I sat in the plush chair on stage, the interviewer Reedmore Dolly sitting daintily on the edge of his, as if a poisonous spider was lounging near the back of the chair. He felt the tension of the District 13 tribute interview, knew that one wrong question, one misinterpretation could cost him his head. If only he knew how many times worse it would be for me if my tongue slipped, or if something came out a different way than it sounded in my head. And even though I should be as tense or more than Reedmore, I was very relaxed. Comfortable, even. I knew President Snow sat watching, just as relaxed as me. We were both confident in my ability to speak without having the wrong thing come out. Hopefully not over confident.
"So Nightshade, how does it feel to be the last girl tribute for District 13 in the Hunger Games?" Reedmore asked, the trapped look in his eyes masked by the millions of sparkles his smile caused his eyes.
My smile wasn't even forced though I felt my pent up rage boil near the surface. I gave a light laugh that slipped naturally from my lips. "To be honest, I little tense." I looked at the audience, the quirky people of the Capitol, and gave them a lopsided smile. "If I don't put on a good show, I don't think anyone will even remember me!" I make sure to exclude saying "remember District 13", in case its taken as a sign of rebellion-stirring.
The audience laughs heartily and comforts me with words of "But we already love you!" and "Forget you? Surely you jest!". It was true. Ever since I was nine and a half year old prisoner of the Capitol, I was, in their eyes, an adorable, quirky little girl with a side-splitting sense of humor that followed the President around like a clumsy toy poodle. To them, I had been an icon for five years now. And I fed off of the attention.
Reedmore seemed to relax at the good mood of the audience, and he continued with the questions, getting his vibe back. We chattered back and fourth about the Hunger Games, being a tribute, my training. I unconsciously avoided any details that wouldn't appeal to the Capitol audience, such as the taming of the mutts or my continuous nightmares. President Snow was smiling.
"How about that dress? Isn't it stunning?" Reedmore chimed. The audience went wild with agreement.
I shrugged as I laughed along. "You know, to be honest I'd rather be back in my normal clothes."
"What, a prison jumpsuit?" The words slipped from Reedmore. I don't think he even notice, but I knew the reality of the words would sink in soon.
I was quick in my response. "Are you joking? President Snow wouldn't allow me to wear anything unfashionable in his house!"
The camera panned to President Snow. He was chuckling and nodding. "It's true." The audience laughed. My line would be a little inside joke with all of the Capitol for weeks.
The interview was rapped up after a few more questions. I said my goodbyes to the audience and blew them some kisses. I knew when I watched the recap of my interview, I would be disgusted with myself. But for now, my overly dramatic interviews were just as much about survival as fighting in the arena.
I met back up was President Snow. We said nothing to one another as we drove home in a black car with blacked out windows. When we returned to his house, I went directly to my room to fix myself. I shut the door and pulled off my dress and scrubbed the makeup off my face. I soaked my hair in the shower and shook it dry like a dog. I changed back into my normal clothes, a white shirt and khaki pants, and stared at myself in the mirror. With my pale face, dripped wet hair, and tired features, I looked more like myself than ever. I crawled into bed with my hair still wet and instantly fell asleep.
I dreamt I was in the arena, running from some tribute who was after my blood. I tripped and stumbled, falling to the ground. I seconds, the tribute was upon me, knife raised to strike the killing blow. And that's when I got a good look at the face.
It was me.
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