Windgrass (A Hunger Games Fan Fiction)

Fourteen: Diary

Once more, I’m delirious. This time from the medicine Dr. Alois gave me. I’ll be over the cold by tomorrow at the latest. He also gave me antibiotics for my hand. I often wonder where he gets such advanced supplied, then remember that we manufacture our own medicines here. Not many, but a few to get people back to work. Antibiotics, allergy medications (yes, there are people in Nine with allergies, believe it or not), pain killers… grains can be very useful.

I read more of Aisling’s diary when I was finally taken home from the doctor’s place. This was the entry after the one she… described her sentiment towards me.

               I can’t stand it. I really can not stand it.

              The Capitol.

              All these gaudy, over-the-top freaks… I despise them all. Blue skin, green hair, tattooed tongues and pierced skin (in places other than the ears, face, and navel)…

              I hate being made up to look like them, too.

             This time, the unifying color of the outfit is an awful yellow, to represent grain. Poor Syl had to be dressed in it too. Our prep goons have even dyed the tips of his hair blond!! My hair is too dark, and they say they don’t want to ruin the ‘lovely color’ with bleach.

             My outfit consists of this awful floor-length, sleeveless dress. The skirt puffs out horrendously, with a layer of a lighter yellow fabric draped on top and tied in a massive bow at the back, just about where the back of my knees are. There’s yellow lace lining the sweetheart top and peeking out from the bottom of the skirt. The secondary color is a dark, dusty green, exactly the color of grain before it turns yellow. My wrist-length gloves are this color, also trimmed with yellow lace. There’s a lace choker, in the green color, that fits around my neck snugly. It’s adorned with something called a ‘canary diamond’, this pretty yellow jewel that shines in such a lovely way in the sunlight. Bronze chains curve around my collarbone, connecting more, smaller canary diamonds.

             It doesn’t look as awful when I’m wearing it, though. Trust Xuixui, my stylist, to make me look great.

             I’m also slathered with face paint. Concealer, really, to even out my skin-tone since I was recently burned across my nose and cheeks from being outside too long. My eyes look large and brilliantly blue against my dark green eyeshadow. Xuixui personally painted a small, intricate pattern of flowers and grain around my left eye. My lips are covered in a lip gloss that smells faintly like lemon. It tastes nothing like the fruit, however.

            Overall, I look lovely. The yellow isn’t too pale against my skin, the green isn’t too dark. My black hair falls in soft curls around my shoulders, pinned up on the left side (to show my ‘tattoo’) by a hairclip made of woven grain and a single daisy to represent my sister.

            I hope she’s watching when I walk up to Flickerman and do nothing but flatter her.

            Syl, the dear thing, is dressed in a dark green suit. His shirt is a pale yellow, the vest a darker shade. His green jacket is unbuttoned to show the floral pattern (same as my ‘tattoo’ to present a sense of unity) on the vest. His coattails are the awful yellow color and blend into the green as the tails and jacket meet. His gloves are dark green and have yellow ribbons around the wrists. He’s also wearing make-up, though it’s far more subtle than mine. We make quite a pair.

There’s a knock at the door. I hear my mother squeak, then start yelling. My father intervenes and someone comes up the stairs.

“It’s open,” I call hoarsely.

Percival Ripley walks in.

“I heard you caught a cold,” he said awkwardly. “I… I feel sort of responsible, so I thought I’d drop by and see how you’re doing.”

“Oh… that’s very kind of you. I’m doing much better now that I’ve taken some medicine. Um… you can sit down if you want. Sorry about the mess,” I replied, gesturing at the various sketches scattered around my room.

“You draw? You’re quite good,” he commented, picking up a pile of papers to clear a spot at the foot of my bed.

“Thanks.”

“Here… let me show you something,” he said, grabbing a pencil from the floor. “Mind if I use the back of this?” he asks, holding up an abandoned sketch.

“No, go ahead,” I replied.

After a few minutes, he’s completely absorbed in his work. I took to watching the fields ripple outside my window in the cooling breeze. There’s just something about the way the grain bows and bobs in the wind… it’s like an ocean, I should think. I’ve only seen the ocean in small clips during Capitol broadcasts when they mention Four.

“Take… a gander… at this,” he finally said, handing me the piece of paper.

It’s me. At least, I think it’s me. It’s a stunning drawing of a girl sitting in bed and staring out a window. It was so detailed… from the wrinkles of the fabric to the strands of her hair.

“Wow…” was all I could say.

“I should get going now,” he said suddenly, standing up. “I hope you feel better, and I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I repeated.

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “Probably.”

“Probably,” I confirm.

He left, and I found myself unable to stop smiling. I tucked the drawing under my pillow, but pull it out again. Knowing the first cardinal rule of being an artist, I leapt from my bed and rushed downstairs. My mother said something, but I didn’t hear her. I bolted out the door and down the street.

“Percy!” I shout.

He turns around, his uniform bright against the coming night.

“You… you forgot to sign it,” I panted, holding out the drawing with one hand and bracing my other against my knee.

“Oh, so I did,” he nodded, taking it from me. “Hold still,” he said, placing the paper on my back and quickly scrawling his name on it. “Don’t read it until you get back in bed and continue getting better. He patted my shoulder and resumed his walk back home. I stood there, clutching the drawing to my chest, waiting for him to leave. Just before turning the corner, he stopped and waved at me. I returned the gesture, then ran back home.

I have the drawing tucked under my pillow, so I can grab it first thing in the morning and show Élysée. And Maize, if she’s there.