"It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart."
Every victor of the Hunger Games has been a mentor to the tributes of their district , preparing them for a fight to the death. Having Finnick Odair as a mentor had...
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I sit quietly, hands folded in my lap as my prep team gets me ready for my first appearance since the games. They spend the most time on my face, desperately covering the deep bruise like circles under my eyes. They fuss over my hair, yanking brushes through it until they're satisfied that I won't show them up.
Their brightly coloured hair and lavish outfits cloud my view of the mirror, voices squawking demands at each other as they cake my face in their themed make up.
I'm grateful when they free me from their grasp - the harsh pulling on my scalp is giving me a headache. They flitter out of the room, murmuring well done to each other, before allowing me a moment to myself.
The girl in the vanity mirror looks like a different person, and this time not from all the make up that's plastered to my face. This version of me looks older, more tired, and weary. Frightened. I can't shake the feeling, the worry. My attempts to calm down aren't helped by the dressing room. Dark, cold.
It feels like the cave from the arena.
I pick slowly at my nails, flaking the design my prep team had just spent tedious time creating. For a few minutes, I am alone for the first time since I was in the games. It's peaceful almost, the silence I allow myself to have. No fake birds chirping, no worry of being found. I enjoy myself, savouring the loneliness.
The low ache in my , now, healed leg persists against the powerful Capital medicine. It refuses to numb the pain, and I sigh.
There's only a few more hours until we will be back on the train, heading home and left alone. Moved into a new house, a new part of Four. The thought of leaving my home is conflicting. Father will have the option to move with me, or stay. I furrow my brows at the thought. Living alone in a big house....
The door handle twists, and a face I'd almost forgotten strides in, garment bag in hand. I turn quickly and run into Moss' waiting arms. Finally, I think. Someone normal. Moss wraps his arms around me, laughing softly in my ear.
"My muse returns," he pats my head affectionately. "beautiful as ever." He sets the garment bag down on a nearby sofa, turning to me again. He runs his hands over my face gently, mock horror on his features. "God, they've made you look forty-five."
He sits me back down on the vanity chair, taking a cloth and gently wiping my cheeks. Moss always felt like a friend, and his warm smile as he looks at me solidifies that. He starts to wipe my eyes too. When I look to him for an answer, he hums.
"While I loved the fierce look," he wipes off my lipstick, "I think we should show you a bit more. Not Orla, capital darling." he raises my chin. "just Orla."
I nod to him, agreeing completely with his idea. I played the role of girl in a pretty dress before, but now I would be just how I wanted. Charming still, but less cakey . Less of a doll that everyone had a turn dressing up.
