It was unlike her to play, but something in her chest made her hop into that safari cart and push the pedal. Perhaps the child in her was screaming to get out and breathe fresh air one more time, after a whole childhood of playing murder and nothing else. Perhaps she was seeking what she would never admit she needed: a break, a distraction, something less soaked in blood. Her left hand hurt pressed against the wheel, but how hard could it be? People drove all the time -- and she had gone to the Academy. Statistically, there was little she couldn’t handle in the Hunger Games.Â
So she pushed the pedal mercilessly, which took her faster than expected. The other pedal softened it up. Ariadne’s laughter welcomed the sudden rush of adrenaline. She could get used to playing a little. However, just when she was having the time of her life, the most tangled hair -- that she could, by now, recognize with ease -- showed up in her sight. She pressed the horn without concern that any unwelcome guests could hear. They were free to approach and be run over or stabbed in the neck -- it was all the same to her, frankly. However, she wanted to greet Antigone, at the moment feeling stuck in the joyful moment.
“May I take you for a ride? You look down.”Â
@pictureme-gone​
