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She stares into her reflection as the designers bustle around her. It's the first stop on her Victory tour. Her first time home since she'd volunteered at the reaping.
A month ago, Silka had been looking forward to this moment. She'd imagined the grand applause she'd receive from her district. The pride in their eyes. She'd imagined standing at the podium on that stage, everyone's eyes on her. Smiling while she declared her—and District One's—victory.
Now that she's here, Silka doesn't feel much like smiling. They've pinned her hair up in an elaborate updo. Braids leading up to a ponytail reminiscent of the one she'd worn during the game. A dark green dress hugs her figure and it reminds her of the poisonous trees in the arena.
She looks beautiful but she doesn't look like herself. Before the game that had seemed like an appealing prospect. Now, she could only think that Maritte wouldn't approve. 'You're beautiful, Princess. I don't know how you don't see it.'
Maritte would have a lot to say about the course of things. She'd be proud of Silka for winning. For surviving. She'd also be disgusted with the methods Silka used to get there. With the barbaric way she ended the last two competitor's lives. The Twelve boy who she'd left with his intestines leaking out and face caved in. The little girl from Six who she'd pinned and then brought her axe down on. Again and again and again until her head split and blood rushed and she reached her hand down to— Maritte wouldn't have liked that. Silka is glad she wasn't there to see it.
Maybe it was for the best that Maritte wasn't here to see any of this. That she didn't have to witness Silka undergo surgery after surgery to fix her face. That she didn't have to see the wretched scar carved deep across her left eye. That she didn't have to watch the clips of her brutally hacking into the other tributes over and over. Didn't have to watch as Silka tried to justify it to the masses. That she didn't have to ignore the leers leveled Silka's way from the Capitolites. Sit with the gut-wrenching knowledge that the games never truly ended.
Except, Maritte had already known the truth. She'd already seen behind the veil of the splendor the Capitol promised and she had tried to make Silka see it too. To make her understand why she'd thrown that trident at that gamemaker. She'd tried. It wasn't her fault that Silka hadn't wanted to see it.
It's for the better that Maritte isn't here but Silka is starting to wish she wasn't either. Beautiful dresses, extra food, and her district's praise aren't as fulfilling as she thought they'd be. They aren't filling the gaping hole in her heart that Maritte took with her.
The designers finally pull away. “Are you ready, Silka?”
Her mother used to say it was lonely at the top. Until now, she hadn't understood what that meant. Hadn't realized that victory meant leaving everyone else behind. Anyone who could have understood her experiences, understood exactly what it was like to stand in that picturesque nightmare, was dead. With every swing of her axe she'd sentenced herself to loneliness. She'd been warned and she'd kept swinging anyway.
Her district had taught her to put glory above all else. That winning would secure her happiness. They had lied to her. There was nothing glorious about this.
“Silka?”
“I'm ready.” What other choice did she have?