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In the mansion on the outskirts of Victor's Village, sandwiched in between a golden gate that prevents passersby from entering on the left and a similarly fortitudinous house on her right, she paced like a lioness trapped inside of a cage. The carpet, which was once a stark white, was permanently muddied from her boots treading against them. Frayed pieces of thread stuck out towards her, like begging hands pleading with her to stop her neverending assault. Had she been in the right frame of mind, she would have stopped walking in place and taken off her shoes. She might've even fixed herself a cup of tea to satisfy her nerves. But the pent-up energy needed to be released. If she stopped pacing, she feared that she would have started breaking things. She could picture it now: her hands wrapping around the portscreen beside her bed and snapping it clean in half, her teeth bared like a wolverine as she tore down the curtains against the window. Alternatively, ruining a carpet was perhaps the tamest thing she could do given the present circumstance.
Her hands were itching to punch something. They flailed at her side, trying to shake out the violence that was threatening to spew over the top. She let out a guttural growl from the back of her throat, stomping her feet a little more as she turned around and continued her tirade. From her bed, the portscreen continued to spill information at her.
"What a dramatic turn of events, Caesar!" came a nasal voice that could belong to no other than Claudius Templesmith. Claudius was the one that announced her victory when she was brought out of the arena. His loud and boisterous tone was enough to bring her back to that day when she held a knife to her opponent's throat and sliced a crimson smile. The tangy scent of blood filled her nostrils. She shook her head vehemently, trying desperately to rid herself of that memory. "It appears that President Snow has surprised us once again!"
Yes, what a surprise it was. Her hands threaded into her messy ponytail, pulling slightly as she tried to regain her composure. Punch, kick, kill. You're going to Hell again, Plume. The least you could do it act strong.
"Indeed, Claudius." Caesar Flickerman responded. He flicked a sunshiney grin at the camera. "It will be shocking, indeed, to hear which victors will soon become our tributes once more."
Plume let out a grunt and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She willed the tears not to fall. She was going back into the arena. The thought was enough to make a wave of ferocity swallow her whole. She wanted to kill something. She wanted to wrap her hands around President Snow's throat and squeeze until his eyes popped out of his skull.
"Ah, yes. Let's cut to a live feed of the Capitol. We'd love to hear some opinions about this year's Quarter Quell."
She couldn't take it anymore. She removed her hands from her face, her eyes narrowing in search of something to destroy. Plume found the first thing she could, a lamp on her desk. She grabbed the thing around the neck and threw it in one clean stroke at the wall. There was a flash of electricity and a deafening shatter of broken glass. Fragments of ceramic grew airborne before falling down to the carpet. Plume ran her hand over her dresser, knocking perfume bottles and books onto the ground. She tore her bedsheets off, smashed her portscreen over her knee, threw the door off of its hinge, and ripped a surprisingly decent hole into her curtains. Her hands were mutilated. Pieces of broken glass had entered the soles of her feet, and scratches lined the flesh of her hands. Blood mixed with tears on her face as she fell to the ground in a dramatic heap, screaming to the empty air.
