"𝒩𝑜 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒷𝓁𝒶𝓏𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇."
"𝐼'𝓂 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒹𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒷𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑒𝓉."
An ambitious girl with anger bigger than herself and even more confidence was unfortunate enough to be reaped for the 73rd hunger games. Daphne Westef...
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"Ladies and gentlemen," Daphne looked up at the hollow voice coming from everywhere. She was dizzy, blood seemed to be pouring out of every inch of her body. "May I present to you, the winner of the 73rd Hunger Games!"
Upon hearing those words, Daphne dropped her knife, her legs went weak, and her whole body seemed to tremble as she brought a hand to her mouth the keep her sobs in. She had done it. She had won. She was going home. She was alive.
The hovercraft appeared soon after she was announced the winner. She barely had enough strength to grab onto the ladder that fell down. Time passed in a blur; she was pushed in a room that smelled like disinfectants, and people touched her all over. She flinched, whimpered, and let the tears roll freely over her cheeks.
They asked her to count back from ten and placed a mask over her mouth. She was too tired to fight. Daphne counted back, but didn't remember saying anything after six. She'd won, she was going home. Most of all, she was alive.
•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•
She woke up between the warm sheets of the bed she'd stayed in before the games. The first thing she noticed was the lack of pain. She'd broken some of her fingers, sprained her ankle, and had cuts and bruises that reached deep. Yet she felt nothing.
"Daphne," she turned her head slowly, waiting for a pain that didn't come. "Daphne." Her father gasped, wrapping his hand around her wrist and smiling through tears.
She managed a short smile at the man beside her bed before looking away. She couldn't stand to see him cry. She looked around the room instead, aware of the words he was saying, but choosing to ignore them. The other mentors weren't there. There was a machine next to her, pumping liquids in her arm. She was drowsy, but pulled her arm from her father's grip, and tore the tubes out.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Robert Westerfall said, standing up and trying to push her hands away. He would have been able to, once. But not anymore. Daphne pushed his hands away and threw the ends of the tubes to the floor. "You have to stay in bed, you know," her father said, sitting back down again. "You're too weak to walk. Go back to sleep."
"Don't tell me what to do," Daphne snapped. She regretted the words as soon as she said them; her father wanted nothing but good things for her. She just didn't want to be babied. "Sorry," she said hesitantly, slipping her legs out of the bed. "But don't."
Her father smiled, helping her out of bed. "You haven't lost your fire," it wasn't a question, simply a statement. "I was worried you would. When you began to freak out in there... not every fire can blaze forever."
"Well," she shrugged his hands off once she found her footing. "I'm not done burning just yet."
Daphne had lost the surefooted feeling that gave her the air of confidence she used to wear with pride. She was stumbling slightly, her hand trailed next to her against the wall, if only so that the world stopped spinning, if only so she had something that she knew was real. Cold and smooth. Unmoving.
