Needing the Impossible (A Clato Fanfic)

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Clove's POV

A shiver runs down my spine as the goo slowly runs down my back and chest. I look down and see that it's a sickly grey color. My face must show my disgust, because one of the stupid Capitol people begins to blab about how good this is for my skin and how much healthier I'll look when they're done. Personally, I don't give a damn about how shiny my skin is, I just want to rip her throat out and be done with it. She hasn't stopped talking since I was deposited here to be “cleaned up”, as they so bluntly put it.

Another woman slaps my hands away from where I've reflexively crossed them over my breasts, and I force myself to relax as she messages the goo into my skin. It takes an extraordinary amount of effort to keep from smacking their invasive hands away and wash myself. But I have been given specific instructions to cooperate with them, and so I'm trying my best. If they'd shut up and let me focus, it might be a little easier. At least I've been blessed with the luxury of three females. I don't think I could handle some ostentatious, flighty, tie-dye, Capitol man fluttering around me all day.

The third woman, or Thing 2, as I've come to think of her – she and Thing 1 are practically twins – drags me out of the tub and into another full of bubbly, hot water. I can see the steam rising from the surface. “In you go,” she says shrilly. And in I go.

The water burns, and every inch of my skin flushes red on contact, but it's so much better than the grey goop. Once I get over the burning sensation, I realize the water seems to be fizzing, like carbonated water. It feels amazingly good on my skin. I ease back in the tub, relieved that the prep team finally has their hands off me. But, of course, as soon as I'm relaxed, I feel three pairs of hands attacking me with cloths and scrubbies. I let out a sigh of exasperation and my eyes fly open in agitation. Can I not get five seconds of peace?

They seem oblivious to my discomfort and continue to rub my skin raw while discussing the upcoming Games. They seem impressed with Katniss, the girl from District 12, and this adds to my displeasure. They continue to talk about her as they dry me off and release my hair from the protective netting it had been wrapped in. Apparently, the grey shit was only for skin – not hair. I finally explode.

“Just shut up!” I shout. “I don't want to hear about how wonderful you think that bitch is. She didn't do it to save her sister, alright? She's a Career-wannabe! A fake! And you're all falling for her act.” They look slightly surprised, but continue to dry me off. “I mean it!” I insist, looking into Thing 1's wide eyes. “One more word about her and I'll slit someone's throat.” That effectively ends all discussion about the other Tributes going into the arena. I instead get to listen to fluffy conversation about parties, shopping, parties, salons, and more parties. Do these people do anything but pamper themselves?

My tedious preparation continues as they file my nails, perfect my eyebrows, pluck the few remaining hairs from my body, and wash my long, dark hair. I tolerate all of this with gritted teeth. I can't stand the constant physical contact. Thing 1 is brushing my hair when I snap. I had been growing slightly more relaxed, as I was under the impression that they were almost done for the day. But then Kitty – as I have named the fat, pink lady – walks towards us with a pair of scissors. It doesn't fully register what they're for until Thing 1, who has stopped combing my hair, takes them from her. I go completely ballistic.

Jumping out of the chair at lightning speed, I knock away the offensive tool. “Hell no!” I shout at the stunned prep team.

Thing 1 opens her mouth in protest, “But it's-”

“No!” I shout at her. “No one is touching my hair. You can submerge me in ten more gallons of your disgusting grey shit, you can even dye my skin purple, but you won't touch my hair. Is that clear?”