Liberosis - The Hunger Games

26

We had been touring for the past week now, District 11, 10, 9, 8,7 and 6 had been left behind us as the train slid along the tracks. I had seen just about everything, the vibrant orchards of Eleven, the cattle sheds of 10. The rolling fields of 9 and the smoky factories of 8. I had seen Viva's family, they did not have much to say, but they looked like her. Though lacking in the scar etched on her face, Viva's younger sister met me the girl's familiar scowl.

District 7 followed, surrounded by forests. I noticed the District Seven men and women trudge to work escorted by peacekeepers. Tiberius' family were all like him and I ignored the anger building at the back of my head when I thought about my friends. I had a difficult night that night, celebrations were loud and joyous however I felt as though I could not hear anything over the sound of my heartbeat.

Finnick had sat on the side of my bed later that night, he brushed the braids out of my hair and sat beside me as I let quiet tears trickle down my face. I could tell her was crying too, he would not have said anything if he was. There were times on the train, we would sit in silence as we both worked on our talents. I painted his face on the canvas as he scrunched up his face, scribbling words on a blank scrap of paper. He was an incredible writer; it may have been a biased opinion to suggest he was incredible at everything but writing specifically. Finnick had written a large portfolio of works, some had been released to the Capitol public which they adored. He was working on a piece of poetry as he scribbled a line through the final stanza on the page.

"Entertain me," He complained, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside me, poking me in the calf as I tried to concentrate on my painting. I was working on colouring the small scar that adorned where his neck met his collar bone, a souvenir from the games. I remember when he'd come home with it, it was raw and red and weeping through a bandage. Now it had resulted in a thin white line, on the side of his neck, he often wore large knit sweaters to cover it.

"I'm trying to concentrate here," I grumbled, highlighting the lightest part of his scar. Finnick groaned in annoyance, leaning into the side of my leg, and poking me consistently. "Finnick," I groaned as he stood up, squeezing my shoulder comfortingly and then continuing to tickle my sides. I squealed in shock as the paintbrush in my hand slid across the canvas, creating a while mark over the face of my painting.

Finnick cringed "Sorry," he said as I groaned dramatically, placing two of my fingers on the bridge of my nose. "If it's a consolation, I think it looks better that way," He chuckled, I examined the portrait, a white line decorating Finnick's cheekbone, it was very contrasting to his tan skin, I knew Finnick had only said it to make me feel better.

"Yes," I agreed, suppressing the cheeky smile etching onto my face, "I fact," I continued, "I think it looks just like you!" I exclaimed, running the paintbrush about his cheekbone.

Finnick jolted back, gasping dramatically "Did you just paint my face?" He exclaimed. I giggled as he attempted to rub the white smear from his face, creating a large smudge over his cheek. He pressed his hand into the paint palette creating an array of colours over his palm, I attempted to dart out of his way as he dragged his hand down the side of my face.

It went back and forth until our clothing was covered in an array of colours, paintbrushes were strewn all over the floor and Finnick and I sat in a laughing mess on the ground. "You ruined my painting," I grumbled as the laughter subsided. Finnick's portrait was covered in different shades of blue and green, leaving remnants of his face and body.

"You know," Finnick paused examining the painting with a curious glint in his eyes, "I actually like it better this way, it might be your best work,"

I examined the portrait from his standpoint, allowing my eyes to see past the painting itself and allowing the emotion to fill me up. He was right, all my recent paintings were the same, faces without feeling, art without motive. It was the worst kind of art.