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How to conceptualize your own mortality: remember that you don't bleed ichor, you bleed iron.
You'd think that after years of surviving in an inhospitable country, she would learn that she wasn't invincible. She had been beaten down more times than she could count. Tragedy followed her like a lost puppy that she could never seem to shake off. And, yet, she thought that she would never truly die. Perhaps it was something that she struggled to wrap her head around; the fact that she could be dead in less than twenty-four hours. It would be foolish to ignore the pendulum swinging ever-closer to her pale neck. But, everything seemed so displaced. The arena felt like a dream, something that was foggy and in the past. Now, with every second pushing her closer to that catacomb of horror, she still didn't feel particularly lucid.
The first time that she had entered the arena, she had been a ball of anxious energy. She could barely sit still as her prep team beautied her up for the interviews the next day. All she could see was the glint of tweezers and wonder if the metal would be similar to the knives she would see the next day. Today, however, Plume was calm. Her heartbeat felt like an idle drum inside of her ribcage, a reminder of her life, but not beating in excess. Her stomach was surprisingly tame, and she even found the strength to eat a full bowl of pasta and grilled chicken.
By then, her stomach was protruding from her pants. That was a good sign. She would starve to death slower. Plume suppressed a flinch at the thought. Her priorities were survival, and that saddened her. She could be at home now, reading a book or cooking dinner. But she was here, playing a murderer's game and weighing her chances of survival.
As Plume sipped at a glass of water (she adamantly refused to add ice. Adding ice to her drinks made her feel like a bureaucrat.), her prep team swarmed around her like a cloud of gnats. She dug her vertebrae into the metal seat behind her, willing her patience to remain. While Leda tore off more layers of hair and skin to make Plume's legs smooth, Zelia worked on her hair and Thane wiped eyeshadow on her eyelids. It was mostly silent as they worked, save for the brief comment on Plume's bone structure, or the clatter of makeup brushes on a table. Plume was vaguely aware of Zelia sewing something into her hair.
In her first interview, she was dressed in pinks and greens and yellows. Apratis had called it Springtime. That was when they still believed her to be as innocent and pure as a flower, unaware of the thorns that bristled her edges. Her hair had been woven with pastel ribbons, her cheeks sparkling with glitter and rosy blush. She had looked like a child, which might've been the aim. She was only fifteen. Only fifteen. It seemed impossible. Seven years ago, her innocence was chopped at the roots and she was left to wilt. A flower without a home, a flower with nothing but poison as soil. Maybe that's why she was so filled with strife. She had been weaned on belladonna and nightshade, and instead of rejecting it and starving, she had sucked it up through her roots and became it. A poisoned rose. A shattered image.
