His face is chiseled just as a visage is chiseled from a block of marble, each feature crafted carefully to catch light at the most flattering of angles. He is in a word beautiful, though he already has proved to be something of a parasite with this simple question asked of me.
It is quite rude, and entirely disrespectful as well as unbecoming to insult someone in such an uncouth manner. I know not why this impeccably dressed albeit offensive boy has offended me in this respect, but I feel a sensation of vexation welling up within my chest, alighting my nerves.
Just moments ago I left behind the life of being ridiculed and disrespected, and yet here it returns. Although, I no longer possess any intentions of meekly accepting it, of down casting my gaze and suffering in disquietude.
I shall not be subjected to this.
I nod swiftly to him as I rise from my sedentary position.
 I watch the girl, unexpecting of what sheâll say or do. But she just still says nothing, her face still does not move. My lip curls and my head crooks quickly to the side before returning to its original resting position.
I no longer care. After all I know what the Hunger Games is, I know what happens to us, to me, to her. Sheâll be dead soon enough.
âfattyâ
I stand and move over to the table, grabbing to entire trays of entrÊes and leave the cart. The statue woman, the elderly gremlin, and the goddess named Noor.
I have much to muse about, and for that, I require silence.
Furthermore, I find this to be quite the curious situation, considering my recent undertaking as a tribute representing District Eleven. If I do think about it in a most rational mindset, I believe that Iâve been presented with a rather definitive ultimatum. That being, I shall either win or be dead. I suppose that I should have perished sooner or later under the supervision of the mayor, and such a life would have been of little satisfaction.Â
So I realize that I would have died as an avox, forgotten. Though now I have the opportunity to die as a tribute recognized by many. The final possibility is that I shall emerge victorious, to be regarded in high esteem by all.Â
This possibility, however slim, is just exhilarating. Even if I should die, it should be seen by all. What luck has befallen me!Â
I am no stranger to these luxuries, and the elderly woman who acts as though she expects me to be stunned by what she shows to me is bringing a bitter taste to my mouth, something of a mixture of bleach and ammonia. No thank you, Ms. Collins.Â
The chandelier, I find, seems to be a replica of the one in the manorâs grand hall. I had hoped to escape such things, but simultaneously I am glad that I am respected enough to be afforded such furnishings.Â
Seating myself, I cross my legs and fold my hands as I peer briefly at the boy who reclines across me. I do not have much interest in conversation, nor am I quite able to carry such a thing out, but I shall not be rude and hurry off to my room just yet.Â
I will not be seen as distasteful in anybodyâs eyes any longer.Â
Imagine it, me of all people. A tribute in the games. The games that Holden cursed for years. I feel the turmoils bubble within me, although not as drastic as someone could imagine. I wonder why?
Why, exactly being the chance to reunite with Holden.Â
âYou say heâs in the Capitol, Will I be able to see him?â
âOf course you will, Heâs there waiting. Waiting just for us!â
I sit across from the girl, her face as stoic as could be. I peer at her with interest. She seems statuesque, solid. It intrigues me.Â
I wake, shaking. Gasping, scratching, panicked. My skin feels tight around my body as I wrestle against the sheets and blankets that imprison me. I scratch at my flesh and claw at the linens. My teeth meet each other in an unrelenting embrace. I struggle to force the air in and out of my body until my head jets into the light.
I scramble from the sheets and collide into the wall. âStop!â I shout to the voice, my jaw jerking from side to side as my chest rises and falls in rapid successions. I collect myself as I realize that i'm alone in the room, alone in the house. AloneâŚ
âGet dressed! it's reaping day, we have to go quickly, Quentin.â
âI know⌠I knowâŚ. Give me a minute.â
âOkay hurry, and don't dress like the rest of these tragedies. I have a feeling about something...trust me, you'll want to look your best.â the voice instructs.
I shrug and look through my collection of items, my eyes jetting back and forth quickly as my crooked fingers grasp and toss shit about the floor.
The reaping remains as dull as ever. Children draped in their best grey clothing. simultaneous feelings of paranoia and indifference swims together within me. Scared for my own life, while also being docile at the thought of hearing my name spoken across the district. Across the country. The people around me hold no significance in my life, their lives mean less than nothing. The way I see it, they are meathods my my escape. However, the games do not scare me.
âThey donât?â
I jump, my head jerking to my right. âNo.â I whisper.
âAre you sure, Quentin?â
I jerk my head to the left, âYes!â I yell in a hushed tone.
âThen take the stage.â
âWhat?â I announce as my name rings in my ears once more.
My body erupts in swift jerking motions, I push against children around me, knocking them to the floor until I shoot into the center aisle.
âWaitâ
My head twists to the right.
âNo, wait.â
To the left.
âFuck!â
To the right.
I begin to pant heavily, my chest rising and falling, and then all at once, I stop.
My body remains still in the dirt path, the peacekeepers release their grips on me, confused. Taking a step back from me. I clear my throat and brush off my coat and my shirt, I bend down to fix my laces and take a single deep breath.
âTake the stage.â
I meet the gremlin and the other girl on stage and disappear into the justice building prematurely, leaving my new allies on stage.
The boy, as I've noticed, has made a significant overall recovery in his condition, while remaining within the confines of said condition. At the start of our treatments, weâve noticed that Quentin Quessaire personally believes that he walks as two individuals existing harmoniously and simultaneously within him.
Now, his condition has improved in a rather screwed way. He's resumed his role as a single minded individual over the past four years of our meetings, however his previous other half still holds tightly onto his mind. He believes the second voice, now, is exactly that. A second voice. No longer does he refer to himself as âweâ or âus.â However there is the occasional relapse of said habit.
But his communication with the second voice persists, perpetually. The voice has somewhat of its own agenda, not always does it whisper to the boy. There are times where he can go hours without speaking with it. However hours is still what we struggle to move past. Not yet does it vanish for even close to a day, which we would consider to be our first of many fine breakthroughs with the boy.
While the voice has been downgraded from a simultaneous personality to a formless source of speech, Quentin has developed other side effects. Even given his drastic improvements. His body now moves with quick aggressive jolts of movement occasionally. His speech remains flawless, but he sometimes repeats himself unknowingly. His jaw swivels in circular motions from time to time and his fingers tap against his thumbs in times of distress. Not only that, but his aggressiveness has grown greatly. He becomes easily agitated and defensive at the flick of a switch. Something else we have learned to handle during our meetings.
These physical side effects will be considered minor casualties in comparison to the boyâs mental health. Which, of course, will be our utmost priority. Until that issue is resolved, his physical abnormalities will stay on the back burner.
A shock, no not a shock. More of a surprise, a surprise to both of us.Â
We don't really remember when the other wasnât here, although we do faintly remember the way things were before Holden left. HoldenâŚ.still unsure as to why he left for the Capitol, both of us. We remember what he used to say about the Capitol. Our overlords that neglected us time and time again, how he used to curse the name of the Capitol, despite the trouble all three of us would get in if he was overheard. We supposed thats why he taught us the things he taught us.
How to hide from the peacekeepers, the depths of the orchards where only the most skillful of workers can reach, and how to get there quickly. We almost never left tracks behind us in the orchards, even to this day. Not because of a threat of trouble, but because of pure habit.
âDid you remember to take out the garbage?â
âOf course I didnât, you didnât either.â
âFine, i'll do it. I feel like iâm always the one doing both our chores.â
âOh please, Iâm the one that does everything!â
As we open the door, a weak resistance of flower petals is felt under foot. We peer downward and twist our foot to reveal a slew of crushed white petals.
âA bouquet?â
âFor who? Pick it up!â
We wrap our fingers around the bundle of green stems and pull the flowers from the ground. Beautiful and vibrant. Seemingly freshly harvested. Wrapped carefully in silky white paper and in the center of the arrangement sits a folded piece of parchment.
âRead it!â
We open the note and read what's written inside. âWe are deeply saddened and very sorry for your lose.â - D
âWhat? What the fuck is this? What lose, do you know anyone that died?â
âNo, I donât know, did we die?
âI donât think so, this must have been sent to the wrong house.â
We shrug our shoulders and toss the bouquet into the street along with the garbage before turning back to the house.
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