𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 ❦ The Hunger Games Sequel

eleven

☆CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX! ☆
036. letters

|| NICO AND THE NINERS ||
❝Dema don't control
us, East is up, they
want to make you
forget.❞

➳➳

THE LETTER WASN'T supposed to be a metaphor for her chances of regaining a life beyond the room she was left in; not one bit.

It wasnt supposed to be anything other than a letter- a simple piece of paper filled with ink shaped to resemble a language known by almost everyone in the city she'd woken up in, and the occasional scribble from where the pen ran out of ink or she made a mistake on the page. It was just a smooth white surface that everyone seemed to take for granted until they needed it a bit too much, with barely enough space to write out half of the things needed on it when somebody who really had to write took hold of the edges that creased under the weight.

It was the kind of thing she wasn't supposed to think about ever again if she couldn't help it, but actually, it was the only thing that made her heart spike and stomach flip when she considered where it went.

Or if anybody actually read it. When she really settled into the feeling of starvation and sickness that overcame her each time she remembered how slowly she had written it, she often wondered who even knew she was in her small room at all. TR730 hadn't known until his instincts told him to go inside, and yet Lorna thought she was well known enough for somebody to wonder why she hadn't been around for some time.

She was a murderer after all.

She'd killed, with hands that looked identical to hers and sharp objects that could've cut through skin without the sheer force she put into each one- there wasn't anything else that entertained her heart when it needed to beat swiftly like the hazy story that replayed itself in her head. Numbers in the sky illuminated by projectors instead of stars, and an icy blue projection of the mangled bodies she'd thrown into the ditches at any given time amongst the deep dunes of her surroundings. Only these projections she remembered; if not the names, the faces and screams that piled out of their mouths when she caught a glimpse of their organs seaping towards the sand she hated so much, and the blood that drenched the ends of her hair red.

In the darkness her long ponytail almost looked brown instead of the ice white that fell in front of her eyes. She put it down to a lapse in judgement, but it seemed that it only made her see darkness when she caught the tips that had begun to split as they grew, or the same tacky liquid that filled up every breath she took.

But the letter. The letter with her apology written in disgust to nobody in particular was an example of her future; ignored even when it was filling up with enough horror to never be forgotten.

Who knew she'd taken a life? Did TR recognise her evil, or did he stop coming to see her because he read the piece of paper and discovered just how horrible she really was? She had no answers, but Lorna was well aware as her door slid open and more than one Peacekeeper walked in with heavy feet that she wouldn't be able to ask.