Ami-chan Writes

 I have been issued two sets of clothes and a two pairs of pants to wear at night and, of course, there's a dresser to keep them in. A nurse drops them off while Johanna and I are eating a roasted fish that she made somewhere on the surface and brought back down.

She tears pieces of flat bread and wraps it around chunks of fish and offers it to me. It's crispy and very rich in flavor compared to anything I've eaten in as long as I can remember. It's so much for a moment I feel my stomach might reject it. I go slowly and drink lots of water, still Johanna eats the at least twice as much as me. She advises me to save room because she has a small pouch of raspberries as well. They pop and taste so sweet in my mouth. I realize why the gruel was so odd to me. The Capitol would give us the salty paste and the gruel wasn't salty at all.

“So, tomorrow,” Johanna says, “I will be gone, right?”

“Right.” I feel like I should write this down.

“I was going to ask Finnick to come and work with you. I thought I would bring him down here before then though. So, I will be back. Finish the raspberries—if you can. Fruit is good for you.” She pats me on the head before she leaves.

I take one of the charcoal ended sticks and write on the wall by the dresser. I'm sure to see it in the morning when I get dressed.

Johanna in Twelve today. Finnick will be here.

Then I sit back on the bed and wait, eating a couple more raspberries.

Finnick. Annie's Finnick, Johanna had said she was held there with us in the Capitol but we hadn't known. I don't know what that really means though. Someone he cares about, I imagine. Finnick. Finnick.

He must have been in the 75^th games with us if they took someone he cares about and someone Johanna knows from before. She wouldn't be bringing him here if she didn't trust him. She wouldn't be bringing him here if she didn't trust him, I point out to myself again. If I repeat it maybe I'll listen and maybe I'll stay clear and present.

 

The door beeps and then nothing happens. It beeps again, then there's a rapping at the door. What are they waiting for? Oh. I get up and cross to the door and open it.

“There we go,” Johanna says, “You get to let people in. This is your room.”

There's a man with curly red blonde hair hanging back behind her a little, “Hey, Peeta,” he says giving a smile when he sees me studying him.

For a moment we're outside salt in the are and he's urgently showing me a gold bangle on his arm and urging me into water but then he's over me as I'm tingling, numb all over, light hurting my eyes.

Oh, good. She'd be useless if you were dead, you know. You have to be alive or we'll never get her through this. She's what's important. Come on then, up and at 'em.

“Blondie?” Johanna asks as I back away from the door towards the safety of the bed.

Is this how it's going to be every time I see someone? Sugar cubes and tridents and burning?

“Yeah, it was a good call,” I hear, “but again, did you see me not going along with it?”

“Blondie--” I feel hands on my hands and I pull away but they pull back, “Well, hey it went this way and not the other.” Johanna is in front of me. When did I get down on the ground? “Hey--” she says, “What did you see? What was happening to you?”

“I—I—burning. There was burning, and claws, holding, holding so she could...and, agh, it's all a jumble.”

She pulls my hands down away from my face, “It's okay,” and holds them together with one hand.

He wants to know all my secrets.

She runs her fingers over my hand after resting my own on my lap. I hear him crossing the room.

“Finnick's going to sit near you,” she says, “It's alright. You're safe. He's safe.”

Slowly, knees covered in teal fabric come into view.

“This is why I wanted to bring Finnick by before I left,” Johanna says, “I wasn't sure what you remembered of him, what they might have screwed around with...”

“You trust him.”

“Yes,” Johanna says, “I do. I told you in prison, remember. He wouldn't have hurt you. She wouldn't hurt you.”

My hands clench on my legs, “Yes, she would. She has.”

“Alright,” Johanna takes my hands, “but Finnick is safe.”

“I just want to help, like Johanna does. Ask me anything you want, okay?” he says. He offers a hand towards me but he doesn't touch me.

He wants to know all my secrets.

Dragging ourselves along the ground into the pool, burning being pulled out of our limbs into the water. The screaming can't be helped. It's almost worse than the fog was in the first place. Don't be a fool! If we go mad from thirst and turn on each other do you really think you'll be the one who survives? Has the spile arrived yet? Where's the spile? The monkeys...they'll get here and we'll be sunk—the poor morphling.

“The spile came in a parachute the first night of the games,” Finnick's voice sounds different than before, soft instead of harsh, “Monkeys came at us the next day, after the fog, after Mags...” when there's a hitch in his voice I look at him, searching his face for the blinding light, but everything is dim, faded, nothing hurts my eyes. I take his hand. It feels warm. The grip is gentle, no tenseness, no readiness to strike. Not right now. Keep him in sight.

He shakes my hand, “Good to see you again, Peeta.”

“Finnick,” I manage.

“Finnick and I caught the fish we just ate,” Johanna says.

“Thanks,” I tell him, “It was...” what's the word? “tasty.”

“You're welcome.”

I lean back against the edge of the bed frame. Silence stretches through the room but the noise in my head continues. I don't like the way my head feels or the way my thoughts are bouncing off each other.

“You think you and Finnick are going to be okay tomorrow?” Johanna asks.

I pull myself to my feet and go back to my note.

Finnick is safe.

I add to the bottom of it.

“Hopefully,” I say, bracing myself on the dresser, “Everything is so jumbled right now I might as well be doped up again.”

“Don't you dare say that!” Johanna snaps, “It took a long time for them to get everything all fucked up in your head so unfortunately it's going to take a while to straighten it back out.”

“Don't push yourself,” Finnick says, standing up.

“I don't know what to believe half the time,” I point out, turning back towards them, “sometimes I'm not even sure about you,” I tell Johanna, “and then I feel terrible.”

Johanna points to my left leg, “Did you master that all at once, or was it ups and downs?”

I'm not sure at first. Then it seems logical—what the answer would be. Bits and pieces come together, the thing with the stairs and the practice that we were talking about with Delly the other day, and the things I want to do with it now that don't seem to apply, differences in how you have to stand up from the floor, a cane, internal grumblings about ice and mud, and, “...no.”

“So, what makes you think this is going to be any different? Only instead of hurting and falling over, you're hurting and having things confused in your head.”

“Annie's said her head is her own worst enemy when she's been...lost,” Finnick says, “It's been five years for her, and it took months and months to make real good headway in the beginning so don't push yourself, like I said.”

Johanna comes to stand next to me, and carefully, gently puts a hand on my shoulder, “We'll let you get some rest, okay? Finnick will be here tomorrow morning, yes?”

“With bells on,” Finnick says.

Johanna gives him a look, but it's half mischievous.

“Bells is too much?” Finnick asks, “Should I just stick to ribbons?”
He's a peacock, “What about feathers?” I find myself asking.

“I'll have to see,” Finnick remarks, “Perhaps both—if you're lucky,” he winks as he and Johanna head towards the door.

I lean against the dresser and give him a nod, “Sure.”

 

The room is so empty now. I still have fish and raspberries left and but I think with it being smoked the fish should be okay until I'm hungry again, whenever that is. I wrap the raspberries back up in the fabric and the fish in the leaves Johanna had brought them in and thread the sticks back through to hold it together and put them at the back of the dresser.

I should actually shower. It's been a long time since I've been properly clean, I'm sure. I gather things and go into the bathroom. I have to prop the door open because I feel my heart pounding as I set my things down on the counter and then check for towels. I stand for a while leaning against the edge of the sink taking deep breaths. It's just a shower. Why am I so scared all of a sudden?

Thirteen is safe. This is not the Capitol. This is not the Capitol. This is NOT the Capitol.

“This is not the Capitol,” I tell my reflection before I pull off my shirt and then pants and instinctively sit down on the toilet to take off my leg. Right, this is not that leg. I was in water soaking out fog pain in this leg, wasn't I?

Alright.

I turn the water on and check the temperature. It's soon warm enough to climb in. Was that a noise? Thankfully I thought to prop the door open. No. No one is there.

This is not the Capitol. Thirteen is safe.

I start to wash myself. This is when I can really see scars: score marks on my chest, burns. I knew the bands on my wrists, of course, from the lengthy restraint, but deep gouges have healed on my side here...I put my hand to them.

You're not the only one who made new friends.

I can't catch myself when I slip, feeling her stabbing me with claws deep in my side. I wind up in the bottom of the shower. Snatches. Bone being pulled out of my leg, being stabbed into my chest—but there's no scar there. What are the rebels planning for eight now?

No. I'm in Thirteen. That was before. This is now. That is not happening. I scrabble for the railing and pull myself back up. Let's just get clean. Can't even enjoy a shower. What's wrong with me? I lean my forehead against the back wall for a moment. Get it together.

That feels familiar too. A train? An apartment?

I hit my fist against the wall. When will things start to make sense?

Don't push, they say, but they're not stuck in here with all this—this—this...

I wind up at the bottom of the shower again. I can feel the water hitting against my back. It fluxes between comforting, painful and terrifying and I fight the urge to hit my head repeatedly against the stall wall.

Maybe if the water pounds on me long enough I'll mush into pulp and I'll just wash away.

Was that a noise? No. Nothing. There's no one else in here. I need to stop this though. This is nonsense and stupidity. I pull myself up and slam the shower into off, dry quickly. I'm putting pants on when there is a noise: the door beeping. Now what?

Prim is there with the cart again, “Meal time and check up,” she says, “Though I'm told you probably have something tastier left in here still,” she wheels the thing in and shoves it into the corner as though it's a child in trouble, “How was the shower?” she asks.

“It was different.”

“I bet,” she says, “Well, if you don't mind sitting on the bed I have to record your vitals for the evening. Did you want me to leave you some sleep syrup?”

“No!” it's a snap before I really realize, “No.” I amend, “Sorry. No.”

“It's alright,” she says, “I'm sure I'd feel the same way. I just wanted to offer. If you change your mind some time in the night there's a button here,” she points behind the bed to a small metal panel, “push it and it'll tell the station in the main ward.”

“Okay.”

She checks my eyes, ears, mouth, breathing, heart rate and notes things down on a screen that she pulls up on the window and then shuts it down again, “Johanna wanted me to check if there's anything you might have remembered about that you wanted us to look for when we're in Twelve?”

I shake my head.

“Well, if you do...”

“Button?”

She nods, “I'm sorry I can't stay. There's a transport coming in from Two,” she takes the covered bowl off the cart and puts it on the table by my bed and then leaves, “I hope you get some rest.”

“Me too.” 

 

Is that someone walking? I'm vaguely awake but I don't look up at first because I want to assess.

“Peeta?” the query is nervous, but the voice is familiar, female. Safe. Internal monologue assures me. I'm safe. Thirteen. Safe? Prim. Safe, “What did you do?”

It must look strange to her. I'm not on the bed. I couldn't sleep. I tossed. I turned. The bed was uncomfortable. I took myself off it. I tried lying on the ground. I couldn't get comfortable there. I wound up threading my arms through the bars on the bed and sitting up. I finally fell asleep, facing the door in case someone came in. So, I would hear. So, I could prepare, or some part of me could, anyway, I suppose. In case it wasn't Prim, as promised; because it might all be wrong.

It might still be wrong.

Wrong.

I look up slowly.

It's Prim. It's Prim when I close my eyes and open them again. I un-thread my arms slowly. She kneels down by my side.

“What were you doing?” she asks, taking each arm in turn and inspecting them.

“I couldn't sleep.”

She sits back on her heels looking thoughtful, “Well, let's get you some breakfast then. Do you want to wash up first? I can bring a little water in as well.”

“Okay.”

She stands up and goes to the door wheeling out the cart that's by it.

I pull myself up using the bed and walk around the room again. There's the window that's not a window. That's where they show the stupid videos. There's the walls and a couple of cabinets and drawers. I'm debating whether I should try to open the drawer when Prim comes back in with a little cart again, a small bowl of water, a small towel and a bowl of the porridge/gruel and a slice of something that's supposed to be bread.

Right. No spoons in this room.

Spoon. Ear.

I shudder.

“They say we might have a little bit of fruit soon, so it won't all be supplements. The greenhouse area is producing but also they should have the trains running if all goes well with Two,” Prim says.

This is the first I've heard of anything going on outside the walls of the room, “With...Two?”

Prim gives a slight smile, “What do you remember of the Districts?” she asks, “I don't want to overload you with information.”

“They—they would ask me about Seven a lot, and Eight—there was major trouble in Eight because of...” I feel my hands starting to tighten up and that redness crawling up my back, “Let's just not, right now,” I decide, “I don't...I don't...” I pick up the towel and put it in the water and ring it out, “Trains and food are good.”

“Yes,” Prim says, hastily, “Yes, they are. Let's just say a lot of the Districts are working with us now against the Capitol and Two is where the fight is at right now. How's that?”

I mop my face and the back of my neck, “That—that's good. Best of luck to them. May the odds be in their favor.” It's out before I really realize what I've said.

Prim laughs, “Good one. Eat your nutritious goop. I'll go see where Johanna is. She's officially in command of your care now. I've no idea what she said to Coin. I haven't seen her. I just got the message handed down to me from a very irritated Keller about an hour ago. “On the upside” he said “It'll save us on morphling and halozapine”. He's not completely off things. He's says he's going to be reading our, Johanna's and my reports, and checking in bi-weekly. In the mean time, if you want tonight, when I come on shift again, I can check in and give you sleep syrup, much less side effects and much less you sleeping in that painful position?”

I feel myself getting embarrassed, “It's not painful...”

She gives me a look, “Just because you're used to that sort of pain...”

I'm not sure what...

“We'll revisit that before I go off shift to attend lessons,” she says, “In the mean time eat. I have to go check where Johanna is, and I think we were going to move you one over so you can actually have a bathroom.”

 

I've eaten, cleaned myself again and washed out the bowl by the time Prim returns. Johanna is with her. She has a bag over her shoulder and the smell of...it's firewood, lingers about her.

“Hey, Blondie,” she says, “Ready to see your new digs?”

She and Prim take either arm and we walk a few paces down a faceless gray corridor under the stern and watchful eye of two guards one at each end and to a door with the number H-4 on it. I feel a beating in the back of my mouth at us being outside of the confines of the room, things might cave in on us. The H-4 door opens when Prim separates from us to put in her key card and she leads us inside. It's a similar room. Another window that is not a window and a bed, but this one has no straps, and has sheets and a pillow and a folded up blanket. There's a chair and a table and a cabinet lined up in front of the not window, and a small room to the left of us. Prim opens the door and shows the toilet, shower and sink.

“See,” she says, “No more cloths. You can bathe like a real person.”

“Are you sure?” I ask her, “I don't think I remember how.”

They both look at me for a moment.

“Was—was that a joke, Blondie?” Johanna asks after a moment, hand on her heart, “Did—did you just make a joke?” She makes a show of falling towards the bed, “Prim! Prim! Check me! I think I've died!”

“I think you're fine,” Prim rolls her eyes.

“I'm not fine,” Johanna retorts, “I'm a fucking genius. We have more proof.”

“Oh, geez,” Prim says, “I'm going to leave now. You do whatever it is you're going to do.” 

 Tree branches try to grab me, tear at my clothing, razor sharp, slicing.

Slip down a hill, vines tangling me up, a snare hanging me upside down. Have to bend up to grab knife, cut myself free. Too late. Someone's coming.

“Oh, a pretty package! All tied up like it's a birthday.”

 

The air is a cloud of buzzing, horror, screams and yelps.

People running around in chaos.

I can't move to get them away from me.

I'm stuck. I'm stuck. I have to move.

 

Someone catches my hand.

“Oof. I'm so glad you've still got those shackles on. That would have got me right in the face.”

Lights are low. I think she has red hair, maybe brown. She's in to have me pee. The weird contraption they use so they can keep me in the bed, and then wash me down. What have they got planned that they need to bathe me?

The lights are turned up a little more as food is offered. My stomach is knotted in a ball but she persists I must eat. She tries to chit chat with me as though this will make me eat. I feel itchy but I can't move to scratch. She hums. I snap at her.

“Not very polite this morning, are we?” She chides, “Come on. You need to eat more. Dr Keller has a new medicine he wants to give you and it won't do to have an empty stomach or then you will throw up.”

“I care, why?”

“Plus, you're going to have a visitor later.”

“Dr. Keller?”

“Well, yes, but someone else too; but I'm not at liberty to say.”

“Thanks so much.”

She scoops another spoonful of the gray lumpy goop and puts it in front of my mouth. I reluctantly swallow it down. This stuff never tastes right but I don't know what it is, then she offers me water. The door opens and a man comes in.

“Good morning, Dr. Keller!” she says, cheerfully.

“Nurse Melda,” he answers, “How is our patient?”

“In a foul mood,” she says, “and I've been furnished with no explanation!” as though this is a travesty of epic proportion, “We're being difficult about eating too.”

“I see...” This Keller says, “Well, how much has he eaten?”

She shows him the bowl, flattening the contents with the spoon.

“That should be okay,” Keller says, “Unless we're willing to eat more. It's important for regaining your strength as well, Peeta. You've been through quite the ordeal.”

“Because you care,” I point out.

“I do, actually, believe it or not.”

“I don't.”

“You're making that quite clear today,” he sets something down, on the food cart, that he has been carrying, “You can go, Melda, just leave the things.”

She does so.

He busies himself with whatever it was, “Now, I hope that you'll try and improve your attitude when Miss Cartwright comes to see you later. Considering how things ended last time it's very gracious of her to agree to come back. You're lucky to have such a good friend who is able to be understanding and considerate of what you've gone through—to come back and want to help you.”

“Cartwright?”

“Yes,” he says, drawing liquid up into a syringe, “Delly Cartwright?”

I feel like I should know that name.

He opens something and wipes my arm with it despite my initial resistance, “This is the new medicine. We're going to try this to help your mood, and the flashbacks and things, yes? It should help you respond to the new therapies better.”

“Because you've been so satisfied with everything else it seems.”

Keller sighs, pulls my arm straight and injects me with his vaguely yellow liquid, “Alright. We'll let that work it's way into your system for a little while to check on your reaction and then we'll send in Miss Cartwright.”

 

Are my fingers still there? It looks like they are but I can't feel them. When I push my thumb and finger together there are little stars and explosions under the skin. The curtains are sliding down the wall on to the floor—this can't be right. It can't. It can't.

Let's not watch this.

I close my eyes. There are still so many colors swirling around. I'm falling through them, a pool into nothingness, so quiet.

 

“Peeta?” the voice is over the hill and far away, “Are you sure he's okay?”

“Yes. It's fine,” a man's voice.

I'm rocking on a boat. My head is floating as I open my eyes and turn. The man's hand on my shoulder. Two faces coming into focus, the man's: red and blonde. A blonde girl, her's concerned. The man's more passive.

“Peeta--” she says, relief.

“See,” the man says, “he was probably just napping. He didn't eat much breakfast,” their voices are coming to me through water, all goopy.

“That's silly of you,” she laughs, “You know you need to eat.”

“I'll leave you two to talk,” the man says—Keller? That's it, “There's the videos if you want,” he points to the window, “controls are on the cart here, and there's some food,” he whispers something to her and leaves.

She comes close and hugs my neck. Her breath makes my ear tingle. She sits back. I turn slowly to look at her. My head will fall off if I move too fast. She gives a small smile.

“I'm glad to see you again. I was worried I wouldn't be able to, but—but they say you've been much more even tempered lately.”

“Okay?”

She's fidgeting a bit, and we sit there. I can see the light rippling around the edge of the window that is not a window, maybe there are bubbles trapped beneath the surface of it. I can't see where they are though. Maybe it has something to do with the curtains.

“Ahh,” she says, “I'm sorry I'm not sure what to talk about. Is there anything you want to ask me about? I mean,” she takes a deep breath. She looks sort of worried when I turn back to her, “Dr Keller was telling me I should try to talk about things we did when we were kids but I keep feeling like that stuff is just sort of, I don't know...how am I supposed to know what's good to talk about? I'm not good at this but I want to help you. I'm worried about you. You went through so much.”

“Yeah...” What am I supposed to say to that? Keller did make this big deal about her coming in though, “Thank you for coming back.”

“It's okay,” she says, taking my hand. Hers is shaking a bit.

“No. I must have scared you.”

Her hand is still shaky as she tries to grip mine, “You still are to be honest,” she forces a smile and turns her chair so she's facing more towards me and is also pulled a lot closer to the bed, it scrapes across the floor sharply and she winces, “sorry,” then she takes my hand more fully with both of hers, “Peeta, how do you feel right now?”

I don't know how to answer that.

She sighs, “So, do you want to watch any of the videos he says he has?”

“No.”

“Me either,” she shakes her head, turning away towards to the cart and looking at something on there and pursing her lips, “They mostly look to be about the Hunger Games anyway and I really don't see how that would be helpful in any way. I remember how you talked about that stuff when you came home...”

“You do?”

“Yes,” she looks back at me, “Of co—yes, when Guwar or I weren't at work you would come visit with us because your Mo—because we were friends. We would do things together. Every once in a while we would come to your house but I think, never mind, but anyway. Some times we could get you to talk about things that happened. I...I know it made you uncomfortable, but at the same time you would say “can't keep it all bottled up”,” she gives one of those watery smiles from inside the bubble that's forming around her distorting her words, but when she breathes in it pops and things become clear again, “I think you didn't like telling us about things you had to do. Things that weren't shown—or things that we hadn't seen...”

“Oh.”

She makes a strange sigh, “Are you hungry?”

“No?”

“You don't sound so sure,” she brings a bowl around in front of her looking at it sort of sadly, “It's not the greatest, but it's okay,” she starts breaking whatever it is into smaller pieces, “and it is food.”

“What was your job?”

“What?” she seems surprised I spoke to her.

“You said when you and Guwar weren't at work—what were your jobs?”

“Oh, right. My father was a cobbler—we owned the shoe maker, like—like your parents had the bakery, so I would help him. Guwar's family we—were the smiths.” Her voice is going strange again, “They—they fixed things for the miners made new picks and things,” she sets the bowl down on the bed because her hands are trembling, “Repaired mu—mine carts. They'd—they'd make hinges for doors, pots—pots and pans.”

“Where are they?”

Her face is wet as she looks at me with an odd expression, “They—they didn't make it here either, Peeta.”

“Oh.”

She wipes her face with the edge of her sleeve, “Peeta—you're not okay, right now. You knew Guwar longer than you knew me!” as she stands up the bowl tips over and things spill, “Why—why aren't you—? Say something!”

“You knocked over the bread,” I point to it as the bowl clatters off the bed and onto the floor, rolling in a small trailing circle.

She gasps a little, but at the same time she turns to me, curls of hair bouncing around her face, “I know you went through a lot!” she says, “I can't even imagine, but you're just—this is—I think I preferred it when I thought you were going to kill me!” and she goes and hammers on the door with her fist.  

Eating is getting easier. Throat not so sore. Can eat more which they like.

This one doesn't nervously watch the window like others. Maybe no one is out there this time of day. This one also likes to blather most of them are quiet. Flat. Spoon. Spoon. Drink. Spoon. Spoon. Drink. This one has offered to let me try and feed myself once now but was told against it by someone else but now we're alone.

“Do you want to put on the tapes?” She says, “I know they showed things to you in the earlier session but I don't think it'll matter too much if we review them again...”

Do you know how many times I watched the tapes, Caesar. Do you?

“No.”

“Oh.” Disappointment. Good. Sad, though. Bleeding heart. Exploit.

“I'm hungry,” Look at food, “Can't think much else.”

“Oh, of course, I'm sorry. Silly me and tapes,” she brings the food over next to the bed and sits nearby offers the spoon of food. Eat obediently. Give her sad eyes.

She looks around after a moment, “They're never ones to give anyone chances; but how are you going to get any better if they don't let you do anything at all.” She comes around to the left and loosens the middle of the strap. Still fastened but there's give between the bed and arm just enough to eat if distance is closed between bowl and mouth. Eat a few spoonfuls. She watches happily.

Shaky hand. Drop the spoon close by side of bad.

“Oh, oops!” She laughs and comes over to pick it up. Hit her with the bowl. Throw her off guard. Choke. She slumps.

Undo the cuff from the bed on the left. Undo the cuff on the hand on the right. Undo the legs. It's not like she has any weapons. They wouldn't bring that in. Take off the wrist thing from the left. Listen at the door. No sound.

Open the door. Corridor. Guard at end of corridor. Have to get out. Have to get out. Must find her. Guard turns. Sees.

“Stop.” Hand up, “Stop right there.”

Spring. Pin him against wall. Spoon in ear. No more. Down. Go on.

This room is low lit has many shadows, many beds. Empty. Across to the side no exit.

“What the fuck just happened?” Voice familiar.

To the back then.

“I'll check.” Male voice. Not familiar.

“You? Really?” Snort, “Okay. Should be fun, huh, kid?”

“You?”

Turn.

“How are you ou-?” Grab head. Hand over mouth. Pull down.

To his ear, “Don't scream. Just say where she is.”

Pull hand slightly away. Other hand on throat tight, “Wh-who?”

Useless. Discard. Carry on. No scream.

“What was that?” A whisper. An echo.

“Someone being useless and stupid and probably dead. Stay here. Stay down.” 

Movement from right. Shape pounces near on empty bed. Lithe. Bald. Female.

“Blondie! Look at...you...” head tilted to side, “Shit.” Off the bed.

Noise to the left.

“No—No,” Familiar she says, “You know it's me you want to take,” she moves odd. Feet lifting too high, “Fucking bare feet,” movement behind, “shit. Fuck. Fucking shit. Fuck.”

Keep it real with me, Blondie.

“I told you stay down,” she points, “stay,”

Screams in the dark. Back for more, are you?

“Gonna take your shot, at me?”

Batshit. I can work with that.

Shove the bed towards. She jumps up on it. Then over. Fall back. Roll her. Not the right her. All spike and harsh. Not trying to play nice. Not tricking. No mutt.

“What's with you?” she says.

Hit her face. Throw to wall. Kip up.

“Oh? play time?” She cracks her neck.

Keep moving. Have to get out.

Attack comes from behind. Arms round neck. Legs round waist. Breath on neck. Reach to grab to throw but:

“Come on, Blondie,” Fingers tapping on chest, words right in ear, “I thought you wanted to play. You gotta keep it real for me though, right? You promised.” Hands don't want to work.

You know these assholes cut off my hair?

As much as any of us were sane to begin with.

Speak for yourself.

There you go. It's working already.

Get her away. Get her.

Don't be sorry. Be pissed.

Where is this? Who is on me? Get her off. Throw her. Drumming on chest. Grab. Pull. She twists round. Facing me. Face to face. Johanna.

Do I get to call you Baldie instead of Blondie?

“Ahh—you knew me for a second there?” Fingers tapping shoulders. Hold on neck one hand. Smacking hand on shoulder. Throw her. Grab her ar—no. Johanna and I must get out of here. The odds are not in our favor. We're prisoners of the Capitol. Have to find her. The mutt. Ground. Ground meets knees. Johanna jumps off and sits in front of me.

“It's too loud. It's too loud. Have to get out.” Move her...together. We need to leave—wait..., “How—how did we get out of the cells? Did you—did you break out?”

Johanna takes my hands, “We're not in the Capitol, Peeta. We're in District Thirteen.”

“No,” That doesn't make sense.

“People came from here and got us out. They got us out. You and me and Annie. The bastard's had Annie too. Finnick's Annie.”

Movement behind.

“Is-is he okay?” quiet voice.

“Thirteen was destroyed.” Thirteen was destroyed. No. We're in Thirteen. I have to tell you this every time I come in and it's getting tiresome. Thirteen was not destroyed. Do you know any other districts that are underground? There was a fire in Twelve. It was her fault. No. No it wasn't. It was fire bombed. It was bombed. The Capitol bombed it. The sky exploded. Was it because of me?

“Didn't I tell you to stay back, baby sister?” Johanna turns ever so slightly. We're not in the Capitol. We're not in the Capitol.

“I need to check on, Holvy. Someone else will be up soon.”

“I really don't think you do.” Johanna answers.

“Holvy?” I ask.

“Don't worry about it,” she tells me, “Where have they been keeping him anyway?”

“I-I don't know. I've consulted on treatment options but I've not been allowed to see him. Too risky. They don't want anyone in there who might remind him of...of, you know. You've been making me stay back.”

“Until he calmed down,” she sighs, “Fine. Go check on Holvy. This might be as much as we get.”

My hands are taken hold of and pulled down away from mine. I see her face in front of me, bobbing around.

“Come on, Blondie. Tell me what you think of the look. Can I pull off bald or what?”

Footsteps go round. Who?

“Blondie?”

“Johanna?”

“Yes. Come on. You're gonna be an ass and not say hello the first time we see each other face to face in months after just being screams through a wall?”

“You're going to say that to him?” She's over behind us now in the slight light I can make out blonde hair tied up around her head and the blue pinafore. It's familiar. Drop the spoon. Choke. No. No. No.

“No point in sugar coating shit that happened,” she keeps tight hold of my hands with one and turns my head so I'm not looking at what the blonde girl is doing. There's someone on the floor. Odd angle. Not moving.

More footsteps. Three sets.

“I hear them too. Stay still.”

Get up. Get up. Threat. Soldiers.

“Son of a bitch.” Three. Guns.

“He's dead,” she says, from the other side, “His neck...”

“Shush...no wait. I'm sorry, Blondie. Baby-sis. Say what happened.”

“His neck is broken.” Useless. Discard.

No. No. Useless. Discard. Carry on. No. No.

I sink back down. Johanna wraps her arms and legs around me.

“Why is he out of the secure room?” a voice asks.

“I don't know!” Johanna snaps, “But he's not a threat. I have him.”

“You can contain him?”

“Yes!” She shouts.

Footsteps walking away. Sound of a comm activating.

“What did I do? What did I do? There was a spoon...There was a woman in the room. I can sort of see her, and the corridor. He wasn't useless. He wasn't. He worked in here, didn't he? How is that useless?”

“I'm sorry, Blondie. I'm sorry. But if she didn't tell you—you—the guards...”

“It won't shut up.” It repeats now. Spoon. Ear. I can hear it squelching in through there. The push of him falling against the wall and the shimmering spoon I got it from the room. I tricked her. I got her to let me eat. I choked her. Is she dead too? Three people? Oh. Oh, I'm going to be sick.

“Keeeee....Keeeeee....” is she scratching my head or drumming me? I don't--

There are people talking behind us. Hushed voices. More people coming. Footsteps. Closing. Threat. Threat. Turn.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demands.

“I'm sorry,” soft voice, “They want to take him back to the room, and that requires morphling.”

“The hell it did!” Everything is already getting—

“It's not up to you, Mason.”

“I told you I had him.”

I knew the fog would get here eventually. 

 

 This goes between parts of the other two sections as shown: 

------

“Stay still! Do you want to bleed everywhere?”

“Where is this? You aren't the same!” Have to go. Have to go. Not safe. Not them. Not the same. Pop thumb. Then back in place. Grab. Throw over bed into other one, “Stay off me! You're not right!” I can undo the legs get the other hand out. There'll be more. Guards, but things fade. Unexpected.

“You didn't expect measures? Have fun with that...we'll get the blood anyway.”

#%#%#%#%#%#

Thirteen. Seven. What do you know about Seven? Thirteen doesn't exist.

It's a trick. It's a trick. She's lying. She's tricking me.

I have to get out.

 

Claws come out of the dark, climbing up onto the bed.

Glowing eyes and a mouth spitting roaches.

Then nothing. Just darkness.

 

I can hear it all around, chattering, clicking, nattering, whispering, everything, too much, overlapping, chittering, hissing, buzzing, bustling, fizzing and it won't go away. It won't go away. It's inside my skin and my teeth and crawling up my nose and down my throat. Mutt. Snow. It's inside my chest and my stomach. It's bleeding out all over. I feel hot and wet and cold and everything is heavy and yet I'm tied down so I don't float away. It doesn't make sense and there's so much noise.

 

Moving shadows flicking.

 

Prods and pokes. Familiar. I understand it.

 

No words or questions. Just the buzz and clicking. Everything blurs. Reds and blues. Brights and shadows. Itching.

 

Where is Seven? What is Thirteen? Snow? Caesar? Are you upset? Make it quiet. Destroy. Get rid of her. Where is the mutt? It's icy and my brain is melting. I feel my ears boring through my skull. Out. Out. Out.

 

I must get out.

#%#%#%#%#%#

Mouth is thick. Everything is scratchy.

The door has opened and someone is coming in with something on wheels. Things chink together. They wear gray, all gray, long sleeves, long pants, short red hair. Letters on their shirt I can't read. Their movements are stiff.

“Good morning,” They say carefully, brushing down the front of their clothes, “You may not remember where you are. This is District 13. We rescued you from the Capitol,” the words seem clunky, “I brought you food,” They point to the tray, “Attendants will come in to help you eat,” They slap their feet together, spin and leave the room.

Two other people come in now. One is the same one I've seen each time so far. The other is different again and looks uneasy with their red hair and pale skin. Does no one see sun?

“Are we going to behave today?” The known one asks.

I don't say anything. I just look at him.

“We-we have water and porridge for you,” the true red head says. Both of them with the gray overalls and the blue pinafores. It's so strange after the way everyone looked in the other place. The Capitol. Right, this is not the Capitol. This is District 13. That sounds odd. Why does that sound odd?

“We're not going to remove the restraints. Until we know you can be trusted to remain calm. So, Brenda will feed you,” he says.

Brenda does not look entirely happy with this arrangement but picks up the bowl and spoon and brings it to me after the other has pressed things and the bed has changed so that I'm in a sitting position. I can see the room now. It's small. There is a glass panel in front of me which has a curtain on the outside, fully drawn and other panels on this side that are partly open. Cabinets below this panel. A cupboard on this side. The door behind me to the right that's where they always come from but I can't turn enough to see all of it now or when lying down.

The porridge is a familiar consistency but it's taste is different. It seems flat. I eat though. But I can't eat much of it before I feel sick. He makes notes on his thing. Brenda is told to give me water and then they leave.

Well, I'm sitting up now. I can move a little easier my wrists in circles things pop and crackle as I do so. Same with my right ankle, my right knee, all my joints I can't get things to feel smooth; but then nothing is smooth in my head so why should my body be different?

Thirteen. Thirteen. Twelve. I remember it. I'm in Thirteen. I'm from Twelve. Why am I in Thirteen if I'm from Twelve? Thirteen. That's what doesn't fit.

My name is Peeta Mellark.

I'm from District Twelve.

I remember it. I remember saying it. In the dark to myself.

I remember screams and shrieks and banging noises.

The mutt pulling pieces out of my legs and stabbing me with them.

I need to be clearer.

I need to get it out, but it's all buzzing and chittering and leaves crackling and popping.

I'm from District Twelve.

I am a guest of the Capitol.

Remember who the real enemy is.

But this is not the Capitol.

Have I really been rescued?

 

#%#%#%#%#%#

 

He's back again. The one who has been here each time. The one who comes in with every group. His name is Keller I am told when I demand it. I have been told this before, I am told. Repetition of things irritates Keller. Repetition of things irritates me, like the clacking of the pen thing on the plastic thing he carries it drums through my ear and coils around my eyes so that when he scrapes his chair across the floor I want to crack his neck but I can't get out.

“How are we feeling today, Peeta?”

“Constricted.”

“Do you remember where you are?”

In a room chained to a bed, “District Thirteen.”

“Good.”

“Thirteen was destroyed. How am I in Thirteen and not in Twelve?”

“Everyone who survived the fire bombing of Twelve is living here in Thirteen now and so are you and the others we rescued from the Capitol.”

I see her standing in the rubble. Laughing. It's a trick. Skulls cracking under feet. Laughing as planes drop bombs from the sky. Another trick. She called them in. Or is this not Thirteen? What are they doing?

 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he says.