Chapter Text
Everybody knows Proserpina Trinket is pretty. How can they not, with her emerald eyes and thick, brown curls? Proserpina Trinket is also smart. Everyone wants her to study at the university, politics or something, and be rich. She will be the answer to all of our family’s problems.
And everyone loves her, the golden child of the Trinkets, adored by family, friends, teachers, and just about everyone to cross the charming eight year old’s path.
Of course, a smart girl like Proserpina could easily pursue dreams of that sort, no problem with her bright brain. Only- Proserpina Trinket doesn’t seem to care much about what other people think about her, how she looks, what she should be doing in her future.
She only seems to care about-
“Effie, what do you want to be when you’re older?” I remember my baby sister asking me one day, as I walked her home from school.
“I’m not sure, Prosie. Maybe- maybe I could be a fashion designer?”
“Oh, yes! And when you’re a fashion designer, I could be your favorite model?” I remember how her sweet obliviousness made me laugh, even though the child meant it honestly.
“Of course you could, Prosie. You’ll be my favorite model and we’ll go on tour together, the best fashion line in all of Panem. And we’ll be rich, rich enough to live in our very own castle, just you and me.” I remember how she was a lot shorter than me then, being four years younger, and her wide, trusting eyes stared up at me as if she truly believed every word I said. She's always adored me like that. Looked up to me, I suppose.
“Yes. We’ll go on lots of tours, right, and we’ll be famous and go everywhere together!” and I would play along to the fantasy, every single time, because it was our world, we could escape into no matter what. Whenever our parents were fighting, there were family issues, friendship issues for either me or Prosie, she would crawl into my bed that night or we would go play by the nearest park the next morning, escape for a while into our safe spot, in our dreams.
If only it were that simple, my dear, eight year old Prosie, if only.