❛ IT IS KILL OR BE KILLED
- and the destroyer isn't planning
on being the lamb ; not when
she's a lioness.
*✧･ﾟ:* book one of the destroyer series
pre seventy-fourth / oc...
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═════ two. 「 THE LAST DINNER 」
She remembers the night after her eighth birthday when she learned that not every district is as privileged as hers. After skipping lunch, Atticus pulled her aside and told her that there were children her age in poorer districts who didn't get lunches, or dinners, or breakfasts. Afterward, she learned that poorer districts didn't have half the things hers did, that while she complained about the showers malfunctioning, people didn't even have showers. The night after her eighth birthday in the dim lights of her parent's room, they wiped her tears and told her not to waste tears of people she couldn't help.
The saying repeats in her head as she stands in front of her high-end closet, the latest model from the Capitol that chooses pretentious outfits for her. Dalia's not felt pain over the poorer districts in a while, too busy chasing glory to cry over hungry kids, but every so often, she'll look at something as ridiculous as the outfit this smart closet is choosing for her and remember the luxury items she has in her home. Her fingers are constantly dipped in privilege and luck while more than half the nation is suffering – but she's just one girl, what can she do?
In her underwear, she opens the closet herself to choose an outfit on her own. It's just dinner, she's not going to allow herself to wear a silk designer dress worth more than entire districts. She makes her way downstairs clad in a tight velvet skirt and a white halter top, hair smelling like citrus thanks to her brief shower. Her parents aren't in uniform, a strange sight nowadays as they've spent more time running from their demons than capturing them.
As she's setting the dinner table, she observes them in the kitchen through the archway. They're not speaking, they're not touching and she can bet they haven't looked at each other since returning home. They only come home for dinner with guests. Esteemed leaders in the peacekeeper force, they've hosted dinners for Capitol officials and district ambassadors all her life and it's the only reason they bother stepping through the threshold anymore nowadays.
The second she places the last fork, a high pitched tone echoes through the house to alert them of their visitor's arrivals. She still doesn't know who's coming over and she lets her gaze remain on her parents in the kitchen. They make no move for the door as if they both know who's coming and neither of them want to be the one to greet them.
"I'll get it," she tells them, smoothing out her skirt and turning on her heel to enter the foyer.
In the mirror hanging by the door, she checks her reflection and swears she can see her sister staring back at her. These days she's looking a lot like her, which doesn't make her as happy as she used to think it would. As a child, Dalia would've given the world to be like her sister. But tonight, she's the same age as her sister was when she died one year ago and she doesn't like that she looks so similar.
