Promises of a Sacrificial Lamb |Destiel x The Hunger Games|

-8-

I've experienced some torturous pain before.  One time, when I was first starting out in the wheat fields, I didn't quite know how to properly use a sickle to make the process of harvesting seed heads easier.  I ended up slicing my palm open.  I think you could hear my screams all throughout the district.  It took three people to get the bleeding to stop and calm me down enough so the town doctor could start dressing the wound.  After that, I was always extra careful around sickles.  I never wanted to undergo that kind of agony again.

As it turns out, getting your eyebrow hairs forcefully ripped out of your face is just as painful, if not worse.

I don't know how long I've been lying on this cold metal table in the Remake Center while people from the Capitol poke at my arms, prod at my ribs, try to figure out how to make me look presentable for the parade later today.  Far too long, and I'm honestly surprised I haven't lashed out at them yet.  My eyebrows are throbbing.  I probably look insane.  Did they even leave any hair up there?

I overheard one of the members of my prep team—her hair is neon green and covered in gaudy sparkles—say something about a pair of fuzzy caterpillars taking a nap on my face before they started plucking my eyebrows out.  I should feel offended, but how can I when it looks like she has plums for lips?  Someone should probably tell her to go easy on the injections.

I try to fill my mind with pleasant thoughts while the prep team lathers some citrus-scented foam on my face, then my neck, and practically every bit of skin they're planning to expose for the parade, which hopefully won't be a lot.  According to them, it's supposed to remove all the layers of dead skin and grime to "make me glow."  Although, judging by how the guy with the bright purple hair and sparkly gold tattoos is almost reflective in the lights hanging above us, I'm genuinely afraid to see what I look like when they rinse this stuff off.

It's not even noon, and I'm already exhausted.  Rowena, as I expected, knocked on my door at the crack of dawn, and I'd only just relaxed enough to get some sleep.  She practically had to drag me out of bed and plop me down at the table for a quick breakfast, and even then, I barely had time to eat a piece of toast and a few bites of oatmeal before she put us in a car and shipped us off downtown to the Remake Center.

It wasn't a long ride, so I didn't have much time to talk to Castiel—or Cas, I guess, since he said I could call him that.  He looked significantly better than he had the previous day.  Maybe it was the better food, the comfier beds, the relief of having a safe place to stay for a few days.  Or maybe it was because he decided to share a personal story with me, and I gave him trust and reassurance in return.  I know that made me feel better, anyway.  Whatever the case, I'm glad he looks more at ease.

I wonder how his prepping is going.  We were separated the moment we arrived at the Remake Center, dragged off into the custody of our individual prep teams.  All the tributes are here, actually, and while that thought makes me uncomfortable, I can't see any of them.  There are thick curtains blocking off everyone from one another's view.  It's just my prep team and me in this one section, and that's what I try to focus on.

Just when I thought the pain couldn't get any worse, the lady with the neon green hair furrows her equally neon green brows.  While the other two rinse the foam off me—I will admit that my skin does feel kind of nice—she retrieves a paper strip from the table of supplies nearby and whispers something to the guy with the purple hair, pointing at my bare chest.

Oh no.

There are only three baby hairs on my chest, if even.  Can't they just leave them?  They're barely noticeable.  They're so short and borderline blond.  They're impossible to see unless you're purposely looking for them.  Why would they bother—