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REVENGE.
THERE HAD ONCE BEEN A MOMENT WHERE SHE WAS TRULY HAPPY AFTER HER GAMES. She remembers the smile that adorned the face of her older brother as she stepped off the train, his arms encasing her body to him tightly. He was so proud of her, so happy that his little sister had managed to survive such a vicious and cruel games. She remembers him telling her that he was so incredibly grateful that she'd found her way home, that he wouldn't be able to live without her by his side because it would be much too painful.
That night they'd moved into the Victor home that she was granted, the house so large that neither of them really knew what to do with it. From the moment they stepped in, it was so full of life. Laughter echoed through the halls and it smelt of cookies, ones that she'd been able to prepare herself in her brand new kitchen. It was so bright and bubbly despite what she'd been through, Cato helped, he was always there.
Now it's bland and lifeless. The flowers had wilted, the laughter was gone and now there is only one person living in it. The house is always so silent, other victors pass by and hear not even a creak coming from within the home's walls. There was never any smoke leaking from the chimney, no windows open to let the light in and most certainly no quiet humming which they used to hear when she was cooking — people often wonder if the girl is even alive.
In a way, she no longer is. It's as if grief has etched away at her once inflamed heart and cursed her with a darkness that has broken it. At times it's like it's not even beating, the life drained from her features and her skin a sickly pale colour. The way her eyes are constantly red from the tears, she's sure one day she'll just run out. There has to be a day where the tears just stop coming, just stop taunting her. When they stop, she has too much to think and they start up again.
Like most days, the blonde is curled up in her bed with a pillow in her arms for comfort. It's surface is drenched in the salty substance that continues to drip from her eyes and down the sides of her face. It's hard to stop them, she has no idea how to do it. So instead, she lets them fall free and drench almost every inch of her pillow — day after day it's the same narrative.
Nobody comes to check on her often, why would they? The only person in this town that truly cared for her was her brother. Sure the other victors were friendly enough to her, but she wasn't their responsibility and she completely understands why they choose to stay away.
Therefore she has grown progressively more lonely. The bed has become her safe haven, the place where she can be away from the outside world. Here she can keep herself hidden and comfortable, as comfortable as she can be anyway.
Her eye stray to the clock on the wall, the hands moving agonisingly slow. It's taunting her, making the days seem slower and more drawn out, more suffering to fit into the twenty four hours. She's aware of what the day is, the day that the victors of the previous year's games would be coming around to her District. She would have to stand up on a small stage with the face of her brother in the background. She would have to see his face again, relive the terrible memories as his murder's got to bathe in riches and live to see another day.
