To Kill A Mockingjay

ʟᴀ ᴠɪᴇ ᴇɴ ʀᴏꜱᴇ

❈

"ᴅᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ꜱᴏ ᴡᴇʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ɪᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ."
-ᴡᴀʟᴛ ᴅɪꜱɴᴇʏ

❝𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐒𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭❞

In an open metallic room, she lay exposed to any and all onlookers that passed her. Eyes examining her, cutting flesh with metaphorical daggers, a crude kind of judgement in their stare. She had been covering her chest with her arms, with legs crossed over to salvage any dignity she had left, which was little to none. "It is good you have little hair, so the waxing won't take long. I'm very pleased with your body, and Jareth will have a field day when I tell him about your chest." One of the beauty workers spoke, laughing with a cruel kind of glee.

"Who's Jareth? And what's wrong with my chest?" Annalise felt a discomfort greater than any she had felt before. She was being poked and prodded at, having been stripped and showered against her will. Before the man answered, the young girl let out a yelp as an unrecognisable pain shot up her leg. Looking down, she saw two women putting hot wax on her legs and yanking at them once they had hardened.

"Jareth is your stylist, silly. And nothing's wrong, my dear. Your chest is very womanly, which will look great in the gowns he has designed for you. The capitol will eat you up." The man eventually replied once her legs had been fully waxed. The hairs on her body rose as if she were a feline caught in a predator's gaze. Prey caught in the talons of a sacrificial beast. She had not known her body was anything other than her own. Innocently unaware of the perceptive opinions of others. Her young, innocent body had been augmented into something else entirely. A shiver attacked her spine, an unwilling reaction to the words that still hung in the air. She had never viewed herself as womanly. Whilst she had developed a lot quicker than most and had her monthly on the regular, Annalise was first and foremost, a child.

"I don't want you to do that." She had swatted away one of the workers' hands as she tried to separate the girl's legs. Wax in hand, the woman insisted that she was to wax every inch of her body. "I don't want waxed down there." Annalise urged, and as she tried to protest again, two more workers appeared behind her and held her down as the other opened her legs to apply the wax. Silent tears watered her face, an invisible garden thriving from the salted substance.

Hours had passed until finally the only hands that lay upon her were her own. She had yet to be given something to cover herself up and so faced herself towards the wall, so all that was on show was her bare back. Feeling a great sense of violation, she sat shivering, foreign hands still leaving their mark on her skin. "You must be my siren call. My fish out of water. Darling Annalise. I'm Jareth, and I'll be your stylist." A camp male voice sounded from behind her. Not daring to turn around, the man strutted his way into sight as he eyed up the girl, causing Annalise to cover herself as much as possible. "Don't be silly, girl. I need to see all of you. I've heard you have some wonderful assets for me to work with." Her skin crawling with discomfort, Annalise unwillingly moved her arms as the man's stare had become rather frightening. He gasped, his rouged lips grinning from ear to ear. A Cheshire in disguise.

Being instructed to stand, she obliged, feeling smaller than she's ever felt. Within seconds, she was being groped with smooth, unconsenting hands. His manicured fingers wandered across her chest, cupping both breasts roughly. Tears began to form in the young girl's eyes once again as she tried to keep her composure. "These will look fantastic in the dress I've designed for you." He beamed, still holding her chest.

"Stop." Was all she could whisper, her body frozen. He mustn't have heard her and continued with his fondling. It was only now had Annalise noticed the half-moon frames he had propped on the tip of his nose, the lenses tinted with a rose hue. A detail that ignited a small rage within her. Whether it was the idea that he had been fully clothed, with not even his face bare, or because the rose tinted glasses represented everything her stylist had the privilege of having.