Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
❝ Through the lies you were the truth. ❞
━━ Celine Dion.
I TRY MY BEST TO MAKE OUR GAZES MEET, BUT I FAIL ON REPETITIVE OCCASIONS. HE'S SUBMERGED INTO WHATEVER CONVERSATION HE SEEMS TO BE having with his career pals as I feel my throat rape with dryness. The moments from the past night play torturously in my head, and it's clear temptation ruins all. I sigh, resorting back to peering at my feet, trying to blank out my mind. If Cato wants to be that way, then perfect. I have no problem resorting back to a relationship based around the familiar feeling of hate.
I force myself to let my thoughts trail back to what's important: the private training session. Where we each have fifteen minutes to amaze the game makers, but I'm at loss what I'll do to make an actual impression.
When the voice calls out the male tribute for the session, Cato heaves himself up, shooting his comrades a smirk radiating nothing but confidence before he strides forward. Though, I don't fault to catch a fleeting glance directed my way before he crosses the metal doors.
I shake my head, trying to make the thoughts revolving around the boy from Two evaporate from the back of my mind. I switch my focus that what I'll actually be doing in the fifteen minutes I'm given to 'amaze' the game-makers enough to give me a worth-while score. I can't shoot at them, given the new force-field protecting them from any flying weapons (My bad!).
As the tributes from Twelve, Haymitch and I are left alone after a piece of time. I turn to him, my mind still void of any initiatives. "I have no idea what to do in there," I mutter, biting onto the flesh of my bottom lip.
"You'll find something kid," he shrugs, though a flash of stress flickers over his eyes for a moment too. "Just, surprise them."
"I might just strip at this point." I joke, lips twisting into a smile at the idea. They'd never expect Jade Everdeen sparing her given schedule of private session to give the game-makers a special show.
"Right, or take a nap like Mags." Haymitch snickers, running a hand through his golden strands of hair that frame his face. For one of the first times since I've known him, his breath doesn't soak the air with a print of alcohol.
Until they call my partner in, we sit in the comfort of silence. I rake my mind in performances for my audience while bouncing my knee against the ground. As much as I want to shout, to rip my hair at my loss of inspiration, Haymitch somehow keeps me grounded. If he can remain serene through the following minutes, so can I.
When he does leave me alone in the waiting room, I tap my foot gently against the floor. Obviously, one person inks my thoughts. I wish I could have an idea of what Cato was feeling, especially after the last night. I hope he knows I had to pull away. To save each other from absolute torture. After all, only one of us will make it out— if one of us even does.
