"White roses, like the one nestled in Snow's lapel, were arranged neatly at her crown. Her Victor's crown. Red roses stood in stark contrast against the pale petals around her neck. Like blood." - Chapter 2, Funeral Pyre
I pour another glass of the noxious, clear liquid, my grip on the ornate crystal so tight my knuckles paled. The boiling pot of emotions in the pit of my stomach is obscured and dampened by the strange sense of serenity I felt. I lean back into the plush embrace of the chair, stretching my legs out and taking a long sip of liquor. I feel as though I should look away, but my eyes remain fixed on the blood that seeped out from between the fine capitol linens.
‘Can I lie down before we go?’ That is what she had asked. The winner of the 69th hunger games. My winner. She deserved some rest, what harm would 10 minutes do? Even Effie had acquiesced to the request, despite her penchant for punctuality. 10 minutes wouldn't hurt to allow this poor broken girl some peace before we travelled home.
Sure, it wasn't the 10 minutes that hurt. It was the long screw she had managed to dislodge from the drawer of the bedside table which now lay in two pieces on the plush carpet. It was the long screw that she had dug into her own jugular. How had she pried it loose? My eyes flicked to the empty plate on the table, the fork, the lack of the simple butter knife. The knife that glinted on the carpet. Ah. Who hadn't used a knife in place of a screwdriver in a pinch?
Honestly, I'm a little impressed at her quick thinking and even quicker execution of her plan. And maybe even a little jealous of her. How many times had I wished I had had the guts to just end it? And here she was, 18 forever more, by her own choice and hand. It was likely the only choice she'd ever get to make. Victors weren't often afforded autonomy.
I shift a little, holding my glass to her still warm body in a toast.
“Good for you, sweetheart.” Then I down what was left.
I'm somewhat aware of the door opening and flooding the room with light, and of Effie’s frantic screaming. She is probably pleading with me to help, pleading with the cooling body to hang on, crying out for help. But the booze, as well as my own small droplets of defiance, stayed my hand. I merely reach forward for the bottle of liquor, chugging it almost casually as peace keepers and medics rush in.
“There's no point.” I say, though im not entirely sure if the words actually come out.
when people are like "i didn't come here to make friends" i'm like thats sooooo unrelatable. i am always on the look out for some girl friends. I would be in that hunger games cornucopia like "your ex boyfriend did WHAT."
thinking about the difference between melodramatic, moody angel telling buffy he wishes he could see her in direct sunlight vs. spike just straight up scurrying around Sunnydale with a blanket over his head whenever he gets bored and wants to see buffy during the day
Grantaire was a daring drinker of dreams @lesbiangrantaire - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
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