𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝, 𝚙𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚔𝚒𝚗;
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-𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨-how, he was back here. Back in the Capitol, back being pawed at by strangers, back being extorted into fighting for his 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚. 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.
𝘌𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 75𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘏𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘎𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘴.
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.
Originally written and shared as part of Verbuary 2022: https://tinyurl.com/ym8nysbm
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