My night is occupied by strange dreams. I dream of my home, the forest surrounding it, the Training Rooms- even the Remake Center. Everything could be normal, but there is always some element that is twisted, or a hodgepodge of events that disrupts normal life. It's as if mutts have been unleashed upon my sanity.

I find Avoxes laughing out guttural sounds from inside a glass box, walk into a room in which its wooden boards jiggle like fruit jam when I step on them. When I leave, I find myself on a mountain, overlooking a rocky, desolate gorge. Cold air chills my shoulders, and a wind whips me forward. I almost fall into the gorge, and my eyes follow the pebbles my feet disrupt, traveling farther and farther into unknown oblivion. I linger there, unable to take my eyes away from the depth of the dark.

There's something familiar about this place. I turn until I face the opposite direction than the cliff. The majority of the mountain top is covered in powdery white snow, and the few crags of smooth black stone that do show are slick with ice. On the other side of the cliff, there's a silhouette of a person. They are shrouded in a black cloak and if I lean a little bit to the side, I can see that they're kneeling next to something. My curiosity gets the better of me and I creep closer. For some reason, I'm barefoot, and the snow sends shocks of cold up my legs. But something in my gut tells me to keep going. So I do.

Less than ten feet from the figure, the increase in detail clarifies more of the scene. I feel a rush of deja vu. What is going on? My mind demands an explanation, but I can't help feeling familiar with this place. There is no doubt about it.

As if on cue, the figure turns around. I jump. The figure does not acknowledge me, but there's no doubt that he knows I'm there. He turns his head in my direction, and slowly lifts his hood away from his face. It is pale, mercilessly scarred, taut. From starvation, from fear. My eyes travel down, stopping at his waist. The figure is pressing his hands to multiple wounds. From pain.

The figure seems so different, but the hazel eyes- the dark brown hair- I watch the figure tug at the collar of his shirt, a string of wooden beads poking out from underneath-

My heart leaps into my throat, and know instantly what is going on.

That's Ash. Starved, beaten, and exhausted, but nonetheless- it is Ash.

My eyes travel to the mountains around me. This is where Ash claimed the victory of his Hunger Games.

My eyes swivel to the exposed beads on his neck. They are various shades of brown. Made from oak, redwood, spruce. That's the necklace that Henna gave him. His token.

I hesitate, but I have to look at what Ash was kneeling beside. Unfortunately, I already know what's there. My vision lingers on the person, the bloody mess of a person lying in the snow. That is the girl that Ash had to kill to win his Games.

"Yes." My eyes dart to Ash. He speaks as if reading my thoughts. He nods wanly, and then thrusts something into the snow. A knife plants itself hilt-up, and red stains the crystalline white. Ash limps up to me and whispers in my ear.

"There is always a sacrifice to be made."

My eyes flick back over to the dead girl on the ground. I remember watching Ash win; and to think that he, such a gentle person, would kill anyone so brutally, is still beyond my comprehension. I feel my stomach lurch as I take in the body, remembering everything about the girl- her chariot ride, her interview, her performance in the Games. None of that shows up here. Her gaunt, skeletal body does not reflect how beautiful she had looked only a couple of weeks before, with her red interview dress fitting her tiny frame. Her lips, blue with cold, don't seem like they had once been pink with life.

If Ash hadn't won, she would have been the first twelve-year-old to win. But she didn't. And now I'm here, feeling a strange guilt at having revisited Ash's past. Seeing what he had to live with for three years.

The realization that I am dreaming shakes me awake. I bolt up with a gasp. With the urge to something, anything, I leap out of bed and run to the bathroom. I realize too late that I do not know why I've come over there, and run back to my bedroom. I throw on a shirt, some pants. I don't currently care what I look like. I look frantically for something else to do; and when I detect the first tiny pang of hunger, I launch myself into the kitchenette. I grab a bowl of oats, and then dive into the food, attacking it with feverish urgency. I get the sudden feeling that I'm having a panic attack, and the very thought almost sends me into hysterics. I finish the oats, and abandon the bowl on the island. I run, bounce off the bed, and dive into the closet. I shut the door, and it is only then when I know for sure the panic attack is coming.

I feel myself shaking, and hug my knees. I can't do this. I rock myself back and forth, my thoughts running too fast for me to catch. I can't do this. The image of the twelve-year-old girl Ash had killed invades my mind, and I shut my eyes tight, trying to shut the gory image out of my mind. I cover my ears, not wanting to remember the sound of her scream. I CAN'T DO THIS. I can't I can't I can't I can't.

A faint knock on the door to my quarters. I know it's from Eli, but I don't answer it. Instead, I silently pray for him to leave. The knock comes again. It's to my disadvantage now that Eli knows exactly when I'll be awake. Both our senses of timing are practically identical.

My silent plea for him to go apparently goes unnoticed. I hear the the click of my doorknob turning, and I curse myself for not having the foresight to lock it.

"Cass?"

NO.

Then, just as I had feared before. His knock comes, gentle and coaxing, but this time on my closet door. Has he heard my breathing? Maybe he has, but nonetheless, his presence seems to be heightening to my panic attack; not calming it, like it usually does.

"Cass, are you in there?"

"Go. Away." My voice comes out strained and raspy, and I think he now knows, if he hadn't suspected beforehand, that I am having one of my panic attacks.

"Cass. Come out and I can help you. Trust me, I can. You know I can," Eli replies, in a softer voice than before. Probably trying to keep me from exploding. Even with him, I can get angry enough to punch a wall. Which, though rare, is still likely sometimes. Probably the reason Eli and I have a system to follow for times like this. Which I'm currently violating by locking myself in a closet.

I grit my teeth, try my hardest to stuff down all memory of the dream, and the girl, and my frantic run across my quarters. "Fine," I mutter. I push open the door, and sit on the bed.

As Eli massages my shoulders, I try to convince myself that there's nothing to worry about today. But though I would love to believe wholeheartedly that everything is just fine, it's not.

It's the day before our interviews, after all.

. . .

My day is mainly taken up with District Seven's team hurriedly preparing Eli and I for our interviews. After ten o'clock in the morning, Eli and I spend eight hours with the mentors and representative- though Gem insisted we alternate and do it separately, to prevent "confusion", as she called it. I believe that she meant to say, "So that Eli and Cassia learn early on how to not rely on each other." But I don't press the matter, because as far as I know, arguing is only going to get me a very long, boring lecture worth dead air from Gem during our four-hour session.

After breakfast, Eli is paired with Gem, and I with Cedar and Ash. While Gem and Eli walk down the hall to his quarters for their session, I walk down to my quarters for mine. After the door closes, a couple of the chairs in my room are pulled up to my bed, and I am told to sit down. While I cross my legs across the covers and try to get comfortable, I notice my mentors staring at me from the chairs.

"What are we doing for the session?" I say.

Cedar cracks his knuckles in a businesslike manner. "Ash and I are going to come up with your appearance for the interview. Just give us a second." Both Ash and Cedar concentrate on my face, looking thoughtful. I wonder what they plan to do with me. Make me look like. What do I look like to them? To them, would I seem the kind to fight or flee? To claw my way to victory or lie in wait for everyone else to fail? Either way, I hate being the center of attention, and I think that they know that already.

Ash snaps his fingers. "I've got it." Cedar and I focus our attention on him as he says, "I think your angle should be fierce."

"Fierce," I repeat, trying to test if Ash is kidding.

"Please. You are," he tries to assure me. "You have the highest training score possible. You blew those Gamemakers away with whatever you did for your assessment. You-" Ash casts an uneasy glance at Cedar before continuing. "- did prove that you had fast reflexes during our lecture." We both grimace a little at the memory, and I suddenly feel the need to wipe the blood off my knuckles; even though I know if I look down, I won't see any.

"Sounds good," says Cedar slowly, clearly testing the idea himself, maybe even considering it. Though when he crosses his arms, I can tell he has different plans. "But wouldn't Cornelius be doing a fierce angle? He had a twelve as well, and probably would win a heck of a lot of sponsors with his size and power, even without that."

"That's true, but we can still find a way to work it out with Cassia," argues Ash. "And if that Cornelius indeed uses the fierce angle, then we'll come up with a backup should Cassia's original plan be taken."

"Fair enough."

The next four hours are taken up with my mentors firing questions at me and me firing back answers just as quickly. We practice with my supposed fierceness, and then with a cunning angle. And for good measure, with arrogance. I hate intentionally being arrogant for a sea of idiots, but I have to work with it if I'm going to get sponsors. The only real problem will be keeping up my interview angle in the arena.

At two o'clock, I am dismissed. I head to the dining room for a meal break and meet with Eli. As the adults join us, he warns me from across the table that I'm not going to like the session with Gem. Somehow, this doesn't surprise me, but it turns out that the real thing is so much worse than the warning.

If Gem hates Eli, she probably wants me to go to hell. After she marches me to my quarters, she makes this very clear to me by shoving me into a gown with a skirt so long, I trip over it with my feet. This gives my typical dislike of dresses a whole new level of meaning. Then, after she measures my feet, she shoves them into tight high-heeled shoes. Wonderful, I think as I try not to react very openly about the sores I can feel forming. Just like her own shoes. The worst part at the moment is how tight they are. Thanks to my mother, my feet are tiny, but the shoes feel like they were made for young children, only with heels that would topple anyone smaller than Gem herself.

Then she makes me walk in them.

Every moment that I don't spend tripping over my sore feet, I am trying not to step on the skirt, which keeps getting under my feet persistently. Kind of like a cat. I grunt as I hit the floor for the ninth time, and then struggle to my feet again.

When I catch Gem's look of contempt, I finally feel that I've had it. "What?" I snap as I tug my stupid skirt out from under my shoes.

"I find it incredibly insulting that you aren't even trying to hold yourself together," says Gem in a haughty tone, looking down at me from her long nose and smoothing her skirt.

"Well, not everyone can be a walking tree from sunrise to sunset," I retort, feeling a morsel of pleasure when her face turns pink with anger.

The slap comes full and hard. Heat lances across the side of my face as I fall back onto the bed, and Gem leans forward so close to me, a couple of curly strands of hair touch the side of my face.

"Let me make something clear," she hisses, every word clipped and biting. The blue of her eyes is dark with fury, and the light there looks rather manic from where I am. "You are going to obey everything I tell you to do for the next few hours. You will wear the shoes and the dress and walk and curtsy and do whatever I tell you to do. Do you know why we do this?" I glare in reply, trying to cover for my surprise at her reaction. Is it just my imagination that she may actually care? "We do this so that the sponsors don't overlook you, Cassia." Her voice is softer now, which seems so unlike the Gem I have learned to get used to so far. I blink, this time not hiding my surprise. I believe this is the first time I've ever heard her use my name outside of the Reaping.

Gem leans away from me and sighs. She looks more tired than I would have noticed before, and I notice a single strand of gray in a sea of dark red curls. I never thought to guess Gem's age, but it's likely that she's much younger than she looks. Or more worn down by her job of being an escort. Watching children die annually is certainly not easy.

And from her reaction to this session with me, it's more of a life sentence for her than just a job. Suddenly I feel terrible for not reading her more carefully. And now, I may never have the chance. I'm going into the arena in not much longer than twenty-four hours.

"Well," Gem sighs, tucking her loose strands of hair back into her hairdo, "Let's get back to it. We don't have much time."

And so we continue with my performance etiquette. I learn how to become a "proper lady", as Gem calls it. We walk more and then I relearn how to sit and give a speech. I am lectured on eye contact. Volume and pitch of the voice. Emphasizing points with the appropriate hand gestures. And much practice with smiling. Though I don't really smile much, I grit my teeth as I work with Gem's methods, trying to keep my thoughts off how much my cheeks feel overworked.

"So, exactly how much smiling do I have to do in this interview?" I ask, trying to keep as much exasperation out of my voice as possible.

"To be honest, not likely much," Gem admits, unbuttoning the back of the gown from my back. I slip lightly out of the dress back into my clothes. "If you're going to be cunning and sly, you have the option of just about any look. You can act completely humble and shy, or arrogant and overconfident, because being cunning is often all in the public appearance." I nod, and she gives me a hesitant, wavering smile. It's likely that she hasn't been able to smile in a long time. And now that I've seen a whole other side of her, the Gem I saw at the Reaping makes sense. I probably have been one of the hardest tributes she's ever had to work with, too- I'm not very meek, like Eli, either.

"All right," she sighs, looking me over with slight satisfaction, as if the etiquette she has taught me has visibly rubbed off on me. "Do your best with what you have in the interview and you'll likely be all right." Her voice catches on the last part, but she composes herself and resumes her stony demeanor. As I open the door to my quarters, she swats me on the shoulder and says in a crabby voice, "Now stop dawdling and get out. Don't make me do it again." I can't help but laugh, and Gem allows herself another smile.

We walk to the dining room, the hall so silent, I can hear Eli's quiet laugh from my quarters. "You will win them over, Cassia," Gem mutters, to herself or me or both I'm not sure. Her pale hand quavers on my shoulder as she repeats from above me, "You will." But by now, if she's reassuring herself, she only has so much time to do so. The interview is now much sooner than later.

. . .

In the morning, I am visited by my prep team and Vernus. I am told that the entire day will be spent getting me ready for the interview, and I am reminded again of how much beauty seems to matter in this place. In a way, it would not surprise me if they thought it was reasonable for a dead tribute to be pretty when they died- as if it made it any more forgiving. But because my visitors seem to want me to look forward to the interview, I let them do most of the talking.

"Are you excited?" Selene asks me, her high voice hopeful, her mind probably on the plans for the day.

"I don't know," I say after a moment's pause, not wanting to risk offending the little woman with "I'm afraid for my life and you're asking me if I'm excited?" Selene, as bubbly and warm as she is, reminds me of a child in a way- playful and curious, but more than a little naive.

Flavia is more understanding. "Not much of a public speaker?" she says softly, handing me a glass of water. I give a slight shake with my head, and she nods. She rubs a dry, cool powder into my skin, looking exactly the way she had the day of the parade. She begins to hum a light, playful tune, and I close my eyes, letting myself be swept away by her sweet alto.

Eventually, I realize that if I ever thought I was done with makeovers before today, then I was utterly wrong. My prep team works on me until late afternoon, allowing me a few brief breaks to drink some water or eat a bite or two off of Cedar's lunch. I stand patiently as the two women grab bottle after bottle from a huge black bag on the floor, to use a squirt of this, a handful of that. My skin is washed and polished, and lathered with countless cosmetic powders and pastes. I am told that I will have a relatively simple look somewhere along the way, but after I learn that they have only put on a foundation layer of my new look, I am not quite so sure.

"Simple but effective, Cassia," Vernus tuts after I ask how much makeup is in that expensive-looking bag they brought. "Simple but effective."

Hour after hour passes, but as long as it takes, every time I open my eyes, I know some level of progress has been made. Eventually, the prep team moves onto my face. I know because of the change in the look of the items that they grab. After Flavia tells me to hold still, I watch Selene look through everything, making sure she grabbed what she needed. After a final look-over, she comes up to me with an evil-looking little brush that kind of reminds me of one of the various types of parasitic worms and caterpillars that are found on dying pines. When she catches my incredulous look, she shrugs and states cheerfully, "Don't worry, it won't hurt. It will just tickle. The stiller you stay, the sooner you will be done, honey."

More makeup is added in a painfully slow, careful process, and then my hair is untangled and rebraided. Selene stands on tiptoe and then begins twisting my hair at the crown. She braids my hair along the back of my head, weaving ribbon in various shades of forest green through it as she goes. Then I am fitted into my interview dress, and black boots with short heels. After wearing the tall heels during my session with Gem, I find them incredibly easy to maneuver in.

"Bring out the mirror," says Selene, clapping her hands with excitement. Her dark eyes are huge, and the fact that she is close to bursting is somewhat contagious among almost everyone else.

Vernus covers my eyes with one hand, and adjusts the mirror that Flavia just wheeled out with the other.

"Open."

When I look for me in the mirror, I don't find my own reflection. Instead, I encounter another girl in the mirror. This girl has huge green eyes with thick black lashes, full lips and smooth, shimmering brown skin. Her black hair is woven into an intricate braid, beginning at the back of her head and falling to her waist. The girl in the mirror is gorgeous. It takes some convincing to make me believe that she is me.

For once, I actually feel amazing in something that Vernus has made. The black dress I wear is cinched at the shoulders and waist, which Vernus had explained will draw attention to the muscle in my figure, rather than the small size. The green braids of ribbon along my waist and hips are said to bring out my eyes. The skirt, made of an incredibly light fabric, flares out at the waist and hits at my knees. I shimmer with however many carefully layered cosmetics that are inlaid in my skin. I blink, and the girl does too. To say the least, I am beautiful.

"Vernus," I say at last. "Wow."

"You're so pretty," Selene breathes, her eyes as big, if not bigger, than mine.

Suddenly another familiar face appears in the mirror behind me. "Cass," says Eli, his face in a wide grin. "That looks awesome."

I turn and size up Eli as well, surprised at the tailored suit and tie he wears, and how grown-up his prep team and stylist decided to make him look. "Well, that does too."

Everyone stares at me and Eli for a good thirty seconds. When we look at each other, I wonder if Eli thinks I look very different. I wonder if he currently can see my thought process when I look at him. I wonder if anyone else is having similar reactions.

But mostly, I wonder if this, if not anything else, will affect the opinions of our audience.

And it still really disgusts me that our lives heavily depend on if we are beautiful in the eyes of the public.

-   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -

Hey again!!!

Let me be honest- I really had fun writing this chapter. It was kind of hard to write, mainly because I'm a tomboy and I panicked over the fact that at this same exact point in The Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins was writing about makeup. 

Which, being a tomboy, is one of those areas that my brain still can't really process. All I knew at the time was that you wear makeup on your face and somehow, it comes off. Probably with water.

Yeah.

Anyway, I have to thank my mother and female friends outside of Wattpad for helping me with my cluelessness because otherwise, frankly; I probably would have fallen flat on my face in this chapter and died. Thank you, all!!!!

Okay, routine time!

If you liked this chapter, please comment and/or vote, and if you have feedback and reactions for this chapter and for me, do put those down too!

Finally, have a nice day :). You know you want to.