WARNINGS: Disordered eating

BETA READING: To be done still

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Reaping day was a bleak day.

A hot summer morning viewed through the lens that's used in old Russian movies depicting the flaws of the government, banned not only in said faraway country, but also here, for its similarity with us be unsettling. It would've caused an outrage if seen - are they really talking about something we're so separated from, when we are busy doing the exact same thing right under everyone's nose?

My father loved collecting those before he disappeared one day: the once forbidden things. I enjoyed watching the tapes when my mother wasn't home (which was most of the time). Today it was as though the entire world had transferred into them, more than previous Reaping years had.

I observed the girl in the mirror, who was more like a picture than a reflection, and smiled at her. She smiled back.

Perfect.

It was perfectly bleak.

This way the madness I had planned would blend in seamlessly. The photograph left in people's memories would end up perfectly composed, no elements mismatched in spite of its chaos. Even the rising sun seemed to have understood its cue.

The Agnes Laure Richis in the mirror looked almost like her mother: milk white and porcelain, lovely and frail. Eyes black like coal and large, somehow conveying innocence, though I wasn't sure how I did it with all going on beneath them. Hair wild yet tamed, strawberry red, contained in two neat braids.

I wasn't really all that pretty. I was just dressed like I was. It helped, though, this delicate facade. People would most certainly be tricked into thinking I was pretty. True beauty, I think, is when the essence of a person is radiating with love, and said love makes people perceive them with liking. The liking makes them enjoy seeing their features. But without love, the beauty fades. If you don't love someone, it's hard to truly find them beautiful.

Dressing up in loved colors and fabrics and ribbons creates a liking. Dressing up like a woman they like; love; creates a lovable association, even if my presence had something that felt deeply wrong with it the more you looked at it. Without love we look all the same: unfortunately human and plain.

Morgan Nevermore appeared in the picture behind Agnes Richis. Her hair was loose, too short to tie up as of now at chin length, and her bathrobe was on for warmth. She looked tired next to me. Her bags were always more noticeable when it was half dark, somehow accentuated by the shadows.

'You're dressed up,' she remarked.

I gave a nod. 'If I'm to be a sacrifice today, I better look presentable.'

'They're not gonna pick you.'

Though I badly wanted to, I didn't roll my eyes. If only it were that simple!

'Then I'm nicely dressed for a funeral,' I instead said lightly.

My mother could snort to that, at least, in spite of her weariness. 'In my old dress?'

'No, that's a threat for if I am picked.'

A brief silence passed, then she wrapped her arms around me and tugged me into an embrace. I couldn't hug back from this angle, though I reached up to hold her hands and lightly squeezed in them. In the mirror we almost looked like a normal mother and daughter.

'It's a pretty dress, at least,' I said to her, smoothing out a wrinkle in the white fabric with my right hand, left still in hers.

My mother laughed hollowly. 'No, but you make it look like it is.'

I wasn't sure what to say to that. It was a nice dress. Old fashioned, yes, but perfectly fit for the occasion. It was knee length with a relaxed skirt, neither tight nor poofed; with a high waist that was separated from the bodice with a brown waistband. The sleeves were long and puffy. The collar had a nice frill to it that was detailed enough for interest, but not distracting. The white fabric was sprinkled with dark brown polka dots.

My mother had worn it on her Reaping for a certain dreadful 58th Hunger Games. The victor had been seventeen at the time. She returned in a light green gown and many golden bracelets. Her picture stood on the mantelpiece, though my mother barely looked at it, as though her younger self was haunted.

She looked haunted.

I pitied Morgan Nevermore. It almost made me feel bad to use her as a marketing piece for the reckless gamble I strategically was about to make.

'It doesn't fit you as well as last time you tried it,' my mother pointed out, lost in thought.

My eyes flicked at myself in the mirror. A sudden fit of unease took hold of me. Did I look that much bigger than last year? 'It fits more than fine,' I said.

'No, last time you put it on you filled it up more. It's looser now.'

Oh. A smile snuck onto my face that I had difficulty hiding.

'Come, you need to eat.'

My mother let go of me and set foot for the door of the bathroom. I turned to watch her. Something was incredibly melancholic about her today. I couldn't quite afford to focus on it, though. My concentration barely wavered.

'I'm not really that hungry,' I said once she was nearly in the hallway.

She halted, not turning around. 'Still come down, I already made you breakfast.'

A kind of annoyance overfell me then. I couldn't help but frown, muscles tensing up as she left for the kitchen. I balled my fists, sucked a breath in between my teeth, then relaxed. I glanced in the mirror to ensure it wasn't too visible how irritated I'd been for a few seconds. Then I left too.

☠

First I stopped by my bedroom, which was still about as messy as I felt in spite of the pointedness that'd entered me these past couple of weeks. I took out the carton box I'd carefully tucked under my bed, then set it on top of it. I checked the contents.

Everything was still there. My father's diaries with lines like "Taboos are always taboo for a reason, but that reason isn't always there because of our ratio, let go for our benefit," when speaking of banned media. My mother's rosary with red beads. The trinkets I loved so dearly. My favorite books. A concealed jar with holes in it. Everything was good. Everything was perfect.

I left the room and very carefully closed the door behind me.

☠

'Officially, good morning,' I said jovially when entering the kitchen. My mother was scraping bits of egg and bacon out of a frying pan, an amused little smile laying on her lips.

'Well, you don't seem particularly nervous. Come, sit down, I made you something to eat.'

Shit. There went my excuse.

'I'm faking it,' I said, though I nevertheless sat down. I stared at the plate before me. Eggs and toast. I fucking had to eat eggs and toast as my last meal at home.

God, what could I do? If she didn't believe that I was too nervous to eat, then what other thing could I claim? I couldn't hide fucking eggs and toast in my sleeves to later throw away, Christ. The sheer thought of having to force something down my throat right now, when I couldn't afford to lose focus, made something in me inevitably restless. I had worked so hard to look impoverished. I couldn't now look like a spoiled brat living in the victor's town, on the day where it mattered most!

'It'd be so embarrassing if I now stained your dress,' I joked, laughing a little. Morgan sat down on the other side of the table.

'You could burn that thing if you wanted to, I couldn't care less,' she assured me.

I glanced at the cutlery in front of me. 'Yet you kept it all this time,'

'Alice loved the thing, she picked it out for me. If it hadn't been for her I would have already ripped it to shreds years ago.'

Oh, yes, Alice. The aunt I'd never met. The hysterical madwoman who had slit her own throat. The girl whom my mother said I looked like most.

'You really despise it that much, huh?' I teased, 'I bet I must be like a red cloth being swung in front of a bull to you,'

Morgan laughed, cutting a piece of her bacon. 'Oh, no, you could never be that to me. Not when you look so pretty.'

I couldn't help but smile a little. If she thought I was pretty, I didn't think I cared about anyone else's opinions anymore, not for my self-esteem. Whether I was conventionally beautiful or not was a price for success, not a necessity for worth. Not if Morgan liked me.

Some time passed. I took some hesitant bites of bacon (I liked those more than egg). I drank two glasses of water. My mother sipped on her bitter coffee. Neither of us said anything. Anticipation was overwhelming. A nervous, delightful kind of twirl danced in my stomach, like a most pleasant storm of adrenaline. God, this was gonna be good. I was going to be so sick after this, I was going to despise myself so much. Yet it would all be worth it. Being alive full of fury was better than letting the hatred simmer on the lowest pit in the hopes not to alarm anyone. Getting to scream so loudly that my lungs popped was all I could think of.

After my bacon, I put my cutlery down. I placed two fingers against my oily lips, glancing down. 'Sorry, I'm really nauseous,' I said. It wasn't entirely a lie. I knew that the nausea was thought induced, though. It wasn't sincere nausea. It was the kind of unease that an actor tries to convince themselves they feel in order to cry and flinch on TV, the kind of tears that you have to force by thinking of your dead pet from when you were seven, where you have to shovel and dig for a physical reaction.

My mother set down her coffee cup, ever so slightly tilting her head. 'Because of the Reaping?'

'No, I... I don't know, I think I'm just sick.'

From her place in the white chair she observed me. She said nothing. Sympathy was in her eyes, I think, yet it felt utterly claustrophobic to be within her sight all of a sudden. I stumbled back, trying to stand up, covering my mouth in full, then rushed to the downstairs bathroom. Once there I locked the door behind me to hide the fine details of my trick.

As I kneeled over the toilet seat, I listened for Morgan's footsteps.

None were there.

I pulled up my sleeves and rolled them up far from my hands. Then I spread my knees to sit comfortably above the toilet, tucking my braids into my collar so they'd stay clean. I forced a finger into my throat and retched.

I purged every single thing in my stomach. The poorly digested bacon. The two glasses of water. The horrid smell of stomach acid filled my nose, tears prickling in my eyes, yet I persisted. Once everything was out I shook my hand above the toilet, then leaned on the seat as I breathed in clean oxygen.

The bathroom felt horribly cold and disgusting like this. Yet at the same time, it was strangely unblemished. The air I sucked in was a most pleasant sensation with my burning throat and eyes.

After about a minute, I stood up, and thoroughly washed my hands to rub off the smell of stomach acid and secondhand bacon. Then I also washed my face. In the mirror I could see my eyes were a bit red. My lips were a bit more red than usual, too.

That was all fine. Cleaning my face extra before I left the house would do no harm.

☠

I returned to the kitchen. My mother was standing up, waiting for me. Her robe was open and revealed her light blue pajamas. She gave me a rueful smile.

'Oh, Agnes,' she said, making her way to me and pulling me into a hug. I allowed her. 'Your stomach isn't your friend these last few days, is it?'

She pressed a kiss on the crown of my head. I rested against her breast, quiet and still. I wasn't sure what to say. It made me a little uncertain, when she seemed to pity me for the things she didn't know were an effect of the things I was responsible for doing to myself. It made me restless. What was I supposed to say? How could I possibly translate my reasoning into anything that would calm her down?

I cautiously hugged back and squeezed her tightly in my arms before letting go.

'It's alright, I'll live,' I said and flashed her a grin. Then the smile dropped. 'You're not going this year, are you?'

Morgan shook her head.

No, she wasn't. She was not the one to teach the tributes of District 10 this year how to win. This year she would spend more time with her fourteen year old daughter, Agnes Richis, and watch movies while eating popcorn and painting each others' nails and discussing old novels and philosophy and stupid old men and how much they both hated the Capitol and its unnecessary cruelty. We would go to the beach and swim until we were both tired, reap the herbs in the garden and cook lamb and rosemary together. She would show me how to use a sword again and praise me for being better at it than the years before.

Yet I was to ruin that kind of summer for her. I felt almost like a stranger in my own body as I thought of it. It was like her daughter was possessed by an intruder with plans that could only smash those of innocent Agnes and loving Morgan.

I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

'I'll be right here making pork pozole after the Reaping,' Morgan told me.

I smiled. The corners of my mouth had never hurt so much before.