The Starving Artist: Hunger Games 2015

TASK ONE ENTRIES: THE PARADE

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DISTRICT 10 FEMALE: IRIS POND

Why am I not holding a pitchfork? Is the first thought to accompany my raised eyebrows as I study myself in the mirror. As the district known for livestock, I'd honestly expected to ride into Victor's Square dressed as a pig. But despite my snide comments, I've always made a point to be honest with myself, and it must be admitted: I love my outfit. I've never really enjoyed the feel of dresses, always preferring mobile pants to the confining corset, but this one is different. I search for the right words to describe-
"You're on!" Screams my stylist, Hyacinthus. My giggle is barely contained at his panicked state - I roll my eyes in my partner's direction, but he's already taken the liberty of boarding the chariot. I wonder briefly if he's picked up on Hyacinthus' proneness for complete and utter mania, though it'd be hard not to. Sighing, I gather my fabrics from my feet and step into the box seat beside Ragnar. But before I can warn my fashion stylist of his unfortunately placed sweat stains, the wheels begin to trace the cobblestone with our progress through the Square.
Freed from the dark confines of the waiting ground, my senses are attacked. The roars and screams of adoration had been comparatively a din to the deafening enjoyment these millions of people felt at 24 beautified children on death's row. We've been glorified, for a few moments of appreciation before being torn apart in every way possible. Suddenly, it becomes dead silent. The lights are too bright. Their eyes are too dark. The facepaint is too thick on their faces, I can't see who they are. These people, crying out for the deaths of twenty three children in enjoyment. Are they human? Or every night, when they wash off their layers of makeup, does a small piece of them go down the drain with it?
But the world is back in motion, and I've apparently spent one too many seconds staring into space, as Ragnar subtly nudges me with his elbow.
"Everything all right on your end?" He asks me through lightly clenched teeth. This isn't the time or place to be talking, at all, and he knows it. Asking was more of a courtesy, and an attempt to snap me out of it before the audience noticed. Not knowing if he really cared, my response was clipped but light-toned.
"I'm just fine. Don't you worry about me," I gently teased, trying to find the boundary between deathly enemies and district... Allies? But his attention had already been stolen once more by the audience's inherent vying for tributes' attention. It's never really about much more than your ratio of hand-kisses to waves, and, of course, your outfit. I glance down at the fabric, almost as reassurance it wasn't simply a dream, smoothing the dress' folds.
But it's more than a dress, clearly meant to be representative of cows and hay but beautiful nonetheless. When I was little, my father showed me photos of old dresses; one style caught my eye back then, and I called them swing dresses, because although the fabric didn't stick out any, twirling would send the lower torso of the cloth into a perfect circle around the dancer. I had wondered what it would be like to wear one of these, but now I didn't have to.
My dream hadn't been realized in the way I'd hoped... Yet I can't help smiling at the thought of my father watching me on television in his worn clothes and broken chair, not knowing whether to cry or laugh. A milky chocolate coats the hem, which barely meets the middle of my calves. The cloth curves up towards my hips, finally cinching in the waist, where a tightened corset gives shape to the extreme hourglass figure my stylist is known for. An oval neckline sinks down, stopping about a half inch before being deemed scandalous. Somewhere along the waist of the dress, the brown dissapates into a creamy white, and the brown accent now complemented the dress perfectly. The sleeves are shortly cropped, ending just after my shoulders gently waterfall down into my arms. The dress is beautiful.
Just ahead of me, I see Apollo from District 9 waving and smiling to the audience. Next to him, about a head taller, is a carrot-topped girl from District 9. She's beautiful, and her stylist used this to his advantage. She seems so unhappy, and it makes me sad to remember how much more beautiful she was in photos I've seen. I knew her husband, Fera, back in District 10 - We'd become good friends. I was the first person Fera met when he was transferred, and the first thing he'd said was "This is her. Isn't she beautiful?" with a picture of this girl in hand. Her name is Caina. She looks so scared, and I want so badly to reach out, just to tell her I understand. That I'm as scared as she, only people don't see it. Every single tribute is terrified, through their mask of whatever they choose to show the outside world. I can only hope they don't see through my mask, because I've gone beyond terrified. I've numbed myself to this entire thing, ever since the Reaping when a crystal ball held my name one too many times, and since then has continued to pass through in a blur. The President's words glaze over me, the concern on Ragnar's face bouncing off my resolved membrane, the cheering crowds not even registering to my blank expression. I don't care if I need sponsors, or if I need people to like me, or allies. If this system is so eager to throw me into Hell, it may as well go there. Before I know it, I'm safely returned into the cold confinement of the chariot rest, being patted on the back by Hyacinthus and escorted back to my room. But nothing registers. I'm numb.