𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄𝐒| Timothèe Chalamet

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭.𝐈𝐈.

SCREAMS. That's all Varlia could hear: The echoes of screams—her screams. They surrounded her. They encircled her, ringing off the walls of her bedroom and into her ears. Anger. Resentment. Depression. Everything in her radiated the emotions. Her hands punched and scratched at her pink walls, blood transferring from her fragile body to the walls. 

Repeatedly, Varlia aguishly screamed the same phrase: "No! It's not fair! It's not fucking fair!" She weaved and screamed and cried. She continued to express her despair, even when her mother continuously knocked on her daughter's door, begging to be let in. Varlia's eyes closed, and she weaved herself to lie on her wooden floor, crawling into a fetal position. 

She breathed in and out harshly, attempting to fill the empty hollow in her chest. And as she did so, she opened her eyes. In front of her stood the people of her district, yelling and screaming at her. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and she frantically turned to look at her surroundings. 

On her left stood Marcus Whitehill—the Victor of the 64th Hunger Games. His blonde hair gleamed in the saturated sun, shading his eyes. Her eyes trailed upon his figure, then behind him—at the peacekeepers. No. No! Her eyes looked toward the crowd. No! She felt her chest lift rapidly at the sight. Her district, District Six, was screaming and yelling. They were shouting at the stage—no—at the Capitol. They were yelling at Coriolanus Snow.

It all happened so fast. One minute, Varlia was in her room— screaming, scratching, and abusing her walls. She was crying out at the universe, then the next, she was on the stage—standing next to Rimo Pattingill (who was reading out the obvious tributes).  Her hands went to her hair, and she began to tug, tug on her braided brunette hair. 

Amid her panic, Varlia felt herself being pulled and yanked. Where? The girl had no idea. Forced to walk by the peacekeepers, she winced as their grip on her arms tightened. She wanted to scream and yell—yell at them to let her go. But she didn't. She couldn't. Her lips remained sealed and shut, and her eyes stung with tears. Her nose ran, mucus falling and dripping down her nose to her lips.

Mom, she thought. She needed to see her mom. She needed to say goodbye. Her head immediately lifted, and she turned to search through the crowd—for her mother. She yelled and screamed for her mother, "Mom!" The grip on her arms tightened. "Mom!" she shrieked again, her voice strained from the dryness. But it came to no avail—she heard no response from her mother, only the shouts of anger from the crowd. 

The peacekeepers, who restrained her movements, pushed her through doors, following behind their colleagues with Marcus. Varlia's eyes scanned the crowd once more. She saw her mother—shoving through the stampede of people. Once more, she screamed out for her mother, her arms fighting the grip forced upon them. 

"Varlia!" yelled Iris, her left hand reaching out for her daughter, a symbolization that her mother would continue to reach out for her. The adolescent girl shrieked out her mother's name, even when the doors closed shut, secured by the technological advancements of the Capitol. Severing the connection between the two BellCreeks: Mother and daughter. "No!"

Varlia's eyes, glossy and wet from her tears, blinked, and there she sat in the train decorated top to bottom with the richness of the Capitol. The walls gleamed with patterns of swirling gold and white, conjoining the elegance of the different aesthetically prosperous colors. In the corners of the room, white blossomed flowers sat across each other, each encaging Varlia's petite body as her body sat in a brown-leathered seat. 

A sick groan came out from the mouth of Varlia, her hand reaching to grip her hair. Her ears rang the sound of a continuous ringing—back and forth. Her head fell back onto the top of the leathered chair. Varlia's eyes opened, and she stared at the train's ceiling. Another groan erupted from her throat, and her eyes reflexed closed as a reaction to the bright white chandelier above her head.