our stylist whose ginormous purple irises, dusted with silver sparkles, turn to look at me like I'm being a difficult brat.

"It is not a dress, young man. It is a tunic," he corrects, flailing his arms around like I've just asked the silliest question of the century.

I guess they've succeeded in turning me into a mascot of District 9. Overall, I look a half-baked piece of wholegrain bread. An overly sparkly one, that is.

We are pushed into the black-colored chariot, where two very well-groomed dark-colored horses with braided manes are on standby in front of the chariot. Our proud stylist gives us two thumbs up, flashing us his perfectly polished and aligned set of teeth. They look like a chessboard, only instead of being black and white, his are dyed gold and light silver. He himself is wearing tights similar to ours, and a translucent white blouse of exquisite material.

The doors open, revealing us to the audience in the stadium and Panem. I think of Mom and Coreen, who may either be having a laugh at my garb or crying with pity because I look much sadder than when I was at the Reaping.

The crowd cheers loudly for us, and our horses suddenly charge towards the long aisle. My body jolts forward a little, and we follow behind District 8's chariot. The rear view of their shockingly colored costumes brings my spirits up a little. Let's just say that I'm happy our main industry is plain old grain and not candy-colored fabric.

I have to squint, because every single stitch and bead in all of my garments reflects light, and with the intense spotlight rays shining upon us, it's hard to see where the aisle ends.

Two enormous screens project our faces, close-up. I look uneasy and ridiculous - an obviously forced smile and slightly scrunched up eyebrows. I look like a neck-less twelve-year-old with my turtleneck dress or tunic or whatever it is I have on. I follow the actions of the preceding tributes and wave to the crowd, reluctant as I was.

When the chariots pull to a stop, I scan over the faces of the other tributes. I'm not going to remember anyone in particular, because I plan to be the victor. Me.

It will be my honor to finish them all. Not only for Coreen and Mom, but also for her. Lucia. The only way for me to atone is to live.

I have to look nice yet strong. Looking weak is not an option. But I can't let them know about my intentions in the arena. Not just yet.