When does childhood come to an end? Most people don't get a say in the matter. Sometimes they don't even realise it's happened. You leave your home as an innocent child, only to return defiled and polluted by circumstances you can't control. Adults always seem to forget that they were also a child once.
For the children residing in the districts of Panem, childhood ends the moment you turn twelve. Each birthday after that is less of a celebration of growing up and more of a celebration that you had survived the lottery of certain death. It is a harrowing experience for a child, to look around and wonder how many of you will live to see your 19th year. It is even more tormenting to wonder if you will have to kill other children to get there.
For Dahlia Blossom, childhood ended the day her father was killed in an accident at work. Her mother was pregnant with Rosie at the time and had to continue working to keep her family afloat. This left Dahlia to look after Lavender and pick up the slack around the house. Neither female had the time to grieve properly because Panem was an unforgiving place. The Capitol didn't care how much people in the districts suffered as long as they were well supplied with goods.
Dahlia's chance to live a happier life with her family was ruined by a persona she'd adopted to survive. As her family turned their backs on the Victor she'd become, they failed to see the little girl inside screaming for acceptance and love. Their Dahlia was still there, buried underneath a hardened exterior. They just didn't have the patience to look beneath the surface.
What was left of Dahlia's innocence was cruelly ripped away from her thanks to the lust and hunger of men. They'd all heard the rumours of the dangers of playing with her kind of fire but were blinded by her charming light and lured in by the warmth she provided. They have no one to blame but themselves when she sets their world on fire. Dahlia knows it's a fair exchange. They get 30 seconds of heaven and a lifetime to repent, she suffers an evening of torture but robs them for all they're worth. The little game of hers is the only way to keep herself sane in the Capitol (other than time spent with Finnick). By the time the 70th Annual Hunger Games looms on the horizon, a 19 year old Dahlia Blossom has amassed a rather large collection of stolen goods from a variety of clients who know better than to complain about her services.
But Dahlia's most treasured items are the priceless gifts Finnick brings her from his district. It makes the time spent apart more bearable, to know he'll return with a beaming smile and hands folded behind his back to hide the present.
"I found this shell on the beach and thought you'd like it."
"I saw this flower and it made me think of you."
"Mags taught me how to weave bracelets so I could make one for you."
Every gift was meaningful and special, but she loved them because they were all from him. None of the jewels or trinkets she stole would ever compare to something that came from those hands. It felt like he handed over a tiny piece of his heart with every gift she received. Sometimes, Dahlia tried to return the favour with creations of her own. Using a spiral shell from District Four, she messily braided three thin strands of rope to create a necklace. It seemed so inadequate compared to his skilled craftwork that she nearly didn't give it to him. Now he never takes it off.
Memories like those are the ones that help Dahlia get through the bad nights. As she strides to the house of another client, her last one before returning to her district for the Reaping, her fingers fiddle with the blue woven bracelet around her wrist. Finnick has always wanted to take Dahlia to see the beautiful waters of his district, but there was no possibility of that happening any time soon. So, for now, the bracelet was a representation of the rhythmic waves of District Four... Or at least that's what Finnick told her.
"You're late, girl." Yarrow Whitewood, her final client, grumbles as he opens the door to her. A balding middle-aged man, Yarrow wasn't known to be a particularly pleasant person to know. Maybe that's why he and Snow got along so well. As Dahlia opens her mouth to reply, Yarrow holds his hand up to silence her. "I don't pay my whores to talk."
Her tongue nearly bleeds from how hard Dahlia bites down on it to stop herself from snapping at his audacity. Instead, she forces a smile onto her face and slinks inside for another night of forced prostitution.
•——————•°•✿•°•——————•
The feeling of disgust had become all too familiar to Dahlia after nightly activities with strangers. Snow had turned her body into a product that could be shared around all his rich, powerful friends. Most of them didn't even care who she was, they just wanted a pretty girl to indulge in for the night. She just lay there on her back as the men rut into her, grunting and groaning loudly as she tries not to physically recoil in distaste. She assumed Yarrow wouldn't be any different.
For the most part, she was correct. But Yarrow was cruel and substantially more intelligent. He was aware of Dahlia's femme fatale ways and knew not to let the girl out of his sight. She assumed this was why Snow had sent her his way. Yarrow was the man who was supposed to break Dahlia's spirit once and for all.
"Mind if I use your restroom?" Dahlia asks in a sickly sweet voice, head propped up by her elbow as she trails her fingers seductively along his arm. A fireplace across from the bed was the only source of light in the room, filling the room with a thick blanket of warmth.
"You're not allowed out of this room." Yarrow growls gruffly, eying the girl with suspicion. "I know what those fingers of yours are capable of and I'm not going to be your next target."
"It's just down the hallway." Dahlia argues softly with a feminine giggle, lifting the covers away from her body. "Unless you keep your valuables in the bathroom, they're safe from my fingers."
"I don't care where it is." Yarrow protests, snatching her bicep as she tries to get up. "You're not going anywhere."
Dahlia's fear spikes suddenly at the man's predatory gaze. "Let go of me." She urges calmly, staring warily at his bruising grip.
"You are mine for the night." Yarrow announces with a creepy smirk, licking his lips like a dog staring at a bone. "I paid for The Black Dahlia and that's exactly what I'm going to get." Dahlia attempts to tug her arm away but his grip only tightens painfully. "I'm not done with you yet."
"I'm done with you." Dahlia retaliates fiercely, determined not to let the man notice her panicked expression. "Let go!" Yarrow lunges forward, grasping Dahlia's other arm and slamming the girl's back against the bed. She yelps out as the air is knocked from her lungs and Yarrow takes the opportunity to clamber on top of her, pinning her wrists next to her head. "Get the fuck off of me!"
"Shut up!" Yarrow yells in her face, struggling to contain her struggling figure. She squirms and wriggles beneath his heavy body, refusing to give in to his perverted desires any longer.
"Then get off me." She retorts, fighting back like the heartless Victor she is known as.
Yarrow leans uncomfortably closer and snarls in her ear, "Stop talking or I'll give you a reason to scream." As he pulls back, Dahlia spits in his ghastly face before driving her knee into his stomach. He falls off of her with a moan of pain and shouts, "You bitch!" Scrambling away, Dahlia tumbles out of the bed and lands awkwardly on the floor. But Yarrow has started to recover, so Dahlia staggers to her feet and sprints for the door. "I think you're missing something."
Hand resting on the polished door knob, Dahlia glances over her shoulder to find Yarrow staring smugly at her... with Finnick's bracelet dangling from his finger.
"Give it back." She demands sternly, eyes widened in horror at the sight. He must've slipped it off when her hands were restrained. Yarrow chuckles mockingly, swirling the bracelet around his finger to taunt her further. "Give it back, you Capitol cunt!"
Yarrow stalks slowly round the bed, advancing on the seething girl. "Is that desperation in your voice?" He asks teasingly as Dahlia's eyes narrow in disdain. "I think it is." He towers above Dahlia, leering down at her with a pompous smirk. "You have no power here, little girl." His belittling words do nothing but rile Dahlia up, her fists clenching with an unspoken rage. "You're going to get back on that bed and you're not going to fight back. You're gonna take your punishment like a good little Victor and then you'll get your silly bracelet back."
"Or you can give it back right now and I won't cut your hands off." Dahlia threatens casually, glaring at the over-confident man who needed to be knocked down a couple of pegs. "I was the only survivor of 24 tributes and that was no accident. Need I remind you, I killed all the Careers in my Games and I will not hesitate to kill again. You will be my easiest prey." Straightening his back, Yarrow backs away from the Victor with a devious expression. Realisation of his plan only hits Dahlia when the man glances from the fireplace to the bracelet. "No!"
Too late. The beautiful intricate pattern immediately becomes engulfed by the flames, sparking madly like a spitting cobra. Dahlia lunges forward, falling on her knees next to the fireplace as her eyes begin to tear up.
"The mighty Black Dahlia reduced to tears over a stupid piece of string." Yarrow scoffs, circling around the heartbroken girl. "Pathetic." Dahlia doesn't react to his words, staring mournfully into the fire. "Maybe the Golden Boy will be more fun."
Dahlia's head snaps up at that comment. Finnick. He wants a visit from Finnick. All feelings of sorrow are evaporated from her body and promptly replaced with fury. She won't let him touch her Finnick. Her fingers slither around the firepoker, delighted by the lethally sharp point. Threaten her all you like, she can take it. But he had threatened Finnick... She wouldn't let him get away with that.
Yarrow had proceeded to saunter back to bed, satisfied with his work. He was sure that destroying an object which she held a sentimental connection to would force her into submission. And, while Finnick was usually the calming influence in her life, he was also the fuel to the fire that kept her fighting. She had two years of pent-up anger bubbling inside of her, just waiting to be unleashed. She already had the ammunition, and Yarrow had just passed her the gun.
One strike to the head is all it takes to completely incapacitate him. As a wail of pain escapes his lips, his body sprawls ungracefully to the floor. Dahlia prowls around the man with an impassive expression, unbothered by his pitiful screams. She takes great joy in swinging the firepoker close to his face and watching him cower away in fear. Who has the power now?
Suddenly, she's back in the Games, standing above another tribute with their life in her hands. She might've felt sympathy, she might've shown mercy. But the man before her wasn't an innocent child. He deserved to die more than any tribute in the Games. Her hands yearn to relive the feeling of taking a life. The Black Dahlia returns in full force as she imagines the eyes of thousands of citizens watching her on a screen, glued to her every move.
Give them a show. Give them a show. Give them a show.
The mentality is still stuck in her head, like a war chant before heading into battle.
You can't takes the Games out of the Victor.
It all makes sense. She's still a killer underneath it all. That is a fact that won't ever go away. She has blood on her hands, her ledger is dripping with red. Once a killer, always a killer.
Smacking the firepoker into his ribs, limbs, back, she shows Yarrow exactly how she became known as such a cold-hearted killer. He whimpers with every hit, weakly dragging himself across the floor.
"P-- Please." Yarrow gasps out, revealing his blood-stained teeth and nearly unrecognisable face.
Dahlia tilts her head at the man's pleading, a sadistic smirk decorating her lips. "Is that desperation in your voice?" Yarrow's face is drained of its remaining colour, becoming as white as the ghost he is about to become. He cannot disguise the terror on his face as The Black Dahlia quirks a brow in amusement. "I think it is."