v. on butterfly's wings
WHEN APHRODITE WAKES, she's too scared to open her eyes.
Scared darkness will be rolling overhead. Crushing downwards. Pressing in closer and closer and closer like the lid of a coffin. Sealing her in her own coffin. Suffocating her. Killing her. Scared that she'll taste that copper blood on the tip of her tongue the same way she always does when she kills. Her nostrils still burn with the stench of death. Aphrodite's scared, yes, but there's something worse lingering in the hallow catacombs of her stomach.
If she's going to be honest with herself, she'd start here: Winning wasn't supposed to feel like this.
Hollow. Empty. Numb.
But Aphrodite's never been very honest with herself. No reason to start now!
There is a horrible, erratic thumping in her chest. As if a large bird is trapped inside her rib cage and is beating itself to death. Unable to lay there any longer, she opens her eyes.
Her shoulders sag. The entire ceiling is aglow with a soft, yellow light, letting her see where she is. A small room. No doors. No windows. The air is sharp with antiseptic. Several tubes snake from her arm into the wall behind her. She's naked save for the thin hospital gown, and she wonders who undressed. Who had seen her so vulnerable. So weak.
Someone shifts on the plastic-y couch. His voice is still rough and sleepy when he speaks;
"Welcome back, fatass."
Icarus. He's sitting there, and he doesn't look like he's gotten sleep for at least a couple of days. Maybe longer. When Aphrodite peers back into his face, his eyes are rusty; it's like gazing into starless skies, vacant, midnight-black, ten-thousand layers of frozen black cosmos.
His eyes don't light up the way they used to, when they were kids. There's hardly any light left at all. As if tears have glaciated the sun; there's nothing but shadows now.
Aphrodite used to be so angry, when she was 10 and he was 15, when he came back from the games not District Two's golden lion but instead a bone-flayed shadow of a boy. He'd never left the arena. Not really. At night he used to scream and try to wash the blood off his fingers, but you cannot escape what you're made up of.
He's been pumping drugs into his veins ever since. Until words cannot form, memories cannot bleed together, until a numb buzzing is all he knows.
She was 10 and he was 15, and their mom was furious when her lion-hearted son came back from his games not a Victor, but barely even a survivor. They used to argue a lot, and Aphrodite was 10, and she didn't understand. Her brother stopped sleeping at their house. Moved out. Aphrodite's gums bled every time she said the word family. At night, he'd sit on the sidewalk, holding his breath until his face turned blue. He'd close his fists and sit so still she thought he was dead. Corpse-like. Their mom would scream at him to let go. Aphrodite would beg him to let go. He tried. He tried. He tried.
Icarus couldn't let go.
I understand, Aphrodite almost cries, but she doesn't. They are Krasnova's; neither of them handle feelings very well.
Honestly, they kind of gross Aphrodite out.
Feelings. Obviously.
So she could sit there and burst into tears, blah, blah, blah-defuckin blah, whatever. It would just be a bunch of bullshit anyways. And, as we know, Aphrodite is not a bullshitter.
"Fuck. . . you. . . " she croaks out.
There's something like relief in his dead eyes, and Aphrodite knows what it is. He's happy she's not like him. He's happy she's not shutting off the way he did.
He doesn't say it, though.
"They thought you were gonna be in a coma for at least 72 hours," he says, his voice a little scratchy. "It's only been 40."
"Maybe I'm the new family disappointment," she offers.
Icarus seems utterly unimpressed. "There's only one fuck up per family, and I was here first. Get your shit together, Aphrodite."
A portion of the wall slides open. And then there is Clarence, the head of her prep team, bustling inside.
"Darling!" Clarence is glowing with pride, and he kisses her in both cheeks. "I told everyone you were a star! Oh, the people just adore you, Aphrodite!"
Icarus snorts.
Clarence frowns. "People would adore you, too, young man. If you had a little bit more class. Try setting a good example for your little sister."
When Icarus mimics him under his breath, Clarence dutifully ignores that.
"And where, might I ask, is the outfit I set out for you this morning? There will be cameras on us all day! I spent hours picking out those eggshell trousers — "
"Eggshell?" Icarus makes a face. "You're so pretentious. They're literally white pants."
Clarence physically recoils, as if Icarus had shot him.
"Where is your mother?" He asks stiffly.
Icarus pulls out a cigarette and shrugs. "Don't know. Don't care. Maybe she caught a horrible disease and died."
"Nah, not painful enough," Aphrodite manages hoarsely. "Snow should torture her."
"Ooh, that's a good one." Icarus flicks his lighter on. "I hope he doesn't go for his usual poison. It needs to be slow, painful — "
"Don't joke like that!" Clarence looks horrified.
Aphrodite blinks. "Who's joking?"
Seriously! Aphrodite doesn't give a shit about her mom. She doesn't! She promises! She swears! She'd rather listen to Claudius Templesmith babble on about how incredible and amazing President Snow is than leave anyone with the impression that she gives a flying fuck about her mom.
Then Icarus lights his cigarette, and Clarence goes completely red. Icarus likes to rile him up like this. He'd told Aphrodite once that Clarence has a little vein that bulges when he goes red.
Aphrodite decides to name it Frank.
"This is a hospital — "
Icarus takes a drag of his cigarette and puffs smoke towards Clarence. "My head hurts when I don't smoke."
"That could just be your brain trying to comprehend its own stupidity," suggests Aphrodite innocently.
Icarus walks over and plunks down into her bed, sending spikes of pain shooting across her chest. She'd strangle him, if she weren't injured. Icarus seems to know this and he grins evilly at her discomfort.
Then a Doctor comes in, and finally they decide to have some dignity. Icarus stops provoking Clarence; Clarence stops being prissy. The Doctor talks quickly and ecstatically about how well Aphrodite's recovery is going, but she doesn't pay much attention. Just sits on the bed as the Doctor takes her vitals and injects her throat with some sort of cooling gel that instantly soothes her frayed vocal chords. Bandages are unwrapped, a few final remarks are made, and the Doctor is leaving all over again.
The faces of the tributes who'll never return flash across Aphrodite's mind and there's a heavy, tight place in her chest.
"Oh, they've given you the best treatment. A full body polish," says Clarence enviously. "Not a flaw left — even I'm jealous."
"Listen, they're doing the ceremony in a couple hours," says Icarus. "And, since I'm your mentor, I've got to, like, mentor you. For the ceremony. Since I'm your mentor."
"You have a way with words," says Aphrodite, voice still thin and reedy.
"OK, smart-ass." He flicks her shoulder. "You've seen some confusing shit over the past couple of weeks. And more confusing shit is going to happen because of the confusing shit that already happened over the past couple of weeks, does that make sense?"
"Not. . . not really."
"I don't understand, either," pipes up Clarence.
"Nobody's talking to you," Icarus says to him. "Listen, Aphrodite. Some people will say being a Victor is a gift."
Clarence starts to examine his pink eyeliner in the mirror. "It is!"
"If I start being honest with you, President Snow will probably kill me slowly, brutally, blah, blah, blah," says Icarus. "So I'm not gonna do that. Instead, I'm gonna ask — what made you volunteer, Aphrodite? What do you want?"
Huh. Aphrodite's never really thought about that.
Growing up, she had big plans for the Hunger Games. Huge. Gargantuan. Freakishly eventful. Heaping plans that were going to stir the pot of those dreadfully boring games so much, she was going to win.
And. . . well. . . she did.
So!
"People already love you!" Clarence is beaming again. "Oh, and when they see the dress! And your makeup! Hair and makeup should be here any minute, we're going to make you the prettiest Victor — "
"Wait a minute." Icarus pauses. "Hair and makeup. They're coming here? Now?"
Clarence nods.
"Yeah, I'm out," says Icarus. He claps Aphrodite on the shoulder. "Good luck out there, fatass."
"What the fuck?" She demands.
"Don't curse out there, fatass, they don't like profanity!"
"Icarus, you fucking dick — !"
But he's already out the door, abandoning Aphrodite to the merciless brutalities of Capitol hair and makeup.
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THE DRESS LOOKS as much like a butterfly wing as it does a work of stained-glass art. A one shoulder gown, featuring a thigh-high leg slit and a long dark blue train with gold pins on either side of her hair. It is glowing and beaded and angelic.
Girlhood rots in her rib cage. A sickness so sweet her heart aches.
"Divine, Aphrodite," Clarence gives a breathy little sigh and touches his own forehead. "Absolutely divine."
Her whole body is shaking like a leaf. When she stares into the mirror, her mom's face is glaring back at her with the utter disdain and disappointment only a mom could ever truly have. There are some eyes that can eat you. Her mom's blood will be her blood until they're both rotting in the ground.
She is ushered down several corridors. Pictures are taken. Cameras flash. People are shrieking her name. Everybody wants to talk to her. Everybody wants to be her.
(Aphrodite would want to be her, too.)
When she's shoved beneath the stage, the damp, moldy smell threatens to choke her. There is the feeling that she has been sealed into her coffin with the way the floorboards above her head seem to close in on her. The rumble of the crowd is so loud that Aphrodite nearly forgets that she's not in the arena. That the darkness will not suffocate her. Each breath is rattling. Her heart starts to race.
The platform rises.
"Here she is, the Capitol's shining jewel herself — Aphrodite Krasnova!"
Lights are blinding. The deafening roar rattles the metal under her feet so bad that Aphrodite is almost convinced there is an earthquake. People are cheering. Screaming. A sea of faces weeping with approval. With love.
All for Aphrodite.
She blinks uncertainly, and then she beams.
(She might be an attention whore.)
Caesar Flickerman guides her to the victors chair. It's a sort of ornate throne.
Caesar sort of looks like a bright pink mushroom, with his bubblegum hair.
"Now, Aphrodite, I have to say," begins Caesar. "Watching you through this whole process, from when you volunteered to when you won. . . it was really special for me. I think it was for everyone."
The audience murmurs their agreement.
"I mean, you come from a family of Victors," says Caesar as he crosses his leg. "Your mother was quite the femme fatale back in her day."
This earns a few cheers from the audience. The Capitol adores her mom.
"In fact, she's here with us tonight!" Caesar announces. He waves to the side of the stage. "Let's get a light on her, shall we? We all know her, we all love her — Hera Krasnova, everyone!"
A blinding white spotlight angles onto the front row of the sea of faces. Palms suddenly sweaty, Aphrodite discreetly wipes them on her dress. Cold and rigid as a marble statue, impassive as a Greek god, there indeed sits Hera Krasnova. She carries a battlefield on her shoulders and war in her luminous gold eyes.
Hera is a marble goddess. Unearthly eyes, modified to be molten gold, the same glittering shade tattooed in delicate lines all across her body. Perfectly poised.
When she meets Aphrodite's gaze, she holds it until it hurts.
Hera's ruby lips curl upwards.
She only ever smiles for the Capitol.
"And your older brother, Icarus," Caesar gives a pause for the audience to hum in anticipation. "His Games were absolutely magnificent. Such a clever boy at fifteen! I've never seen anything like it! I'm sure he was an incredible mentor. Am I right when I say he was a big help?"
Aphrodite nods.
"Familial love," says Caesar sorrowfully. "There is nothing quite like the bond between brothers and sisters, is there?"
"No, there isn't."
"But this is your night," he reigns the conversation back in with a golden grin. "Tell us, Aphrodite, what was of like being a part of the Career pack?"
"Imagine working with completely civilized, responsible, and mature people. . . " she leans in, like she's sharing some great secret.
He leans in, too, eyes alight with anticipation. "OK."
"Now throw that idea out the window."
Caesar roars with laughter, and the audience delightedly follows in suit. Aphrodite smiles until her face hurts.
She catches her reflection in a camera. While she looked like a wild animal after the games, now she is in her grandest form. Covered in gold, iridescent jeweled flowing. Eyes like two caverns where mystery dimly glistens. Ruby lips. Dimpled cheeks. Pale, like a lily, drowned underwater. Fabric moves delicately at her every move. Like a secret, like a dream.
She looks ethereal. She is ethereal.
"Why do you think I betrayed them, Caesar?" Aphrodite asks loftily.
Laughter surrounds her again, warm, rosy, like pink flower petals. Aphrodite is playing her part perfectly.
"Alright, alright," he calms down, smiling all the while. "I've got another one — now, try not to be too mean here, OK? I don't want to hurt the poor Gamemaker's feelings."
She grins. "Oh, Caesar, you know me, I'm not making any promises I can't keep."
He chuckles again. "What was your least favorite part of the arena?"
She wrinkles her nose. "The smell."
"The smell?" He echoes, amused.
"Oh, yeah," she nods eagerly. "It smelled like dirt there, to the point where I made the conscious effort to breathe through my mouth. Thank God I don't live in one of those border districts, like Twelve!"
She shudders a little. Coal mines. Dirt. Ew, ew, ew!
The audience loves this.
"You hear that, folks?" Caesar eggs on the crowd. "The worst part about the Hunger Games is the smell!"
"Now, Caesar," her eyes sparkle. "I've got a question for you."
"Oh?" His bubblegum pink eyebrows raise. "OK, OK, do go on."
"Do you always talk like this?" She asks with a sly grin. "Like, say you're going to go get coffee. I imagine that when you walk into the coffee shop, trumpets are blaring and the announcer's going — Caesar Flickerman!"
"Oh, I love it, I love it!" Caesar's still laughing. "You have completely revolutionized the games. Aphrodite now holds the record for the highest kill count! Can we get some applause?"
The audience is thrilled to oblige.
Caught off guard, Aphrodite blinks.
"Wait. . . what?"
"Thirteen kills!" Caesar says eagerly. "In thirteen days, no less! The Gamemakers never miss when it comes to the fine details, do they, folks?"
13.
13.
Caesar takes her pause as humility.
"She's humble, too!" Caesar exclaims heartily. "You are more desirable by the second, Aphrodite! You have to let me know. . . is there a special boy back home? I promise I won't tell anyone. It'll be between you, me. . . and the millions of people watching."
He throws a wink at the camera.
"Uh, no, no boy," says Aphrodite, hardly hearing him. Blood is roaring in her ears. "My mom didn't want me getting distracted, growing up. I basically spent my whole life in the Academy."
The training Academy, which is where District Two kids are sent as soon as they can walk.
District 2 is cutthroat.
Nobody cares how they skin each other. You grow up in a place where people say what they think they need to, to win the moment. You grow up in a place where people stop growing. Devastating. Cruel. Hereditary. You grow up or you don't. You live in a place where people snatch up the last of the things they need, fall apart in the kitchen, take bloody hostages and kill each other slowly, where people snip their sentences into blades, where people die in agony on the linoleum floor of the training ring. You forget how to grow and you die. You grow complicated, with awful, deadly potential.
Like Aphrodite.
"And it certainly paid off!" Caesar grins again. "A girl as beautiful as you? You'll have the boys crawling on their hands and knees just for a chance!"
Cold Aphrodite smirks.
"The ones at the Presidential Palace tomorrow night will be the first in line," he adds roguishly.
"What's happening tomorrow night?" She asks cluelessly.
The audience laughs.
"Oh, that's right, it's a surprise." He waggles his eyebrows like that's supposed to entice her. "As you've set a new record, President Snow is throwing a party in your honor!"
A party in her honor.
For killing 13 people.
"Anyone whose anyone will be there," Caesar says, and this seems to conclude the interview, because he's standing, offering Aphrodite his elbow, ever the gentleman. "We'll be checking in with you tomorrow night because I, for one, cannot wait to see what your stylist puts you in tomorrow? Am I the only one? Am I?"
The audience shouts their own excitement. Caesar laughs again.
"Thank you so much!" He gives her a hug. "Ladies and gentleman, we're going into a brief commercial break. When we're back, we'll be watching the highlights of the games and getting Aphrodite's real reaction!"
As he says this, Aphrodite realizes how unprepared she is for that. She does not want to watch 23 tributes die. She saw enough of them die the first time.
Killed enough of them.
Much bowing and cheering follows. She is whisked off stage, where she is promptly assaulted by hair and makeup, who absolutely must do touch-ups before she's back on camera.
Clarence is just adding a bit of powder to achieve something angelic and unearthly, wanting her to radiate divinity, when the door opens. Through the reflection, Aphrodite can see Icarus striding through.
Probably to be annoying.
He smells like weed, too.
Ugh.
"So. . . " his voice is all slow, his eyes scarlet red. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Aphrodite says curtly. Clarence keeps powdering her cheeks.
"Kakorrhaphiophobia," announces Icarus.
Aphrodite starts to wonder if he was dropped on his head too many times as a child.
"It's. . . " he seems to be struggling to form words. "It's the fear of failure."
"What?" Aphrodite whips around, and Clarence huffs in annoyance. "Are you trying to suggest that I have a fear of failure? Because I don't, Ick. Stop projecting on me."
"Why wouldn't you be afraid of failure?"
"Uh, because I never fail?"
"Cocky," he says.
Then he sort of just flops onto a chair and closes his eyes. He doesn't get back up.
Clarence stops powdering her. "Is he. . . dead?"
"Not physically," says Aphrodite, a little disgusted. "He's just brain-dead."
Then it's show-time.
Once again, Aphrodite strides across that stage, six-inch heels clacking noisily. And when the audience cheers, Aphrodite smiles that dazzlingly beautiful pearly white smile that has every boy ━━ and girl ━━ in the audience swooning.
Caesar jokes about death and Aphrodite does, too.
The first half hour or so focuses on what led up to the arena. Her volunteering at the reaping. The chariot ride through the Capitol. Training. Her punching the District 1 boy in the tribute center. Scores. Interviews. They've got an upbeat soundtrack playing under it, which she assumes is trying to make it inspirational. It doesn't really work. Mainly because, well, 23 of the people in the video are dead.
Although Aphrodite does look amazing on camera. . .
Well. Until she's pushed off a cliff.
But, anyways.
On and on, the story of her survival plays before her eyes. It's stunning, to see herself in the opening bloodbath. She licks blood off her fingers and looks like divine absolution. It's as if she's playing a different game than everyone else.
Something inside of her shuts down, and she's numbing against. It's like watching a complete stranger.
Now Aphrodite sees what the audience saw. The Careers when they'd realized she betrayed them and killed the District 4 boy, how she'd led them straight into a pack of mutts. She is gorgeous and she is deadly and the audience cannot seem to get enough. They are obsessed.
Heartless Aphrodite steals supplies, hunts tributes down in the dark, manipulates, and lies. Only when she is pushed off the cliff by the District 1 boy does she finally seem human rather than mythic, and when Silk finally becomes Aphrodite's ally, something new is introduced to Aphrodite's image. She becomes desirable.
Only then something strange happens. Briefly, the screenplay focuses on Romulus, the other District Two boy.
There comes a moment when he's tricking the District 1 boy. Trying to throw him off Aphrodite's scent, even though they were allies, too. And when the District 1 boy pushes her off the cliff, Romulus is wild. He fights the District 1 boy to let her escape and that's when he dies.
For the first moment all night, Aphrodite is truly caught off-guard.
He. . . he sacrificed himself. For her.
But why?
The moment comes, when Romulus sacrifices himself. Aphrodite can hear the audience hushing one another, not wanting to miss anything. There is a shot of his death. A wave of despair sweeps over Aphrodite when they add a shot of her screaming, trying to hold onto Silk's corpse for as long as she can.
In terms of making her mom happy, it's her worst moment all night.
When the lights dim and the seal appears, Aphrodite knows the show is finally over. Beyond all the cheering and the applause and the chanting of her name, there sits her mom, the only face in a blurred crowd.
And Hera gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head.
This was not enough.
Aphrodite turns her head fast, before the audience can see the tears welling in her eyes. She can hardly breathe. But they will not see this side of her. Nobody ever will.
Aphrodite is a Krasnova. Aphrodite is a girl of marble.
She will not break.
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aight now things r starting to pick up. finnick should be in the next chapter!!
also, i imagine aphrodite's dress as gigi hadid's Versace dress from the 2018 met gala!
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