𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 [𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤 - 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬]

3 | 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬

Content warning at the end notes: please skip down and check if you feel like you should!

N E O

— THE GAMES ARE APPARENTLY IN MY FAVOUR. Or, at least, this is what Mentor Augustus tells Hazel and I over a dinner of jellied peaches and cream cheese and tender beef. I sneer at my plate throughout most of the ordeal, but every now and then Hazel elbows my ribs and I nod. It's like the dinners at the Mansion, I think.

"Because you are District 1," Escort Augustus elaborates, "you're on the train for a little longer. Other tributes need to be collected, you see, before we can head for the Capitol and begin the Parade, so you will have four days on this train. Four days in which we will visit the other districts and pick up their tributes. Four days that you should spend familiarising yourself with your competition."

"You have extra time," My Mentor stares at me, silent until I look up. His candy blue eyes hurt, they're so bright. He jabs a fork for emphasis and says, "Use it.

Any pressure he's trying to apply passes me by. I give him a pleasant smile and promise, "I will." Fingers crossed on my lap.

We retire to our chambers. They're very unlike the rooms I've grown accustomed to, and a small part of me squeals at the luxury as I slink around the very edges of the bedroom and find many products from my home. My favourite is the pair of miniature chandeliers swinging faintly at either side of the velvet headboard. I sit there for a while and pick at the individual stones — they're ametrine, a quartz blend of citrine and amethyst, and make the room tremble in hues of violet and gold. I like them best because I continuously find imperfections in the cut of them, and it's something akin to the raw stones my father and I used to spend hours chiselling at.

When I shower, I scrub each inch of myself with a harsh brush as if I can remove every trace of who I am. It never works, of course, but my skin feels raw and sensitive against the silk sheets as I slip into bed; a sensation that will make me feel clean for a few hours, at least.

I don't know what to do with myself, and I often avoid sleep. Lyle — however dead he may be — has me in the habit of throwing myself into training each night, if only to numb my mind for a while.

It seems Hazel has the same affliction, as she pokes her head into my semi-darkened room with a jug of warm honeyed milk.

"The Capitol is ridiculous," She bumps the sliding door open with her hip and bustles in with her tray like we're old friends. Curious, I welcome her. "Did you know they have these special dogs — Samoyeds — that sleep on giant bags of spices because they think it improves the quality of them?"

She slips onto the bed beside me. Oddly enough, I realise this is the first time I've ever been in a bed with a girl. Or, for that matter, had a friendly interaction with a girl that wasn't for some purpose of popularity. She hands me a mug and fills it to the brim, then does the same with her own.