๐๐๐๐๐, ๐๐ก๐๐๐๐, ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐;
Pulled and tugged like a patchwork puppet, Effie's assistants stuffed Peeta's arms and legs into her latest creation.
A garish, pumpkin orange two-piece, the jacket cutting an extreme silhouette with pointed shoulders and a high neck. The trousers were equally absurd, asymmetrical and tight-fitting on his bread-fed body, the bold fabric feeding down one leg and into a long, pointed boot. His prosthetic limb, a Capitol-made device replacing his butchered left leg, was being painted in matching whirls of UV-reactive, orange paint, whilst another assistant had begun to add similar swipes to his face.
Peeta could hardly focus on the chaotic grooming occurring around him. The harem of golden horns trumpeting ostentatious music throughout the dressing room faded into a distant howl. Effie's purrs and chirps vanished beneath the static rising in Peeta's ears, and the repeated poking of the closest make-up artist did little to remove the frown permanently etched into his forehead. Somehow, some-๐ง๐ถ๐ค๐ฌ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ-how, he was back here. Back in the Capitol, back being pawed at by strangers, back being extorted into fighting for his ๐ก๐๐๐. It was an unspoken promise that surviving a Games meant a life left alone, a lonely, troubled existence at the bottom of a bottle, trying to drown demons, but, safe from the fight for your life.
๐๐ท๐ช๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต๐ญ๐บ, ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ถ๐จ๐ฉ, ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ 75๐ต๐ฉ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฏ๐ถ๐ข๐ญ ๐๐ถ๐ฏ๐จ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐๐ข๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ด ๐ฉ๐ข๐ฅ ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ช๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ข๐ด.
So here he stood, staring down a reflection he didn't recognise, a boy torn apart and put back together again by the cruel hands of the Capitol. Make-up covered the scars and silk disguised the wounds, but all the riches in the world wouldn't save him from damnation.
โฃ
Originally written and shared as part of Verbuary 2022: https://tinyurl.com/ym8nysbm
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