Coffin Decor || Train OS
By the time the peacekeeper’s gather me, I’ve calmed down considerably. Clara, of course, is the one who accomplishes this, and for that I’m grateful. She’s the last person I see before being pulled away, the last one I’m allowed to hold. Her halo-ringed head bobs gently against Marigold’s shoulder as they exit the room, those doe eyes on me, no longer wet because I’d soothed her after the commotion and confusion.
I give it three days. After all, since Clara was born, we haven’t been apart for more than a night. She won’t understand. She’ll start to wail.
But I try not to dwell. Instead I focus on complying with the peacekeepers. It’s easier to just follow the pristine uniforms and crisp hallways-- it takes my mind off both my sister and the other visitors I received. Valerie, with her kisses and tears, and my aunt, her prayers falling on deaf ears. While I do feel bad about that, the thought of my impending death overrides the guilt.
Oh God. I’m going to die.
Again, I redirect my line of thinking onto well-kept hallways, rhythmic footfalls, and finally, the train. It’s sleek, like a blade, and on the inside the decorations are a lavish purple. I discover the overall design, while kind of gaudy, is enough to make me pause and even smile. I’d love to take a hatchet to the room and cut down the glam, maybe add a splash of blue, possibly yellow--
Prosper Lalune greets me at the end of a hall, beckoning with a half-wave. I follow in silence; leave the peacekeepers behind. We eventually meet Genesis down another way and the three of us wind up in a sitting room. I note that our mentor is missing for the time-being, but I dismiss the thought as Genesis immediately gets up to leave. I suppose there’s no point in having whoever it is here if she’s not going to coach us both. Or perhaps coaching separately is good? Damn. I’m starting to regret staring at clothes during the past games, and not the tribute’s tactics.
I continue to watch Genesis out of the corner of my eye. There’s something a little off about about the boy, something beautiful but strange. I mean, I really shouldn’t be one to judge, since most men seem strange to me. However, I do appreciate his good looks. Those cheekbones in particular are nice, but I don’t linger on the assessment. Rather, I wonder why such pretty things-- the train, the Captiol’s couture, my district partner-- have to be so closely associated to the games.
Once Genesis is gone, Prosper gives me a quick one over, sighing:
“Nice job pulling yourself together out there. Keep doing that and you should be okay, I think."
It's all the advice I get, along with a short set of directions to my room, and then the escort is billowing out of the seating area.
-
For the next few hours, I work on not crying. I keep my attention off all things family, even watching the Reapings and a previous game to keep me occupied. To my great satisfaction, by the time the train pulls into the floodlit Captiol, I can easily keep a smile on my face and I enter the tribute’s tower with confidence.
Of course, on the inside, I’m a mess. A complete trainwreck in comparison to many of the other tributes. Most were strong and steady at the reaping; not misty-eyed like me, not that I can tell. I want to scream at my own incompetence.
It’s a small comfort to finally enter the room I’ll be staying in for the next week. Again, everything is so pretty, so… opulent. I could admire the silky sheets for days, the ocean of a carpet for months, the gleaming dressers forever. Even the curtains look as if they’re spun of pure water.
Speaking of, I decide to end the day the way I started it.
-
I don’t know how long I shower. I’m too wrapped up in bubbles and soaps to care. Hundreds of shining settings steal my attention, the glass walls tinting all colors of the wheel, and I deliberately choose to ignore the clock. I blowout my hair and dress myself and play with the make ups in the mirror; I do anything but sleep until my body begs me to stop.
At that point, I can’t help but collapse onto the feathered bed. The swirling patterns on the sheets make me grin and I play with the cutest ribbon I’ve ever seen, fumbling fingers on smooth fabric. Bad things become a memory washed away by shower water. I fall asleep.
-
That night, I dream of my mother tying the same cute ribbons into my hair, then closing the lid to my coffin.
