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Piercing The Skin
Isabella Hawthorne The polished mahogany floor gleamed under the afternoon sun streaming through the high windows, throwing long, dancing shadows that stretched and twisted at every corner. I clutched the crumpled card in my sweaty palm, President Hearts' words imprinted on my brain like a branding iron. But I pushed the thought away as I continued to walk. The east wing lay deserted. The only other souls I'd encountered were the Capitol guards in their uniforms and their rifles. A sharp turn led me from the familiar territory of the east wing and into the uncharted waters of the west. The hallway narrowed slightly, the carved wooden paneling giving way to cool, smooth stone. Was I heading in the right direction? The manor now seemed like a labyrinth designed to disorient and confuse
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