with yellow hair,

❛ blue is good! and pink. ❜ she calls from behind the closed door, looking at herself a little longer before emerging. the dress falls like it was created for her alone, as though jane's spirit had sewn it specifically. her reflection sparkles, and for a second, she doesn't recognise the teenager staring back at her. SHE IS A VISION! A STRANGE, UNTOUCHABLE THING. she spins slowly, letting the skirt flow out like a wave of midnight tides, catching the light in a hundred shimmering reflections. she ties a purple bandana in her short hair, and slides three bangles on her wrist. each piece needed different accessories, thank you very much!

❛ this is my abs - salute favourite. ❜ she's barely through the door when she speaks, a large grin turning cheeks bright red. now, however, with an audience -- despite the fact that it's just her neighbour -- she can't help but feel a tad embarrassed, exposed. hands toy together, feet rock on carpeted grounds, inside of the mouth is chewed at by crooked teeth. bloomed confidence turns into sheepish uncertainty. it's not easy to put yourself on display, to have eyes eating up every last inch of you, no matter who it is. ❛ you really think blue is pretty? it doesn't look... silly? bad? ❜

smile tugs at her lips, sneaking through without any protest. ❝ very beautiful. ❞ why if she could style clothes like jane can! another glance at the dress over and her head tilts to the side. ❝ i've never seen that dress before. ❞ not the type of garment her guardian would approve of in the slightest. mrs. eastman must have snuck it in somehow. but why? she looks over the dress again and wonders if it belonged to her mother. did her mother wear this in the summertime? did she go on picnics in the woods?

though not the intention, the question makes her chest feel hollow. amongst all of the other thoughts she had when she had upon finding out that she was... expecting, that had been one of them: she'll never be slim again. this isn't even how big she'll get! but when johanna looks down, she can't imagine how she'll ever look normal again.

❝ i don't think i will be able to fit in them again. ❞ a short laugh. ( always trying to avoid suspicion. ) trying not to show how much it bothers her that she's gained a few pounds. ❝ these are much prettier than maternity clothes, aren't they? ❞ johanna shuffles through the pile, taking out one dress in particular.

there  is  a  rat,   like  the  city-large  ones  grown  fat  on  run-off,   chewing  at  his  ribs.      twenty  years  ago,     he  might’ve  called  this  rat  panic.  ben   feels  her  tension,      &     without  thinking  extends  his  arm  across  the  table  separating  them  as  if  to  reach  for  her.      parental  instinct,     something  he  hasn’t  felt  since  she  was  small  enough  to  hold  in  the  cradle  of  an  arm.     

instead of touching her, ben   rests  his  wrist  on  the  table,     palm  open      &    plaintive.      begging.       take  my  hand,     i  promise  it  won’t  hurt  you.          

the  words  come  without  permission.  he  hates  them  before  he  says  them.   

❛      i  never  left  you.      ❜

yellow  hair  like  a  halo;     eyes  just  like  his  own.     his  throat  clenches.     she  haunts  him.      screams  at  him.      her  place  in  the  dark,     the  footboard  of  his  bed.     

his wrist is oh-so vulnerable, stretched out like that on the table. johanna has seen her own palm cut. bleeding, while she couldn't bring herself to do anything but stare at it. she stares at the veins in his arm. that hand has inflicted so much damage. to think, in some other life, she would have grown up grasping at it. a hand that would represent safety only symbolizes the anguish of a child stuck inside of her.

❝ but you weren't. ❞ whatever vision he saw, whatever dream he is refiring to, it only exists in his mind. not in her own. johanna's stomach churns at the thought of it. he sounds haunted by whatever version of her that he thought of. she wishes she doesn't exist in his mind.

hand forms into a fist, a protest against the openness of his. she rests white knuckles against the cold metal between them. ❝ why not? ❞ a snap. a roar. ❝ we share the same name. when everything... i was told i was your daughter. why didn't you come back? ❞ why didn't you care enough about me?

The 73rd Hunger Games. Drove feels sick. Though he'd known that his odds weren't good going in, his name in the reaping bowl thirty six times at the age of fifteen, hearing his name called out across the square had made his heart drop into the pit of the stomach. Faces turning to look at his, the twins gripping each other as he'd limped past them, little Maeve's crying even before he'd reached the stage. He'd clung to them all for as long as was allowed in the hall of justice before they'd been pulled away. Numb as he lets himself be ushered towards the train.

He's never going to see them again.

this is her second year and she isn't used to it. for a moment, she envies the other victors who have their vices to keep them going. how on earth is she supposed to enter a room of children who are currently getting lead to their deaths? they'll never get to go home again. they come from families whose mothers cry over them and their siblings cling to their sides. johanna was the perfect contestant to die. she had none of that. the only thing keeping her sober is her fiancé. this year, they won't even be together.

this year, she's already been sick over the prospect of mentoring the tributes from ten. at least with her home district, they stand a chance. a horrific, selfish thought, but she can't help how it circulates around her mind. who is she to mentor a doomed tribute?

farrow speaks, though johanna hardly comprehends it. she is fond of the other mentor despite the fact that they only just begun actually talking to each other. they take their seats across from the tributes. johanna perches her hands in front of her. ( i'm not going to hurt you, i promise. ) when prompted, she raises her gaze to speak.

Her eyes narrow. “No. I’m not assuming anything.” She’s right, and she knows she is, because she’s always right. God. It’s worse than she thought. She hadn’t realized Art still kept in touch with his friends from childhood. She hadn’t realized he had any friends from childhood at all, but he knew nothing about her childhood, either, so it was fine. “Good for you.” She sneers as she says it. “I’m so glad he’s found someone that knows him so well.”

❝ did you ever love him? ❞

like a crow watching a shiny object from afar, she stares back. completely focus and nearly unsettling. ❝ did you love him? not want him, not want to sleep with him... did you love him? all of him? ❞ johanna has only ever loved before---all-consuming and breathlessly. she has loved through laughter and through heartache. but despite her inexperience, she has known obsession. she has known what it is like to be sought after and torn apart without a single ounce of love part of it.

she has never looked upon tashi duncan with any fondness. she has never had a kind thought about the woman. and johanna doubts that tashi will ever see her in a bright light either...

@andpale ASKED: ( blanket ) - for the sender’s muse to place a blanket on top of the receiver’s muse after a hard day / after they’ve fallen asleep somewhere . (JOHANNA)

Riff doesn't get sick. No, he simply can't afford to. He's got a wife and ( his dead friend's) child to take care of. Anthony got sick and now he was gone.

Besides, who would run the lighthouse if he was sick? It certainly wouldn't be his wife nor the baby.

If the baby hadn't climbed out the windows and wandered through a rainstorm to come see him at work, he wouldn't have had to spend the rest of his shift cold and soaking wet, having returned her home himself.

He'd been coughing so much that it made his back hurt, and any suggestion to lay down was rebuffed. But he agreed to sit in the parlor in the chair that he liked and hadn't even known he fell asleep until she was placing another blanket atop him. When had it gotten so cold? Her hands were warm. Was she touching his head?

as direct opposite to her husband, johanna was quite pleased upon hearing the story. she's doing something right as a mother if her daughter knows how to get out of the house safely and easily. ( and the fact that she can. ) laura made it to the lighthouse and back. precocious child!

but clearly, it had been a stressful night for riff. and she didn't want that. didn't want to see him ill, either. ( anthony got sick and never got better. ) she had a discussion with laura about the need for supervision and the dangers of doing what she had done in the rain. if she ever needed anything, she can come to her mother when riff was out.

it's a recently-finished blanket, usually kept folded at the end of the sofa. seeing the way riff was shaking, she hadn't given it a second thought before drawing it over him. there was a night years ago when he was sick and anthony was alive. johanna remembers throwing a blanket at him against all the accusations he spat at her. so many of them were true, it frightened her to know that he could see through her.

she doesn't know anything about his mother. that night long ago was one of the only times she really learned anything about him... from him. it's the sickness talking, johanna is sure, but she clings onto the mumblings as if they were the word of God. a little smile at being called " mam. "