SCREAMS. That's all Varlia could hear: The echoes of screams—her screams. They surrounded her. They encircled her, ringing off the walls of her bedroom and into her ears. Anger. Resentment. Depression. Everything in her radiated the emotions. Her hands punched and scratched at her pink walls, blood transferring from her fragile body to the walls.
Repeatedly, Varlia aguishly screamed the same phrase: "No! It's not fair! It's not fucking fair!" She weaved and screamed and cried. She continued to express her despair, even when her mother continuously knocked on her daughter's door, begging to be let in. Varlia's eyes closed, and she weaved herself to lie on her wooden floor, crawling into a fetal position.
She breathed in and out harshly, attempting to fill the empty hollow in her chest. And as she did so, she opened her eyes. In front of her stood the people of her district, yelling and screaming at her. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and she frantically turned to look at her surroundings.
On her left stood Marcus Whitehill—the Victor of the 64th Hunger Games. His blonde hair gleamed in the saturated sun, shading his eyes. Her eyes trailed upon his figure, then behind him—at the peacekeepers. No. No! Her eyes looked toward the crowd. No! She felt her chest lift rapidly at the sight. Her district, District Six, was screaming and yelling. They were shouting at the stage—no—at the Capitol. They were yelling at Coriolanus Snow.
It all happened so fast. One minute, Varlia was in her room— screaming, scratching, and abusing her walls. She was crying out at the universe, then the next, she was on the stage—standing next to Rimo Pattingill (who was reading out the obvious tributes). Her hands went to her hair, and she began to tug, tug on her braided brunette hair.
Amid her panic, Varlia felt herself being pulled and yanked. Where? The girl had no idea. Forced to walk by the peacekeepers, she winced as their grip on her arms tightened. She wanted to scream and yell—yell at them to let her go. But she didn't. She couldn't. Her lips remained sealed and shut, and her eyes stung with tears. Her nose ran, mucus falling and dripping down her nose to her lips.
Mom, she thought. She needed to see her mom. She needed to say goodbye. Her head immediately lifted, and she turned to search through the crowd—for her mother. She yelled and screamed for her mother, "Mom!" The grip on her arms tightened. "Mom!" she shrieked again, her voice strained from the dryness. But it came to no avail—she heard no response from her mother, only the shouts of anger from the crowd.
The peacekeepers, who restrained her movements, pushed her through doors, following behind their colleagues with Marcus. Varlia's eyes scanned the crowd once more. She saw her mother—shoving through the stampede of people. Once more, she screamed out for her mother, her arms fighting the grip forced upon them.
"Varlia!" yelled Iris, her left hand reaching out for her daughter, a symbolization that her mother would continue to reach out for her. The adolescent girl shrieked out her mother's name, even when the doors closed shut, secured by the technological advancements of the Capitol. Severing the connection between the two BellCreeks: Mother and daughter. "No!"
Varlia's eyes, glossy and wet from her tears, blinked, and there she sat in the train decorated top to bottom with the richness of the Capitol. The walls gleamed with patterns of swirling gold and white, conjoining the elegance of the different aesthetically prosperous colors. In the corners of the room, white blossomed flowers sat across each other, each encaging Varlia's petite body as her body sat in a brown-leathered seat.
A sick groan came out from the mouth of Varlia, her hand reaching to grip her hair. Her ears rang the sound of a continuous ringing—back and forth. Her head fell back onto the top of the leathered chair. Varlia's eyes opened, and she stared at the train's ceiling. Another groan erupted from her throat, and her eyes reflexed closed as a reaction to the bright white chandelier above her head.
The voice of a mature female called out—no, spoke to her. "You're awake," it said. Varlia said nothing, her hands dropping from her hair to scratch at her throat—an acidic-tangy taste beginning to rise from the pits of her empty stomach to her throat. Varlia reluctantly swallowed. Heels clicked against the train floors, emitting an echo inside the secluded room—and they continued until they stopped behind Varlia's seat.
"You've been going in and out of consciousness," her voice announced, with an undertone of slight worry. "The Capitol wasted no expenses for this Quarter Quell," she began, a mixture of her heels and ice in her drink clinking in unison, "They tore down the old everything and rebuilt them: New training centers, new rooms, etcetera, etcetera, blah, blah, blah." Varlia's head continued to spin, and her ears continued to ring.
The woman pestered on, "This year isn't like it was five years ago. You'll be with experienced tributes, and unlike last time, you're eighteen—not thirteen," Varlia swallowed a thick lump of saliva, her tan flaked and dry hands continuing to lay dormant on her throat; her eyes opened. Across from her sat Marcus, biting the nail of his thumb—lost in thought. A glass of liquor lay across from him on the polished glass table, but he disregarded it—considering the drink appeared untouched.
The young adult girl slowly closed her eyes, a breath escaping her mouth. "I've already had this talk with Marcus when you were unconscious, and I need it with you," the woman walked from the back of Varlia's chair to the leathered one adjacent to the girl. With a point, she pointed toward Marcus, signaling for his leave. Marcus complied and slowly walked to the doors, his face contorted with stress. Varlia only observed.
The eldest woman sighed at the thud of the door, her eyes tightly closing. The iced water shook viciously against her glass, and she raised it to her lips for a swing. Varlia's eyes trailed up to the woman's body, and she strained her mind for her name. Pardenia, she remembered. Pardenia Meadowbrook, her mentor from District Four—there were no victors from District Six (Those alive, anyway). "The fucking lunatic couldn't give us a break, huh?" The woman grumbled, a sour laugh following Pardenia's words.
"Fuck it, right?! No shit we can do now," Pardenia spoke, a lack of motivation behind her words. The woman's eyes opened, and her brown eyes stared at Varlia's. Pardenia strained a sigh, and her left hand lifted to rub at her throat. "You alright?" she questioned. Varlia lethargically nodded her head; Pardenia did the same.
"Look, I want you to forget everything your freshly teen mind thought you knew about the game. It's different this year: These are experienced killers you'll be dealing with." The female mentor informed. Varlia's left hand left her throat and scratched at her forehead. Varlia knew what Pardenia's words meant—she'd need allies—but Varlia didn't want any. Pardenia leaned forward and stretched out her right arm, placing the water on the table.
"You'll need allies." She finished. Varlia's eyes followed Pardenia's cup placement, and a thought appeared. "Katniss Everdeen," she muttered. Pardenia's hands left the glass cup, and her eyes looked back at Varlia—a girl she viewed as the sister she never had. Meadowbrook nodded, "Katniss Everdeen," she repeated.
"Katniss would be the ideal ally. Well, her and her fiance: Peeta Mallark." The raven-haired mentor elaborated, her hair following onto her shoulders. "In this game, it's not about trust. It's about staying alive. And for that," Pardenia began, "Katniss is the significant component." Varlia watched as her mentor's eyes began to blink rapidly before her right hand went to massage her nape.
Pardenia stood up from her seat, and her right hand left her nape; she signaled for Varlia to follow her. Varlia complied, and she started to follow behind the eldest female. The two walked further into the lavishly decorated "living room" and headed toward the TV. Pardenia sat down on the black leathered couch, Varlia doing the same. Varlia's ears caught the sound of a click, and before she knew it, a bright light shined down onto their faces.
"Cashmere and Gloss—siblings. They've got many sponsors. They are part of the Career pack, District favorites, blah, blah. What you need to know is that they've won games back-to-back. They're strong players. They are lethal," Pardenia clicked the remote again, another pair of faces replacing those prior. Varlia remained silent.
"Brutus and Enobaria. Once again, they are lethal and dangerous players. They are Career Pack part two. Enobaria sharpened her teeth to rip off people's heads—she's mental." Another click, "Wiress and Beetee," she started. Varlia's eyes glanced toward her. Pardenia continued, "They're intelligent," she said, "Maybe I should've been born in District Three—I'd fit right in. Besides that, they are not much fighters. Their bodies are aging, and their strength is decreasing. Beetee won his game through electrocution."
A sigh fell from Pardenia's mouth, and she clicked the remote; Varlia's eyes fell back onto the screen. "Finick Odair and Mags. Weaknesses: Mags. Poor lady volunteered for Annie. He has a sappy love story for the ginger. He's the Capitol Sweetheart. And just like you, one of the youngest victors. Mags is a wonderful lady—love her—hope all goes well," Another click. Varlia zoned out most of the time, tuning out the words of her mentor. Her mind grazed over the information until she heard the victors of District Seven: Timothee and Johanna.
Varlia's mind tuned back into her surroundings, engrossed in the information of Johanna and the male. A gleam of interest flickered onto the girl's face at the two. "Johanna's a bit deranged, as you know, but loyal to her allies. They are both strong players. They won their respective games strategically. Timothee is hard-working, humble, strongly opinionated, and playful. Charming, isn't he?" No response. The mind of Varlia tuned out once more, and before she knew it, Pardenia was already talking about Katniss and Peeta.
Word Count: 1696
Published: February 10th, 2024