SACRIFICIAL LAMB... h.abernathy

chapter three

AND IF HE BRING A LAMB FOR A SIN OFFERING, HE SHALL BRING IT A FEMALE WITHOUT BLEMISH. 

The Tributes are whisked away to be primped and prepped for their new stylist – I think Zephyrus mentioned a newcomer named Galatea, but we have yet to meet and I do not want to know what she has in store for the teenagers – and we are sent to the rooms.

The Training Center, where we will be for the next few weeks, has a tower dedicated solely to the tributes and their teams. Each district has an entire floor and every year, the floors are redone to match whatever theme is floating around the Capitol's lousy heads. From what I can see, the theme is very little. Very black and white and gray. Everything seems hidden from sight.

Vito presses 10 as soon as we step into the elevator and we are sent straight up to our floor. I watch those milling around on the bottom floor turn to ants and imagine them crushed beneath my flat, yellow shoes.

We are supposed to begin our jobs, supposed to start corralling people into taking note of our tributes, but Zephyrus told us to let him start the whispers today. Tomorrow, we will fan the flames beneath our tributes. Mention their skills, their promise. Make up sad stories about their families. Some shit about a loved one waiting for them back home. We tilt our heads in the right direction and they fall like putty into our hands.

Vito ruffles my hair as he passes by into his quarters. We sleep at one side of the floor and the tributes sleep at the other, between us is the rest of the space. The dining room, the common area. I close the door behind me and stare at the plush space I am supposed to call home.

I do not think I have a home.

This room has been decorated in a very minimalist style. Remotes hidden, everything sleek, everything black or gray or white. Two years ago, there was too much. So much. It hurt to look at. Now, it feels too empty. The closet is hidden behind a sleek black door and when I open it, it seems to go on for miles and miles and miles. The program is built into the door so all I need to do is swipe a few times to pick an outfit for each day.

I grab one of the remotes sitting on the bedside table and press the button that sends up a blanket. It appears in less than a minute and I throw it onto the only mirror in the room, sitting in the corner, tucked away.

It is not enough to soothe the tension coursing through me. Every time I come back here, stare out of those windows at that city that I do not belong anywhere near, my body tenses up entirely. I have never truly belonged anywhere since my victory. I am no real winner, just a girl who got lucky, just a girl who made it when she was supposed to be the first to die.

Whenever I have tried to kill myself, God does not let me die.

I step into the elevator and press 12. It is quiet when I arrive. Silence beating around me like the desert late at night, predator hiding in shadow, steps slowing as it gets closer. I know I shouldn't be afraid to be up here. The District 12 team will all be doing their jobs, getting the tributes ready for the parade, charming the Capitol. But, he will be here and that is enough.

I knock on the door I have come to know almost as well as my own.

Moments later, it is opened by a tall man. His shoulders are broad, his dark hair falls limp around his olive-skinned chin and when he smiles, I can smell the spirit on his breath. But, he is not as drunk as he usually is. He can stand without holding onto something and his eyes focus on me instead of glazing over.