❛ 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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═════ three. 「 HAPPY HUNGER GAMES 」
Underneath the rainfall, the water's turned from ice cold to scalding hot. The showerhead above her pours out water people will kill for, wasting itself away as Dalia stands underneath the steady stream with her head hung low. Early this morning, nobody else is awake yet – or maybe her parents have stirred from a restless sleep, she's not sure how long she's been in here. She can't stop thinking about the reaping, that Arete'll be on the stage today. It should be her instead.
Slender fingers reach out, tapping blindly at the options on the touchscreen on the side of the small shower. She can feel her body get sprayed down with some lilac smelling body wash and she rubs it into her bare skin as the water washes it away. It's trying to soothe her, an attempt she's created for herself to forget the day and forget the weight. Her shoulders are tired, back sore from pretending to be okay and her eyes can't keep themselves open; but it's the reaping and she has to attend.
As she opens the glass shower door, the water turns off instantly. She's dried off quickly as she steps out of the shower, her hair falling softly around her naked shoulders when she dries the bottoms of her feet off on the mat. In the mirror in front of the shower, she can see her scar littered body and the way her muscles ripple when she moves. Her stomach is taut from years of training, flat from the absence of a meal.
She slips on the underwear she has lain out and moves closer to the mirror to do her hair. Her eyes readjust to the bright lights that turn on when she approaches and she runs a finger through her hair, unsure of what to do with it. If she wanted curls, she knows she should've done it last night. She opts to pull it back into a tight ponytail, baby hairs falling out along with strands she plucks with her fingers, framing her face evenly. Makeup is to be done by her mom, something Dalia's never learned to do herself.
"Idalia?" Her mom's voice drifts through the closed door, alerting her that she's in her room and not still asleep. "Where's your outfit?"
"On the bed."
Silence for a few more seconds until the bathroom door swings open and her mom's standing in the doorway with a little black dress, dressed in her peacekeeper uniform as usual. The dress is silk, the fabric soft and flowing like water when it moves. Edel's touch is all over the custom dress, the long sleeves and the cutouts that expose the midriff. It was made for her, after all – Dalia's just finally well enough to fit into it.
Her mom helps her into it, pulling it onto her body and smoothing it into place. It hugs her body like it's made to and as she looks at herself in the mirror, she can't help but think that she looks like a Capitol socialite. She looks more like she's going to a viewing party than the reaping.
"Okay, sit," her mom instructs her softly.
Dalia pulls out a chair that's hiding underneath the vanity by the door and follows her mom's instructions. For a second, it's silent as her mom sets up her things on the counter.
