you know if you don't want to talk, i understand. but i just don't think there's anything wrong with getting a little bit of help. ( maisie roth )
At sixteen years old, Maisie Roth had been lifted from the arena, bathed in a sea of scarlet blood and clutching onto her daggers with so much force that no one could pry them from her cold, reddened fingers. Her body, once beautiful and unmarred, had been covered in scrapes, cuts, and bruises, the marks paying homage to the battle that had gone down in the arena. Her lip had been split, painting the bottom half of her face in blood (or mayhaps the blood had belonged to another; there was so much that no one could be sure). The public never learned of how scarred she had been, though, because only a handful of hours later, she had been pushed onto a stage with Caesar Flickerman, forced to play the part of a charmer, a jewel.
An oh so charming interview had followed, causing the capitolites to eat out of the palm of her hand. Later, though, once she was left alone within the seemingly, safe secure confines of her quarters, she broke down, letting her facade dissipate, flying away with the breeze.
“There is,” she breathed, her eyes glued onto her hands. She had scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to cleanse them, but they felt muddied, marred beyond words. “If I start crying, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop, and then . . . then they’ll have no use for me.”