"Isn't it lovely. All alone.
Heart made of glass. My mind of stone.
Tear me to pieces. Skin to bone."
━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ➹ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━
BOOK 1 - Indiana Summers is the niece to two Victors and the sweetheart of the Capitol but now she'd been dropped into the...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
┏━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ➹ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━┓ 'What's wrong? You've been askin' but I don't have an answer. How come?' ┗━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ➹ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━┛
Pencil flitted over the paper as dark lines appeared in the wake of the nib. A frustrated huff floated in the air. Eraser smudged away charcoal. A growl replaced the soft earlier sound.
It wasn't good enough.
Anger controlled her movements as she crumpled the paper and launched it, not giving a care as to where it landed. Chuckling when he was greeted with a discarded drawing whacking him in the face, Cato greeted his fiancée cheerfully; seeing her passion for drawing resurfacing had put him in high spirits.
During one of their late-night conversations before the 74th Hunger Games (a moment that seemed like a million memories ago), Indiana had let slip her enjoyment for designing outfits in her spare time, and she had often attempted architectural designs. If she hadn't become a Trainer, she would probably have ended up in the Capitol as a designer. However, life had taken her in a completely different direction from both paths. It had taken more begging than he was comfortable with before Indiana had agreed to show Cato what she was capable of – he hadn't been disappointed.
Watching as her forehead creased in concentration, he allowed her to start the new masterpiece in peace. Collapsing into the armchair at the side of her bed, he unfolded the ball and blinked twice at the image staring back at him. It was his face. Perfectly captured, from the creases in his forehead after years of frowning to the twist of his lips when he smirked. Questioning why his face had been scrunched into pieces, Cato scowled at the perfectionist answer he received.
"What do you mean 'the eyes aren't right'? They're perfect replicas – and don't tell me I'm wrong," he added when he saw her mouth open in response. "They're my eyes. I look at them every day."
"You don't see them the way I do though. The ones in the drawing don't show the kindness and depth of emotion I see in yours every time you look at me." Indiana mumbled, face disappearing behind a curtain of hair when she ducked her head to avoid looking into those captivating eyes.
Placing his hands on either side of her face, Cato tilted her head back before pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose. Assuring her that it was perfect, he picked up the stack of drawings at the foot of the bed and began rifling through them. Marvelling at the detail produced from memory, the faces of familiar people stared back at him; Cashmere, Gloss, Finnick, Clove, even Glimmer.
An unfamiliar male face had a surge of jealousy rushing through him until he saw the name at the bottom of the page. 'Jamie'. This was the face of the man who had aided her training to survive the Games. The man who had been executed in front of Indiana during her imprisonment as incentive for her to talk (as she had tearfully told Cato one night after a gruelling therapy session – surprisingly, they had the same therapist).
