Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The train sways back and forth so subtly that its almost imperceptible, but with my feet firmly rooted on the floor and my body completely stiff, I can feel it.  It’s making me sick a little, or perhaps that’s just because I know where the train is going.  It’s a one-way journey and the likelihood of returning home is slim.  I don’t care about the fan-fare and delicious food they provide us as they fatten us up to slaughter.  It’s a sick reminder that we are nothing but entertainment for them.

My district partner, Ilana, shakes my shoulder lightly.  “Elijah?  It’s time for dinner.”

I look up at her.  She’s a pretty girl, a year behind me at school.  We know each other, almost.  Which really makes this entire thing worse because I won’t be pitted against a complete stranger.  And yet I’m drawn to her, and for reasons other than her friendly smile and gentle touch.  She’s my last bit of home.

“Alright,” I say as I heave myself up from the chair I had planted myself in as soon as I got on the train.  “Might as well try new things before we die.”

Ilana rolls her eyes.  “Must you be so dramatic?” she asks.

I grunt in response.  There was no drama in that; it was a simple statement.  I follow after her into the dining car where the others are assembled.   The two mentors, Solar and Benjamin, sit at the table with the District 5 escort, Wilton.  A delicious spread of food weighs down the table—everything from meats and cheeses to fruits and desserts.  Carafes of water glisten with perspiration as they sit in their ice baths to keep from growing warm.  Small balls of butter gleam in a silver dish next to a hearty basket of bread.  It would try everything in a heartbeat if I had an appetite.

I’m scared, if I’m going to be honest.  I’d be a fool if I weren’t terrified.  But I’m proud, and I don’t want anyone else to see how much I tremble behind the stony dam I have built up in front of me.  Ilana has already taken a seat across from Benjamin, an old man whose age I really can’t place.  If going by appearance, he might be 65, he might be 85—the Capitol has its way of banishing age because they find it disgusting.  Things that are disgusting must be destroyed.  However, I know that he must be in his early 70s since he won the 79^th Hunger Games.  I lower myself into the seat next to Ilana and across from Solar.

Solar stares at me with deadened eyes.  She’s beautiful, if you don’t look straight at her.  The most recent victor from District 5, she won the 114^th Hunger Games.  Her light brown skin has strokes of golden powder across her cheekbones.  Her dark brown hair, with strands dyed gold and red, is pulled away from her face and tied behind her head, not a single hair out of place.  She seems to straddle the border between District 5 and the eccentricities of the Capitol, unable to determine where she really is.  Too outstanding for the likes of our humble district, but too subtle for the Capitol.  But the way that she stares at me as though I am already dead carves out a place for uneasiness to burrow into me.  When she turns on Ilana, her eyes don’t change.  To her, we are ghosts already.

Wilton, from the head of the table, claps his hands.  “I’d like to welcome our two tributes, Ilana and Elijah, to our dinner table,” he says formally once we look at him.  He is a sight to behold, that’s for damned certain.  Were he standing, he’d easily tower over any of us.  His form is thin, and everything about him accentuates this, like someone took a normal-sized person by the head and feet and stretched him.  The jacket he wears extends from his neck to his thigh, curved and fitted to his lanky frame.  His hair is swept back away from a bony face covered in fine powders.  Long fingers are adorned with jewels too big to be comfortable.  He even wears a small lift in his shoes to make him that much taller.  I can only think of how difficult it must be to constantly watch for low-hanging doorways.  Or maybe they don’t have that in the Capitol.

“I can see that our prospects for District 5 look well this year,” he continues, lifting a glass slightly like he is about to give a toast.  “May the odds be ever in their favor.”

Ilana and I exchange a look.  We will only be in the Capitol a week, but it will be a very long week.  Not in a good way.

He claps his hands again.  This time an avox rushes in, picks up his plate, and begins to spoon portions of food as Wilton directs exactly what he wants and how much.  He speaks with a restrained giddiness, like a child who is forced to sit politely while choosing his favorite toys.

Is this how things are done in the Capitol, I wonder.  Certainly there can’t be enough avoxes to serve everyone.  Would we have to wait as the avox went around the table, one person at a time?

I glance towards the mentors.  Benjamin mutters to himself, seemingly oblivious to the escort, and begins to help himself to food.  Solar takes a few extra moments as she eyes the Capitolite but then turns to her own plate.  When she sees Ilana and me staring, she grunts, “Well, eat up.”

Curiosity drives me to fill my plate more than hunger, but once I have food sitting in front of me, I find that I can’t just leave it there.  The people of District 5 aren’t starving anymore like they used to be in the old days, but most of us are still taught that we eat whatever is on our plates.  There is always enough to go around, but waste is completely unnecessary.

The foods I have served myself are much richer than what we have at home.  Or should I say that it is bolder.  The sweet things are too sweet.  The meaty things are almost too savory.  And then there are other items I don’t expect, like a small cake whose insides are laced with spicy filling.  Ever full of surprises, the Capitol is.  I had nearly cleared my entire plate when Solar starts to speak.

“Elijah, you’re going to be with me.  Ilana, you will be with Benjamin,” she says.  I glance between her and the older mentor.  Benjamin doesn’t appear to care much now that he has his food in front of him.

They say that Benjamin brought several tributes to victory.  Solar, on the other hand, has had no successful tributes.  I suppose it doesn’t matter, really, when the whole Hunger Games thing is a crapshoot.

“We can mentor the two of you together or separately.  Which do you prefer?” Solar asks us as she sizes us up.  First me, then Ilana.  Her eyes pick away at us as she waits for our answers.

I’m . . . not certain.  This is my first Hunger Games, after all.  I don’t know what they traditionally do.  Is one way better than the other?  Does my decision really matter?  I glance at Ilana.

“Don’t look at her,” Solar snaps.  “Look at me and give me your answer.”

I start and turn my attention to the woman sitting across from me.  She’s damned fierce, I’ll give her that.  And the way her eyes bore into me like she’s looking at the chair I’m sitting in or the picture frame behind my head chills me.

“Together,” I say.

Why?  I should just let Ilana go.  It’ll be no use to be with her in the arena.  She may be my district partner but she can’t be my friend.

“Separate,” says Ilana.

“Separate it is,” Solar replies.  A hint of a smile flickers on her face as she turns her attention to Ilana.  But that disappears almost immediately.

The remainder of dinner grates by slowly, like someone dragging a heavy chain across asphalt.  An awkward tension permeates the room, and I focus on the swaying of the train car once again to try to keep myself occupied.  I finish the food on my plate and wait to be dismissed.  It’s not until Wilton places down his fork and claps his hands once again that the scene changes.

“Let’s watching the reapings,” he cries.  This is a festivity to him, and he stands up and motions for us all to follow.  When we don’t move fast enough, he chides us for having “lead in our shoes” and keeps encouraging us to follow him.

The dining car connects directly to the lounge car, which is where I had been sitting until Ilana retrieved me for dinner.  But now the sun hangs low in the sky and Wilton instructs an avox to draw down the shades so that the orange glow doesn’t interfere with the viewing.  He then motions for Ilana and Benjamin to sit on one couch and Solar and I to sit on another.  He takes an armchair and lowers his lanky frame into the plush cushions.  I really don’t want to sit near Solar, but I also don’t want to piss anyone off so soon, so I settle into the opposite end of the couch from my mentor and stare ahead at the dark screen.

Only moments go by before Wilton picks up the remote and turns it on.  “Let’s start with District 1, shall we?  Numerical order helps us keep things straight.”  No one replies to him, so he just does what he pleases.

The tributes from District 1 are, of course, volunteers.  I don’t know what the process is for choosing volunteers, but it looks like these two have already been unofficially chosen.  Otherwise I would expect the reaping to be far more chaotic rather than two kids calling out “I volunteer!” clearly to a silent crowd that soon erupts into cheers.  The tributes themselves look like any other District 1 volunteer: arrogant, self-centered, and powerful enough to use any weapon that they come across.

District 2 is similar.  But there is a devilish glint in the eyes of the male.  These sick bastards get so much pleasure from going to the Hunger Games.  How does the Capitol manage to instill a love of death so deeply into these people that they have not one but six kids every year willing fighting to the end of their lives?  The girl appears far more controlled and calm than the boy tribute who’s pumping his fists into the air and cheering.

Likewise for District 4 when it comes their turn.  (District 3 has a couple of skinny kids who may have been sixteen or seventeen but certainly were no match for the Career districts whose reaping flanked their own.)  The male from District 4 brims with muscle.  He might be a swimmer, or maybe it’s from all the weaponry training.  The girl is slimmer but appears equally capable.  She grins out at the crowd before her, giving thumb’s up and waving to everyone.

Then it’s time for District 5.  I wish we didn’t have to watch it, but I’m not about to object to it.  There’s probably some value to seeing myself get reaped.  I don’t care.  I want to tune it all out.

Wilton stands proudly on the stage and draws Ilana’s name from the great glass ball that holds all of our names over and over again.  The crowd parts as the girls make way for the unlucky sacrifice.  I think I catch a glimpse of Lucinda in the crowd, but the camera moves away before I can say for certain.  Once Ilana climbs the stage and stands there next to the lively and jittery escort, one more name is called out.  Mine.  And now the camera shows me, pale but otherwise stoic, as I move through the parting crowd and head towards the dais.  Then once I’m up there, I stand next to Ilana.  Wilton says a few final words and that’s it.  It’s done.  Attention moves to District 6.

It’s such a cold and detached perspective compared to what actually happened.  They can’t show how my family rushed to the Justice Building and gathered me in their arms to say goodbye.  Henry tried to hold himself together and assured me that I was strong enough to make it through.  As the eldest, he believed he was supposed to say something encouraging but didn’t know what would really help.  George almost didn’t come into the room, he was crying so hard but trying to hide it.  And Joule clung to me, weeping and making me promise that I’d come back to her.  It was her first year at the reaping, and what a way to celebrate.  My parents started sobbing when the Peacekeepers told them that their time was up.

My grandparents came, too.  And my friend Anthony.  I appreciated their visits and hugged them goodbye.  But the person I wanted to see the most was Lucinda, my girlfriend.  You think that you’re going to get to spend your future together, and then something so shitty happens like this that just rips everything out from underneath you.  As I sit here and blandly watch the District 6 reaping, I can still feel Lucinda in my arms, her tears soaking into my shirt.  I can feel her lips on mine.  I can hear her whisper into my ear that she would be waiting for me when I returned.  I had no words for her at the time because all I could think was that I’d be returning in a plain wooden box.  So instead I just held her tightly and wished that this was all just a nightmare from which I would wake up soon.  But as the Peacekeepers tore her away from me, I knew that I would never wake up.

District 7.  District 8.  Why do I need to watch this?  District 9.  District 10.  District 11.  District 12.

They’re all going to die, just like me.  Do I need to learn their names and faces and watch them struggle to control themselves?

“That’s it!” Wilton chirps.  He turns off the television and stands up.  His head almost hits the ceiling of the train car.  “Tomorrow we will arrive in the Capitol!  For the majority of the day, you will be made over into something entirely new.  And then tomorrow night is the parade!”  He trills the last word in excitement.

“That’s enough, Wilton,” Benjamin says.  “They’re tired, can’t you see?”

Wilton purses his lips.  “I suppose excitement can cause fatigue, and today was definitely exciting!  Did you see the way the District 10 girl cried? Poor thing!  My heart really goes out to her.”

“Oh, fuck off,” I snap at him.

Everyone turns and stares at me.

“What?” I demand. “I don’t want to sit here and listen to this.”  I motion vaguely in Wilton’s direction.

“That language is just not appropriate in the Capitol,” Wilton scolds me.

“Right,” I say, standing up.  Suddenly I am tired.  But it’s the sort of weariness that weighs down on your mind, not your body.  “I’m going to bed.”

Chapter Text

It take about five minutes for me to figure out how to work the shower.  There are four handle and five nozzles, and it seems that it requires a combination of each to make sure that the water is at the right temperature and pressure.  I’d think that things in the Capitol would be more technologically straightforward, but perhaps I’m giving them too much credit.  I take a long, hot shower and stay there far longer than I would at home.  We’re conscious about wasting resources in District 5.  Water can be used for many things, from eating and cleaning to power; conservation of water is highly encouraged.  But I’m not in District 5 and I’m going to die soon, so I might as well enjoy some long showers before I’m thrown in the arena.

At last I turn off the water, wrap a thick towel around my waist, and step back into my room.

My mentor, Solar, sits in the armchair in the corner.

I stare at her uncertainly, very aware of the fact that I only have a towel around me right now.  I want to ask her why the hell she chose this time to come in, but she doesn’t give me a chance.

“The worst thing you can do is piss off the people trying to help you,” she says to me.  “That includes those who are a part of the Capitol.  Especially them.  Have a problem with it?  Get over it.  You only have to deal with it for a short while.”

“Do you . . . always come into people’s rooms like this?” I ask.  My old clothing lay strewn on the bed and the floor.  I had hoped to put on something fresh but right now that appears to be the closest thing in sight.

She ignores me.  “Right now, you are a nobody.  In those reaping videos, did you see how some of those tributes made themselves stand out?  That’s not you.  You’re pretty generic, and though the Capitol might initially fawn over your ‘handsome, rugged appearance,’ they ultimately don’t care about that.  If you can’t make a name for yourself and you destroy the relationships you have here, then there is no way you’re getting back from the arena alive.”

Right.  Okay.  I want to say something back to her, but I’m at a loss for words.  She’s pretty direct about what she has to say, but I’m a little intrigued by the fact she thinks I have a chance at all.  Maybe it’s just part of the job.

“Fine,” I say.  “What do I have to do?”

She snorts.  “As if it can be summed up so easily,” she replies.  “The first thing is that you follow directions.  You don’t insult anyone in the Capitol, no matter how lowly.  Things are much more complicated than they look, and the person plucking the hair off your body may seem like a lowly peasant but is really the friend of the son of a Gamemaker.  Word travels and then you’re dead.  You cooperate with what anyone tells you to do.”

Her dead eyes bore through me.  If the towel fell off my body now, would she even notice?  Or would she still be fascinated with the dresser behind me?

“Do you understand that?” she asks.

“Yes,” I answer.

She waits for a few moments and I wonder if I somehow answered that question wrong.  Then she says, “Tomorrow they’re going to subject you to some humiliating grooming procedures so they can parade you around before all the citizens.  I’m sure you watch the parade every year.  Then the following days also include a variety of other equally-humiliating and completely unnecessary tasks.  But again, you will not complain.  You will do as you need to.”

“Understood.”

“I really hope so.  Every year I hope that I will have a victor.  Don’t let me down, Elijah.”

“Yeah, because that’s why I’d want to win,” I say cautiously, watching for her reaction.

“You don’t really play well with others, do you?” she asks as she sits back a little in the chair, making herself comfortable.

I raise an eyebrow.  “Well, actually, I do,” I say.  “I’m starting forward on the school soccer team.  But that’s an entirely different situation because I’m not going to die if my team loses.”

She doesn’t seem impressed which doesn’t surprise me.  I’m growing tired of standing here in the middle of my room like I’m the intruder, so I sit down on the bed.  I knew things in the Capitol would be different from home, but this is all so odd.  Everything about this conversation is quite unusual and I wonder if it was her intention to make me uncomfortable.

“Hmm,” she says as she thinks.  “That’s not good enough.”

“How so?” I demand.

“Because I didn’t ask you about your teamwork ability,” she replies.  “I want to know how well you interact with other people.  Do you let people have their turns?  Do you say things to encourage them?  Do you let them speak while you listen?  Do you know when to hold your tongue?  These are the things I want to know.”

I hesitate.  I don’t have an answer for that because that’s not something I’ve ever had to think about.

“I thought I was just supposed to kill people,” I say.

She barks out a laugh.  I stare at her.

“God, they always give me the thickest tributes,” she says to no one in particular.

I grit my teeth.  What the hell is wrong with her?  Isn’t she supposed to be helping me, not speaking in riddles and making derogatory comments?  My body tenses as I stare at her, waiting for some sort of indication what she really wants from me.

“Listen, it’s called the Hunger Games because it’s a game, you see?” she says.  “You don’t just go in there and start murdering people—you need to play the game.  Show people what you want them to see, hide what you want to keep secret, and make friends.  You’ll end up killing them all later—if you’re lucky, that is—but you’ll need them to survive.”

I recoil at the thought of murdering people I’m friends with.  My stomach churns and threatens to return my entire dinner.  The way she talks repulses me.  Either she doesn’t care or she is so warped by mentoring year after year that she doesn’t know how disgusting she is.

“Don’t think you’re above this,” she sneers.  “You’re not.  None of us are.  If we were, then they wouldn’t be able to make us mentor.”

In school, we learned about our Hunger Games and District 5’s victors.  Solar, like the others, was always placed on a pedestal for us to worship in a way.  She came from a poorer family, had seven siblings, blah, blah, blah.  She was a reminder that any of us could be victors in the Hunger Games.  None of us believed it; we’d grown up watching the annual event and saw our district representatives killed time and time again.  But in all the propaganda, and even watching her every year at the reaping stand on the stage with the other victors, I never would have thought that she was so . . . unhinged.  She held her head high, listened attentively, watched us all with clarity.  And yet talking with her was something else entirely.  I had expected, I don’t know . . . professionalism?  Some sort of understanding of the position we were in?  Yet I receive none of that right now.

“Okay,” I hesitate.  “Then how do I play this game?”

“What are you good at?” she demands, suddenly leaning in to peer right at me.

I find myself shifting backwards a little despite the fact that she remains ten feet away from me in the armchair.

“Oh, um, well, I play soccer.  I have decent endurance and coordination,” I fumble.  “I can throw knives.  My dad taught me how to—”

“Honestly, I don’t care about the background details.  Do you hit the target?”

I blink.  “Uh, yeah, sometimes.”

“That’s not good enough,” she says.  “What can you do that you are successful at all the time?”

Hell if I know.  I’m not really great at anything.  I’m terribly average in a great many ways.  My reports contain a smattering of As, Bs, and Cs; I’ve been praised for my work but never received any awards or honors; even on my soccer team I’m nobody outstanding.  If you ask my parents or my girlfriend to say something positive about me, I’m sure they’ll be able to come up with a few character strengths, but that’s it.  Nothing I can really showcase in a death match.

“Nothing, I guess,” I say at last.

“Nothing?” she repeats with incredulity.

I shrug.  “Well, at least I’m honest.”

“Honesty will get your nowhere but six feet in the ground,” she says.

“Fine, then I’m a wizard at archery and I speak six dead languages,” I snap at her.  “What the hell do you want from me?”

She remains unflinching as she studies me over.

“You have muscle.  How much can you lift?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t lift weights.”

“So the muscles just appeared overnight on their own?” she asks.

Damnit, I don’t like this woman.  The more she questions me, the more I want to disappear into the mattress and sink through the floorboards beneath.  She treats me like an animal she’s preparing for show, not like an eighteen-year-old guy whose future was just torn out from under him.

“Pushups, sit-ups, those sorts of things,” I answer.  I don’t bulge with muscle, not the way some other guys do.  If I were wearing clothing, you probably couldn’t even tell really.  But I’m in shape, and I can run; I’ve been in soccer for years.  Sure, I would never have gotten chosen for any professional teams, but who the hell cares anymore?

“You said you can run?” Solar asks.

“Yes,” I say.  “And I have good endurance.  I also played indoor soccer for—”

“Again, I don’t care about the details,” she interrupts me.  “How far can you run?”

Most of the time on the soccer field, we don’t sit there and count the number of miles.  It’s just back and forth after the ball, opening yourself up for passes, keeping in a good position.  But outside of scrimmages and competition, we also practice, and part of that involves running a good bit.

“Five miles,” I answer. “I haven’t had any reason to run more than that at one time.”

“Terrain?”

“Grass, mostly.  Also through neighborhoods, so concrete.”

She sits there quietly and ponders what I just told her.  I watch her as she contemplates.  When she’s silent and I don’t have to listen to her needling me about my incompetence, she’s beautiful again.  Shadows accentuate her features, and she’s wearing a shirt that—I stop.  As soon as she opens her mouth, I’ll find her repulsive once more.

“Put on some clothes and get to sleep,” she instructs me as she stands up.  “I’ll have an avox wake you up two hours before breakfast so we can reconvene.”

I stand up, too, and watch as she walks to the door.  She turns around and looks at me.

“And you better come up with some reason I should waste my breath on you,” she says.

Then she’s gone.  The door slides shut behind her with a gentle whoosh and I’m alone.  I had thought that I’d be more comfortable once she left, but instead I feel more vulnerable than ever.

Chapter Text

TRIBUTE FILE #0034A5

Subject Name: Elijah Asher
Subject District: 5
Subject Age at Reaping: 18
Subject Sex: male

Family:

• Biological father: Watt Asher (40)
• Biological mother: Leda Harper-Asher (40)
• Siblings: Henry Asher (20), George Asher (14), Joule Asher (12)
• Other relations: Charles Harper (71, grandfather), Marie Harper (68, grandmother), Alessandro Asher (86, grandfather), various aunts, uncles, and cousins
• Friends: Anthony Mu (18, friend since childhood), Lucina Ampere (17, girlfriend)

Academic Performance: Average.  Unremarkable in test scores and assignments.  55^th percentile in standardized testing.  On track to graduate from high school this spring.  Anticipates to go to trade school.

Extracurricular Activities: School soccer team.

Reaping Notes: Above average.  Very stoic.  Entire family reserved.  Girlfriend emotional.

Media Attention: Above average.  Nothing stood out during the Reaping to warrant extra attention.  Due to age and physical abilities, media places emphasis on Subject surviving longer than most.

Public Reaction: Subject earned attention from citizens, particularly in the 15-25 year and 25-35 year age groups.  His physical appearance and reserved nature were cited as reasons for interest by test groups.  Sponsorship interest is low at present.

Chapter Text

The sun isn’t even over the horizon when the avox knocks on my bedroom door in the morning.  Pushing myself into a sitting position, I pause and allow the sleep that still clogs my brain to drift away.  How many hours had I actually managed to rest, I don’t know.  Maybe three or four if I’m being generous.  The heaviness in my eyelids encourages me to ignore the avox’s knock and flop back into my mattress.  I fight the urge to go back to sleep and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

The Capitol has graciously supplied us with an entire wardrobe even though the ride to the Capitol is around twenty-four hours if I understand it right.  As I stare at the clothes in the closet, I can’t help but wonder how many dead tributes who came before me wore that green shirt or those grey pants.  It doesn’t stop me from pulling clothes off the hanger and dressing for the day, but I have the keen sensation that this car is haunted by previous tributes who, like me, found themselves on a one-way track for death.

Solar sits cross-legged on one of the couches in the lounge car.  She turns her face up at me when I enter, and her eyes follow me as I walk across the room and sit down in an armchair.

“Well?” she asks, poised and ready for an answer.

“Well what?” I respond because I can’t remember what she wants from me right now.  It’s too early to think clearly.  It’s like when my coach would call for before-school practice.  My brain never functioned until I’d been running around a bit.

“Teenagers,” she mutters under her breath before saying clearly for me to hear: “Why should I mentor you?”

I frown.  Right, that question.  The one that was so fundamentally flawed that it didn’t deserve an answer.  I tap my finger against the arm of the chair and wonder how she really expects me to answer this.

“What happens if you don’t mentor me?” I ask with genuine curiosity.  “It’s part of the job description but they can’t fire you.”

“If I were to officially pull back my position as mentor this year, I’d have to give them a good reason,” she replies.  “And then you’d be left with no one.”

Despite the fact that District 5 has had a few wins over the past half-century or so, there were only two living victors.  The other two who had won—a pair of brothers who Benjamin had mentored many, many years ago—had vanished from the face of the planet.  Some say that they were killed by the Capitol.  Others say they escaped Panem altogether.  It doesn’t matter forty years later, but it left District 5 distinctly lacking extra mentors.  My teachers always said it was a selfish move to just up and leave your duties as victor, but I can’t help wondering why others hadn’t followed in their place.  If I were victor, I would certainly—

“Are you even functional?” Solar demands.

I snap to attention, suddenly aware that I had drifted off.  It’s too damned early to be thinking about this.

“I need caffeine,” I mumble.

“Well you’re not getting caffeine in the arena, so you better learn to live without it,” Solar growls.  “Now, why should I help you?”

I turn and stare at her dead in the eye: “You shouldn’t.”

And then I stand up and head off to the dining car, distinctly conscious that I may have screwed myself over royally.  Despite that, I am unwilling to turn back around and ask for forgiveness from the only person who might actually be on my side.  She may be dangling her help in front of my face, but she’s only trying to get me to play the game.  And when it comes to being in the arena, she’s the only person who can arrange sponsorships for me.

This morning, the table is completely cleared except for five place settings.  Off to the side, opposite the door I came in, a buffet stands against a wall, laden with all sorts of breakfast foods.  Eggs, meats, pastries, cereals.  More things whose names I don’t know.  My stomach lurches with hunger, but I find myself sinking into one of the chairs and holding my head in my hands, elbows propped up on the table.

What the hell did I just do?

I doesn’t matter.  She wasn’t helping me, I try to tell myself.  But there’s anxiety that’s burrowed into my abdomen and chews away at my guts.  I just shot myself in the foot, and I’m too proud to turn around and admit that I need help.

An avox comes by to check on me.  In one hand she holds a pot of coffee and the other she has a jug of orange juice.  I slide the mug to her and ask for the coffee.  Might as well enjoy this before I die, right?  I watch as the warm black beverage rises to the top of the glass, and then the avox bows and steps away.  Sliding the mug back in front of me, I allow myself to enjoy the strong scent.  It’s different than what I’ve had at home.  I take a sip.  The coffee burns my tongue, but I like the flavor anyhow.

The dining car door slides open, and Solar steps in.  She stalks over to the table and sits down across from me.

“You don’t think you need my help?” she asks.

“I think I do need your help,” I respond.  “I’m just not willing to tolerate your bullshit.  I’m stressed out enough as it is, and your mind games aren’t helping one bit.”

She reaches over and takes the coffee out of my hands.  I start to protest, but she says, “No caffeine.  End of story.”

“So you’re helping me?” I place a hand on the table in front of me and feel the warmth where the coffee cup had been moments before.

She sits back in her chair.  “Having an insolent tribute isn’t reason enough to back out of mentorship duties, unfortunately,” she answers.  Then she lifts the mug of coffee and takes a long sip. “Ugh, black.”

She smiles when she notices that I’m watching her drink my coffee.

“I’m more of a sprinter than a long-distance runner, but I run a mile in about seven to eight minutes, give or take,” I say.  “Normally I do about forty pushups at a time, even more sit-ups.  I jump rope at least twice a week.  I’m coordinated.  I can swim.  I can climb if I have to.”

Now Solar stares at me with amusement.  She takes another sip of coffee.  “Anything else?”

When I don’t respond, she says, “You’ll make it out of the bloodbath if you don’t do something stupid.  What about survival skills?”

That . . . I definitely have a deficiency in.  My abilities are limited to the world around me.  Never once have I set foot on a beach or scaled a mountain.  I wouldn’t know the first thing to do in a desert.  But I have been camping before and know how to set up a tent, find the right sticks for fires, and hide my food from bears.

“Do you know how to find edible plants and roots?  Start a fire?  Protect yourself from the elements?” she lists off when I don’t answer right away.

“I can make a shelter,” I say.  “If I have enough material.”

“And if you don’t have enough material?” she asks.

“Then I guess I’ll just die,” I respond simply.

Solar doesn’t say anything to this.  My stomach growls again, so I stand up and head over to the buffet.

“You want me to get you anything or are you just going to take whatever’s on my plate?” I ask over my shoulder.  She doesn’t respond, so I get enough food for myself and head back to the table.  When I sit back down, Solar is fiddling with her cell phone, completely oblivious to my presence.  Or perhaps she’s just ignoring me so she doesn’t have to deal with me.

I begin to eat slowly, testing everything out before I commit to really eating it.  There’s not a great amount of food on my plate because I can always go back for more, and I’d rather do that than risk wasting anything.  Small portions of a variety of foods sit in their own separate sections as though they have been divided by invisible barriers, thus keeping the foods from mixing.  As with dinner last night, every bite is flavorful.  I’ve tried to steer clear from the sweeter foods, opting for eggs, meats, and simple breads.  Even these are all rich and their textures a little different from what I’m used to.

As soon as I have started, an avox comes in and starts to place condiments on the table: various sauces and creams, a wicker basket of jams and jellies, another bowl of perfectly scooped balls of butter.

The door to the dining car opens once more, and this time Ilana walks in.  She treads tentatively into the room, slipping behind my chair to take the seat next to me.

I don’t know how I feel about her.  We’re connected, in a way.  She is Lucinda’s sister’s friend, and though our conversations have more often than not been brief, we’ve ended up at many of the same events and outings because of this connection.  Then to know that she had made the quick decision to train separately had kind of . . . hurt?  Yeah, yeah, I know it’s the Hunger Games.  I know that we can’t get too attached to each other.  This was different.

At last Benjamin comes in, though he heads first for the buffet before sitting down with us.  When he sees that Ilana hasn’t eaten yet, he says, “Get some breakfast.”

“I’m not really hungry.”  Ilana’s shaking voice is barely more than a whisper.  She has her head down where she keeps her eyes mostly on the table with the occasional dart at the other three of us.  I notice now that she has been crying.  Weary, reddened eyes are ringed with dark circles.  She has been crying and not sleeping.

“If you don’t eat, you lose strength and then you die,” Benjamin tells her.

Still, Ilana makes no move.

So I stand up, fill up a plate at the buffet and bring it back to her where I slap it onto her place setting.  She jumps, then seems to pull herself inward to make her body smaller.  More gently, I set down a cup of juice.  Then I settle back into my seat.

Solar watches us with interest.  “You know each other?”

I glance at Ilana, but she’s now looking at the plate with great determination.

“Yes,” I answer.  “She is my girlfriend’s sister’s friend.”

“Tragic,” Solar replies, her eyes now on Ilana.  She’s picking her apart piece by piece, trying to determine what, exactly, is the nature of our relationship.  The girlfriend’s-sister’s-friend thing is a mouthful, and it makes us sound much more distant than we actual are, like somebody’s second cousin twice removed.  This vague connection holds many things that appear to interest Solar right now.

Then she turns to me.  “Your girlfriend . . . is she close to her sister?”

“Yes, I think so,” I say.  “They always do things as a family.”

“And they include you?”

“Yes.”

“And they include her?”

“Yes.”

Solar watches us again.  By now Ilana has gotten brave enough to take up her fork and pick at the scrambled eggs on her plate.  She hasn’t tried to eat any yet.

“It’s strange how these things work,” Solar says to no one in particular, her eyes once more seeing through Ilana into the chair behind her.  “Very strange.”

“How people are connected to each other through families and friends?” I ask.

“No.  How District 5 tends to have such strange tribute pairings,” Solar replies.  “But that is neither here nor there.”

“I think you’re making something out of nothing,” Benjamin says.  He’s put some good work into his plate of food, and he pauses now like he’s coming up for breath.  “There have been a couple of instances of people being reaped together who knew each other, but that’s to be expected.”

Solar turns her gaze upon him now.  “Sure,” she says.  “Whatever makes you sleep at night.”

The comment doesn’t appear to phase Benjamin in the slightest.  He’s been working with Solar for many, many years now and is used to her behavior.

The conversation drops away and I continue to eat my food.  I don’t know what will happen to us when we leave this train.  I know we’re going to get prepared for the tribute parade tonight, but where and by whom is completely unknown.  Solar said I have to cooperate which makes me think that I’m not going to like this experience.  They don’t seem to shy away from feeding us, but I make sure to eat my fill just in case I’m not able to eat again for awhile.

Solar is staring at us again.  I try to ignore her.

“You,” she says as she points at Ilana, “are going to be his girlfriend’s sister.”

“Lucinda’s sister?” Ilana asks weakly.  “I’m her sister’s friend.”

“Not anymore,” Solar says.  “You’re her sister now.  And if the truth comes up that you are not biologically related to this Lucinda girl, then you’ll say that you’re ‘like a sister’ to her.  Do you understand?”

“I don’t,” I say.

Solar turns to me.  “Girlfriend’s sister’s friend is too much.  It’s too big of a stretch and no one will remember it.  If we say that she is your girlfriend’s sister, then that’s something that’s going to catch people’s eye.”

No.  I don’t like this at all.  I love Lucinda, and to manipulate her relationships with other people seems completely unnecessary.  Also dishonorable.  We’re going to be committing enough atrocities as it is; could we just let some things be as they are?

“People at home are going to—”

Solar cuts me off.  “I don’t care about the people at home.  They’re not going to be the ones who decide if you live or die,” she says flatly.

“I don’t want to be—”

“Again.  I don’t care what you want.  If you’re going to get any sponsorships, this is how it’s going to happen,” Solar says.

There’s a tense silence as I try to come up with a decisively good reason why this plan sucks.  Nothing about it makes me comfortable, but if I’m going to win against Solar, ‘comfort’ isn’t going to cut it.  There has to be some way that—

“I’m in,” Ilana says.  She flicks a brief glance at me before turning away, unable to meet my eye.

I say nothing.

“Alright, at least one of you is reasonable,” Solar remarks.  “Now, eat up before Wilton wakes from his beauty sleep and ruins this peaceful morning.”

I try to catch Ilana after breakfast to talk with her, but she excuses herself to get ready and vanishes out of the dining car.  The moment I hear Wilton enter, I take my leave and head to my room where I throw myself on the bed and focus on the gentle swaying of the train.

Chapter Text

I always believed that the tribute parade was the most humiliating part of the Hunger Games—aside from the whole dying on national television for other people’s entertainment, of course—but I’m realizing now that there are other absolutely ridiculous parts to this experience that might actually win out.

Like now.  I lay on a table as one member of my so-called Prep Team applies hot wax to various parts of my mostly-naked body to remove whatever hair she doesn’t think I really need.  Maybe if I try really hard, I can dissociate until this is all over, I tell myself.  But there’s a painful rip that tears the hair from between my eyebrows, and I know that there’s no escaping.  Where the hair isn’t removed, it’s trimmed back which takes even longer and makes me feel like I’m a sheep getting sheared.  The members of the Prep Team chatter between each other and occasionally make comments to me, such as informing me how all of my leg hair must be completely uniform if it’s not all going to be removed.

The entire process stuns me into silence.  I can only lay there and wait for it to be over.

But it’s only just beginning.  Once my hair is taken care of, I am taken to a bath where they proceed to bathe me like a child.  The soap is abrasive, removing the dead skin and any bit of grime that may have hidden between skin cells.  I watch as the water drains straight out of the bottom of the bathtub as they bathe me, flowing through slats rather than pooling and swirling out one single hole.  They rinse me with warm water, and then it repeats all over again, this time with a different soap that is more soothing than the last one.  Over and over this occurs with different soaps and brushes, and I lose track of how many times they instruct me to move my arms, or stand up, or lean my body forward.  Meanwhile, one of the Prep Team members shampoos and conditions my hair, humming quietly to himself.

It’s dehumanizing, I think.

Once the bathing ends, they lather me with some cream that soothes my raw skin.

They wrap me in the softest towel I have ever felt in my life before leading me to a chair and instructing me to sit.  Then it’s time for a quick hair cut from one person while two others work on my nails, smoothing them out and evening up the tips.  They don’t paint my nails or anything, but they do spend quite a bit of time on them to make sure that they look unnaturally natural.  I concentrate on how nice and soft the towel is as I wait for this torture to finish.

It doesn’t end.  They lead me over to a silver table that gleams under the critical lights of the room, instruct me to take off the towel, and then sit.  I hesitate, not really willing to expose myself yet again to these three, but they only repeat the instructions once more.  Without another option, I hand them the towel and hoist myself onto the cold metal table.

They leave, and the door clunks shut behind them.

All of this just to kill me, I think as I wait for whatever they have in store for me next.  I look at my nails.  They don’t look like they’re mine.  Even when I washed all the dirt from the day out from under my nails at the end of each night, I never came nearly this close to what I’m looking at now.  Same with my hand.  None of this belongs to me.  I run my fingers down my arm where the skin is so soft underneath dewy hair.

The door opens, and I jerk to attention.  A man steps inside.  He’s short and fat, but it could be the strange waistcoat he wears that pinches around his midsection a little too much.  His face is somber as he walks up to me and instructs me to stand up.

“Uh, huh, a little taller than I thought,” he says, walking around me as I grit my teeth and wait for his assessment to finish.  He pinches my arm and it takes everything in my power to refrain from hitting him.  Then he pulls out a small measuring tape from his pocket and wraps it around my neck, mumbling to himself the entire time.

When he’s decided that his inspection is good enough, he instructs me to sit back down on the table.

“Did you have a good time this morning?” he asks jovially, the seriousness melting away.  “Tributes tend to enjoy getting made over.”

I clench my teeth harder and say nothing.  If I tried to speak right now, heaven only knows what I would say.

“Nervous, are you?” he asks, mistaking my silence as fear.  He offers me a kind smile, but it doesn’t mean anything to me.  I focus on the small wrinkles that appear near his eyes and mouth when he smiles and try to avoid looking directly at him so that he doesn’t think I’m encouraging conversation.  “I suppose this is all so overwhelming.”

He explains to me then that he’ll be testing out colors on my skin, and I wonder what he means by that.  Then he brings over a big box which he sets on the table next to me.  It opens to reveal various pods and swatches of makeup.  Some of them I recognize, like eye shadows, but others remain a mystery to me.  Lucinda likes to wear makeup and we always have to allow time in the schedule for her to throw on her favorites before we leave the house.  Many times I sat on the edge of the bathtub and watched as she streaked her eyes with various colors and applied more color to her cheeks and lips.  It seems surreal that I would be wearing this stuff now.

As the man starts dabbing bits of makeup on my face in seemingly no random order, it occurs to me that I don’t even know his name.  I guess that’s just part of this event.  He mutters things to himself again, and this time I catch bits and pieces of what he’s saying.  Essentially he’s trying to figure out what colors are going to go best with my skin tone, and whether the natural tan I have will fade before I go into the arena, leaving me a few shades closer to white.

“It’s a good thing you tan,” he says.  “There’s no sunscreen in the arena.”

Well, gee, thanks.

He steps back and admires his work.  But I’m not allowed to see what he’s done to me.  I really think that he just slabbed a whole bunch of different colors across my skin to see which ones were the most suitable, not that he actually created a finished piece.  Thank heavens.  Then he pulls out a wet cloth from a pouch and rubs my face with a little too much force.  His arm moves this way and that, and I squeeze my eyes shut and try to hold still until he’s finished.  When he draws the cloth away, it’s smeared with all sorts of colors.

“Don’t tell your Prep Team,” he says.  “Or they’ll want to do the whole facial cleanse again, and you really don’t need that.”

No, I don’t.

“Now, put this on—it’s time to eat.”  He holds out a thin gown not unlike what one would wear at a hospital.  I wrap it around me and tie it in place.  The soft fabric is a welcome relief from wearing nothing at all.

The man leads me to an adjacent room where he bids me to sit down in a large armchair made of some smooth, plastic-like material.  I do as he instructs, and then an avox comes over with tea and a plate of small sandwiches.  He invites me to join him in lunch.

I read Alice in Wonderland when I was a kid.  It’s an old, perplexingly bizarre story that predates modern history, and I always wondered what society must’ve been like long before Panem if this was the sort of literature they enjoyed.  Anyway, that’s how I feel now: I’ve been plunged into the madness of Wonderland and I really can’t make sense of left or right, up or down.  Everything is a contradiction and what should make sense doesn’t.  It’s disconcerting.  As I stare down at my plate no bigger than my hand, it looks comically small.  The miniature sandwiches on the small platter don’t help matters.  It’s like I’ve grown so large that everything that is normal size looks tiny.

Carefully I reach over and pick up a sandwich.  The man encourages me to take more.

“There are plenty where these came from, I assure you,” he says, like the two of us are good friends catching up on missed time.  “Eat as much as you’d like.”

No two sandwiches are alike.  Some crunch with vegetables, some are creamy with cheese or butter, and others yet are rich and savory.  But my appetite doesn’t last very long; I’m too distressed by whatever is happening to me right now to really care about eating, and the sandwiches start to become flat and sandy the more agitated I become.

At long last, the man finishes up, dabs his mouth with a small napkin, and gives a small, satisfied belch.

“Let’s get to work on your outfit,” he says as he stands up.  The avox rushes over and picks up the empty plates and the plate that still has many sandwiches on it.  I wonder if the leftovers will be set out at another meal or given to the avoxes, or if they will merely tip the entire plate right into the trash.

I follow the man as he leads me to an adjacent room, this one very different from the sterile rooms where I had been bathed and groomed.  Large tapestries hang from the ceiling of the octagonal room, some partially obscuring a myriad of mirrors.  Towards one side where there are mirrors that haven’t been covered stands a pedestal.  The man guides me over and has me step on this.  He gives me underclothes to swap out for the thin gown, and to my relief he leaves while I change.  I’m starting to get used to having people see me in various states of undress against my will; or, at least, I am growing used to the fact that it happens.  I am in no way becoming comfortable to this practice.

When the man returns, he’s holding fabric that’s draped over his arms.  I can’t see what it is, but all I can think is that at least I can finally wear some clothing.  Some of the tributes get dressed in next to nothing; if I had to be naked in front of all of Panem, I think I’d lose it.

“Tonight, you will be lightning,” the man says with a wide smile.  He lifts up the outfit to reveal two similar pieces of cloth.  One is the shirt and the other is the pants.  They’re made of the same dark blue material, and I see nothing that’s anywhere near lightning.  Perhaps I misunderstood him.  “Come, come, put it on.”

He titters to himself once I am in this strange ensemble. The fabric is much thicker than it looked, and it hugs my body like a wetsuit.  Once it’s on me, I see that it’s not one solid color but there’s a faint transition between a greyish purple and the midnight blue.  He bids me to put on dark blue boots, which I do.  Then he stands me up again and points me in the direction of the closest mirror.

I look . . . dumb.  Not as dumb as I could look.  But still dumb.

Yet this man appears so pleased with himself.  He mutters things as he wanders around me, fixing seams that have rotated out of place and straightening out folds.  Once he finds it acceptable, he steps back and nods.

I’m glad he’s happy with it because I really don’t get it.

Chapter Text

In school they tried to explain what the point of the tribute parade was, but I never really understood it.   I still don’t understand it even though I’m living it right now.  The man directs me through a large room with twelve chariots.  Other tributes have already assembled in their wild wardrobes, but most of them keep to themselves as they head to their own chariots.

Ilana already stands beside the District 5 chariot, looking around anxiously.  When she sees me, she perks up and waits for me to walk over to her.  Her stylist has put her in a deep blue gown that’s not unlike the outfit I’m wearing.  Except the dress is lighter, sleeker, and . . . actually looks damn nice on her.  Glittering sequins adorn the bodice of the dress, but they’re subtle and not gaudy.  Her makeup is outlandish, but at least they got the dress right.

“You look nice,” I say to her.

She blushes.  “You . . .” she falters, unable to repay the compliment.

“At least when I’m dead, I won’t care about humiliation,” I say so she doesn’t have to struggle to find something nice to say about me.

The warm glow from her cheeks vanishes.  “Don’t say that, Elijah.”

I shrug.  Whatever.

Then the man, the stylist, catches up to me.  He starts fussing with the back of my outfit.  Moments later my outfit lights up.  I see now that the greyish-purple patches are clouds and now there are little bolts of lightning that zip around.  The thick material allows miniature lights to go unseen until turned on.  It’s clever, I’ll give it that.  But certainly not something I ever want to wear again.

“Lightning,” the man points out, as though I haven’t figured that out for myself.

“Praise Zeus,” I reply half-heartedly.

He beams at me, then instructs me to take my place in the chariot.  I climb up first, then turn around and extend a hand to Ilana.  She takes it and I hoist her up by my side.

Our outfits kind of match.  They’re close enough in color.  But if I’m supposed to be a thundercloud, I’m not certain what she is supposed to be.  It doesn’t matter.  She doesn’t need to have any fancy costume or zipping lights to catch people’s attention; I’m sure all eyes will be on her regardless.  They will turn to me initially for the little bolts of lightning that race across my clothes, but they’ll stay because of Ilana.

It’s only now that we’re settled into the chariot that my eyes drift away from my district partner and towards the other tributes who clamber up into their own chariots.  The District 4 pair ahead of us are dressed like a mermaid and merman, with a great fishing net draped across their chariot to really drive in the imagery.  Behind us, the District 6 tributes shift uneasily in their train conductor outfits.  At least that’s what I think they’re supposed to be with form-fitting striped overalls.

I don’t care enough to try to look at other people’s outfits.  They’re either better than mine or worse, and I can’t do anything about either.  The coordinators for this event call out for us to get ready to go.  Then, moments later, the District 1 chariot lurches forward and heads out through massive doors that slowly open before them.  The other chariots begin moving, and head closer and closer to the light on the other side of the door.

The District 5 chariot rolls forward, and suddenly we are thrust outdoors.  It’s evening, the sun dips down towards the western horizon, and the world around us should be glowing with its dying rays.  The bright lights from overhead block out most of the sky, and there’s little we can see beyond the masses of people on either side, screaming and shouting for our attention.

This is my first look at the Capitol citizens, and I am not impressed.

Of course I’ve seen what they’ve looked like on television; I’m not completely oblivious to who and what they are.  These are the people who will be placing money in the Hunger Games, either for or against me.  They’ll be buying commodities that just might keep us alive.  But now that I’m here and they’re pressing in on all sides, their screams and hollers bursting forth from their lungs, it’s fantastically . . . ridiculous.  Our lives belong in the hands of these imbeciles wearing bright, loud wardrobes like demented clowns.  Look at them—they spend so much time focusing on how to out-do their neighbors that the practicality of their clothes don’t matter.

And do they ever stop to think about what they’re cheering for—really think about it?  I know that your average Capitol citizen doesn’t care a shit about our deaths, but to actively call for it is another thing entirely.  Do they realize that’s what they’re doing?  That they are not purely supporting a hundred-and-some-year-old institution of punishment but they’re really cheering for kids that they will later condemn to death?

Here we are about to be committed to the grave by a bunch of literal clowns.

How fucked up is that?

The chariot slows to a stop in the City Circle, and we wait a few moments for the remaining chariots behind us to catch up.  Then the president’s voice booms over the loudspeaker, welcoming us to the Capitol.  He praises us tributes for our participation in the Hunger Games.  Using old wordage that originates with the creation of the Hunger Games shortly after the rebellion, he boasts about the great purpose for which we will give our lives.  Because we are not here voluntarily (most of us at least) and being killed for entertainment is far from honorable, his speech sounds incredibly contrived.  It is, thankfully, short.

The anthem plays, and as it finishes up the final bars, the chariots begin to move.  This time they take us towards the training center where we will be housed until we are fit to be killed.

Wilton introduces us to the District 5 floor of the training center, inviting us to “make ourselves at home” and “enjoy the luxuries of the Capitol.”  His brief tour shows us the sitting room, a spacious architectural disaster that houses weird, clunky furniture; the dining room; our bedrooms; and a few other rooms “that we’ll get to later.”  He makes sure that we note the “open concept floorplan” that our apartment has so that we will never feel cut off from the rest of the residents.  When we are dismissed, I head right to my room to shower and change.

This shower, fortunately, proves to be far less complicated.  Our trains must’ve been outdated because these showers are unlike anything I’d ever expected.  My shower has various nozzles at different heights; buttons for different pressures; dozens of shampoos, conditioners, and body washes; and a heaping stack of towels sitting in a chair right outside the glass door.  A mirror in the shower allows me to see when I’ve removed all of the makeup on my face, and it’s only then that I turn off the water, grab a towel, and head back to the bedroom to see what outfits they’ve decided I should wear.

When I emerge from my bedroom, the escort and mentors already sit at the table in conversation.  Crystal dishes and polished silverware await the arrival of food.  Whoever arranged the place settings (avoxes no doubt) did so with great attention to detail.  Not a single utensil or plate is askew.

Ilana has not yet arrived.

I sit down in one of the empty chairs.  Each place setting has multiple plates and a bowl, three forks, and two glasses.  I’m sure there is some proper manner in order to use it all, but I don’t know where to begin.  My little sister, Joule, loved to have tea parties when she was a kid, though it was difficult rounding up three older brothers to play with her.  Mom and Dad used to bribe us to sit at the child-size table with her as she took out her porcelain tea set (her prized possession) and treat us all to a “tea” featuring tap water and store-bought cookies.  I don’t know why I’m reminded of that right now.  Maybe it’s because Joule used to set the table with such great care, ensuring that not a single item was out of place.  She expected us to know all the etiquette rules, but would patiently instruct us if we got it wrong.

“Where is that girl?” Wilton asks no one in particular.  He pushes his chair back and heads down the hallway.  Then there comes a sharp rap at a bedroom door.  I can’t hear if Ilana answers because Solar and Benjamin are talking again.

“. . . At least Demeter finally has someone new to work with,” Benjamin is saying.

“Yeah, because I’d like to be stuck with that kid,” Solar snorts.  “He’s so clueless.”

“It’s his first year,” Benjamin says.  “You remember that one day long ago, you, too, were—”

“Give me a break,” Solar interrupts.  “I was never that stupid.”

They’re talking about the new victor, I realize.  The kid who won last year.  Basil Gonzalez from District 11.  No one expected him to win at first, but then he became a bit of an underdog favorite.  He received mixed reviews from the Capitol, I remember hearing.  Some people loved him while others wanted one of their favorite Careers to win.

“Do I need to remind you what you were like when you were a young victor?” Benjamin says.

I’d like to know, but neither of them will tell me just because I ask, I’m sure, so I keep quiet and stare at the clear plates and bowl at my place setting.  Of course, Solar insists that she was pretty much perfect when she was new, which gets a chuckle out of the old man.

“She says she’s not hungry,” Wilton announces as he returns to the dining room.  His tall frame looks at-ease in this high-ceiling apartment, not cramped like he was on the train.

Benjamin grumbles.  “She needs to eat.”  He starts to stand up.

But I get to my feet and head out of the room before he has a chance.

I knock on her door.  “Ilana?  It’s me, Elijah.”

At first there is no response, but then the door unlocks and inches open.  Through that small opening I see Ilana, showered and freshened up, staring back at me through red-rimmed eyes.  She sniffles and pushes a strand of wet hair behind her ear.

“Can I come in?” I ask.

She shuffles backward and opens the door a little wider in response.

Her room is identical to mine.  Same king-sized bed with fluffy comforter pulled tight over the top, same wardrobe likely filled with clothing she’ll never wear, same door leading to the bathroom.  Like my room, this place is a testament to the fact that each tribute is completely expendable.  No personalization or warmth decorate the walls or dresser.  She has the same reading lamp on the nightstand, the same furniture, the same television.  It reminds me of the time I went to a hotel for my school team, though even that had more character than the bland rooms we have here.

Ilana closes the door behind me.

I am not certain what I wanted to say.  She waits for me to give an explanation as to why I’m here and not out eating dinner with the others.  I don’t know how to put it in words.

“Benjamin’s right.  You need to eat,” I say quietly.

She turns here watery eyes up towards me and studies my face.  She searches through my eyes, across my cheeks—she reads my expression carefully.

“I’d rather die here than out there,” she whispers.

I draw in a deep breath.  “They won’t let you die here,” I respond.  “Besides . . . you don’t want to be weak in the arena.  Then you’ll have no chance.”

She sniffles again, her eyes turning towards the carpet that separates us.  “Eli . . . I . . .”

Her shoulders slump, and she is unable to finish her thought.

I survey her room once again.  Bed, nightstand, wardrobe, bathroom.  Her dress from tonight lay crumpled on the floor of her bathroom, the soft fabric strewn on the tiles.  Little sequins glitter in the bathroom light.

“You looked pretty tonight,” I turn my attention back to her.

She closes her eyes.  “Eli, stop.”

“What?” I ask, confused.

“Stop trying to be nice to me,” she replies.

“I’m not trying anything,” I counter.  “I mean it.  You looked really good in your dress.  Better than—”

I stop abruptly when tears start rolling down her cheeks.  She draws in a shaky breath, eyes closed hard.  Her eyelashes flutter for a moment, and then she turns back to me.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Sorry for what?”

She opens her mouth, but it takes a few moments for the words to come out.  “It’s just that . . . you have a chance, you know?  I don’t.  I’ve never touched a weapon in my life, aside from a steak knife at formal occasions.  I can’t remember the last time I ran more than what was required in PE class.  I’m just . . . you know. . . . I am going to die.”

“You think I have a chance?” I ask.  “I have no chance in hell.  You, on the other hand, will be able to get sponsors, at least.”

“What good will that do if I’m killed in the bloodbath?”

“You won’t be,” I say with more insistence than I actually feel.  Solar told me that I’d be able to survive the bloodbath if I weren’t being dumb.  Surely I could survive the bloodbath and take Ilana with me.  “Stay with me.  We’ll figure this out.”

A brief glimpse of hope dashes through her eyes before being extinguished by a hard truth: “And then kill each other?” she asks.

I shake my head.  “No, it won’t come to that,” I say.  “Someone else will probably kill us, but at least we’ll have a chance.”

She raises an eyebrow at me, her mouth crooks into what might be a hint of a smile.  “Eli, that’s the most terrible proposition.  Never become a salesman.”

“Fortunately, if I were to become an electrical engineer, I wouldn’t need that skill,” I say.  “And if I’m dead, I still won’t need it.”

She smiles ever-so-slightly, but it’s a smile nonetheless.  For the briefest of moments, she takes my hand and squeezes it before releasing it again.

The smile is short-lived.  “I’m dreading tomorrow.  Did you see those other tributes?  They’d kill us right then and there if they could.”  She hugs her arms to her chest.

“It’s all just show,” I tell her, hoping I’m right.  The Careers could easily rip us in two.  And even some of the other tributes look pretty tough.  “They don’t have any reason to bother us.  Now, um, Benjamin is still right—you need to eat.”

Ilana nods.  “Yes, of course.”  She pauses to wipe her cheeks on the hem of her shirt before reaching for the doorknob.

“Do you want to clean up?” I suggest.

“They know I’ve been crying, so it’s not like I’m going to make them think differently about me,” she replies.  Then without another moment’s hesitation, she opens the door and steps out into the hallway.

All heads turn as we enter into the dining area.  Nobody had started eating yet; they had been waiting for us.  As we sit down into the seats and ignore the stares they give us, the avoxes come out and begin spooning heaping portions of food on our plates.  The main course is rice with a thick stew over the top.  In addition we’re given sautéed vegetables, a side salad, and as many rolls as we could possibly want.  The clinking of silverware accompanies us as we eat our dinner, and I fall into a lull, letting my mind wander away.

Back home in District 5, everyone would have just watched the tribute parade and if it didn’t make their stomachs churn, they might even be sitting down to dinner, too.  How was my family dealing with this?  I had successfully not thought about them much since I was reaped, but the stab of homesickness in my gut was swift and sudden.  Did they still eat in the dining room, or was my empty chair too much of a reminder of what would happen to me?  Had someone else helped George with his math homework, or had they all abandoned it because it was too much for them?  I wonder if Mom and Dad are trying to pretend things are normal or if they have given up all thoughts of normalcy.

“Tomorrow is your first day of training,” Benjamin says suddenly.  I jerk out of my daydreams and look up at the man.  His plate is nearly finished, and I wonder if he just can’t talk until he’s gotten some food into him, like his brain can’t function while his stomach is hungry.  “You will be trying different stations, meeting other tributes, potentially creating alliances.”

“What sort of stations?” I ask between bites of stew.

“Weaponry, survival,” Benjamin answers.  “You’ll get to try your hand at archery, knives, swords, all those sorts of things.  And then you can learn things like fire-building, knot-tying, camouflage.  Three days you’ll get to work in training, so try a variety of things.”

“We’re supposed to learn skills in three days?” I’m skeptical.  Those sound like the sorts of things that take years and years before you’re even somewhat decent, except for maybe some of the more basic survival stuff.

“It’s so the Hunger Games don’t get too boring,” Solar says.  “It gives you a chance to not be completely worthless, and it also gives people an opportunity to size up their competition.  That stuff adds drama, and if there’s one thing the Capitol loves, it’s drama.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Wilton pipes up.  “There are a great many other things we love, too.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Solar continues.  “There’s no real point to you guys for the training.  But still try to learn some stuff.”

I think I can understand why Solar has never brought any tributes to victory.  She’s incredibly dismissive of everything that’s going on, she doesn’t care about other people, and she really wants to be left alone. She honestly doesn’t care whether her tributes live or die.  Or, worse, she thinks that we are as much of a toy to her as we are to the Capitol.

“Thanks for the sagely advice,” I say.

She sneers at me.

“You’re never going to get any alliances with the sort of attitude,” she tells me.

“Let me go cry myself to sleep over that,” I say dryly.

Ilana clears her throat.  “Elijah and I are going to be in an alliance.”

Solar’s eyebrow crooks up as she looks from one of us to the other.  I can’t read her expression.  But then she laughs sharply.  “Figures.”

“What’s wrong with that?” I ask, setting down my fork and staring across the table at her.  “Aren’t you the one who decided she should be my girlfriend’s sister?  What did your master plan with that entail if it wasn’t about creating an alliance?”

“I meant that—” she looks sideways at Ilana, then straightens herself up.  “Why don’t you just finish your dinner and have a good night’s sleep for tomorrow.”

The rest of the meal is completed in silence.  Wilton makes a few attempts during dessert to converse, but no one takes the bait.  Instead we all finish our food and disappear to our respective rooms.

I lay on my bed and stare up at the ceiling.  What is Lucinda thinking now?  I hope she isn’t too distressed at the situation.  I mean, she should be upset, but I don’t want her to waste too much time on me now.  After all, when all is said and done, she has to go on living life without me.  It won’t matter to me that I won’t be with her; I’ll be dead so I won’t know the difference.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Ilana and I dress in the assigned outfits, eat breakfast, and follow Wilton down to the training room.  He leaves us as soon as we arrive, wishing us well.  The head trainer, a woman who introduces herself as Diamond, tells us that we’ll wait another few minutes for the rest of the tributes.  Ilana and I stand off to the side to try to stay out of the way as more tributes amble in.  And, of course, to try to avoid the eager eyes of the Careers.

When the final two tributes arrive, Diamond bids us to gather around her.  We form a semi-circle, all wanting to hear what she says but most not willing to get too close to the other tributes.  Ilana and I remain together.  Few other district partners do the same, I notice; they seem to be trying to stay away from each other.  Any sort of familiarity makes it harder to kill.

“Good morning, everyone,” Diamond projects her voice clearly, but not threateningly.  There are some tributes here who may collapse in fright if she were any louder than she is.  She smiles kindly at us as though trying to put us at ease.  “Today is your first day of training.  Let’s go over some ground rules.”

These rules are pretty straightforward and can be summed up as: Don’t kill each other until you’re in the arena.

When she dismisses us, everyone begins to disperse.  A couple of the Careers beeline for their favorite weapons, hollering and whooping with excitement.  I know it’s just to intimidate us but I still cringe as the sound echoes through the training room.  But the room is big enough with a variety of stations, so we don’t have to worry about following too closely to the Careers as long as we stay away from the weaponry sections.

Each station is clearly labeled just in case the tables filled with supplies and racks of weaponry weren’t clear enough.  There is no way we could work at every single station within the three days, not without rushing through everything and learning nothing.

“Maybe we should split up—cover more ground,” I suggest to Ilana, keeping my voice low.  Although I’m sure it’s pretty obvious, I don’t want to announce to everyone just how much I don’t know.

Ilana shakes her head frantically and looks up at me with desperation.  “Let’s just stick together, okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”  We head for the nearest unoccupied station, edible plants.

The trainer at the station greets us warmly and introduces himself, though my attention is occupied by the various items he has spread out on the table and I really don’t care about his name.  Leaves, roots, berries—some of them are wildly different from each other but some are so similar that I wonder if they’re the same plant.  The man begins to go over each thing with us, starting with the most basic and then getting slightly more challenging.  It’s all I can do to keep my eyes from glazing over.  But once we seem a little overwhelmed, the trainer pauses, lets us hold various plants, and then quizzes us about what he’s taught us.  It’s like school, except a little more hands-on.  And, of course, failing means death.

Ilana takes very well to the plants.  She snatches up the information with an unstoppable appetite.  Meanwhile, I’m wondering if I’ll be able to ever learn one plant from another—aside from the ones I already know about—and if the other stations are this overwhelming.  The hours go by, and a few tributes try to join in, but neither Ilana nor I are in the mood to share.  At last the trainer says that he has to take his break and that someone else will be back shortly to continue.

“I hope you got that all because otherwise we’re dead,” I say.

She smiles at me.  “You weren’t paying attention.”

“Of course I was.  It’s just that I can’t tell you which one of those cacti we are allowed to eat and which ones we aren’t because they all look the same.”

We meander towards the next station.  I choose fire building because this at least looks like something that I can do since I have some experience with it.  We hang back for a couple minutes until the tribute currently using it finishes up.  If we were being more social, I’d admit that there was plenty of room for several tributes here, but honestly, I’m not.

“Do you think we should see if anyone else wants to be allies?” I whisper to Ilana after we’ve been at the station for an hour or so.  The trainer has long since left us to our own devices after showing us a few basics.

She hesitates, patting the sticks into place for our fire.

“Is there anyone you’re thinking about?” she asks as she twists one stick so that it better supports the ones next to it.

I shrug.  “Not really.  Just didn’t know.  Maybe we should keep an eye out on the others.”

Ilana looks away from her work to scan the training room.  She sighs.  “I don’t think I can kill any of them, especially if I know who they are on a personal level,” she admits.  “But if there is anyone you think might be helpful. . . .”

I watch a couple of smaller tributes wobble on a balance beam.  They both have helmets and the floor below them is lined with padding.  But neither of them are surefooted, and they both have large plastic swords in their hands as though they expect to be able to fight up there.  I think that if either of them even tries to lift a weapon, they’ll tumble right off.  They don’t even get it that far before one lets out a yelp and tips over towards the ground.

“It almost looks like fun,” Ilana says, when she sees what I’m watching.  “I’d love to try out a lot of these stations if there weren’t other tributes.  I just don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

The kid that fell stands up, dusts himself off, and climbs back onto the balance beam where he once again tries to keep his balance.

“Think you could do that?” I ask Ilana.

She shrugs.  “Maybe.  Could you?”

“Don’t know.  Never really tried that, least not since I was a kid and we’d find the largest sticks in the forest and smack each other with them while trying to balance on a log,” I say.

Ilana snorts.  “Right.”

We continue to watch the kid for a few more minutes—he manages to stay upright this time, but the sparring doesn’t last long before the other kid tumbles off—before Diamond blows a whistle to get our attention.

“Time for lunch!” she bellows out.

“Are we eating here or in the apartment?” Ilana asks me quietly.

I stand up and watch as Diamond waves tributes over towards a corner of the training room.  Several tables and benches have been set out for us to eat at.  A buffet of some sort occupies a separate table, and the first kids who reach there already begin to grab up empty plates and form a line.

“Looks like we’re eating here,” I respond.  I offer her my hand and then hoist her to her feet.

They don’t assign us a designated table which surprises me considering how much micromanaging happens in the Capitol when it comes to us tributes.  But as with the training stations, they have left us to our own devices.  Once we have our plates, Ilana and I find an empty end of a table and sit down opposite each other.

The spread for lunch is simple, but delicious: sandwiches, fruits and vegetables, nuts, and small chocolate cakes, among other things.  Whenever a plate starts to get low, avoxes whisk in a fresh plate filled with food.  And between the twenty-four of us, we manage to plow through quite a bit of food in the 30 minutes we’re given.  While we eat in silence, I take the time to observe the other tributes.

The Careers have taken over an entire table even though it could easily fit another six more tributes.  They talk easily between each other, and occasionally they yell or laugh or exclaim—enough to draw the attention of the other tributes.  Most of the other tributes eat on their own, though a couple have inched closer to each other as though they just might consider forming an alliance but haven’t made that step yet.  Some tributes scout about the tables like I am currently doing, and on occasion we make accidental eye contact that we immediately drop, like there’s a mutual understanding that we shouldn’t interact with each other.

After I eat, I excuse myself to use the restroom.  When I return, Ilana has vanished.  At first I think that she’s at one of the stations getting an early start like a couple of the tributes who have migrated away from the tables.  But then I see that the Careers have gathered around someone.  I feel sick and I immediately regret eating so much.  My stomach churns as I walk over.  I force myself to remain calm.  Last thing I want is to start something with these assholes.

They stand around Ilana, not really encircling her, but also making it clear that she’s trapped.  A few of the tributes who had been sitting elsewhere at the table we shared edge away, trying to remain casual as they make their escape.  Ilana’s wide eyes stare at the floor, unable to look at the Careers surrounding her.  The guys are bigger than she is, but two of the girls are her size or smaller.  It doesn’t matter at this point.  There are enough of them that it’s clear that they’ve intimidated her.

“C’mon,” I say, stepping over to Ilana’s side and nudging her arm.  She doesn’t hesitate and together we walk away from the Careers.

“What was that about?” I ask once we are far enough away.

“I’m not sure,” she admits quietly.  Her eyes are still on the floor and her footsteps are quick, forcing me to walk faster than normal just so I don’t get left behind.  “They just came over and asked me how my lunch went.  I tried to excuse myself, but they weren’t going to let me go.  It’s not like they were really saying anything.  They were being weirdly polite, like they were mocking me.”

They’re trying to freak her out, I realize.  It’s more than just showing off and trying to make sure everyone knows how tough they are.  They honed in on her because I wasn’t there, and then they wanted to see how far they could push her before she lost it.  Anger flares up within me, and I have to silently tell myself to cool it.

But it’s on my mind for the rest of the day even as we move from station to station.  Ilana doesn’t speak much as she pours herself into each stop: shelter, knots and snares, fishing.  It’s easier for me to block it all out from my mind when I can do something with my hands and it’s not just committing a bunch of plants I’ve never seen in my life to memory.  I’d like to think that I’m learning things, but I’m not dumb enough to think that I’ll be able to utilize any of these skills in the arena.  I wish it were so, but wishes mean nothing.

Chapter Text

Training ends and I am relieved to leave the training room behind.  Ilana and I escort ourselves upstairs (we aren’t certain if Wilton is supposed to take us back or not) and then I head off for my shower.  Although today didn’t impart a great physical toll on me, I’d like to wash the thoughts and frustration out of me with as much hot water as I can stand.

When I’m done, I expect that it’s dinner time, but Solar catches me as soon as I leave my room.

“Mentoring,” she says, pointing towards a door down the hallway that Wilton had previously classified as “we’ll get to that later.”  I try not to think of food as I walk towards the room.  Solar walks a few paces behind me as though she needs to ensure I don’t go astray from my path.

The mentoring room is small, but not so small that it would be uncomfortable.  There are several little couches here, all angled in a way so that no matter which one you choose, you will always be able to talk easily with someone on another couch.  A thick rug covers the hardwood floors.  A soda fountain sits on the wall next to a curious box with a handle that looks almost like a microwave.

Solar motions me to a couch and I sit down.  She lowers herself into another couch.

“So,” she says.  That’s it.  Just ‘so.’

“One day down, two to go,” I answer.  Now that I’m out of the shower, I’m exhausted.  My body aches, my brain is weary, and my eyes just want to close in a nice, long sleep.  I don’t know what I did to warrant this sort of weariness, but I can’t deny that I’m fatigued.

Solar stares through me at the couch in that way she has.  Despite that, I know she is really focusing on me, trying to figure out what’s going on with me right now.  She doesn’t want to ask about my time in training because she hates the personal details and only wants whatever facts she desires.  Asking would open up a whole territory that she probably isn’t willing to explore.  I don’t give her the satisfaction of offering new information.

“What stations did you go to?” she finally asks.  I tell her.  She frowns.  “No weaponry?”

“We thought the survival skills would be most beneficial at this time,” I explain to her.  I leave off the part about not wanting to overwhelm Ilana.  That wasn’t why I hadn’t gone to the weapon stations (what I said was the truth) but whenever the thought of trying a weapon entered my mind, I immediately dismissed it because I was afraid that Ilana wouldn’t be able to handle it.

“Tomorrow you need to try out some weapons,” she instructs me.  “I don’t care what you try, but you can’t just sit around with the little kids who don’t know how to tie their own shoes and certainly can’t pick up a weapon.”

I stare at her.  “Yeah?  So that everyone can see how much I suck at weapons?  I’d rather they assume there’s a possibility I might know something.”

“That might work only if you could pull off a halfway decent training score,” Solar points out.  “But if you only manage a 3 or 4, then they’re going to know that you’re shit anyhow.  They probably still won’t go after you in the Bloodbath because you’re bigger than many of the other tributes.  Normally it’s the little useless kids that get offed right then and there.  Or the ones who try to grab too many items.”

I wince at her offhanded remark about the value of the other tributes.  That’s a chilling cut right there.

She continues, “I know you like your alliance, but I wouldn’t anticipate your district partner making it away from the Cornucopia.”

I turn to her, completely dumbfounded by what I just heard.  I want to believe that I misheard her, but the words echo in my head.  The comment she had made about kids dying in the bloodbath was callous enough, but to lump Ilana in with them. . . .  Ilana is far from “useless.”  Anger spikes through me, and I jump to my feet.  I am honestly considering punching her when she just starts laughing.

“Look at you, so easy to get riled up!” she jeers.  “Sit back down.”

My heart thumps in my chest and my fists clench at my side.  I force myself to take a deep breath, but I can’t make myself sit down.  Instead I step away and put as much distance between myself and the mentor as I can without leaving the room.  What once seemed like a comfortably-sized space is far too small.  The walls squeeze tightly around me.

“What’s your relationship to her again?” Solar asks.  She tilts her head and watches me pace back and forth.  I cover the small room within a few strides easily, turn around, and repeat.  My breathing is labored, and I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay here with this damned woman.

“Maybe it’s not about how close I am to her but that you’re so callously tossing kids out the window,” I snap, not even turning to face her as I pace.  “It doesn’t matter if she’s my best friend or a complete stranger—you are demented.  And just as cruel as the people you pretend you despise.”

Solar stands up now and saunters over to me.  I stop pacing as she blocks my path.  As on the first day on the train, she wears the excessively glittery makeup and the partially-dyed hair that marks her as some pseudo-Capitol hybrid, though she now has elongated eyelashes and shining lipstick.  And sharp painted nails, I note as her hand goes to my throat.  She sets the tips of her fingers lightly against my trachea.  She won’t try anything, but this is a warning.

“I am not one of them,” she whispers to me.  Her eyes stare into the wall behind me, but now it feels as though they’re leaving a gaping hole through my body as they blast through me.  “Don’t you ever liken me to them again.”

“Or what?  You’re going to kill me?”

She turns her dead eyes onto my face now.  “How would you like to never receive a sponsorship in the arena?  When you’re dehydrated or when you’re dying because of an infected wound . . . remember this.”

She’s serious about this.  Her fingers leave my neck and trace along my jawline for a brief moment before she turns away from me and heads back to the couch.  She would really abandon me in the arena because I told her that she was as bad as a Capitol citizen.  And that is confirmation that it was, indeed, correct.  I am nothing more than her pet or toy.

“Now,” she says to me as though this interaction didn’t occur.  “Tomorrow you’re going to try out the swords at minimum.  Give the heavy blunts a swing, too.  Don’t actually go for one in the arena, but just test out the weight in case you end up having to use one.”

I know I should take her advice.  She might be mentally unhinged, but she did win the Hunger Games herself and has been around for years.  But what she said echoes through my mind, and concentrating on anything now has become extremely difficult.

“Elijah?” Solar says when I don’t respond.

Now I force myself to look over at her.  She sits comfortably on the couch, one arm stretched on the back rest and the other on the armrest.  Her lips twist into what might be misconstrued for a smile.

“What?”

“I’m serious about your district partner.  You have a chance.  She doesn’t,” Solar watches me as she speaks.  Is she trying to get me all messed up again for her own entertainment?  “I don’t care if you don’t want to believe me, but deep down you know it’s true.  You can’t rely on her.”

“I don’t rely on her, I—”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she says.  “She makes every decision for you, you know that, hmm?”

“That’s not true.  I wanted to be mentored together, but you overrode me,” I protest.

Solar laughs.  “Yeah, okay.  Sure.  I’ll pretend that’s what happened.”

I frowned.  Yeah, that was what happened.

“But doesn’t that just prove my point?” Solar asks.  “You didn’t even want to be mentored on your own.”

My body sinks down onto one of the couches and I stare at the floor.  What did it matter?

“You know what’s going to happen?” She leans closer to me as though she’s about to let me in on a great secret.  “You’re going to do everything she wants you to do, and then she’s going to pull it out from under you.  She’s using you.”

“No, that’s not Ilana,” I protest.  “She’s not like that.”

“Oh, dear sweet Elijah.”  Solar clicks her tongue.  “You’re so naïve.  This is the Hunger Games.  People are in life or death situations.  They will do anything—anything—to stay alive.  Your district partner is no different.”

I stare at the floor and take in the fibers of the carpet, absently skimming them with my eyes as I try to keep calm.  The anger and repulsion and everything else that sloshes through me must be held back because this beast of a woman has made it clear that she has the power to destroy me.  And anyway, what will getting angry do?  Make her laugh?

“You’re not above it, either,” she tells me in a low, almost mocking voice.  “What will you do when you’re put under pressure?  Slit her throat?  Strangle her?”

Angry tears brim in my eyes.  I try to blink them away only to have them stick in my lashes.  I don’t want her to see how much she’s upset me even though it’s too late.  Staring up at the ceiling, I try to pull myself back together.  I force myself to breathe evenly and to not think about what she’s saying because that’s just going to make me unravel.  It occurs to me that nothing binds me to this room; I am free to leave at any time.  Yet I know that if I leave, I’ll be running away.  There are some things I’ll run away from, but not this.  If Solar thinks she can tear me down, I won’t let her.

“What do you think, Elijah?” she asks.  “Do you think that you can separate yourself from her, or are you going to die because you can’t stand on your own?”

I draw in a deep breath to say something.  The words vanish out of my mouth before I can speak, and I falter.  Finally, I lean back against the couch, eyes still on the ceiling, and mutter, “No wonder you’ve never had any successful tributes.”

From this angle, I can’t see her expression but I don’t need to.  The room plunges into an ice bath.  I feel her eyes on me, and my breath is drawn out of my lungs.  Just when I think I can’t take it anymore, Solar stands up.

“That’s all for our session today.”

The door slams shut behind her, and I don’t leave until she is long gone.

Dinner time comes, but I order my food in my room.

Chapter Text

A knock on the door interrupts my dinner before I can even start eating.  From where I sit on the bed with a tray of food in front of me, it’s too much effort to physically answer the door, so I just say “Come in” and hope that I don’t regret it.

Ilana slips inside, a plate of food in her hand.  She shyly creeps towards my bed, and when I realize that she’s waiting to sit down, I move myself and my tray enough to make room for her.

“Hey,” I greet her gently.

She offers me a small smile as she settles in on the foot of my bed and makes herself comfortable.  “Why didn’t you come to dinner?”

“My mentor is a sociopath and I really needed a minute,” I respond heavily.

Ilana looks as beaten down as I feel.  After training, she showered and cleaned up like I did, but water alone doesn’t wash away the pain and turmoil of the Hunger Games.  Her brown hair, still damp from her shower, hangs limply around her shoulders.  She wears some throw-away outfit from the Capitol that flatters her, but I suppose neither of us are really in the mood to go on about appearances.

“Benjamin told me that I’m too weak and the Careers are going to kill me right away,” she sighs.  “How do you respond to that?”

It hurts to know that both Solar and Benjamin think that Ilana will not make it very far.  Though it pains me, I know it’s worse for her.  I decide to keep Solar and my conversation to myself, at least my mentor’s feelings on Ilana.  Knowing that Solar is a legitimate sociopath was easier when I thought she was making shit up, but now that it’s clear that Ilana’s prospects aren’t very good, it’s hard to swallow even a bite of the dinner before me.

“Did he give you any suggestions?” I ask.

“Yeah, but nothing that really comes naturally to me, so I don’t know how it’ll work,” she admits.  She picks absently at the roll on her plate with her fingers, tearing off tiny chunks of bread and flicking them into a pile next to it.  “Like if the Careers come after me again, he wants me to maintain eye contact and then walk away.  But today I, like . . . I just couldn’t move, I was so scared.”

“They’re just teenagers,” I offer.  “Like us.  Yeah, they’re more skilled at killing and everything, but ultimately they’re no better than we are.”

“I wish I could see it that way.  But all I can see is that one of them will likely end up killing me.”

I never thought much about it even though it’s the same for most of us tributes.  Sure, some of us would die from natural things like exposure or dehydration, and others would die at the hands of other tributes or muttations or events, but likely it would be the Careers that would take any one of us out.  The awareness of my inevitable demise never left the back of my mind, but I never spent much time thinking about which Career would ultimately take my life.  We have mere days left on this planet, and I won’t let those thoughts intrude in what little remains.

“Solar wants me to work on weaponry tomorrow,” I say.  “We’ll do that.  Ignore the Careers and try out some weapons.”

“Then they’ll really want to kill us,” Ilana says.

“That’s the point I made to Solar, but she wants me to give it a shot anyhow.”  I shrug.  “I guess it’s better that we get a feel for them than be completely inept.”

“Alright, Eli,” she says.  The furrow of her brow indicates that she isn’t really ‘alright’ with any of this, but that’s just what reality is right now.

I pick my fork back up.  “Is Benjamin alright?” I ask before I take a bite of chicken pot pie.  When the avox first delivered dinner, the food was so hot that I could barely taste the first couple bites, but now it’s cooled down to a reasonable temperature.  One thing I’ll say about the Capitol is that their foods continue to impress me.  That is, perhaps, the only nice thing I’ll ever be able to say about them.

“He’s . . . old.  Kinda seems indifferent towards me,” Ilana answers.  She watches me eat before she takes a bit of her own.  “I guess it makes sense.  How many years has he mentored kids only to have them die?  I’d be pretty indifferent, too.”

“I wouldn’t be,” I say.  “Solar doesn’t even care that I’m human.  It’s disgusting.”

“Is she hurting your feelings?” Ilana teases.

“Oh, shut up,” I say, though I don’t mean it.  This might be the first time that Ilana has had something of a sense of humor since we were reaped, and I don’t want to discourage it.  It means that the old Ilana is coming back, and I don’t want her to go away.

“I think that if you’re victor, you just watch all these kids die, and it kind of messes you up a bit,” Ilana says more seriously.  She chews a bite of food, swallows, and continues, “Can you imagine?  If Solar won the 114^th Hunger Games, that’s nineteen years ago. . . . Which would be thirty-eight kids she’s been around.  Of course she doesn’t want to get to know us.”

I don’t really care, if we’re going to be honest.  Ilana is far more accommodating than I am.  Solar might have seen a lot of us die over the years, but she doesn’t have to be cruel about it.  Perhaps if Ilana knew half of what Solar said, she’d change her tone.

“Alright,” I say after we have finished our meals.  “Tomorrow.  Weaponry.”

Ilana nods.  “Yes,” she says.  She stands up and picks up both her plate and my tray.  I am about to protest, but she adds, “Thanks, Eli.  Tomorrow, I swear I’ll try my best to be better.”

I lay awake at night staring up at my ceiling.  The activities of the day swirl around in my brain as I try to sort things out.  Our first day of training could have gone worse, so I guess I’ll accept that things weren’t too terrible.  I’ll hang onto this because it’s easier to focus on than to think about how everyone—from our mentors to the other tributes—thinks that Ilana is as good as dead.

Does it really matter if people think that you’ll be killed in the bloodbath?  It doesn’t matter if you’re offed the moment the gong sounds or in the finale because either way you’re dead and you’re not coming back.  But despite this, knowing that people cast Ilana aside so easily makes me ache inside.  They don’t even know her.  They can’t see how strong she is, and they never will if they aren’t willing to give her a chance.

Morning comes, and Ilana and I once more assemble in the training center.  When all tributes are present, we’re dismissed to go to whatever station we please.  I am about to go to the swords when Ilana grabs my arm.

“Let’s wait a second,” she whispers.  “Til the Careers get out some of their energy.”

The Careers are running and hollering towards their favorite stations, just like they did yesterday.  Ilana’s right; they need their space until they burn themselves out a bit or else who knows what they’ll do.  Already they see her as weak; it wouldn’t surprise me if they honed in on her first thing in the morning, all amped up and ready to fight.

“First aid,” I say, pointing towards the station.  There’s another tribute there, but it’s important enough that we need to suck it up and deal with it.

The trainer smiles at us when we approach and bids us to come and sit down next to the District 7 boy.  He was one of the kids who was trying out the balance beam yesterday.  A scrawny thing, he can’t be older than thirteen or fourteen.  But he smiles kindly when he sees us and makes sure that we have plenty of room.  Then the trainer begins, going over the basics of wound care and first aid.  He describes different types of wounds and how to handle them: lacerations, punctures, abrasions, burns, chemical exposures.  I’m wrapped up in everything he has to say that the time flies by.  Then he brings out dummies with fake wounds of all types in their gelatinous bodies and he walks us through step-by-step how to clean, medicate, and bandage the wounds.

The District 7 boy has a hard time with wrapping bandages without cutting off flow to the body part of concern.  After watching him struggle for a few minutes, I lean over and straighten out the bandage.

“Don’t fold the bandage—you’ll put too much pressure here and might cut off blood flow which isn’t what this is supposed to be doing,” I instruct him.  “And kind of do this: make a criss-cross so that it’s more stable and doesn’t slide off.”

He watches as I demonstrate on his dummy how to apply the wrap, then I unravel it and let him try.  He mimics what I did.  It’s not really good but at least it’s better.

We keep working until Ilana taps me on the shoulder.

“Let’s go,” she says.  I hand the kid the rest of my bandage material.

Ilana and I walk towards the swords station.  The Careers have abandoned it, and they’ve moved on to other things that will bring death upon their opponents, so for the time being, we’re safe.  A few other non-Career tributes work at weapon stations.  Some of them are actually surprisingly good.  I’d be impressed if it didn’t mean that I now have even less of a chance than I did before.

The trainer spends quite some time with us going over the various things that we need to know to hold the swords.  Then she outfits us each with a sword that we can hold and will be comfortable.  Giving us clear instructions not to spar each other, she releases us on a couple of dummies that had been whacked at many times.  I am surprised how quickly my arm tires.  I push through the fatigue and don’t give up until my hand is raw from gripping the weapon and my shoulder aches.  The trainer tells us that we did a good job.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I ask Ilana as we step away.  Both of us have a little more confidence now that we have stepped so far out of our comfort zone with some success.

She pauses and shifts her weight from foot to foot, scanning the different stations.  Then she turns to me.  “I want to split up—just for a few minutes,” she adds quickly.  “Just so people know that I can function without you.”

I nod.  “Alright.  Where are you going?”

She chews on her lip and gives the room another good look before she points towards the spears.  That seems a bit ambitious, but I’m not about to knock her down right now when she’s doing so well.

“I’ll be with the knives,” I say as I nod towards a nearby station.  Close, but not too close.

We part ways and I feel naked without her, but I push the discomfort aside and walk over towards the knife table.  My grandpa taught me how to whittle wood when I was a kid.  I can handle a knife decently well, but I really enjoy throwing them.  When I started chucking knives around, my dad spent time with me to make sure that I was throwing them at targets and not at furniture or family members (I have never once thrown a knife at one of my siblings, but sometimes people walk in the way).  He taught me how best to hold the knife and when to release it.  We only did it as a hobby, of course; never did we expect that it would turn into something that might save my life.

The trainer is showing a couple of tributes how to throw the knives and I watch for a second before turning and surveying the wide assortment of weaponry spread out on the table.  Intricate handles and shining blades capture my attention.  Many are too heavy to throw efficiently, and others are so light I wonder if they would even be able to stick in their targets.  Carefully I pick up a dainty little silver knife with the tiniest of handles.  It’s light and made for someone with the power to throw and make it hurt.

The District 8 boy stands beside me.  He picks up knives in his hands, turns them over, and then places them back down.  He finds one that suits him and holds it firmly in his clenched fist.  With the trainer distracted, there is no one to tell the kid that he’s doing it all wrong.

“You’re holding it too far down,” I step in.  The guy glances nervously at me, but wiggles his hand into place on the knife’s handle.  “You’ll get more leverage and you won’t be as likely to cut yourself.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles.  He moves the blade about for a second before putting it back down.  “Can’t believe that I’ll have to kill someone with this.”

He picks up another knife and holds it like I had instructed.

I could give him more pointers, but that’s not my job.  And, really, it’s hard to balance wanting to help people with knowing that the help you give them will be used against you.

The instructor becomes available again and begins to work with the District 8 male.  There’s plenty of room for me if I wanted to join them, but something tells me that it would be best to leave them alone.  Throwing knives might be my only strength in the arena and I don’t want to give it all away.  Isn’t that what Solar said?  Play the game, make people see what you want them to see, and hide what you want to hide?

I scan the room as I step away from the knife station.  Ilana has moved on and is working with ranged weaponry.  I make my way over, not in a big rush.  She’s right that we don’t want to look like we’re too clingy with each other, though I can’t help but recall Solar telling me that I rely too much on her, and the thought of our conversation yesterday brings a bitter taste to my mouth.  I distract myself by surveying my surroundings.  There are other stations I could stop at: shelter, navigation, hand-to-hand combat.  As I’m contemplating what to do next that will be relatively close to Ilana, shouts erupt from a few stations over.

“…What do you think you’re doing, you little bitch?!” comes the booming voice of the District 2 male.  He draws himself to his full height and stares down threateningly at the District 9 girl, who might be sixteen or seventeen but is small for her age.  “You think you can just join us at this station, huh?”

Two of the other Careers laugh as the girl trembles before them.

“No, I—” the girl sputters.  But the Careers don’t care.  They’re only in the mood for intimidating.  They can’t kill her yet, but they can sure make her dread the last few days she’s alive knowing that they will hunt her down and murder her in the arena.

The trainers stand back and watch.  Nobody has resorted to violence yet, and isn’t interacting with your fellow tributes what our time in the training room is really about?

“You’re going to be the first to die, you little shit,” the District 2 male continues.  “You think you can mess with us, I’ll show you—”

Without thinking, I grab the nearest object I can find—a rock from one of the survival stations—and chuck it as hard as I can in the District 2 male’s direction.  It misses his head by a foot (it was never supposed to hit him) and crashes into a stand of weaponry behind him with a great clatter.  All sound in the room vanishes as everyone turns in my direction.

The District 2 male directs his rage towards me, but since we are so far apart, he remains where he is.  His face contorts in anger, and his eyes seethe.  In his mind, he is killing me a dozen times over.  I stand my ground and don’t allow myself to flinch.  His district partner walks over towards them, an amused smile on her lips as she watches me.  She puts a hand on his arm and says something to him which makes a couple of the other Careers laugh.  The District 2 male just smolders there for a moment before his district partner leads him away.

The District 9 girl, on the other hand, has vanished.

Ilana appears before me.  “What was that about?” she asks.

I shake my head.  I don’t know.  I don’t know why I couldn’t have left well enough alone.  It wasn’t like he was really going to hurt the District 9 female because he can’t until the Hunger Games actually begin, so I really should have left things as they were.  Because now the District 2 male has forgotten all about the other tribute and has his sights set on me.

Chapter Text

“Heard you had some fun in the training center today,” Solar says to me when we sit down for our evening mentoring.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to know what goes on in training,” I say.  I’m not really surprised that she caught wind of what happened, but it’s disappointing that things spread so quickly.  From the perspective of a district resident, what happens in the training center is always kept quiet.  Speculation brings forth the occasional rumor, but otherwise we must guess based solely on the training score.

“I had hopes that you could potentially make it to the final five,” Solar ignores me.  “But you continually stun me with your never-ending stupidity.”

This conversation is going downhill fast.  I shift uneasily on my couch.  What I did was stupid.  I know I should have left well enough alone.  Nothing I could possibly say right now would be sufficient enough to justify my actions.  But every time I think about the way those damned Careers treated that girl, I get angry all over again.  The anger inevitably turns towards myself because I know that I cannot possibly stick up for every single person because a huge component of the Hunger Games hinges on self-preservation.  And then I get angrier because I know that I’ll probably end up screwing someone else over to save myself when the time comes to it, which just seems like plain cowardice to me.

“Yesterday when we talked, what did I advise you to do?” she asks.  Her eyes graze over me, burning across my face.

“Work on weaponry,” I answer quietly.

“Work on weaponry,” she repeats.  “And what part of ‘work on weaponry’ translates to trying to kill a Career tribute?”

“Listen, I know I was stupid but I just—”

“Yes, you were stupid.  Beyond stupid, in fact,” she says.  “And there’s no excuse for it, so don’t bother.”

Right.  Of course.  No need to let even a drop of humanity show in this damned place.  I sit back and stare at the floor.  No matter what I do, I will never be able to satisfy her at this point.  Clenching my jaw, I brace myself for whatever lecture she’s going to give me knowing that whatever it is, I’ll just have to sit here and bear it.

But she doesn’t lecture me.  Instead she just stares right through me with faraway look of disappointment.  Minutes tick by.  I contemplate leaving because we’re not accomplishing anything here, but the thought of moving my leaden body overwhelms me.  Everything about me weighs me down.  I’m so weary of the Hunger Games and all they entail—and I haven’t actually made it to the arena yet.

Since we’re clearly wasting time here that I could be spending on more productive things (such as eating), I decide to get something cleared up.

“Why did you want Ilana to be my girlfriend’s sister if you didn’t want me to be her ally?” I ask with genuine curiosity.  My mentor’s methods elude me which makes it difficult to trust her.

“Who says I don’t want you to ally with her?” Solar asks innocently.  Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s a terrible person that makes trusting her challenging.

“It sure as hell didn’t seem to be part of your plan when Ilana mentioned that we were allying together,” I reply.

Solar merely stares at me as though it’s answer enough.  I stare right back.

Finally she gives in.  “It’s not meant to be an actual alliance,” she says.  “If she dies in the bloodbath, then I can possibly get you more sponsorships if people empathize with your situation.”

How cold.  I struggle to breathe.

She continues, and I almost can’t hear her over my own labored breaths: “Now, however, you’ve messed that up.  Because if you two manage to get out of the bloodbath alive—and that’s a massive ‘if’ now that you’ve ticked off the District 2 tribute—I’ll have to figure out something else entirely.”

I try to tell myself that she’s helping me and this I just a means to an end.  It doesn’t work.  Ilana is more than just an expendable tool in the arena to get me a few steps closer to victory.

“You’re so attached to her, it’s pathetic,” Solar comments upon seeing my reaction.

Her words jab me.  There’s nothing pathetic about this, even if I really were attached.  Ilana is my friend, and to have someone discard her like this hurts more than I can bear.  Solar won’t see people as actual living human beings, so she doesn’t understand—doesn’t care to understand—the cruelty behind her comments.

I rub my tired eyes and stare up at the ceiling.  “If being concerned about the wellbeing of another human being is pathetic, then sure.”

“Who is she to you, exactly?” she asks, even though she’s well aware of the answer.

“My girlfriend’s sister’s friend,” I reply tersely.

“Okay, no, you’re not getting this.  Let me see if I can rephrase.  Why are you so attached to her when you know that for you to have a chance to win, she’s going to need to die?”

“Do you get off to this?” I snap.  “I mean, really?”

“You are so easy to get riled up.”  Solar’s lips twist into a smile. “That’s really going to be your downfall.  Doesn’t take much to bait you, does it?”

“Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you’re supposed to be mentoring me, but you think it’s more enjoyable to dangle my district partner’s death in front of me.”  I stop before I go any further and say something that will push her over the edge.

She grins at me.  “Who says I’m not mentoring you?” she asks.  “Everyone has a different technique.”

“That’s one helluva way to get someone to listen to you.”

She leans in closer.  “You’re too soft, Elijah.  Might work for you out there in the real world, but here in the arena, it’s just going to get you killed.”

“I’d rather be myself and get killed than betray my district partner and also get killed,” I say.  Betraying people only “works” if you end up getting something out of it.  A couple more hours or days to live isn’t enough.  Hell, I wouldn’t even betray her if it guaranteed that I’d be victor.  If it were actually down to the two of us, I’m not sure what I’d do, but I sure as hell couldn’t stab her in the back.

“I’m not asking you to betray her,” Solar tells me.  “I’m saying that she is more beneficial to you dead than alive in many aspects and yet you still hang onto her.  Most tributes don’t want to see their district partners die, but they also realize they have to take care of themselves first.  What makes you different?”

I shift uneasily in my chair, trying to find a way to make myself comfortable despite the heaviness in the room.  She’s probing at something.  My fingers run against the cool leather of the couch as I try to tell myself that in a couple more minutes Wilton will come get us for dinner.  I should have left the room when I had the chance.  I should have made my body move despite the heaviness.

“There’s no room for romance in the Hunger Games,” Solar says.

I scoff. “I’m not attracted to her,” I reply.  “I have Lucinda, my girlfr—”

“You could’ve fooled me,” Solar says.  She smiles and bats her long false eyelashes.

“Ilana is like a sister to me.”

Solar laughs and then shakes her head.  “Don’t tell anyone else that you view her like a sister or they’re really going to question your relationship with your siblings.”

My mentor watches me, a menacing smile gleaming in her eyes.  Truth is, Ilana and I have a history.  Not an extensive one, but slightly more than being a friend of a friend.  Neither of us talk about it, though, so I guess I had assumed that it was all said and done.  I take a deep breath.

“I . . . asked Ilana out a couple years ago.  She said no.  I ended up with Lucinda a few months later.  We’re good,” I admit at last.  “I’m not in love with her, but I do care for her; she’s been a part of my life for several years now.”

“You expect me to believe that you don’t still love her?”

“Honestly at this point, I don’t give a rat’s ass what you believe.”

“Hmm,” Solar says as she appraises me.  Does she think there is more to it than that?  What else is there to say?  Ilana wasn’t interested in me, and we went our separate ways.  Sure, we still saw each other now and again, but it’s not like I ever made a move on her.  Ever.

Solar then says, “It will look incredibly rude if you abandon your girlfriend—the one who burst into tears at the reaping—for her sister.”

“Great, then it’s a good thing we don’t have to worry about it,” I reply.

“You wouldn’t get any sponsors after that,” she continues as though she doesn’t hear me.

I throw up my arms.  “What the hell do you want from me now?” I demand.

“I want you to remember that it will benefit you in more than one way if Ilana dies in the bloodbath.”

Before I can consciously process what she just said, I am on my feet and out the door of the mentoring room.  My chest aches, and my stomach twists in knots.  Solar’s logic chills my insides, and I have to fight to breathe.  There is no logical, justifiable reason why she said that.  There is no mentorly excuse for the cruelty she unleashed with her tongue.  Solar is a disgusting excuse for a human being, and I cannot absolve her of her words simply because she has seen so many tributes die.

Chapter Text

Ilana joins me for dinner again.  This time we sit cross-legged on the floor of my apartment, our trays of food abandoned between us.  I lean back against the bed and try to convince myself that I need to eat.  Despite knowing logically that my body requires food, I can’t get my brain to convince my stomach that it’s something I need to do.

“You want to talk, Eli?” Ilana asks me.  Her plate remains mostly untouched, too, though she has at least made attempts to eat.

“No, it’s fine,” I reply as I stare absently at the wardrobe on the other side of the room.  My eyes ache, and I’m appreciative that Ilana didn’t point out that it’s obvious I’ve been crying.  Not that she would.  Maybe if things weren’t so serious she’d make a joke about it, but we both know that this isn’t the sort of situation to laugh at.

“I’m sure that the District 2 boy will forget all about you by the time we get to the arena,” she assures me.

“It’s not that, it’s—” I stop short as it occurs to me that I can’t tell her the real reason why I’m upset.  It’s better to let her assume that I’m freaked out by what happened today in the training center than to have her guess the truth.  So I say, “I guess all of this is kind of piling on at once.”

She nods.  “Yeah, I get it,” she agrees.  “Benjamin says that I’m supposed to be strong, but I just don’t know how to be.”

The mentors have an inaccurate view of who Ilana really is.  Since we were reaped, Ilana has been so upset that she can barely stand without trembling.  People see her cry and refuse meals, so they assume she’s weak.  They think she won’t make it because she’s so scared.  Now, however, Ilana has come to believe it all herself, and her confidence has drained away.  Maybe everything overwhelms her so much that she can’t see who she really is, but I know that Ilana is not weak.

And I will not abandon her to die in the bloodbath.

“What do you mean, you don’t know how to be strong?” I ask, turning my attention to her.  Her brown eyes flit away.

She frowns and fiddles with the hem of her sweatshirt as she stares at the carpet.  “I dunno.  Some people—like you—can just stand there and deal with whatever, but I’m hopeless.  It’s like I’ve forgotten how to be myself, if that makes sense.”

“Remember a couple years ago in school?  When Principal Jones was trying to figure out who pulled the fire alarm?” I ask.  It had been the third time that week, and he was really looking for the perpetrator in a school-wide manhunt.  “And then you covered for Edison and took the blame.  Because you knew that he was going to get kicked out of school if anyone found out and his dad would probably have beaten him to death.”

“That’s different,” Ilana replies.  “Totally different.”

“How so?” I ask.  “You knew that you’d get punished even though everyone—the principal included—knew you didn’t pull the alarm.  Geeze, I didn’t even think they paddled kids anymore.”

She blushes.  “Yeah, that was embarrassing.  But you know that that was something entirely different than going to the Hunger Games.”

“Yeah, it is totally different,” I agree.  “But only because going to the Hunger Games is unlike anything we’ve ever done.  Look, people tell me that I can use my years of soccer in the arena.  They don’t mean that it’s going to translate literally; I’m not going to be kicking around soccer balls.  But there are certain skills that can be put to use in the arena, like running or whatever.  It’s the same thing.”

Ilana studies my face and says nothing.  She wants to believe what I’m saying but it seems too good to be true.  So I continue, “Everybody else knew that Edison was going to get his ass handed to him, but nobody else had the guts to do anything about it.  Except for you.”

She takes this in quietly.

“I know you’re scared; I am, too,” I add.  “But I also know that you’re strong and that no one should tell you otherwise.”

Ilana sighs and picks up her fork halfheartedly.  “I don’t know if it’s better or worse that I’m going to the Hunger Games with you,” she says.  “I guess it’s a bit selfish of me if I say better, isn’t it?”

“Does it matter?” I ask.

“I suppose not.”  She thinks about it for a second.  “My opinion about it isn’t going to change the fact that we’re here.  The only thing that it’ll change is how I react to it.”

“You’re too reasonable,” I snort.

She smiles at me as she scoops up food onto her fork.  “You really think I’m strong?”

“Sure,” I reply.  “Otherwise I would never have asked you out.”

There.  Out in the open.  Something that we hadn’t spoken about in the two years since I originally approached her at school.  She is a year younger than me, but was often placed in more advanced classes, so our paths had crossed more than once.  It didn’t take long for her to catch my eye.

“Eli . . .” she starts apologetically.  “I hope that you don’t still hate me for that.”

I laugh.  “I never hated you,” I say.  “Except for that one time you set the curve on the geometry test.  You got 80% and the rest of us got below 30%.  We all would have done well if it weren’t for you.”

Now she’s laughing, too.  “You remember the stupidest things.  I had forgotten all about that.”

“Remember then someone keyed the teacher’s car?” The memory forms in my mind.  Once I remembered one little piece of it, the rest appears before I can stop it.  “We all got suspended since they didn’t know who did it.”

“It was supposed to be a punishment,” she recalls somewhat dreamily.  “But then we all met out in the woods while everyone else was in school and burned him in effigy.”

“You were quite the troublemaker,” I say with a grin.

“Oh, c’mon,” she groans.  “You’re only remembering the times that I got in trouble.  I almost never get in trouble.  I think two incidences isn’t really representative of—”

But I’m not finished yet: “What about the time you and Marie took her parents’ car out?  Neither of you had your license.”

Lucinda and I had avoided her house for the next week after her parents had chewed her sister Marie out over that one.  Now it had become something of a family joke, though they had promised Marie that she wouldn’t be getting her license until she was thirty-five.

“Yeah, but I was a careful driver at least,” Ilana insists.  “Never once made a mistake.  Didn’t even get pulled over.  They only noticed because Marie and Lucinda’s dad checks the odometer every time he gets in the car.”

“It’s his car for his government job.  You guys were crazy—I’m surprised he didn’t ban you from ever coming over again.”

Ilana takes a bite of her dinner and chews slowly, lost in thought.  I watch her as she stares off in the distance at nothing in particular.  Despite being distracted, she looks so different than the girl who cowers at the dining table before the mentors or who slinks away from the Career tributes.  The hidden strength reveals itself, gives her confidence, makes her so much more alive.  If anyone saw her here and now, they would not write her off as bloodbath fodder.

She catches me looking at her, then cocks her head.  “I don’t suppose you’re reminiscing just for fun, are you?” she asks.

I shake my head.  “Guess not.”

How do I put it into words that I want her to see her as I see her?

“You really think I have a chance?” she asks, hope edging into her voice.

“I think you do, but if you don’t think you do, then no one else will,” I reply.

She nods, takes another bite of food, and then thinks.  “Why are you doing this?” she asks.  “You could have allied with half a dozen other tributes and would be better off.”

“Maybe I don’t want to,” I say.  Confusion clouds her face, so I continue, “The chances of any one of us—and this goes for the Careers, too—becoming winner is so small, that I don’t think that destroying who we are in the process is worth it.  If I’m going to win, it’s not going to be at your expense.”

“Eli . . . I think I was an idiot for turning you down,” she says bluntly.  “Lucinda is lucky.”

“In all fairness, I was kind of an asshole when I was younger, so I don’t blame you.”  But I feel my cheeks warming at her words regardless.  Her remark brings both a flutter of pleasure and a pang of guilt, so I put it away to figure out later.

Ilana picks up her plate and begins to eat more eagerly.  Then she looks at my own untouched plate and says, “Practice what you preach—eat up.”

At her insistence, I grab my plate and eat even though I feel no hunger whatsoever.  Solar took that all from me.  This conversation with Ilana, my last conversation with Solar . . . everything mixes together in a jumble and I can’t sort it out.  I find myself wondering about what Ilana said and how victors are probably messed up because they watch so many kids die.  If Ilana or I were to win, would it make us as jaded and cruel as that woman?  Or would we just be detached like Benjamin?

“Tomorrow night, we need to eat out there.  With them,” Ilana breaks me from my thoughts.  “Maybe they’ll think I’m stronger then and not always hiding away from them.”

“Alright,” I say, though I know that we have been eating here because of me, not because of Ilana.  Solar might tell me that I’m too soft, but people aren’t going to think me weak like they do Ilana.  Yet I don’t want anyone to think that this is Ilana’s doing; I can’t take that risk even if it means I have to face my asshole mentor.

When we finish eating, Ilana stands up and stretches.  “Time for me to go and try to get some sleep,” she says.

“Guess I should go to bed and stare at the ceiling til I can’t hold my eyes open anymore,” I reply.  “Just like every other night.”

A wry smile appears on her lips.  “Try crying yourself to sleep.  It tires you out quicker and you get a more solid rest.”

I stand up and pick up our trays.  “Great advice.  Just make sure to drink electrolytes so you don’t dehydrate.”

The two of us walk to the door.  She opens it and steps outside.  Now I know that I have to at least make an appearance so I carry the trays to the dining room.  Only Benjamin remains at the table where he reads a newspaper.  He pays little attention to us as I drop off the trays on the table.  Ilana wishes me goodnight and we head to our respective rooms.

If I wanted to take Ilana up on her advice and cry myself to sleep, it’s not happening.  Whatever tears I had have dried up and won’t turn back on.  Despite this, melancholy wraps itself around me as I lay awake in my darkened room.

Lucinda.  How she cried when she heard my name drawn at the reaping.  I try to recall the feeling of her body against mine, but it grows fainter with every passing day.  I know that she waits with fear and hope that maybe, just maybe, I will come home alive.  I wish I could have that same hope, but I’m afraid to be that foolish when I need to keep my wits about me.  Yet as I lay in bed, I let myself have the smallest bit of hope that I will once more feel Lucinda’s embrace.

The daydream cannot withstand the various thoughts and emotions of the day, however, and bits of training, interactions with people, and conversations all flit through my mind, competing for a chance for me to ruminate on every little thing.  And then they all land on Ilana.

It’s been years since I asked her out, and I thought I was over it.  But as I lay here, I wonder if that is true, why I am so confused.  I love Lucinda, and I would do anything for her.  Even if Solar hadn’t threatened me, I wouldn’t do anything that would cause my girlfriend more pain, even if that means I have to keep her sister’s friend at a distance.  Besides, I tell myself, Ilana is my friend and nothing more.  I accept this.

Then why can’t I just rid myself of this melancholy?

Chapter Text

The next day in training, Ilana and I walk right up to the weapons station without regard for the Careers.  Their eyes train on us as we approached the swords, and I fight to ignore their stares as the instructor greets us warmly and asks if we would like to try different swords this morning.  We agree, and for the next couple hours, she goes over the best way to handle swords.

After swords, we try out knives.  I hold back and allow Ilana to drive the program.  Works for her in terms of confidence and for me to keep my ability secret.

As we turn to leave the sword station, we find ourselves face-to-face with both District 1 tributes and the District 2 male.

“What’re you doing at our stations?” asks the District 1 male.  He steps in front of me blocking my path.  He stands roughly my size though with more muscle on his frame.  Still, he tries to make himself bigger than he is as though that will be too much for me.

Do not engage, I tell myself.  Don’t make this worse than it already is.

“C’mon, Ilana.”  I nudge her to the side, and we start to go around the Careers.

Then the District 2 male steps in front of me.  “Was there something you wanted to tell me yesterday?  Huh?”

He makes this too easy.  I want to retort with a snide comment, but I force myself to take a deep breath and walk away.  Just as they did to Ilana and to the District 9 female, they’re trying to push me to see how much I can handle.  But their intimidation tactics won’t work because despite what some might think, I do have some self control.

Ilana and I head to the heavy blunts while one of the males calls me a coward and the rest burst into laughter.

The trainer at the heavy blunts acts like he hasn’t heard a thing that the Careers said even though he’s well within ear shot.  He greets us with a nod and then looks Ilana up and down as though trying to decide if she’s going to be able to even hold one of the weapons.  She must sense this because she brushes past him and picks up one ugly thing with a long handle and a hammer on the top.  The sign beneath where it sat reads “war hammer” and that’s a pretty accurate physical description.  The long body and small head are light enough that Ilana can swing it with ease.

From there, the two of us pick up various weapons and test out their weight while the instructor babbles about the name and use of each one, sometimes giving us pointers on how to hold them.  Some are heavier than others and require so much strength that not even I would be able to carry it around.  These I mostly leave alone.  An entire set of weapons have spikes.

“Morning stars,” the instructor tells us.  “Inflict significant damage in your opponents.”

They’ve been used in other Hunger Games and I hope to God that I never encounter something like this myself.  The maces have enough ability to crush bone and break one’s body to pieces, but as I hold one of the morning stars, reality sinks in that death could be far more painful than I had ever thought.  Being stabbed or poisoned or hit in the head with a club would all be painful ways to go, but to be clobbered with this thing would be worst of all.  Despite my repulsion, I force myself to hang onto the weapon and turn it over in my hands because I can still feel the eyes of the Careers on me.

The instructor gives us each a mace to test out on a couple of dummies.  My arms tire out before I want to admit, but I only return the weapon to the shelf, slightly out of breath, and pretend to be looking for another one.  Ilana, too, droops with exhaustion, though she perks up when the instructor points at another weapon to try out.

“Let’s go check out that other station,” I say vaguely.

Ilana nods.  “Sure, but let me try this out first.”

She steps forward and gives the dummy a few whacks with the mace before returning it to the weapons stand.  “A little too long in length,” she appraises, but we both know it’s only an excuse to put it back down.

Diamond, the lead trainer, announces lunch before we can get to the next station.  Ilana and I line up with the others, though everyone hangs back as the Careers go through the food line first.  No one wants to interact with them; we’ve all seen how willing they are to bully others.  They take everyone’s hesitation as a mark of their own superiority, cheering and pushing each other and making foul jokes.  When, at last, it’s our turn, we grab our food and head to a table.

“Private training sessions are next,” Ilana says as we eat.

In all the chaos, I had forgotten about those.  We’d each get a few minutes to showcase a skill or two before the careful eyes of the Gamemakers, and I’m not sure what I’d do exactly.  I suppose it will involve knives because that is the only thing I was halfway good at.  Around us at the various tables, tributes immerse themselves in their own world.  Most remain by themselves, huddled in front of the food plate.  A few had branched out within the past few days and found themselves alliances.  The District 7 boy chats with the District 6 girl.  The District 10 kids converse with the girl from District 11.  I wonder what everyone will do.

It doesn’t matter what they do, I tell myself.  It matters what I do.

I force myself to eat until they call the first tribute—the District 1 boy—out of the lunch room.  The guy jumps to his feet and gets a high-five from his fellow Careers before he bounds away after the training center staff member to the private observation room.

“At least we don’t have to wait too long,” Ilana says.  She hasn’t finished her food.  Her leg bounces up and down as she stares at the door the Career vanished through as though she could see what was happening.

Each person gets fifteen minutes unless they finish sooner, and nearly two hours pass before they call me.  Ilana offers me a reassuring smile that I can barely return with all the energy I muster.

District 5 is the first district to go after the Careers have completely finished.  I don’t know if it’s a good thing or not, but it always seems that by the time District 4’s training scores are announced, the Gamemakers have used up all their high numbers.  I suppose it doesn’t really matter for me considering that Solar’s fickle nature means I might never receive a sponsorship gift even if there are people willing to donate to me.

The training center staff member claps me on the back and ushers me through the door and into the private session.

In the evening after we have showered and eaten, everyone from District 5 gathers in the sitting room of the apartment for the release of scores.  Ilana and I remain silent despite the chatter from our escort, stylists (I still don’t know my stylist’s name and at this point don’t really care), and mentors.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the training scores,” comes the voice of Caligula Klora, the Hunger Games announcer.  All attention turns to the television.  This is it.  Caligula takes a minute to explain what the training scores mean and the 1-12 scale they grade us on even though everyone is well-versed in their purpose.

Both tributes from District 1 receive nines.  It’s not bad for a Career.  Anything lower than an eight for a Career is miserable, so a nine is a solid score.  The boy from District 2 also receives a nine and the girl gets a ten.

“Very good scores,” Wilton says as though the rest of us were too dumb to see it.  I shift uncomfortably in my seat even though I expected no less from them.

The kids from District 3 receive a 3 and a 4.  District 3 has never had great strength in the arena, and I think I can count their overall number of victors on one hand.

The boy from District 4 receives an eight while the girl receives a ten, thus making ten the top score for this Hunger Games.

I hold my breath as the attention turns from the Career districts to District 5.

“Elijah Asher of District 5 received training score of 8,” comes Caligula’s voice.  “And Ilana Garcia of District 5 received a training score of 6.”

“Oh, good job you two!” gushes Wilton.  “What great scores!”

Eight!  How the hell did that happen?  And Ilana received a six!  Now, certainly, people would see that she is not completely hopeless.  As Caligula continues to rattle off scores, the average for the non-Careers appears to be around five or so.  I lose track as my own thoughts take over my attention.  I had hoped for a five or six, maybe, but an eight?

Oh shit, I realize suddenly.  I received the same score as the District 4 male.

“Way to make yourself a threat,” Solar says to me as she ambles over.  She sits down on the coffee table across from me, blocking my view of the television.  “If you got a little lower, maybe you could have slipped under the radar.  But no, an eight puts you in Career territory.”

“Thanks, Solar,” I say with an absolute lack of appreciation.  “Your confidence in me is outstanding.”

She motions down the hallway.  “Mentoring room.  Now.”

Damn.  I thought I could have skipped this entirely today.  I can’t wait to see what sort of horrible things she has to say about Ilana and me today.  But I excuse myself and tell Ilana I’ll catch her later, then head down the hall towards the mentoring room with Solar right behind me once again.  As though I were her prisoner.  And I suppose I kind of am.

Once we settle into the couches with the door firmly closed behind us, she takes me in and clicks her tongue.

“You really know how to mess things up, don’t you?” she asks.

We’re only ten words into the conversation and she’s already pissed me off.  The anger rises within me.  I force it down and I make myself remain seated.

“Listen, I might only be a tribute, but I think I’m not sure how this mentoring stuff works,” I say to her.  “I thought—and correct me if I’m wrong—but I thought that you, as mentor, were supposed to advise me on how to approach situations such as, oh, training scores.  If it wasn’t appropriate for me to try to get the highest score I could, I would have thought that it was something that you, as the mentor, were supposed to tell me in advance.”

“You’re an insolent little bastard, aren’t you?” Solar asks, but there really is no question in that.  I’m edging a fine line here, and I need to be careful where I step.  She continues, “Honestly, I’m surprised that you got a score that high.  I figured you’d get maybe a five at the most.”

“Maybe if you would actually spend time on helping me survive and less time on trying to get me to give up my district partner to be brutally murdered, you’d figure out that I’m not entirely a lost cause.”

I don’t know where the words are coming from.  Even I think I’m a lost cause.  Not because I don’t have any skills but because the skills of others far outweigh my own.  But that part vanishes the angrier I get because I know that Solar hasn’t given me a fair chance and she never will.  She didn’t want to know a damned thing about who I am or why I know the things I do.  I’m only some random tribute who’s going to die, and the last thing she wants to admit is that I’m a human being.

“Would you like to know something, Elijah?” she asks, leaning in closer to me.

“Yes, tell me something, Solar,” I reply sharply.

“Who won last year’s Hunger Games?” she asks.

“Basil Gonzalez,” I reply.

“Of?”

“District 11.”

“Right.  And the year before that?”

“Lady McClure of District 10.”

“And then?”

“Elm Cottonwood of District 7.”

“And before him?”

“Terra Woods of District 12.”

“Exactly,” she says.  “It has been five years since a Career won the Hunger Games.  In the past ten years, there have only been two Career victories.  What does that make you think?”

I sit back in my seat and stare at her.  Realization of what she’s telling me seeps in, and as it does so, it floods up my insides with a cold and dirty water.

“The Careers aren’t as strong as they used to be,” I say stiffly.

Solar nods slowly.  “And how easy is it to sew discontent between districts when your powerful, pro-Games people don’t receive the privileges they deserve?”

“The Hunger Games are rigged.” My voice is quiet.  My rigid body makes breathing difficult.  They want a Career victory.  They don’t care about who gets a good training score or what tributes are fan favorites.  They only want to see their political favorites come out on top in order to make sure that the rest of us know how much the Careers are loved and we are cast aside.

“I might keep this little bit of information to yourself,” Solar says with a bit more cheer than the situation calls for, like she’s happy that she imparted such knowledge on me.

I’m going to die not because other tributes are stronger than me but because the Capitol only wants to see Districts 1, 2, or 4 emerge alive.  I close my eyes and fight back the nausea that threatens to bring back my dinner.

“You know, there’s talk of District 7 being made a Career district,” she continues casually as though I’m not struggling with the realization that I have no chance in the arena.  “They’ve had quite a few wins recently.  Besides Elm, Pitch won the 125^th Hunger Games and Vesa won the 120^th Hunger Games.  It would be interesting to shake things up, don’t you thi—Hey, don’t you dare start crying.”

“I’m not,” I snap.

“Anyway, but getting a nice big eight in training, you have successfully put a big target on your back,” she says.  “I mean, you’re going to die anyhow, but now they’re really going to come after you.  And the Capitol will love to watch the drama that unfolds.  Despite what Wilton says, the Capitol loves its drama more than anything else.”

Her words jumble around in my brain.  The newfound information forms a knot in my head, and every time I try to unravel it, another layer is added on, making it so much more confusing.  Ilana—I have to tell her.

No.  I can’t.  She has to have some hope that one of us will get out of this.

Solar stands up and pats me on the shoulder.  “Get a good night’s rest.  You’ll need it for tomorrow,” she says.  Then she leaves, and I am alone once more with my thoughts.

Chapter Text

It takes two days to get ready for the interview.  The first of the days is spent preparing a good interview, both in terms of what words to use as well as how to present myself.  Or, at least, that’s what’s supposed to be happening.  The second day, I am told, I will be with my stylist and prep team getting ready for the event.

“Tell me what I’m supposed to do for the interview,” I order Solar when we’re in our private lessons.  We’re supposed to work on some sort of angle for me to play.  That’s what Benjamin had told us at breakfast this morning.  Some kids choose to be strong and confident, others sexy, still others shy and humble.  There’s a hundred different ways we can present ourselves, but there’s an art to it.

Solar shrugs.  “I think you see at this point that it doesn’t matter what you do.”

I grit my teeth.  “I’d like to die with some dignity,” I say.  “And I’d rather not make a fool out of myself at the interview.”

“Just be yourself,” she says.  “That’s what you’re good at, right?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

She shrugs again.  “You seem to have this insistence that you get to be yourself in the arena,” she says.  “So go for it.”

Then she gets up and leaves.

I want to tell Ilana about the Hunger Games being rigged.  I really should tell her.  But I can’t decide if telling her would only fulfill my desire not to be the only one with the burden of knowing there is no hope, or if it would really be beneficial to her.  In some ways, I know there’s no point in telling her because there is nothing we can do about it.  But on the other hand, I’d want to know if I were her.

For the remainder of the time I’m supposed to be working with Solar to go over my interview, I wander around the damned mentoring room.  The strange little box that looks like a microwave actually delivers food.  I test out every flavor of soda in the soda fountain and then see what sorts of things get delivered by the mysterious box.  It’s a massive waste of food, but I can’t help wondering who cares anymore.

Finally Wilton comes and gets me.  He looks surprised that Solar isn’t here, so I just tell him that she had to use the bathroom.  This seems to satisfy him and he leads me to another room where he tries to instruct me on how to carry myself for the interview.

“I haven’t decided if it’s easier working with boys or girls on this,” he says to me.  “On one hand, there’re just so many nuances that you have to make sure that the girls capture, but on the other, most boys really don’t care and it’s hard to teach them something they’ve never learned in their lives.”  He sighs heavily like this is really something he struggles with.

Night comes, and we all sit at the dinner table.  Benjamin continues to offer Ilana advice, from how to compose herself at the interview tomorrow night to how to find the right materials to start a fire in various types of arenas.  It’s like he’s just now figured out that the Hunger Games are upon us and he needs to fill Ilana with all the information he neglected previously.  Like cramming for a test.

He now thinks she has a chance, I realize suddenly.  Now that the training scores have been released and she didn’t bomb them, people really think she has a chance.  It sickens me, but I keep everything to myself.  At least she’s getting some sort of useful mentoring, I think.

When we are excused to go to bed, I pull Ilana to the side, but I find that I can’t even begin to tell her what Solar told me last night.  The last few days have really perked her up, and to throw this on her after all of her hard work might just destroy her.  How can I break her after I tried to help her so much?

I sleep very little.  Eventually morning comes and I am whisked away to be cleaned up by my prep team.

At this point, I don’t care about what they’re doing to me.  Or, rather, larger concerns outweigh the fact that I don’t want to strip naked and be groomed by these people.  I spend the entire time lost in thought, piecing together the conversations I’ve had with my mentor over the past week.  As Ilana said, Solar’s seen so many tributes die.  And this year Solar knows there is no hope for me.  What did she say?  She had hoped I’d make it to the final five.  Not that she hoped I’d be victor.  That she hoped I’d make it close to the end.  I thought she had been unnecessarily malicious with the comment, but she really knew I’d never be victor.

The stylist dresses me in a suit.  He acts like it’s the best thing he’s ever made, but it’s only a suit.  A nice one, I’ll give it that, but it lacks the flair of the Capitol.  I’m happy about this, and I thank him.  He bows several times and pats me on the cheek.

Ilana’s stylist outfits her in a simple gown.  That’s what we are: plain and simple.  Unlike the other tributes who drown in fabric and ruffles and sequins and glitter, we are really normal looking.  But, I realize, it allows us to be taken seriously.  Nobody will be distracted by the way our outfits glitter in the lights.  They’ll be focused on our words.

Which would be fine if my mentor tried to help me with my interview.

There’s no time to worry about it before they’re ushering us on stage to take our places with the other tributes.  And then it begins.

The Careers are, well, Career-ish.  The males puff themselves up and preen their feathers while the females try to appear deadly or sexy or confident.  I don’t think there is anything really remarkable about them, but I also know that there’s nothing particularly remarkable in me, either.

Ilana, on the other hand, stands confidently before Caligula and talks easily with him.  This is the girl I know from home, I think.  This is the girl who stood up for Edison and who took her friend’s parents’ car out for a spin.  She’s polite and respectful, but she doesn’t shy away from his questions.  And she’s beautiful.  Her stylist couldn’t have found a more flattering dress.  No one will forget her.

She tells Caligula how lucky she is to be with me and that I have always kept an eye on her.  She says that she’s admired my and Lucinda’s relationship and how I always treated Lucinda with respect.  Caligula seems infatuated with this, and Ilana rolls with his questions very well.

Then it’s my turn.

Caligula asks me about my talents, my home, the people I left behind.  He seems particularly interested in Lucinda.

“And Ilana is actually your girlfriend’s sister,” he says.

I agree.  Yes, yes, she is.  And then I add in little things to make it clear that I still love Lucinda and am not about to drop her for my district partner.

“I promised Lucinda I’d watch out for her,” I say.

Caligula tells me what a good boyfriend I am and that Lucinda would no doubt be waiting for me when I returned home.  It’s bullshit.  I’m not returning home, for one.  And Lucinda is probably confused as hell why we’re claiming that Ilana is her sister.  They don’t even look that much alike.

By the time I sit down, I feel sick and it’s not stage fright.  Thoughts still zip around my head: uncertainties, fears, the future, the things I’ve learned.  Everything bounces around and keeps me from focusing on the remaining interviews.  When the anthem plays, relief washes through me, and I eagerly leave the stage with the others.

Everything is a mess right now.  Everything rushes by me.

“Eli?” Ilana says as we head to the car that will take us back to the training center.  “Is everything okay?  You seem a little. . . .”

She doesn’t finish the sentence but she doesn’t have to.  Scattered.  Confused.  Distant.  Choose whatever adjective you want.  That’s what’s going through me right now.

It’s only after we eat our dinner that I pull Ilana to the side.

Chapter Text

Ilana and I stand in the middle of my room.  The avoxes have been in here and cleaned up since I last left it, ensuring that nothing is out of place.  There is no hint that I occupy this room, and I suppose it’s for the best.  Tonight will be my last night here, and then next year it’ll be used for the next tribute once I’m dead and forgotten.

“Listen, I . . .” But I don’t know how to begin.

She reaches up and strokes my cheek.  “It’s okay,” she says.  “This whole thing is nuts, and I can’t believe what we’re subjected to.  Having to sell ourselves on a stage like we need to prove that we deserve to live.  It’s sickening.”

“It’s not that.  It’s . . . Solar.”  I pause to pull myself together.  Moving her hand away from my face, I look her in the eye.  Ilana deserves to know what she’s up against.  I know that now.  Because, as she said, we can’t change what’s happened to us, only how we react to it.  And it doesn’t matter if she knows the truth or not, at least in the grand scheme of things, because it won’t make a great difference.  But it’s selfish to not tell her what I know.  “Solar told me that they’re gunning for a Career win this year.”

“Aren’t they always?” she asks.

I shake my head.  “Like really.  There have only been two in the past ten years,” I tell her.  “They want to make sure no one loses faith in the Careers.”

“And you believe what Solar said?” Ilana searches my eyes.  “I know you don’t have a really high opinion of her.”

“I don’t know what I believe,” I admit.  “You know when we were supposed to be prepping for the interview, Solar didn’t even try.  She just left the room about ten minutes in and I had to kill a couple hours before Wilton came and got me.”

Ilana’s expression changes.  “I’m sorry, Eli,” she says.  “Benjamin hasn’t been the greatest, but at least he gave me the time of day.  I didn’t realize—”

“Its okay,” I say.

“We’re still going to try,” Ilana whispers.  “It doesn’t matter what they say.  We’re still going to try to make it.”

I swallow hard and nod.  “Yeah.  Of course.”  I want to try.  I want to think that I have a chance.

Ilana studies me for a moment before she leans against me and presses her lips to mine.  For a moment, I don’t react, too confused to really understand what’s happening. But then I wrap my arms around her and kiss her back.  For the first time since I stepped foot on the stage after my name was called a week ago, I feel . . . connected.  Because even when I said goodbye to Lucinda, I was too discombobulated to really understand that it was goodbye.  We existed in two separate planes of life that would diverge for all eternity.  But now with Ilana, things are different.  We’re in this miserable hell together.

At last Ilana pulls away, though she doesn’t move from my arms.

“I’m sorry, Eli.  I really shouldn’t have,” she says apologetically, and she sounds like she means it.

“It’s okay,” I say.  I’m not sure if it is.  I’m not sure of anything right now.

“I just thought that if we really are going to die, then I might as well see what I missed out on,” she tries to explain.  But really, she doesn’t need to justify it; things will only get more confusing.

“When we’re in the arena, we can’t . . . I mean, I still love Lucinda and I don’t want her to think. . . .”

Ilana nods.  “Yeah, I know.  I’m sorry, really.  I shouldn’t have done that.”

I pull her back to me and we kiss again, this time longer.  With more passion.  It fulfills a physical desire, but also an emotional one.  That connection.  The understanding that we share this nightmare that only death will release us from.  But that is as far as it goes.  We both know that it can’t progress to anything more than this, and at last Ilana says that she really needs to go to sleep.

Yet neither of us moves.  She rests her head on my shoulder and I hold her tightly.  Her hand presses against my heart and she feels its even rhythm beneath her palm.

“Tomorrow, when we’re in the area,” I start.

Ilana grunts quietly. “Don’t talk about it.”

“We have to,” I say.  “We can’t ignore it.”

“I know,” she whispers.

“If you can, grab a bag, but don’t risk your life,” I instruct her.  “If it looks safe, run away from the Cornucopia into the arena closest to your pedestal.  If not, then just go wherever you think looks safest.  I’ll find you.”

“What about you?” she asks.

“Don’t worry about me,” I respond.  “I’m a faster runner than you.  I’ll be okay.”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”  Ilana moves her head enough to look up at me.  “Please.”

“I won’t,” I assure her.  “I’ve done enough stupid things in the past week anyhow.”

She smiles.

“But you’ve also helped me,” she says.  “Thank you.”

We kiss again, briefly this time.  Then she pulls away, her warmth vanishing in her wake.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say.  I watch as she leaves.

Sleep doesn’t come easily to me no matter how much I wish it.  I think of my family at home and how they’ve no doubt been praying in vain for me to survive.  I think of my friends who might not admit it, but will be devastated when I die.

I think of Lucinda.  I hope that she is with her family now and that they can provide each other comfort.  Because it’s not just me they’re losing but also Ilana, their other daughter’s best friend.  They know that only one of us can come back alive, but that’s not really the truth, is it?  They think that there’s hope, but there’s none.

Still, I’ll try.  For Ilana, at least.  And, I suppose, for myself.  Because I’ve never been the sort to simply roll over when faced with a challenge, and giving up entirely is so out of character that I can’t possibly fathom it.  I know I will try to make it as far as I can even if it means prolonging my miserable life for only minutes or hours or days.

The reality of death is upon me.  It’s lingered in front of me the past week, but now it’s so close that I can almost reach out and touch it.  Yet it dances away when I try to understand what it really means.  Will I feel pain?  I suppose it’s inevitable, but I hope that there is at least some peace in death.  I try to wrap my brain around the concept of a great nothingness for all eternity, but it’s too draining.

Instead I find myself back with Ilana in my arms, if only in my thoughts.  I feel her against me, and I allow the comfort to sink into me.

Chapter Text

TRIBUTE FILE #0034A5

Subject Name: Elijah Asher
Training Score: 8/12

Training Center Notes: Bonded quickly with D5F.  Spent much of their time together going from station to station. Subject appears to be skilled in running and endurance. Moderate upper body strength. Handles knives and small weapons well. No prior experience in larger weapons or projectiles. Does not approach other tributes but has helped several with minor issues. Showed D8M how to choose a good knife.  Actively avoids stations with large crowds or with tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4.  Subject instigated contact with D2M following an interaction between D2M and D9F.  No physical altercation ensued.

Private Training Session Notes: Throwing knives. 8/10 knives hit the target. The other 2 missed. Subject did not show any additional skills and dismissed himself after throwing the knives. Initial training score at 5/12 until [redacted] pointed out that Subject had intentionally missed on first and fifth throw.  This strategic tactic would allow Subject to draw opponent closer before eliminating with the next knife.

Alliance: Established alliance with D5F.

Pre-Games Summary: Subject’s potential to succeed is limited by his inexperience. Strength and knife skills clear. Unwillingness to engage with peers indicates lack of communication skills which could prove detrimental to inter-tribute relations within the arena.  Survival skills are above average, though he relies on D5F too heavily.

Likelihood to survive the Cornucopia: 85%
Likelihood to survive until Day 5: 52%
Likelihood to reach Top 5: 20%
Likelihood to be Victor: 8%

Chapter Text

The 133^rd Hunger Games – Day One

Morning comes when Wilton knocks on my door and enters without waiting for permission.  The clock displays 5:02 AM, but my escort, dressed in his finest, is upbeat as ever.

“Good day to you, Elijah!” he chirps as he comes around to my bed.  “Today’s the big day.”

I groan and push myself up and untangle myself from the soft, clean sheets of my bed.  The big day.  The day in which I face death.  Perhaps even the day in which I’d die.  Everything tells me that I should hate Wilton, but my insides churn with confusion and chaos, so it’s all I can do to climb to my feet and follow him out the door.  He chatters the entire time, but all of the words blur together.

“Where’s Ilana?” I ask as the escort motions me towards a doorway at the end of the hall.

He smiles at me.  “You’ll see her in the arena,” he says.

The arena.  I don’t get to see her before we leave.  Alright.  Okay.  Maybe it’s better this way.

Wilton opens the door for me and motions me towards an elevator.  The two of us step inside, and the doors close.  There’s a bit of motion and a soft hum.  Moments later the door opens again, this time revealing the wide expanse of the training center roof.  It’s chilly up here with the early morning breeze, and I shiver in my t-shirt and shorts.  Wilton doesn’t notice in his excitement.  He just directs me towards a waiting hovercraft where my stylist greets us and takes over tribute babysitting.  The two of them exchange jovial conversation for a few moments before I’m instructed to go into the hovercraft.

No sooner have I taken a seat than the vehicle lifts off.  My stylist joins me and sits in the seat next to mine.

“Once we’re there, we get to see what outfit the Gamemakers have chosen this year,” he smiles.  “Every year it reflects the arena, of course, but trying to guess what the arena will be based on the clothing you get is an art I’ve perfected over the years.”

I remain silent and focus on the gentle hum of the hovercraft.  Was Ilana ahead of me or behind?  I bounce my leg up and down, unable to sit still for the ride.  My sleepiness burned away as though I had never been tired at all, and now I felt completely wired.  How long do I have left to live?  Hours?  Days?

The stylist checks his pocket watch when the hovercraft begins to descend.  “Eight twenty-two,” he announces.  “We’ll have an hour and thirty-eight minutes to get you ready before it’s time.”

In a little over an hour and a half, I may be dead.

I close my eyes and only open them when I feel my stylist snap my seatbelt unlocked.  My heavy body trudges after him, out of the hovercraft and into a concrete hallway.  The floor, the walls, the ceiling . . . all concrete.  A tomb.  It’s chilly, but not cold.  At the end of the hallway, a door opens and we step into a small chamber.  My stylist motions to another door where I find a toilet, sink, and shower.  I take a quick shower.  Unable to enjoy the warm water, I turn the knob, grab a towel, and head back into the chamber where my stylist has laid out my outfit.

“Looks like it’s going to get a bit cold,” he says to me.  “These are good socks.  Very warm, but also moisture wicking to make sure you’re comfortable.  And your jacket will help keep you from getting too cold.  Make sure that you don’t sit directly on the ground if it’s snowing or frosty.  The pants are water resistant but they’re lighter weight to allow you to move, so they may not keep you as warm against cold surfaces.”

I nod as he tells me this.  As much as I don’t appreciate his enthusiasm for the event, he’s still trying to help me by providing lifesaving information.  I pull on the underwear, undershirt, and socks.  He’s right; they’re all warm.  A sharp contrast to the type of clothing I normally wear this time of year.  Then he hands me the pants which I buckle on.  There’s a long-sleeved shirt.  Then finally boots and a jacket.

“The boots are very good.  Some of the best I’ve seen,” the stylist says.  “Don’t lose them.”

Noted.  I’ll try not to.

He checks his watch again.  The pocket watch catches the fluorescent lights above and it takes him a moment to read it as he angles it back and forth.

“Forty-five minutes left,” he says.  Then he motions towards a small cart with a brief assortment of foods.  “Care to have something to eat?”

The last thing I want to do is eat right now, but I know that food may be scarce in the arena.  Any time the Gamemakers create even vaguely cold arenas, it can be challenging to find a source of food unless you’re very patient and good with hunting.  Who knows when I’ll get another meal?  So I pick out a few items from the cart and put them on a plate.  The stylist and I sit in silence as we eat our breakfast.  I drink plenty of water so that this won’t start completely dehydrated.

“Fifteen minutes,” the stylist says at one point.  “You excited?”

I don’t give him an answer.  Instead I stare straight ahead at the far wall.

Waiting will drive me mad.  Every minute that passes seems to be both a second and an hour.  Time has ceased to have meaning.  An eternity and a heartbeat have the same value, and I both wish that we can get this over with and also that I can stay here forever.

Then, at last, my stylist leads me over to a pedestal in the corner of the room.  I climb up and turn around to face him.

“You’re going to do just fine,” he tells me as he pats the collar of my jacket into place.  “You have a shot at this.”

My body trembles so badly that I fear I might collapse, so I adjust my stance and plant my feet firmly on the ground.  A glass tube descends from the ceiling and envelopes me, cutting me off from the last person outside the arena I will ever see again.  He waves goodbye as the pedestal rises and darkness surrounds me.

Seconds pass.  I might fear that the mechanism raising me up has broken except I can hear the faint hum of gears.  And then, at last, a hatch above my head slides away and light pours into the tube.  The pedestal continues to rise until I am offered a first glimpse of the arena.  I put my hand up to my eyes to shield the sun.

The pedestal clicks into place and my eyes adjust to the brightness of a crisp day.  Trees surround us in all directions, and in the distance there are great mountains that rise up before us.  My breath comes out from my lips in little white puffs, and I shiver.  It’s cold.  There is no snow on the ground, but it’s still damned cold.

My eyes lock on the Cornucopia and the tributes surrounding it on all sides.  Ilana stands seven pedestals to my right, a little closer to the mouth of the great golden horn where weapons and supplies of all types spill forth onto the hard-packed earth.  I catch her eye for the briefest of moments before she turns and looks at everything scattered before her.

Several bags lay not too far from me.  The closest few are flat and may contain one or two small items.  Closer to the Cornucopia, the bags grow fuller where they are stocked with a wider variety of supplies.  In a cold arena, there won’t be much opportunity to hunt.  Game will be less likely.  Wild berries may not be in season.  And building a fire won’t always be an option even when it’s the only thing that will keep you warm.  I need to get a bag farther in; I can’t leave the Cornucopia without something that will keep us alive.

The clock ticks down.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

BONG!

Everyone pushes themselves off their pedestals.  I launch forward, my feet hitting the hard earth.  I bypass the first couple bags and grab the third I see.  It’s not as full as some of the ones farther on, but I can’t stay here in the Cornucopia for too long.  I swing the bag on my back right as the first scream erupts through the cold, thin air.  It’s cut off with a sharp and terrible gurgle, and then all hell descends upon us.

The cries, the screams, the wails for mercy.  It permeates the air thick as any smell.  The stench of blood fills my nostrils as the District 7 male gets knifed in the throat mere feet from me.  The District 2 female abandons this weapon as kid’s body drops to the ground and pulls out another knife.  She starts running away from me, oblivious to my presence, and goes after the District 10 female.  I don’t have time to think about what I’m doing as I reach down and grab the knife out of the District 7 male’s throat.  The screaming continues, wretched and tortured noises, as I put as much distance as I can between myself and the Cornucopia.

Ilana meets me at the treeline and we don’t say a single thing as we run.  My chest heaves with the effort.  The air is thin.  Very thin.  It makes breathing harder than ever.  The ground isn’t even, either.  Small hills and valleys make running more challenging, and we have to jump over fallen logs and great big boulders embedded in the earth.  At long last, I stagger to a stop, my side aching fiercely.  Ilana nearly slams into me, but manages to catch herself against a tree.  We stand there panting.

“Can’t stop,” she gasps.  “Need to keep moving.”

“Bloodbath’s not over yet,” I say.  “We have some time.”

She shakes her head.  “No.  Keep moving.”

Who am I to argue? Ilana and I fall into step as we continue moving, this time at a walk.  Neither of us say anything.

In my head, I still hear the screams of agony played over and over.  It sounds like it’s coming from all around me, but I know that it’s only my brain repeating what I just witnessed.  I want it gone.  I try to distract myself, but it doesn’t work.  Even focusing on the environment does nothing to chase away the cries of the dying.

If the District 2 girl had turned my direction instead of the other, I’d be dead right now.

No.  No I can’t think like this.  I can’t focus on all the things that would have killed me if things had gone differently.  I’ll drive myself insane.

From above our head, six cannons fire.  The bloodbath is over.

Only six?  What took so long?  It wasn’t the most exciting bloodbath if only six tributes died.  Normally there were at least ten deaths.  But it doesn’t matter.  Hours of daylight remain and the Careers will use this to their advantage.

“We need to figure out what’s in our bags,” I say at last.  “So we can keep an eye out for resources if we don’t have something we need.”

We settle in on a log and unzip our bags.  My black backpack contains two ½ gallons of water, three MREs, a flashlight, a pair of gloves, a knit hat, and a tarp.  This is definitely better than nothing.  Ilana’s green backpack contains a small cooking pot, a lighter, a pouch of salt, fishing line and three hooks, iodine tablets, and a flask of alcohol.

“Looks like you’re the chef,” I say as she packs her things back in her bag.

She rolls her eyes at me.  “Yeah, because I’m a great cook,” she retorts.

I hold out one of the ½ gallons of water to her.  She takes it gingerly and rolls it over in her hands.  Then she slips it in the bag, pulls out the iodine tablets, and hands me a couple.  “Just in case we get separated for any reason,” she says.

I tuck the iodine tablets away.  Clean water could be difficult to find in the arena, especially if the Gamemakers decide to increase the amount of contaminants just for fun.

We shoulder our bags and begin walking again.  After several hours, we come to a small brook bubbling through the woods.  It has carved its way through thick vegetation and stubborn rock, but it runs clear and cold.  We both finish our water, then refill and add iodine to purify.

“It’s getting colder,” Ilana notes as we put our bottles away while we wait for the water to decontaminate.  “Wish we could start a fire.”

That would only draw the Careers in towards us, especially with the shadows lengthening around us.  But Ilana is right: it’s gotten colder within the last thirty minutes.

“The sun’s disappearing over the mountains,” I note as I get a glimpse of one of the peaks through the surrounding trees.  “Gets damned cold as soon as the sun’s gone, I guess.”

“We should find a place for the night,” Ilana says.  I agree.

It takes half an hour to find a place we both think is as secure as we can get, nestled between two large boulders.  We gather fallen leaves and pine branches to pad the ground, making an extra thick layer because the cold has only intensified in the few minutes since we decided to find shelter.  I lay down the tarp to act as a waterproof layer.

Night falls as we finish the last of our shelter.  It will not protect us from the rain should there be any, but at least it will be difficult for any passers-by to see us.

“Look at the stars,” Ilana whispers to me as we make ourselves comfortable in our little nook.

I turn and look up at the sky spattered with stars across the great black curtain.  Some stars are familiar to me and form some of the better-known constellations.  Others are so small and distant that they are invisible to the naked eye back home unless you went into the outdoors away from the cities and towns.

We don’t have long to enjoy the stars before the seal of Panem appears in the night sky, accompanied by the anthem.  I jerk at the sudden, loud noise blasted across the arena by invisible loudspeakers.  Above our heads, the faces of the six tributes appear: the District 7 boy, both from District 8, the District 10 girl, and both from District 11.

“You want to sleep first?” Ilana asks after the faces in the sky vanish and the stars once more twinkle above our heads.

I shake my head.  “Don’t think I could if I tried,” I respond.

She nods.  For a second, she looks at the little bed we made as though she isn’t sure whether she’s supposed to sleep in it or not, but she finally curls up on her side.  I tuck the remainder of the tarp over her and pile some leaves and pine needles on top for an extra layer.  She smiles at me in thanks and then closes her eyes.

I am left alone with the night.

There were several times growing up in which I went camping with friends or family.  We always had tents, and we never were exposed to this level of cold.  And certainly there were things we had to be careful of—bears, most notably—but bears wouldn’t be out in this temperature, right?  Don’t they hibernate?  What about wolves, mountain lions, and those sorts of things?  And those we just the natural animals, not the Capitol-made muttations that could take any form.

I’m freaking myself out.  I force myself to focus and listen to the world around me.

Hours pass, and at last I wake up Ilana.  She mutters sleepily but exchanges places without complaint.  The night is damned cold, but the nest of tarp and needles still retains her body heat.

“You can have my jacket to help keep you warm,” I offer her.

She shakes her head.  “This’ll at least help keep me awake.”

I close my eyes and allow exhaustion to take over.

The first day in the arena is finished, and I am still alive.

Chapter Text

D5M, Day 001
Subject performed admirably at the Cornucopia. The preliminary assessment interval was utilized to its full extent as Subject noted the arena, the other tributes, and the supplies which lay before the Cornucopia. Upon release, Subject immediately obtained supplies: 1 bag (item #001481).  Subject removed knife (item #89180) from D7M.  Subject met with D5F prior to exiting Cornucopia. D5F was in possession of 1 bag (item #001488).  Subject and D5F remained immobile for 0:00:14 as they watched their peers.  Subject and D5F fled the Cornucopia. Total time before departure: 00:03:10. Injuries sustained: none.

For the remainder of daylight hours, Subject and D5F travelled N72°E. Elevation difference of 523 meters. They stopped at 14:10:45 to assess supplies. Both stayed awake to watch the Anthem.  Subject took “first watch.”

Deaths, Day 001
24/24: D8F (by D1M)
23/24: D7M (by D2F)
22/24: D10F (by D2F)
21/24: D8M (by D2M)
20/24: D11M (by D4F)
19/24: D11F (by D4M)

Updated:
Health: 96% (-4% due to exhaustion)
Hydration: Adequate
Likelihood to survive until Day 5: 63%
Likelihood to reach Top 5: 22%
Likelihood to be Victor: 9%

Chapter Text

The 133^rd Hunger Games – Day Two

I have never been so sore in my life, even after the most challenging soccer practices.  Every muscle in my body aches, and I have to force myself to flex my limbs.  We should have stretched yesterday.  I should have stretched before we went into the arena and also in the evening.  Something to keep my body from aching like this.

Ilana already has breakfast started: she has opened one of the MREs and is cooking it with the flameless heater.

“I hope it’s okay that I broke one of these out,” she says.  “I just didn’t think we should have empty stomachs.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I reply as I pause and pick pine needles out of my hair.  Then I fold up the tarp and shove it back into my backpack.  “Guess we should look for other sources of food.”

Ilana plops down next to me as she watches the heater work its magic.  I’ve never had an MRE before, but the Gamemakers like to throw them in so that tributes don’t all starve and die right away.  The convenient meal pouches have a couple thousand kcal within them, so sharing between the two of us shouldn’t be a problem.  The package contains the main entrée (pasta in red sauce in this case) and several sides to go with it, like fruit, vegetables, crackers, peanut butter, and cookies.  There are also electrolyte powders to add to our water bottles.  None of the food looks appetizing because they are all pre-packaged and sometimes dehydrated, but it is food and the Gamemakers has yet to poison anything obtained from the Cornucopia, so they are quite safe to eat.

Once it’s done cooking, we split the food as evenly as possible, passing the bag of pasta back and forth between us while eating the remainder of the sides.  The last meal I had was a few bites in the waiting room before the Hunger Games began.

“Seems surreal,” I find myself saying as I think about how long ago that was.

“Hmm?” Ilana asks, mouth full.

“Just being here,” I clarify.  “It’s only been a day but it also feels like it’s been ages.”

“Yeah, I guess running for your life will do that to you,” she comments.

Our meal draws to an end, and we carefully pack up our supplies.  Anything that we can save, we do.  But everything else we carefully bury so that we aren’t carrying around trash with us.

“You know what they could give us?” Ilana asks.  And then without waiting for me to answer: “Toothbrushes.  It would be nice to brush my teeth.”

We begin walking back to the stream we found yesterday to refill our water and clean up a bit.  But by now, anyone could be there, so we proceed very carefully.  To our relief, it’s clear.  We refill our bottles and wash our hands and faces.

Then we set out to find food and supplies.

“We’ll have to stay near the stream,” Ilana says.

So will all the other tributes, I think.  But I follow Ilana as she leads me on a quest to forage for food.  As she walks, she points out certain things that I probably never would have noticed: cattails in the stream (“not really in season, though”), along with watercress and a few weird roots that she tells me are totally edible; a few winter berries further up the banks tucked into bushes; radishes more or less in plain sight though I’d never know what they were if she hadn’t pointed them out.

“Better than being in a desert,” I comment as we walk upslope and away from the stream.

“Yeah, and if we get really desperate, I think we can eat some of the bark on these trees,” she adds.

I’m hoping we won’t get really desperate.

“We need a protein source,” I say.

She pauses and taps her tongue against her lip absently while she thinks.  Then she turns to the knife I’ve tucked into my belt.  “How good are you with that?”

I shrug.  “Depends on what you need.”

“If there’s a small animal somewhere, do you think you could hit it with that?  From a distance, I mean?” she asks.

“I could give it a—”

BOOM!

Both Ilana and I wince with the sudden sound.

I remember then, this isn’t a quaint little lesson in foraging.  This is the Hunger Games, and our lives are at stake.  The cannon means that somebody is dead, and one kid’s death is a cold reminder that Ilana and I cannot let our guards down.

Ilana shudders.  “What a terrible sou—”

BOOM!

I close my eyes.  Make it stop.

Neither of us moves.  I slowly open my eyes again and look around, but we are once again alone with only the occasional sound of birds or squirrels darting between trees.

“Shall we get to collecting some food?” I suggest to break the tension.

Ilana nods.  “Yeah.  Yeah, let’s do that.”

We pick berries and store them in Ilana’s cooking pot so they don’t get crushed in her backpack.  Then we dig up a few radishes before heading down to the river where we harvest what we can reasonably find.  Part of me wants to go fishing with the line and hooks that Ilana has in her bags, but I feel so exposed on the stream’s edge.  The sound of the cannons still echo in my head.  Besides, I don’t see any fish here, at least nothing bigger than my thumb.  There must be a larger river somewhere that will have more options.

At long last, we leave the stream and push on further into the arena.  Gamemakers never want to see tributes staying still for too long.  That lowers the ratings, and if there’s something Ilana and I must do to prove our worth as potential victors and overthrow the Careers they desire to win, it’s make sure we get damned good ratings.  I know it’s futile, but I don’t care.

A squirrel darts across our path, pausing not far away to sniff the air.  It must not see us as a threat because it only skitters forward a foot or two when it hears us, then pauses and sniffs again.  Out of curiosity, just to see if I can, I take my knife out of my belt and flick it at the squirrel.  A moment later, the knife plants itself into the squirrel and topples the little creature over.

“Oh, wow,” Ilana says.  “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“This knife might have been overkill for this poor squirrel,” I say as I walk over and pick up the knife by its handle, squirrel impaled on the end.  “Not sure this will be edible.”

“I’ll take it.  It’s not pretty and will probably taste really gross by the time I’m done with it, but at least it’s food,” Ilana laughs.  I offer her the skewered squirrel and she slides it off the knife.

While I build a fire, Ilana skins the squirrel.  She hums quietly to herself as she works, making a terrible mess of the food in the process.  It doesn’t faze her.  She could be creating a work of art by the way she sits there and patiently removes the skin from the tiny body.  I have the fire going before she finishes.  It flares up, and I work to calm it down so it doesn’t burn our dinner.

“One squirrel, coming up,” she says as she grabs a long stick and skewers the squirrel.  She hands it to me, and I hold it over low heat, turning it slowly as it cooks.

“I probably could have rigged something so I wouldn’t have to hold this,” I say after several long minutes.  There doesn’t seem to be a point in doing it now, though, especially since the squirrel is so small that it cooks quickly.

Ilana divides the squirrel in half, and we eat it with berries and radishes.  All in all, it’s not a bad meal for the arena, though it’s bland and certainly leaves me wanting something more filling.  Tomorrow we will need to work on getting more food.  Maybe we’ll go back to the stream and hike until we find its source.  Fish would be nice.

As we eat, we talk lightly about things that don’t matter.  One of us will mention something about back home and the other goes with it, careful to alter any comments so that no one will doubt Ilana’s status as Lucinda’s sister.  I start to feel homesick.  Suddenly I miss school.  I miss soccer practice.  What I wouldn’t give to be at home. . . .

Ilana wipes her hands on her pants.  “I think we should cover our tracks and get out of here,” she suggests.

We gather our stuff and put out the fire only to realize that it’s pretty hard to make an area look like there was never a fire pit there to begin with.  Still, we do our best and only when the sun starts to sink in the horizon and a chill permeates the air do we finally leave and head on to find a place for the night.

Tonight’s hiding spot is similar to last night’s in that we find a little nook in a large rock.  This one, however, has a bit of an overhang which may protect us from the elements a little, depending on wind direction.  It grows so cold that I’m afraid it’ll snow overnight.  We layer extra pine boughs, needles, and leaves down on the ground with the tarp.  There’s enough room for both of us to sit on it if we huddle close to each other.  The stars begin to dot the cold, clear night sky.  Ilana points out constellations to me as they appear, naming each one that she can see between the tall trees.  Some of them I recognize, and others I’ve heard of but have never really seen for myself.

Then, suddenly, the anthem blares as the seal of Panem appears in the sky.  Ilana flinches against me and moves in closer.  Tonight there are only two faces: the District 3 male and District 12 male.  The music vanishes as abruptly as it started.

For several moments, I cling to the silence that follows.  All I can hear are the sounds of the night: an owl hooting in the distance, a few little animals scurrying through the thicket.  And Ilana’s breathing by my side.  Then, in a whisper, she continues to show me the constellations.

How must we look, the two of us huddled here together?  Is Lucinda watching us at home, wracked with grief that I have become so close to her sister’s friend?  Does she think that I had abandoned her?  A pang of guilt stabs through me, but I don’t allow it to surface.  It’s cold here, I tell myself.  If Ilana and I weren’t sitting so closely to each other, the clouds formed from our breath mingling together, we’d probably freeze to death.  Surely Lucinda must know that.  Right?

“We should get some sleep,” Ilana says.  “Is it okay if you take first watch again?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I reply.

Ilana curls up next to me, and I once again tuck the tarp and the foliage around her to make her comfortable.  Then I break into my bag and put on the gloves and cap.  It’s much colder than last night, and I hope that we’ll be able to make it through the night.

As Ilana’s breathing evens in sleep, I stare up at the sky and try to recall the constellations she pointed out to me.  But as I do so, my mind wanders once more to home.  And Lucinda.  But it’s with a jolt of concern that I realize that I don’t even really remember what Lucinda looks like anymore aside from the faintest of mental images.  I can tell you how tall she is, her eye color, her hair color . . . but I can’t really pull things together in a bright, robust picture.  We have only been apart for a little more than a week, and I am already forgetting what she looks like.  Disturbed by this, I try to recall my family members’ faces, but it’s the same.  The mental picture in my head has faded like a worn photograph.  Well, I think, I will either die—in which case it doesn’t matter if I can’t remember what they looked like—or I will live and be able to see them again.  So I really ought not worry about it.  There are far many other things to be concerned about right now.

Chapter Text

D5M, Day 002
Subject and D5F utilized this time to acquire resources.  During the day they caught one squirrel and foraged for berries and turnips.  The squirrel was gutted and roasted over a small fire.  Subject and D5F obtained water from the stream and treated with iodine tablets (item #18401).  Risks of disease from the squirrel and water decreased to 0.35% with appropriate cooking and treatment.

Subject and D5F well acquainted with each other.  Compared with the three other active alliances, the alliance of District 5 meets the qualifications of “superior level” in the Hergman-Walter Scale of Alliances with a score of 37/45.  Subject and D5F displayed bonding activities before D5M began “first watch.”

Area covered on foot:  Subject and D5F stayed within the same 5km² near the northeastern sector of the map.  Closest tribute: D12F.

Deaths, Day 002
18/24: D12M (by D2M)
17/24: D3M (by D6M)

Updated:
Health: 97%
Hydration: Adequate
Likelihood to survive until Day 5: 54%
Likelihood to reach Top 5: 19%
Likelihood to be Victor: 7%

Chapter Text

The 133^rd Hunger Games – Day Three

BOOM!

The sound of a cannon jerks me awake.  I open my eyes to a bright, chilly morning.  The third day.

I lay quietly for several seconds as I try to bring my heart beat back down.  I force my breathing to even out and my mind to slow.

“Morning,” Ilana says as I lift my head off her leg and look around.  She seems rather upbeat considering she’s been awake since she took over my shift last night and now the day’s begun with somebody’s death.  Already she has pulled off the hat and gloves I had given her when we switched places and is tucking them into my backpack.

“What’s for breakfast, chef?” I ask as I sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes.  I can still hear the cannon ringing in my ears.

“Ho-hum, let’s see,” she says as she digs through the bags.  “Looks like we have berries, radishes, and . . . I’m going to open this MRE and we’ll have the protein bar inside, okay?”

I brush the pine needles and leaves that cling to my hair and clothes.  “Sounds great.”

BOOM!

Another one.  Now I can’t pretend that everything is great this morning.

“Fourteen left,” I whisper.

Ilana remains motionless.

Three days in and ten people are dead.  Every cannon is one more step closer to home.  With fourteen left including myself and Ilana, I can’t get my hopes up.  That’s still only a 1/13 chance, and to the best of my knowledge, all of the Careers are still alive.  They’re just picking off the weakest first.  What did Solar call them?  The useless kids?

Ilana presses my breakfast into my hands, forcing me to come back to the here and now.  I mumble a thanks and slowly eat my portion of berries, radishes, and protein bar.

We walk quietly through the woods, keeping our voices low and our footsteps as silent as we can.  Ilana keeps her eye out for anything to eat, and occasionally stops when she finds something worthwhile.  Hand on my knife, I instead look for threats that might assault us at any moment.  It’s the third day, and we’re pretty damned boring.

The arena, for what it’s worth, will be the subject of art and photography for years to come.  They do that sometimes, the Capitolites.  They go on their vacation to old arenas to “experience” what it was like, and artists will flock to the places that have the most expression and artistry.  Here we are surrounded by various pine trees, firs, and junipers.  Understory trees and shrubs add diversity to the coniferous woods, interrupted only by large rounded boulders.  The ground undulates, creating rolling hills and valleys that make walking a tiring event.  But already I feel my legs growing stronger, and the elevation no longer sucks the breath from my lungs so easily.

“We can take a break over there,” I say as I point towards a small clump of tightly-knit trees.

“No, let’s keep walking,” Ilana replies.

So we keep walking.

At last we come to a river where we pause, check our surroundings, and then try our luck catching fish.  I tie the hook to the twine and the twine to a branch about the size of a fishing pole.  Ilana returns with some nasty little bug to pin to the hook.  And then we settle in to fish.

Time passes.  Ilana shifts uneasily by my side.

“We should keep moving,” she half-begs.  “You can catch another squirrel.”

“No, no, fish will be better.  I’m sure we’ll catch something,” I insist.

Her eyes dart back and forth.  “Eli, I want to keep moving.  I don’t like it here.”

I study her for a moment before heaving a sigh and pulling the line back in.  Carefully I untie the twine from the stick, remove the bug from the hook, and place our belongings back in the bag.  Ilana says nothing as we continue walking.  She gives me no reason why she wants to keep moving.

But I feel it, too.  The uneasiness.  The feeling that something is going to happen, and that something won’t be good.  The viewers at home are getting restless with us, and they will want to make sure something happens very soon.  Our camping adventures weary them, and they want to see some action.

Time passes, and nothing happens.  I manage to catch another squirrel though it takes three tries before I get one.  Once again, I make the fire while Ilana guts it.  She doesn’t hum.

We have our pattern down.  No need for us to speak.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time we put out our fire and continue walking again.  The uneasiness eats away at us, and as the sun sinks lower over the horizon and threatens to dip down behind the mountain, neither of us can find words to speak.  Long spaces of silence drift between us, binding us together like a loose string that will neither let us drift apart nor draw us together.

It’s the third day in the Hunger Games, and we’re boring as hell.

We begin to search for a place to spend the night without even talking it over.  By now we work as one with no verbal consultation required.  A hollowed out log, partially worn away but still hidden by underbrush provides shelter from both the elements and watchful eyes of other tributes.  I slide the backpack off my shoulders and set it on the ground before going over to the log and clearing it out of rotting leaves and fat beetles.

The sound of crunching leaves and snapping twigs draws my attention away from my task.  At first I think it’s Ilana, but she’s kneeling next to me with a flashlight to help me see better.  I whip around and see the District 10 male digging frantically through our backpacks.  He can’t be older than fourteen, and his hands rip through our belongings, grabbing onto anything he can and shoving it into jacket.  His breath comes out in short, heavy puffs from his chapped lips.  Despite the low light, I can see the desperation on his dirt-streaked face as he shoots quick glances at us before going back to the bags.

“Hey!” I stand up and grab the knife from my belt.  It’s an empty threat.  The kid doesn’t stop.  He might as well just take the entire bag at this point.

Ilana grabs the knife from my hand and darts forward.  Anger and pain and frustration glisten in her eyes as she lunges at him and knocks him to the ground.  She stabs the knife firmly into the kid’s chest.  With effort, she wrenches the knife free and stabs again.  The kid cries out, but by the third time the knife enters his thin body, he falls limply to the ground and the cannon sounds above our heads.

I can’t move.  Instead I watch Ilana as she falls to her knees next to the boy’s lifeless body.  Her head bows, and her hair falls around her face so I can’t read her expression.  Her shoulders heave as she gasps for breath.  For several long seconds, we say nothing.  The only sounds are Ilana’s gasps and the crashing of my heart against my ribs, shaking my entire body.

Then Ilana tilts her head slightly and catches sight of the District 10 tribute.  She tries to stand up and back away but falls down.  She scrambles, kicking at the ground in her desperate escape.  Blood soaks her clothing, and dirt, leaves, and pine needles cling to the warm stains.  Bright red blood spray dots her face.  Her hands are soaked.

Now a few feet away from the body, she freezes and stares at the corpse.  The kid lay with the knife sticking up from his motionless torso, ragged wounds across his chest.  His blank face stares up at the sky, already paling in the evening light.  How many times had we seen this kid in the training center?  How many times had we passed him at survival stations or inadvertently shared a lunch table with him?  And now he was dead.  Gone.

Ilana buries her face in her arms and begins to sob, her entire body convulsing as emotion takes over.  Then she starts apologizing, blubbering out incoherent words.  The apologies turn to statements releasing her of responsibility for her actions, only to fall back into more apologies between hysterical gasps for air.

At last I can’t bear it any longer.  I crouch down near her and pull her into my arms.

“Ilana.  Hey, Ilana,” I say, trying to get her to focus on me.  I hold her tightly as I try to draw her out of her panic.  “Shhhh.”

It takes a few seconds, but she eventually begins to quiet.  Silent sobs escape her mouth.  Once she’s calm, I slowly release her.

“Hang on a second, okay.  Just one second?” I say, but she doesn’t acknowledge me as she lays limply on the ground.

I half-crouch, half-walk over to the District 10 boy’s corpse where I pull out my knife and wipe it on the ground to remove as much of the blood as I can.  Instead dirt and debris sticks to it.  I tuck it in my belt, then begin to reclaim the items the kid stole from us, carefully pulling them out of his blood-stained jacket and stuffing them back in the bags.  Then I check the kid’s pockets for any supplies.  I’m not surprised to find very little, but at least there’s an extra pair of gloves.  I carefully peel the jacket off his body.  His limbs are heavy despite his small frame, and I struggle to keep his body from flopping around as I twist his arms to free them from the jacket’s sleeves.  It disgusts me to know that I’m stealing from a dead person, but he won’t need it.  And besides, he wouldn’t be dead if he hadn’t stolen from us.

With the jacket draped over one arm, I grab the bags and sling them over my shoulder.  Ilana complies with me when I pull her to her feet, though I have to encourage her to walk.  She huddles against me as I guide her down to the river.  I help her remove her jacket and then wash the sticky blood from her skin.  It’s too cold to wash her clothing, so she’ll have to live with the blood of the kid she killed staining her clothes.  It’s a small price to pay in the arena.  Our stop at the river is brief.  I help her back into her jacket and slip the smaller of the two bags onto her shoulders.  She’s coherent enough to follow my silent instructions, and we put as much distance as we can between ourselves and the District 10 boy.

At last we come to a small cave, just big enough for both of us to huddle inside.  In all the chaos, I hadn’t noticed until we stopped how cold it is.  It should be snowing at this temperature, but all we get is a solid chill that penetrates your bones and seeps into your chest.  As exhausted as I am, I know we cannot sleep directly on the ground, so I sit Ilana down by a tree to keep watch while I gather bedding material.

Her entire body trembles with the cold by the time I return for her.  Anybody caught without shelter will freeze to death tonight, no doubt.  I hand her the gloves and hat from my bag, but she’s so out of it that she can’t make her fingers work, so I pause to help her.

The anthem blares overhead, and I look up to see tonight’s dead: District 6 female, District 9 male, and District 10 male.

I turn back around to pull the hat into place for her.  She watches the sky where the faces have faded into the stars.

“It’s part of the Hunger Games,” I tell her.  “There was nothing else you could have done.”

She sniffles.  “I could have let him go.  He didn’t need to die.”

“Yes, he did,” I tell her firmly.  “If he doesn’t die, that means we die.”

“One of us is going to have to—”

“Don’t say it,” I beg.  “I know.  We don’t have to say it.”

Neither of us will keep watch tonight.  It’s too cold for someone to sit up while the other person sleeps.  We need our body heat together.  Besides, I don’t really care right now.  If someone kills us in our sleep, they kill us in our sleep.  Exhaustion chips away at me, taking bigger chunks now that I am so close to settling in for the night.

I lead Ilana over to the outcrop.  Laying down, I crawl inside onto the itchy bedding and settle in on my side.  Ilana crawls in after me, and I pull her against me so that her back is against my chest.  Then I layer on the tarp, leaves, and finally the jacket of the District 10 kid. It’s sick, but that no longer bothers me.  We shiver for several minutes.  Ilana presses into me and I wrap my arms around her.  I fall asleep to her quiet sobs.

Chapter Text

D5M, Day 003
Subject and D5F spent the majority of the day in the same manner in which they spent the previous day.  However, at approximately 18:23:00, D10M approached both Subject and D5F to steal their supplies.  D5F terminated D10M with a knife.  Subject assisted D5F for the rest of the evening and created an adequate shelter to protect them from the weather.  It should be noted that Subject’s ability to locate and assemble shelter has improved over the course of his time in the arena.  Neither tribute kept watch overnight.

Despite tension between the alliance members prior to engagement with D10M, it appears that the interaction may have further strengthened the resolve of their partnership.  Subject’s reaction time is 0.45 seconds less than anticipated, however his emotional response to D5F’s state exceeded expectations for his tribute class. 

Deaths, Day 003
16/24: D9M (exposure)
15/24: D6F (exposure)
14/24: D10M (by D5F)

Updated:
Health: 83% (-14% due to exhaustion and decrease in core body temperature)
Hydration: Adequate
Likelihood to survive until Day 5: 58%
Likelihood to reach Top 5: 25%
Likelihood to be Victor: 8%

Chapter Text

The 133^rd Hunger Games – Day Four

It must be close to noon when I wake up, and it takes several extra minutes before I’m willing to untangle myself from Ilana.  Since I set foot in this damnable place, there haven’t been many moments in which I felt truly comfortable.  Right now, however, is one of those rare moments.  But I know that the cameras are on us here together, and I cannot do anything that will give people the wrong idea, and that includes allowing myself too much time with Ilana in my arms.

My district partner groans when I give her a small push, but eventually she rolls herself out of the cave.  I follow suit and drag out our bags, the extra jacket, and the tarp.

“Eli, about yesterday,” she begins as she kneels next to me and starts to look through the bags for breakfast.

“Hmm?” I acknowledge.  I don’t know how to tell her that she doesn’t need to talk about it if she doesn’t want to.

She draws in a deep breath.  “Thank you.  I’m sorry that I was so . . . I don’t know.”

Weak.  She’s sorry that she was weak.  Both for my sake and for her own because the last thing she needs is for people to think that she can’t do what she has to do in order to get out of the arena alive.  This time, however, I don’t know how to cheer her up or remind her that she isn’t weak because whatever words I need don’t exist.  How do you comfort someone who broke down because she killed a younger kid in a forced battle to the death?  How do you tell her that her reaction seemed pretty damned normal?

“You don’t need to apologize,” I assure her.  “That kid was taking our belongings.  At least we didn’t have to chase him down to get our stuff back.”

Her lips twitch momentarily, but she only hands me a radish and some root she found near the river.  Then she breaks out a box of chocolate peanut candy for us to share and sits down next to me.  Our breakfast is a far cry from the luxury foods we had in the Capitol, but it could be worse.  We eat quickly and clean up our belongings.  It’s time to keep moving.

We’ve only been walking about ten minutes before I stop Ilana and motion to an animal track on the ground.  She follows my gesture and hesitates.

“Looks big,” she says.

“A bear,” I tell her.  “Looks fresh.”

We walk gingerly through the forest, each step careful and well-placed so that we don’t draw more attention to ourselves.  A few minutes pass, and Ilana grabs onto my jacket.

“Eli,” she breathes.  I turn in time to see a large bear lumbering out from the shadows of a clump of trees.  It takes one heavy step and then another.  Each limb must be hundreds of pounds.  Its head is small compared to its gargantuan body, but its jaws are still large and powerful enough to snap us into pieces.  Each time it swings a paw forward and places it into the hard ground, the long nails glint in the sunlight.

It’s a muttation.  It has to be.  Bears don’t naturally grow that size.

We start to back away when the bear pauses and sniffs the air.

“What do we do?” Ilana whispers.

The only thing I know about muttations is that when they resemble a real, living animal, they often have many of the same characteristics, though exaggerated.  Sometimes the Gamemakers add attributes that don’t match the creature, such as venom in a wolf’s bite or necrotizing saliva in a butterfly.  But this aside, I know that there will likely be something about the muttation bear that retains the natural ursine qualities.

The bear sniffs again and starts to head in our direction.

Shit, I can’t remember.  Do we run or do we play dead or do we make ourselves bigger than normal and stand our ground?  It’s different for each type of bear; I remember my friend Anthony’s dad explaining this to us when we were younger.  But I can’t identify what type of bear moseys in our direction.

“Let’s just keep moving.  Slowly,” I whisper back.

We continue walking, never turning away from the bear.  But the further we go, the faster the bear walks, decreasing the distance between us.  It takes everything I can not to break into a run because I know that it would only hone in on us.  The bear pauses, sniffs again, and then continues forward to us.

“Why’s it sniffing so much?  Can it not see us?” Ilana asks quietly.

A thought clicks in my mind.  The thing that makes this muttation like a real bear.  “Our food,” I reply.  I’m already sliding the backpack off my back.  “Drop your bag.”

“What?!” Ilana demands, keeping her voice as low as she can.  But she doesn’t need to be told twice.  Leaving one’s bag behind can lead to a very quick death without the supplies one needs to get through the arena.  But better to take the chance without supplies than to be mauled to death by a giant bear.

Our backpacks clatter to the ground and the bear perks up.  He picks up speed and heads our direction.  The faster he moves, the faster we move.  We don’t even think.  Finally Ilana and I break into an all-out sprint, jumping over fallen logs and winding our way through the thick forest.  We only stop when we hear an agonizing scream echo through the forest.  It carries on for nearly a full minute, but no cannon sounds.  Ilana and I glance at each other as things fall into silence.

The bear is gone.  The bags must’ve been enough distraction, at least for us.  The screams have faded, but the fear that something lurks just beyond the nearest trees grasps me.  At any moment, the bear could return.  But it doesn’t.  A few birds chirp in the distance, and a breeze rustles leaves above our head.  Everything has returned to normal.

“Should we go back for our things?” she asks me after several quiet minutes pass.

“I will.  You stay here,” I tell her.  We may not have much left in the way of supplies, if anything.  But it’s worth a shot to look at least.

“No, I’ll go with you,” she says, stepping after me.

I shake my head.  “I’m a faster runner, remember?”

“Doesn’t matter when it’s a bear like that chasing after you,” she says darkly.

I grin.  “Maybe I should take you with me.  Then all I have to do is be faster than you.”

“Eli, you’re such an asshole,” she says, and then she gives me a light punch in the arm.

Ilana stays behind as I creep forward, following the same path we took.  It’s not hard; we didn’t make any effort to try to conceal our tracks, and the trail of broken branches and shuffled footsteps in forest debris makes it easy enough to find where we came from.

Our bags lay strewn across the ground.  One of them has been ripped to shreds, its contents scattered about.  The other remains intact, but it’s completely emptied.  All our belongings have been rifled through, and not a single scrap of food remains.  I crouch in the bushes and wait to see if the bear returns.  When it doesn’t, I keep low and head for the bags.  Quickly I gather everything salvageable into the one good back and then throw it on my back.

“What happened to the other bag?” Ilana asks me when I return.

“The bear destroyed it.  Took all our food,” I answer.

She exhales.  “So you were right.  It just wanted our food.”

I shrug off the bag and set it on the ground between us.  “It’s really heavy with everything inside.  We need to figure out what we want to keep and what we should discard.”

For the next several minutes, we go through the bag.  Of the items we have, we’ve pretty much used them all for one purpose or another, which makes discarding anything challenging.

“It might be a good idea to keep some items on ourselves,” I say.  So we each slip a few iodine tablets in our pockets.  I take the extra jacket and put a few of the lighter items inside it.  Then I fashion it into sort of sling for whoever isn’t carrying the backpack to wear.  Ilana insists on carrying the bag, so I attach the sling to myself.

As we walk, Ilana once again starts searching for food.  We stop by a berry bush to harvest another pot of berries, and we eat them as we continue walking.  Things start to shift back to our arena-normal.  We are alone except for the birds and squirrels and trees around us.  We survived a muttation bear encounter, and that is reason alone for the Gamemakers to spare us for a few more hours.  Still, I keep my hand on my knife and watch through the woods as Ilana rummages around for anything edible in the forest floor.

We’re considering stopping for lunch when we hear the BOOM! of the cannon.  Ilana grabs my arm and we pause as the echo fades into the sky.  Another kid dead.  Another step closer to home.  Neither of us feels comfortable sitting down to eat after that, so we continue moving at a steady pace.  It’s only a moment later before we come across the dismembered corpse of the District 12 female.  The limbs have been completely removed from the torso and the head is a good several yards away.  Blood soaks the forest floor.

Ilana covers her mouth with her hand.  I stare at the body strewn around the small clearing wondering what on this planet could have done this.  Or who. . . .

“Bear?” Ilana asks weakly.

I step closer to the scattered body parts despite the revulsion that takes hold of me.  I wish desperately to see the jagged marks of sharp claws and gashes of teeth.  But to my horror, whatever sliced through the girl’s body had been relatively sharp.  It’s no work of an animal, muttation or not.

“No,” I shake my head, eyes still on the corpse pieces.  “It’s a clean cut—some sort of weapon.”

“A knife?  A really big knife. . . .” Ilana grimaces.

I feel sick.  This is . . . this is not murder.  This is torture.  This goes beyond what the Capitol wants to see in its Hunger Games.  But I know that’s not true.  The Capitol loves its bloodshed and will eagerly watch as district kids are ripped apart or hacked to pieces.  My body begins to shake, and I know we need to get out of here.

“C’mon, let’s go,” I nudge her.  She doesn’t need more prompting.  The two of us stagger away from the grisly sight to allow the hovercraft to pick up the body.

Some family will get their child returned to them in pieces.  Not one piece, as they should, but several fragments of what used to be a human being neatly packaged in a wooden box.

My stomach churns at the thought, and I stop to lean against a tree and vomit up my breakfast.  My hand presses against the rough bark, and I force myself to concentrate on the way it digs into my palm.  I fight the nausea, but I vomit again, this time bringing up only liquid.

I close my eyes.  I don’t want to think about what I just witnessed, but I can’t scrub it from my mind.  Even worse, I know, is that the time between when the cannon fired and when we found the body was not long enough to dismember a corpse.  I don’t bother to fight the tears that spill out onto my cheeks.

Is that what they want in their victor?  Somebody so completely fucked up that they would be willing to hack a girl to pieces while she was still alive and listen to her screams and watch her bleed out before their eyes?  Is that why Ilana and I will die, too?  So that the Capitol can have this sick person paraded as the paradigm for all future tributes?

“Eli, we need to keep moving,” Ilana says.  She touches my shoulder.

I nod, and I let her lead me as far away from that sight as we can go.

A concerning sensation prickles my skin.  We’re being watched, I’m sure of it.  I don’t know what tips me off at first, but once the idea latches into my head, I can’t let it go.  From somewhere behind us, I hear a twig crack.  I feel eyes on me, boring into me.  But whenever I turn around, there’s no one there.

I’m losing my mind, I realize.  I’m going insane.  I press my lips tightly together and say nothing to Ilana.

That night, Ilana and I curl up in our nest and try to sleep.  Once again, it’s too cold to keep watch, and I’m too weary to even pretend.  Maybe I’ll regret not being more careful, but right now I don’t care.  I bury my face in Ilana’s hair and squeeze my eyes shut, but despite the exhaustion, I can’t fall asleep.  How cruel is it that I can no longer remember the faces of my own family and yet the image of the District 12 girl’s remains are seared into my mind’s eye?  I hold Ilana tighter.  She murmurs something I don’t hear, rolls over in my embrace and moves in closer.

Chapter Text

D5M, Day 004
Subject and D5F travelled approximately 7 km on Day 004 and are located at N10°E from the Cornucopia.  At 10:15:43, Subject noted tracks belonging to Ursus gigantus, genetically-modified hybrid #1103.  Shortly afterwards, D5F noticed #1103 10.5 meters from their current position.  Subject assessed the situation and both Subject and D5F removed their personal items on Subject’s prompting.  This tactic allowed successful escape from #1103.

At 13:10:32, the alliance came across the dismembered body of D12F.  Reactions were predictable.  Subject and D5F continued travelling until nightfall. However, it is likely that Subject understood that they were being followed.  He did not share this information with D5F.  Analysis concludes that he did not believe this information to be noteworthy for inconclusive reasons.

Deaths, Day 004
13/24: D12F (by D1F and D1M)

Updated:
Health: 80% (-3% due to emesis)
Hydration: Below adequate
Likelihood to survive until Day 5: 100%
Likelihood to reach Top 5: 26%
Likelihood to be Victor: 8%

Chapter Text

The 133^rd Hunger Games – Day Five

At what point do we admit that we’re not okay?  At what point is it alright to just break down and cry?  The sun rises, and yellow-orange rays twinkle in the morning frost.  Cold, crisp air is fresh and sharp as I inhale.  But I’m not okay.

I’m exhausted.  I’m scared.  Every thought chills me in a way that no temperature can ever hope to achieve.  Every hair on my body picks up the little movements of the world around me, alerting me to fictitious dangers.  To be so alert for many days at a time with no hope of relaxation is too much, and I yearn to be free from it all.  But there are only two ways for that freedom to occur, and one of them is something that I’m not keen on accepting.  I know that it is inevitable, but I’m not ready yet.  I won’t give in.

I hold Ilana tighter against me.  At this point, I don’t care if people at home think I’m a disgusting jerk.  Let them think what they want.  I don’t care if it means I lose all my sponsors.  My lips lightly brush the top of her head as she sleeps, and I yearn to kiss her again, but I know it’ll be going too far.  I don’t care about romance.  Fuck romance.  I just want to feel something close to normal again.

“Eli?” she asks, wiggling in my arms so she can look up at me.  “How’re you doing?”

I find that I can’t even give her some half-assed response.  It’s like someone siphoned my soul out of my body and I can’t be arsed to fight to get it back.

Ilana’s eyes have deep, dark circles under them.  She’s thinner, her face a little narrower.  Neither of us ate well yesterday, and since the Hunger Games began, our meals haven’t been that hearty to begin with.

“We need food,” is all I say.

She nods.  And we at last force ourselves up and out of our bed of leaves and sticks.

Ilana and I spend an hour or so setting traps for small game.  Or, rather, Ilana does the majority of the work while I keep an eye out.  Between the two of us, we only have one knife, and never before has it seemed so inadequate.  Ilana’s fingers work quickly as she weaves together bits of twine and pliable boughs from the trees, but oftentimes she has to backtrack.  It’s a long and tedious process.

“We might have more luck fishing,” she says as she sits back on her heels and looks at the most recent trap.

I help her to her feet.  “I’ll keep an eye out for any squirrels or rabbits or whatever.”  Whatever.  I’m done.  My brain can’t think straight and I almost don’t care anymore.  We meander away and sit down at the bank of the river where we have our umpteenth meal of radishes and berries.

After we finish, Ilana excuses herself for a moment, leaving me alone with my thoughts.  The gurgling river keeps me company, and I watch as it splutters and splashes against the smooth rocks that stick up along its shallow bottom.

I want to cry.  As I sit here and watch the water go by, I beg myself to let the tears fall so that I can be free of some of the stress and anger and fear that has come to fill up the hollow cavity of my body.  But instead I only watch the water rush over the rocks, and every bit of my mind is yanked and twisted and snarled against itself as it calls every bird song, every twig snap, every leaf rustle to my attention as a potential and imminent danger.

“What I wouldn’t give to shit in a toilet again,” Ilana grumbles as she walks over towards me.  She pauses for a second, then says, “C’mon, Eli, we can’t wait here very long.”

Does she know what I know?  Does she know that we are being followed?  Or has that notion weaseled its way into my head as a paranoid thought that has no basis of rationality?  It’s hard to tell out here where everything points in the directly of one’s ultimate death.

We continue walking.  I show Ilana how to hold the knife and throw it so that she can catch game, too.  I become aware that I am explaining this to her because I realize subconsciously that I’ll die and leave her behind.  She needs to have a fighting chance if I get killed first.  She listens patiently and holds the knife as I instruct, but she doesn’t kill anything after a couple of attempts.  I manage to kill two squirrels, an absolute feast for us.  The momentary distraction as the knife goes into the small animals’ bodies provides me with a bit of relief from the uncertainty and fear that plagues me.  But the moment I gather up the corpse and pull the knife from the bodies, I once again plunge into a deep weariness that grinds against my bones.

As we approach one of our traps, the sound of whimpering greets us.  I perk up, but only until I realize that it’s not an animal but a human.  We inch closer, careful not to step on any twigs or leaves that would alert the person to our presence.  I push back a branch and peer into the clearing where the game trap had been laid out.  There sits a grimy girl about sixteen years old.  She claws frantically at her leg where the twine has wrapped itself tightly and cuts into her skin.  Every few seconds she splutters and sniffles.  The more she struggles, the more the trap tightens on her.

The moment she realizes that we’re there, she becomes even more frantic, and she begins to blubber out sobs and pleas for mercy.

“Please!  I can’t—please don’t—I—I—don’t kill me!” Tears stream down her face, leaving trails on her dirty cheeks.  Snot bubbles from her nose.  Her lips tremble and terror-filled eyes plead with us with such desperation that her words are not even necessary.  Her clothes are disheveled and her hair knotted and matted.  Several large scratches in various stages of healing cover her skin, her jacket nowhere to be found.  Despite all this, I recognize her as the District 7 girl.

“Elijah.” Ilana nudges me.

I tear my eyes away long enough to glance at my district partner.  She motions to the knife in my hand.

For several long, stupid seconds I try to process what Ilana is telling me.  I know I have a knife, and I know that the District 7 girl will die, but I can’t connect one thought to the other.  It’s humiliating once it sinks in that I am expected to kill her—not because it has taken me so long but because I realize that I cannot bring myself to do it.

Death surrounds me.  Killing is inevitable.  At some point, I’ll have to kill someone to survive.  But that’s in the future—a distant thing that will eventually take place.  That’s not right here and now with some girl caught in a poorly-made trap who can’t even defend herself.  The knife shakes in my hand.

“Kill her, Eli!” Ilana hisses.

The words jolt me with disgust and fear and hatred.  How could the girl I had spent the past week with suddenly spew forth such venom?  Had I not held her as she cried herself asleep when she had killed a tribute two nights ago?  My fingers twitch on the blade in my hand, and in some distant realm, the District 7 girl’s pleading needles into my brain.

“I-I can’t,” I say at last.  I don’t care about my pride.  I don’t care about looking foolish or stupid or weak.  I don’t care about losing sponsorships.  All I care about is that somebody else has placed me in such a cowardly position in which I have to choose between life and death for a younger girl who cannot even defend herself.  The fear twists and groans within me, sloshing around into acidic disgust.  I thrust the knife into Ilana’s hand.  “You do it.”

Ilana looks at me firmly.  I can’t read her expression—or perhaps I don’t want to.  She takes the knife in her hands and steps towards the girl.  Kneeling down into a crouch, she lifts the knife up to the girl’s neck.

The District 7 girl sobs, but she no longer has words to plead for her life.  Ilana’s hands shake.  For several moments, the two of them balance between worlds, only inches apart from each other.  The strong sent of urine permeates the air; the girl’s sobs no longer produce tears.

Ilana stands up suddenly and slaps the knife back in my hand.  Her eyes, hard and frightened, hold mine for the briefest of moments.  She takes several steps away, and it is my turn to kneel by the girl.  But this time, I use the knife to work the knots loose.

“Get out of here,” I order quietly.  “We’re not all animals yet.”

The District 7 girl hesitates for a moment, sobs frozen.  Then she jumps up, wriggles herself free of the remaining twine, and takes off running.  She leaves behind her thin, worn bag.

I stand up and face Ilana, and the two of us stare silently at each other.  We can’t do it.  We can’t get out of the arena alive, neither of us, if we can’t do that which is the most basic function of the Hunger Games: kill.

Less than a minute later as we grab the girl’s bag and begin to leave the clearing, we hear the boom of a cannon.  I shudder.  The sound echoes in my ears.

Ilana and I trudge onward.

We eventually stop, make a fire, and cook the squirrels.  We should be happy in our small feast, but neither of us speaks.  We eat like we are merely machines designed to rhythmically gnash food with our teeth and swallow what remains.  At last we grab our bags, put out the fire, and carry onward.

The night becomes colder than ever, and we once more find shelter.  This is our existence every day: food, shelter, fear.  That’s all.  Over and over and over again.

The anthem’s short tonight, and I almost ignore it entirely.  But as I turn my face upward and stare at the image projected into the sky, a burst of fear jolts me.  Today, the District 7 girl died, mere minutes after we freed her from the trap.  My suspicions have been confirmed.  Somebody is following us.  Yet neither Ilana nor I bother keeping watch.  Again, it’s too cold.  I doubt anybody would be wandering around when it’s freezing out, even if not a single flake of snow drifts down from the sky.  And what would happen if somebody found us anyhow?  Would they just slit us open and find that we are nothing but shells, our insides hollow and rotten?

At first Ilana and I lay there, close together but separated by the silence that has haunted us since this afternoon.  But I’m too exhausted to care about that.  I move closer to her, and she nestles into my arms.

This is all that exists now.  The world, my family, my girlfriend, my friends . . . they are stories told to children.  Stories of magic and peace and happiness.  Stories told to distract from a world of loneliness and fear.  They don’t matter.  All that matters is what I have.  Ilana lays against me, her eyes closed.  I kiss her on the forehead.  She gives a little contented noise and moves closer.

Chapter Text

D5M, Day 005
Subject and D5F set three traps of varying complexity in their immediate area.  Two of the three traps failed to work when activated by squirrels.  The third trap ensnared D7F, though it failed to do more than temporarily bind her with twine.  This, however, allowed Subject and his ally time to find her.

When presented with an opportunity for a confined kill, neither Subject nor D5F was able to terminate D7F.  Empathy levels proved to be too high to follow through with the kill.  As a result, Subject freed D7F.  However, D7F was terminated shortly thereafter by D2M.

Questions about Subject’s closeness with D5F arise, as they appear to be displaying a more deepened bond than commonly observed between allies within the arena.  [Redacted] suggested that there might be attraction between the two stemming from their common history.  Regardless, though the incident with D7F initially appeared to strain their alliance, their behavior indicates that their alliance may in fact be strengthened.  The alliance of District 5 exceeds the qualifications of “superior level” in the Hergman-Walter Scale of Alliances with a score of 41/45.

Deaths, Day 005
12/24: D7F (by D2M)
11/24: D3F (by D4M)

Updated:
Health: 90%
Hydration: Adequate
Likelihood to survive until Day 8: 54%
Likelihood to reach Top 5: 22%
Likelihood to be Victor: 7%

Chapter Text

The 133^rd Hunger Games – Day Six

The cold dwindles slightly as the sun appears between the trees, and I force my eyes open as Ilana pushes herself up and out of my arms.  She gives me a small smile.  Despite the dirt on her cheeks and the knots in her hair, she’s beautiful as always.

“Come here,” I say to her.

She furrows her brow.  We’re not supposed to show any hint of interest in each other, so I know this confuses her.

“I want to talk with you,” I insist.

So she lays back down and nestles in against me again.  I’ll take this opportunity to hold her once more, but it wasn’t a trick.  I really do want to talk with her without worrying that anyone in the arena will overhear.

“I think we’re being followed,” I whisper.  My fingers brush away her hair and tuck the wild strands behind her ear.  Her body tenses in my arms.  “The other day, I thought I was being paranoid, like I was going insane.  But now, yesterday with the District 7 girl . . . she died within a minute of when she ran away.”

“Why would somebody follow us?” Ilana whispers back.  “It might’ve just been coincidence.”

For that, I have no answer.  Why would someone stalk us?  I think of the District 10 boy who rushed in and grabbed our supplies a few days ago and wondered if another tribute could be waiting for the right time to take our supplies.  Certainly it couldn’t be a Career because they would have easily overpowered us and killed us.

“Who’s left?” I ask her.

Ilana thinks about it for a moment, tallying the remaining tributes: “Both from Districts 1, 2, and 4; you and me; the District 6 male; and the District 9 female.”

“Ten remaining,” I say.  After all this time, after all the struggle and pain that seemed like eternity, there were still ten tributes alive.  Nine of them would have to die for—I cut myself off.  In order for Ilana or I to make it, the other would have to die.  I can’t bear to think about it. 

“Oh! Wait!  Someone died this morning,” Ilana remembers.  “You slept through the cannon.  Sorry!”

I blink.  “How did I sleep through the cannon?”

She shrugs.  “You were really out of it.  Like really out of it.  Do you know how heavy your arm is when you’re asleep?  I had to pee so badly but couldn’t move.”

I had really slept through a cannon?  Hell.  Damned good thing that nobody came across us in our sleep because we’d be very easy targets.

“Who do you think would be stalking us?” Ilana asks me.  She repositions herself so she can see me better.

“I don’t know,” I say.  “But I just . . . there are sounds that I hear, and then I turn around and can’t see anybody.  But I feel someone staring at me.”

“Eli. . . .” Ilana reaches over and strokes my cheek.  “This is really stressful, I know, and. . . .”

“I swear, Ilana,” I say, a little louder than I want.  I take a deep breath and drop my voice back down.  If there is someone out there stalking us, I don’t want them to overhear our conversation.  All of Panem outside of the arena will be included in on our private discussion, but we can’t let in anyone from inside the arena.  “The District 7 girl died moments after we released her.  There had to be someone right there.”

She studies my face for several seconds.  “Alright, Eli,” she concedes.  “We’ll proceed with caution.”

“I want to leave this place,” I say.  “Put as much distance between ourselves and whoever else is out here as we can.”

“Okay,” she agrees.

It’s time for us to move, but we remain motionless for another minute.  I’m not ready to face the day yet.  But time doesn’t wait for me, and neither will whoever is out there waiting to kill us.

“Let’s eat breakfast before we go,” Ilana says.  She reluctantly untangles herself from my arms and crawls out of our little bed.  I follow after her and grab the tarp and extra jacket.  There wasn’t much in the District 7 girl’s bag, but there were a few scraps of jerky and some pain pills.  We eat the jerky for breakfast along with more berries and radishes, and each of us takes a few pain pills and slips them in our pockets.  The extra jacket goes into the bag, which I give to Ilana.  I shoulder the other backpack, the one that has been with us since the beginning.

Our breakfast was intentionally brief; both of us want to clear out of here.  So we begin walking quickly, trying to put as much distance between ourselves and our stalker as we can.  I know Ilana doesn’t fully believe me, but even still she doesn’t dawdle.

“How much of the arena do you think we’ve covered?” Ilana asks as we walk.  Our legs move so quickly that it’s almost hard to talk, and her words come out in between light pants of breath.

It all looks the same to me.  Trees, rocks, hills . . . it’s like we’ve been in the same few acres this entire time.  But we haven’t; it’s just that the arena we’ve seen so far is pretty monotonous.  Maybe out there is some great chunk of the arena we haven’t yet explored.

“A few square miles?” I suggest.  “I really don’t know.”

But we’re going into new area now.  The hills become steeper, the valleys narrower.  It takes effort to move across the terrain, and we certainly won’t lose anyone pursuing us at this pace.  We carefully step over exposed roots and navigate down slick slopes, placing our footing carefully.  My stylist was right: these are great boots.  Wearing these, I can gain traction on almost any surface.

Pushing through low-hanging branches and navigating around large boulders, the hike takes a physical toll.  My lungs ache with the exertion, and I don’t think I can keep this up for much longer.

“We should take a break,” I suggest to Ilana.

She pauses for a moment.  “I just feel like if someone was pursuing us, we haven’t lost them.”

“Yeah, well, they’re probably just as worn out as we are.”

So we take a break, but only a brief one to rehydrate.  A half-gallon each won’t get us very far, even if the weather remains cold; we’ll need to find another water source.

Then we’re moving again.  Up and down hills.  It wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t so exhausted.  It’s been six days in the arena, and every day has made me wearier and wearier.

Ilana and I pause at the top of a hill before trying to traverse down the steep slope.  We walk at an angle, going sideways to keep from slipping right into the ravine.  We should just stick in a valley, I think, or at the top of a hill.  At least until the land begins to level out more.  Right now, though, we’ve already committed to climbing down this hill.  Ilana and I keep at roughly even pace as we walk.

Suddenly, the ground gives out underneath us as we step onto a loose chunk of dirt.  I stick my hands out, reaching for anything that will keep me from tumbling down the hill.  My fingers dig into the dirt.  I fall to the ground and begin to slide.  Sticks, branches, and small stones snag at me in passing, scratching my face and hands.  At last I manage to dig the heel of my boot into the solid earth and keep from rolling all the way to the bottom of the hill.  When I come to a stop, I catch my breath before turning and looking for Ilana.  She lies not too far away towards the trough of the small valley.

“Hey, Ilana, are you—”

Boom!

The sound reverberates within me, shaking and echoing around my chest, causing my body to tremble before I understand what it means.  For several seconds, I allow myself to exist in naivety.  I push myself to my feet and half-stagger, half-fall the remaining distance until I am at Ilana’s side.  My heart beats against my ribs and my hands shake as I reach out for her.  We hadn’t fallen far.  It’s just a small hill.

“Ilana, are you okay?” I ask.  I kneel by her side and grasp onto her shoulder.

My chest tightens as I look down on her.  She doesn’t move.  Doesn’t breathe.  Her body is still warm as though she’s only holding her breath and at any moment she will start breathing again.  Her eyes stare up beyond me like she’s searching for the stars she loved to point out to me in our lonely nights together.  Or maybe she’s watching the way the clouds drift through the clear blue sky above the very tops of the trees.  I search desperately for the gleam of excitement in her brown eyes, hoping that I have vastly misjudged the situation.

But no, her eyes are empty.

Cold.

Flat.

Dead.

This is it.  This is what I have been dreading for the past six days.  And just like that, she’s. . . .

I reach over and gently stroke her dirt-stained cheek.  Brushing away a few leaves clinging to her temple, I search across her face.  I don’t know what I’m looking for, but whatever it is, I don’t find it here.  Ilana is gone.  The lovely girl with whom I shared the last two weeks exists no more.  She will never again sit by my side and point out the constellations.  She’ll never tease me about things that don’t matter just to make me smile.  She will never feel the breeze against her skin or hear the rustling of the trees around us.

I want to say that she died peacefully, or that her death means something at least.  I can’t.  It’s not true.  Ilana died fighting for her life, placed in a situation that was beyond her control.  She was nothing but a pawn in an involuntary game, and her life was taken for no real purpose.  There is nothing beautiful or noble about her death.

They’ll say that she wasn’t strong.  They’ll say that she died because she was too weak.

Who cares about strength?  Is that how we define ourselves and place value in life?  Did they not see what a genuinely good human Ilana was?  Did they not see the tenderness and enthusiasm with which she approached life?

I brush her hair behind her ears and stare at her blank expression.  Carefully my hands adjust the collar of her jacket to hide the unnatural angle at which her neck is bent.

It hits me then.  Ilana is not coming back.

I grab her in my arms and bury my face into her body.  This can’t be real.  She can’t be dead.

A seething hot sensation wraps itself around my organs and slithers between my lungs.  It clings to my insides and squeezes.  Harder and harder.  Everything within me aches with greater and greater intensity.  I feel myself being ripped apart from the inside out, and I am powerless to stop it.  I will the tears to fall, for the dam to break within me and release the emotion inside.  But nothing comes.  I am alone, a prisoner of my own pain.

Evening comes.  I don’t know where I am.  I’ve staggered so far through the forest, putting distance between myself and . . . that hill.  Ilana is . . . not with me.  I feel her here, though, like a ghost right beside me.  A ghost whose presence I can sense, but the moment I turn around to see vanishes into the shadows.  Several times now I have started to say something to her only to remember that she is not here.

Ilana is dead.

I huddle alone at the gnarled roots of a tree with the extra jacket wrapped around me and watch the anthem light up the cold, starry sky.  The sudden appearance of her face—confident, calm, alive—triggers an agglomeration of emotions and thoughts and fears that I can’t put into words but all need to flood out of me at that moment.  I begin to sob.  My body shakes as the tears pour out of me.

Ilana, you proved them all wrong.  You are strong.  You are stronger than me.

I don’t stop crying until everything has left me, and I am nothing but a hollow wisp.

Chapter Text

D5M, Day 006
Subject and D5F travelled 5km southeast.  Bad footing led to an accident in which both Subject and D5F fell down a hill with dip of 34 degrees.  Subject sustained several minor but unremarkable lacerations and contusions.  D5F snapped her neck and was instantly eliminated, thus ending the District 5 alliance.  At its peak shortly before the breakage of the alliance, the District 5 alliance reached 43/45 on the Herman-Walter Scale of Alliances.

Subject was greatly distraught by this occurrence.  After the anthem, he spent several hours in acute distress before losing consciousness at 23:05:51.

Deaths, Day 006
10/24: D1F (by exposure)
09/24: D5F (accident)

Updated:
Health: 70% (-20% due to exposure)
Hydration: Adequate
Likelihood to survive until Day 8: 52%
Likelihood to reach Top 5: 25%
Likelihood to be Victor: 15%

Chapter Text

The 133^rd Hunger Games – Day Seven

This is the Hunger Games.

I should have expected nothing less.

But as I sit at the bank of the river and stare in the gurgling water, no words or thoughts comfort me.  Nothing I tell myself will ever be able to lessen the intensity of the sorrow that fills me now.  It’s a thick concrete that immobilizes my body, yet somehow my heart keeps beating.

Seven days have passed since I stepped foot into the arena.  Seven grueling days of weariness and bloodshed.  When I had Ilana by my side, there was some relief in it.  Her smile.  Her teasing.  Her prodding to keep moving and keep going.  Now I no longer have that, and I am forced to confront the fact that I may not be strong enough to do this at all.

But I will.

And if I don’t, then at least I will be with Ilana if she is anywhere at all.

In the arena, you don’t get to mourn.  I know that.  And I know that the Capitol will have little appreciation if I take an entire day to sit on the riverbank and contemplate life and death.  So I assess my supplies, check to make sure my knife is in my belt, and continue onward.

The silence of the woods unnerves me as I travel on alone.  I hear only my own footsteps.  I keep pausing like I’m waiting for Ilana to catch up, only to find nobody else behind me.  At any moment, I’ll hear her chatter, but then there’s nothing.  As the day passes, I begin to grow used to it, and that bothers me even more.  Am I forgetting Ilana already?

I draw in a deep breath and instruct myself to keep focused.  To not beat myself up over this, no matter how much it hurts.

The mid-morning sun climbs higher in the sky, but it doesn’t eliminate the ever-pervasive cold of the arena.  I push through the forest with no clear destination.  All I know is that I need to move my weary body forward, always forward.  My legs ache.  My head starts to throb, and I force myself to drink water.  Without someone here with me, I find it difficult to remember to take care of myself, as stupid as that sounds.

At last I find myself at the edge of a small clearing.  In the center of the clearing stands a wooden shack, only about fifteen feet by twenty feet or so.  Maybe a room or two.  And maybe with a bed.  Food?  Something?

I reach out and steady myself on the nearest tree.  No way can I just go barging into a building in the middle of the arena.  Either it’s filled with traps or someone has already claimed it as their own.  The irrational part of myself objects.  If there are food and resources, it would be worth the risk.

Suddenly there’s a movement behind me.  Before I can turn around and see, I feel a cold, sharp object pressed against my throat.

“Not very observant, are you?” comes the gritty and devilish voice of the District 2 male.  He laughs, his warm breath on my ear.  “You’re a pretty hard one to catch, honestly.  Thought you’d put up more of a fight.”

I grit my teeth together, unable to move with the blade against my skin.  Anger.  Fear.  What have I done?  My heart thumps, and I feel the blood rushing through my body.  There’s no time to berate myself.  Right now I need to figure out a way to get out of this situation.  Right now.  Because all it will take is one quick motion of that knife and I’ll be dead.

Instead of drawing the blade across my neck, the District 2 tribute elbows me in the back, pushing me forward.  I stagger, but he has a good grasp of my arm now and keeps me from falling over.

“Inside,” he hisses.  I walk as he instructs while knowing that whatever he has planned for me will mean my death.

Slowly I reach for my own knife in my belt.  My fingers slip around the handle.  In one motion, I withdraw the blade and stab it into his thigh.

The District 2 male howls and the knife in his hand pulls away from my neck.  Releasing my hold on my own knife, I scramble away from him.  I lose my weapon, but that’s the least of my problems right now.  Gaining traction on the ground, I start to run, only to feel a searing pain in my calf.  I stumble and fall to the ground.

“Really, Grant, you’re losing your touch.”  The District 4 girl stands across the clearing, a bow in her hands.  And the arrow juts up from my left leg.

I fight through the pain and start to clamber to my feet again, only to hear the girl say, “Ugh, don’t make me use another one on you.”

The District 2 male covers the short distance between us and knocks me back to the ground.  I land hard on my side, his weight on top of me.  Once more his knife goes to my throat.

“Why don’t you come inside and we’ll have a nice little chat,” he says to me.

I spit in his face as an answer.

He punches me so hard that my vision begins to fade.  I focus on the pain spreading across my face and try to draw myself back to the present.  I feel myself moving across the thin ground against my will.  Leaves and sticks grate against my body.  Somebody has me by my leg and is pulling me in short bursts, a couple feet at a time.  Then somebody else grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet.  Dizziness seizes me, and I almost black out, but the hands grasping my body force me inside the shack.  There they sit me in the chair and begin to tie me in with thick rope.  Slowly the dizziness subsides and my vision begins to return.

The Careers have made this place their home base.  Belongings ranging from backpacks and bags to shoes and jackets to weaponry of all sorts lay scattered about the dusty wooden floorboards.  The bed in the corner of the room is rumpled and the handstitched quilt piled up and askew.  A fire roars in the fireplace with a large pile of wood stacked to the side.  Somebody had been making food; soup stains the inside of a cooking pot.  Whatever has needed to be discarded they merely threw on the floor for someone else to deal with: food wrappers, blood-stained items of clothing, unwanted weaponry.  They value nothing.  The entire place reeks of arrogance.

The District 2 male tosses my backpack and my knife onto a table underneath the window.

“What do we have here?” comes the voice of the District 2 girl as she walks into the room.  She’s tall and well-muscled, but unlike her brutish district partner, she has an air of intelligence.  I don’t know what her motives were for volunteering, but her tactic is far less chaotic.  Even this far into the Hunger Games, she’s in control of herself.  Her red hair is clean and drawn into a ponytail.  No dirt or blood soils her skin.  Contrast this to her district partner who wears somebody’s blood on his shirt and likely hasn’t washed his hands since he stepped foot in the arena.

The girl pauses and looks curiously at me for a second, then heads over to my bag.  She begins rifling through it, pulling out the extra jacket and setting it aside to see what else the bag contains.  “Anything good?”

I grit my teeth and bite back the urge to tell her to stay away from my belongings.  Ilana’s belongings.  The things we shared together.  But they’re only things, I remind myself as I force my eyes to the floor so that I don’t have to see her shuffling through the bag.

She lets out a cry of excitement.

“What’s that, Athena?” the District 2 male, Grant, asks.  He walks over to her, the floorboards groaning under his weight.  Without waiting for his district partner to reply, he snatches the flask of alcohol out of her hands.

“That’s mine,” Athena protests, reaching over and taking it back.  Grant glares at her.  She smiles sweetly at him.  “Maybe I’ll share.  If you’re nice.”

“Or maybe I’ll kill you for it,” Grant says with mock politeness.

Athena keeps smiling at him.  But when he turns to the bag and begins to go through it, her smile flickers.

The others begin to come in now.  The District 1 male, the District 4 tributes, and, weirdly enough, the male from District 6.  The District 4 male bears serious wounds.  Deep lacerations run across his body.  His face is scarred by twisted, torn flesh.  One arm, pulled up in a sling, bleeds through a thick bandage.  Perspiration beads on his pale face.

The bear, I realize.  He’s the one who the bear attacked.  It was his screams we heard.

The District 4 girl starts to bandage the wound on the District 2 male’s leg where I stabbed him.  She chides him for being so careless.

“What's going on here?” the District 1 male asks as he walks towards me.

“Just Grant’s catch of the day,” the District 4 girl says with an eye roll.  Grant grimaces as she tightens the bandage around his leg.

The six tributes gather around me.  They stare at me with hungry, eager eyes.  I brace myself for the inevitable blow.  I don’t care which one delivers it.  Does it matter?

And yet, I desperately wish there’s a way out.  Something to pull me from this situation.  Some deus ex machina. I’m not ready to die yet.

But instead of drawing out a weapon, Grant leans back against the table and looks at me, a smile on his lips.

“I have a proposition,” he says.  The others turn away from me to listen.  For whatever reason, this guy is the one they chose to be their leader.  And by the way he carries himself as he addresses them, I doubt he would have it any other way.  “Whoever has the most total kills by the time the anthem plays gets to kill this one.”

My eyes widen as it sinks in what he’s saying.  He is not going to kill me right now.  Oh, I’ll die alright.  But they will draw out my death and make a game of it.  They will embrace the spirit of the Hunger Games and ensure that the Capitol audience gets a good show.  My stomach churns and I shift uneasily against the ropes that bind me to the hard wooden chair, wincing from a sudden surge of pain from the arrow in my calf.

Athena laughs.  “Yeah, you’re on,” she says.  “Might as well make this fun, right?”

By her side the District 4 female rolls her eyes at Grant.  “You have the most kills.  There’s only the District 9 girl left besides him—” she gestures to me “—so what sort of game is that?  Shouldn’t the person with the least kills get to kill District 5?”

“You’re only saying that because you’ve only killed on tribute,” says Athena.  “I say we keep it as Grant says.”

The District 2 male stares smugly at the District 4 female.

This is so disgusting.  I stare at the floorboards, no longer able to look at these beasts of humans.  They desire nothing but to satisfy their own inhuman urges.  How they play with our lives so easily!  Fear seeps through me, and I struggle to keep steady in my seat.

“How many do you have?” the District 4 girl demands of him.  “Athena, Sam, and Gold each have two.”

“Four,” says Grant.

Now Athena turns to him.  “Oh, yeah, right.  You have three,” she says.

“List them, Grant,” says the District 1 male.

Grant shoots him a look, but says, “The District 8 boy from the bloodbath.  The District 12 boy.  That fucker wouldn’t die, I swear.  Should have counted for two kills.  Then the District 7 girl, and finally the District 5 girl.”

Ilana.

My heart clenches, and my eyes flash to the District 2 male.

“No,” I say.

The Careers all turn towards me as my one quiet word cuts through their conversation.

“What?” Grant demands incredulously.  He pushes himself away from the table and steps towards me.  I refuse to turn away as he moves closer, brandishing a knife threateningly in his hands.

“No,” I repeat.  “Ilana died when she fell down a steep hill and broke her neck.  You did not kill her.”  The words rumble out of me like thunder from a distant storm.  And it is in the lingering silence that I know that I had made my mistake—and that I would never, even if I had the chance, take it back.

At last, Athena snorts.  “No fucking way.  You’re really claiming kills that aren’t yours?”  She starts laughing so hard that she has to lean herself against the wall for support.

“He’s obviously lying,” Grant says quickly.  “Why the hell would you listen to him?”

“Probably because he was practically groping her all throughout Prep Week,” the District 4 girl snickers.  “Give it up, mate—how many of those other kills are actually yours?”

Grant grits his teeth and stares in a mixture of anger and bewilderment at his fellow Careers.

“You guys are some of the densest assholes,” he snarls at them.  He’s restraining himself.  Standing firmly, keeping his weapon low and non-threatening, but also grinding his teeth as he tries to keep himself from exploding.

“If you’re lying about this, what else are you lying about?” asks the District 1 male, arms crossed over his chest.  He lacks the humor that the girls have.  The District 4 male perks up, but it’s all he can do to keep from collapsing on the bed near him.  The District 6 male, who I had nearly forgotten, tries to make himself smaller as tension builds in the room.

“That all hinges on me lying, which I’m not,” the District 2 male says.  “Seriously, are you going to let this bastard screw up our alliance?”

The others exchange uneasy looks.  The humor has vanished from the room as the seed of doubt begins to grow through them all.  The hierarchy of their alliance slowly begins to shift, though it is not yet ready to topple.  It will, eventually.  After all, only one tribute alive in the arena isn’t present right now.  There’s no way their alliance will last much longer when everyone else in this room must die.

“Fine,” says Athena.  “I have some catching up to do.  That District 9 girl isn’t going to kill herself.”

She leans over, grabs up a sword, a bow, and a quiver of arrows.  The District 4 girl rolls her eyes, picks up her own bow and quiver, and follows after her.

But it takes the District 1 boy a little bit longer to move.  “Since I have no hope to catch up to your numbers, I’ll go see what I can find us for dinner,” he says.

His gaze lingers on his ally for a few extra seconds before he takes up his own weapons and follows after the girls.  The District 4 male hobbles a few paces behind.  The door closes behind them, but I can hear them bantering lightly back and forth with each other.

The District 6 male starts to leave, but Grant snaps at him, “You, stay here.”  Quietly the other tribute moves against the wall out of Grant’s line of sight.

The voices of the Careers disappear into the forest, and the small shack plunges into silence.

The District 2 male steps closer to me.  This is the end, I know.  He’s not going to wait for the others to get back—he’s just going to kill me now because I corrected him and thus undermined his authority.  He turns the knife over in his hands and looks at me.

Chapter Text

“You know what you did, right?” Grant asks as he saunters closer.  He licks his lips as he looks down at his knife.  Then his eyes turn toward me.  Barely-contained rage stares straight at me.

I remain quiet.  That’s a rhetorical question.

He stands over me, and I force myself to maintain eye contact.  If I’m going to die, I’m not going to do so begging for my life.  I clench my jaw.  He taps the flat of the knife against my cheek.  The cold of the blade sends a shiver through me.

“I’m a Career, right?  This is what I do.  I’ve trained my entire life for the Hunger Games,” he says.  “My entire life.  Everything that I am is for this very moment—and then you fuck it up.”

“That sounds like very poor planning,” I say despite myself.

He backhands me, and my head jerks back with the force as the pain causes my vision to blur for a moment.  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out.

“You have fucked up my entire alliance!” he shouts at me, his voice echoing within the tiny structure.  “I have worked so hard—so hard—to be where I am, and you come in and just fuck everything up!”

He strikes me again.  I double over from the pain, straining against the rope that holds me to the chair.  He hits me a third time.  A fourth.  Blood pours out of my nostrils, and I gasp for breath, gagging on my own blood.  I feel the warmth running down my mouth and chin and dribbling onto my jacket.  Pain envelops me as the barrage of punches continue.  I can’t keep track of how many times he punches me, and I fight the dizziness that threatens to take over.

Grant holds my head up.  My eyelids flicker but I still force myself to meet his eyes and stare at him.  That’s enough to send him over, and he punches me in the stomach so hard that I nearly lose consciousness.

He backs away, and I think it’s over.  He’ll either let me live til the others come back or he’ll kill me now, but either way, he’s done.

Instead he looks at the District 6 male who stands pressed against the wall as though he’s trying to put as much space between himself and his ally as possible.  Grant points towards a crowbar leaning against the bed.  “Your turn,” he says.

For a dim second, I’m not sure what he’s saying.  Is he going to beat the District 6 tribute?  The District 6 male looks confused himself, and it isn’t until Grant swears at him that he skitters over and picks up the crowbar.  With a lurch in my stomach, I realize what he means.  The District 6 male looks at me with something akin to regret and fear, and he heads right towards me.  He draws back his weapon. . . .

A crack! fills the entire room as pain radiates across my body.  My arm breaks as the crowbar connects.  The District 6 tribute swings again . . . and again. . . . I drift in and out of consciousness as the pain overtakes me in waves, never fully subsiding but always rushing back with great strength.  The District 2 tribute is saying something—blaming me—but I can’t stay awake long enough to follow along.  I vaguely see his shape move, and then he comes back towards me.  This time, he has a baseball bat.  He takes a good swing.

I can barely form coherent thoughts.  It’s too much.  Everything hurts at once, and trying to concentrate on anything, even on the tributes before me with their weapons in hand, proves too challenging.

Grant starts yelling, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.  My ears hear only a distant rumble.

The bat strikes me again. And again. . . .

Such agony I have never experienced in my life.  I never thought possible.  To describe it and to experience it are two vastly different things.  I bleed from my nose, my mouth, my ears.  Several teeth have fallen out, and I can’t bear the pain of pushing my tongue forward to spit the bloody bits of bone out of my mouth.  But the vast majority of the damage is internal.  I can’t stay conscious consistently, I struggle to breathe, my ribs are broken.  God only knows what sort of condition my internal organs are in.  I exist in a tormented, half-human state where I can no longer make sense of what is truly present or what is merely my imagination.  It is a nightmarish kingdom ruled by searing pain, and I cannot escape it.

From somewhere in the distance, I hear crying, but it’s not mine.  Perhaps it belongs to some unsightly beast that dwells in this hellish underworld.

The blows stop.  There is silence for several long seconds, and my vision begins to return as shapes swim across the room.  The District 6 male, tears streaking down his cheeks, clutches the crowbar in his hands.

“What do you think, District 5?” asks the District 2 male.  His voice sounds faraway even though he leans in and talks directly into my ear.  “Do you think you learned your lesson?”

I can only groan in response.  He backhands me again just for fun, steps away, and sets down his bat. I blink, trying to stop the spinning in my head.

Grant pulls himself up onto the table, legs dangling down, and grabs an apple sitting on the windowsill.  He bites into it, the crunching filling up the entire room.  He says something to the District 6 male.  Not sure what.  The District 6 male shuffles away from me.  The bed groans as he sits down on it.

I want them to kill me.  Just finish me off.  If it weren’t for the ropes holding me to the chair, I’d collapse to the floor unable to move.  My existence serves no purpose at this point.  Each breath is complete torture as I try to drag air into my lungs.

“…kill him?” I can’t quite understand what the District 6 tribute asks, but I know he wants to end my life.  Out of mercy.  He’s gotten a taste of what Careers can do, and it’s not his style.

I strain to hear the District 2 tribute’s response.

“Nah . . . most kills . . .” is all I can catch.  He’s going to keep me alive long enough to show off to the others, and then one of them will kill me.  If I make it that long, I think.

Time passes, though I’m not sure how long.  Footsteps shake the floorboards, and Grant stands over me again.  He grabs me by the chin and lifts up my head.  I cry out in pain which only brings a smile to his lips.

“Do you know what a Career goes through to get this opportunity?” he asks me.  His hand clenches my face harder.  Nausea rolls through me.  “It’s a long and tedious process to be chosen, and that’s only the selection itself.  But there are years of brutal training required.”

He’s starting to get worked up again.  His voice takes on a dangerous edge.

“Years.  I practiced.  I struggled.  I honed my skills.  I did things you would never have imagined just to make it to where I am,” he says as he reaches for the knife in his belt.  He releases my chin and stares hard at me for several long seconds.  Then his hand goes to my forehead, tilting my head back to look me in the eye.

“I will bring honor to District 2.  I will bring honor to my family.  And I will destroy you in ways worse than you can ever imagine so that you know what it’s like to get so far only to have someone fuck everything up.”

It was only a comment, I want to say.  It was only the truth.  But my brain can’t make the words, and even if it could, my mouth can’t follow suit.

His warm, sticky palm presses my head back even further.  The knife hovers over my face.  My heart thumps and my jugular pulses.  This is the point.  This is where he will slide that knife into my neck and I will cease to exist.  I expected—oh, God, I don’t know what I expected.  Some sort of intervention maybe.  But I know that it is impossible.  I am dead.

The District 2 male grins down at me.  Blood flecks across his cheeks and chin, but his smile is pure white.  His thumb presses against my upper left eyelid, pulling it up.

He brings down the knife.

I scream, a guttural, animalistic noise, as the knife plunges into my eye.  The pain overtakes me, and I struggle to remain conscious, to fight against it.  But more startling than the pain is the sudden darkness that swamps my vision.  He withdraws the knife and once more brings it down.  Once more, the pain.

And darkness.  Complete darkness.

Another blow to the head, and the District 2 male utters a string of curses and stomps away.  The floorboards shake with each step.  The door flies open and slams shut closed behind him.

Seconds pass.  My head hangs down, my chin near my chest.  Warm liquid runs out of my eyes and down my cheeks.  I become aware that I am not the only person here.  The District 6 male, I remember dimly.  I can hear him breathing with ragged breaths.

“I’m—” he starts.  But his words never come out of his mouth.  I know what he’s thinking: ‘I’m sorry, but better you than me.’  I hate him for it and for his cowardice and for his participation, but I cannot blame him.  He leaves silently, dropping the crowbar on the floor near my feet.  The door thumps shut behind him.

In and out of consciousness.  Hours or days or minutes or years.  I don’t know.  I am here and I’m not.  I am alive and I’m not.  I am everything and I’m nothing.

“Oh my God.” It’s the District 2 female, Athena.  She stands before me some time later.  “This is messed up on so many levels.”

She reaches out and touches my cheek.  I withdraw, wincing in pain.  I think she will kill me, but she doesn’t.  It would be a mercy if she did, but it would also be the death of her to tread upon the territory of her fellow Career.  Instead she trickles water into my mouth and cleans some of the wounds on my face.

She disappears for a moment and I hear rattling from the other side of the shack. I can’t tell what she’s doing.  Finally she returns to me and places a pill in my mouth.

“It’s for pain,” she says when I flinch at her touch.  Then she gives me more water, just enough to wet my tongue and help the pill slide down my throat.  No amount of pain medicine is going to help me right now, not in the state I’m in.

“This is going to hurt, okay.”  I don’t know how anything can possibly hurt worse.  But she continues, “After Sam got mauled by the bear, he received a sponsorship gift to help with the wounds.  He’d be better off if he didn’t insist on keeping up with us all the time, but that’s neither here nor there.”

Her fingers touch my eyelids and I cry out in pain.  She doesn’t care.  She holds the eyelids of my left eye open and a cool sensation spreads over my lids and into the empty cavity.  Without warning, she does the same for the other eye.  Her hands are gentle but firm.  Every motion is with purpose.  Once she has medicated my eyes, she packs gauze pads over them and binds them with fabric, tying it off at the back of my head.

She takes the cream and spreads it across the worst of the open wounds I have.  I wince, but I’m starting to fade again.

Before I lose consciousness again, I hear her say, “We’re not all like him.”

I wake to voices.  The others have returned, though the sounds are muffled.  Still outside, I realize.  They tease each other and brag about their successes and mourn their failures.  Everything is happy and jovial and there is laughter and banter.  Disgust seeps within me.  It’s bitter and warm and rises like bile in the back of my throat.

“Where’s the District 6 kid?” asks one of them.  I can’t tell who.  I think it’s the District 4 girl.

“Had to put him out of his misery,” laughs Grant.  “Wouldn’t stop crying over our prize in there.”

For a moment, there’s an uneasy silence.  Then the District 1 male says, “Speaking of, who gets to kill him?”

“Me, of course,” boasts the District 2 male.

“Grant,” comes the voice of his district partner.  “Can you go . . . you know?  Take care of it now?”

“Nah, let’s wait til after dinner at least,” he says.  “I’m not going to miss out on some venison.”

The District 1 male laughs.  “For real.  Let’s get this fire started.  This deer isn’t going to roast itself.”

More laughter.  More giddiness.  More excitement for whatever will come.  They sicken me.

Once more, I wake again.  It’s later this time. The smell of roasting meat wafts in through the open window.  Along with it comes the chattering of the Careers.  I can’t follow their conversation.  Not that I want to.  Everything about them repulses me.  They should have killed me long ago, but instead they’re leaving me to marinate in my own juices while they carry on like it’s a holiday.  How cruel do you have to be to let someone suffer like this?

I am broken and damaged.  I will die.

But I will not die at their hands.

Slowly I start to move my body.  Pain radiates through me again, blossoming like fireworks in a constant litany of agony that spreads up and down my entire being.  The ropes that once bound me have been loosened.  Clearly they expect me to go nowhere.  Hoisting myself up, I stagger forward and nearly fall to the ground.  One of my legs may be broken; I can’t tell.  The arrow is gone from my calf and the wound has been bandaged, but stepping on that leg hurts.  I hobble in the direction of the window and collide with the table.  I reach out with my better hand and feel around me.  My hand grazes across the surface of the table, my fingers sliding across the rough wood.  I touch something soft.  My extra jacket.  And next to it, my knife.  It takes several seconds to slip it into my belt.

With great effort, I climb onto the table.  Twice I nearly fall backwards onto the floor.  Right now, I’m driven by adrenaline; it’s the only thing that keeps me upright and pushes me forward.  It’s the only way I can face the pain that pulsates through me.  Once sitting on the table, I pause to catch my breath.  There isn’t much time.  I need to keep moving.

My leg knocks into something and I wince.  I almost ignore the object, but when I reach out around me again, my fingers wrap around a tube about the same size as a tube of toothpaste.  Only about a half remains.  The medication, I realize.  My shaking hands shove it in my pocket.

I hear the Career’s voices.  They are still talking, though they seem to have calmed down a bit, possibly with the assistance of alcohol.  I hear the phrase “after the anthem” spoken a couple times, and I know that I don’t have long to make my escape.  From the sound of it, they are still around the front side of the shack, and I hope that I have enough cover so that they won’t see me.

The sudden blare of the anthem sends fear coursing through me.  There’s no time to think and no time to dwell in pain.  I push myself through the window, grab the extra jacket, and stagger out into the forest.  Stumbling through the undergrowth and tripping over roots and stones, I make my way as far from the shack as I possibly can.  It’s a slow, grueling process.  The adrenaline begins to fade, and every movement brings searing pain once more.

Ahead of me, I hear the gurgling of the river.  I can go no further.  I collapse onto the mud of the soft bank and crawl forward, dragging and pushing my useless body along.  Branches scratch my face.  They become thicker and denser.  Without being able to identify where I am or what my surroundings are, I curl myself in a ball and pull the extra jacket over me.  My body trembles.  The pain envelops me.

I should have died, but I didn’t.

I wish I had.

Chapter Text

D5M, Day 007
Subject approached the shack (#191918) previously claimed by Spearhead Alliance (D1M, D2M, D2F, D4M, D4F, D6M) at 10:56:10.  Subject was attacked by D2M but managed to stab D2M in the thigh.  Subject was subdued by an arrow from D4F when he tried to escape.  D2M regained control of Subject.  Subject was taken into the shack and bound to a chair where he stayed for the majority of the day.  However, Subject interjected in the conversation of the Spearhead Alliance members to correct a fallacy told by D2M to the others re: the death of D5F.  This resulted in general distrust between members of the alliance and marks what will likely be the decay of the alliance.

D2M interpreted the situation as direct damage to his reputation and commenced physically assaulting subject.  Shortly after starting, D2M coerced D6M by way of threat to beat Subject with a crowbar (item #10133).  When D6M discontinued, D2M used wooden baseball bat (item #89102).  At 12:45:42, D2M used a knife (item #89184) to critically damage both of Subject’s eyeballs, eliminating vision.  Subject remained bound to the chair for the remainder of the day.

Injuries sustained: Complete blindness OU with irreparable damage from perforation.  Loss of teeth 03, 04, 05, and 27.  Nasal fracture.  Concussion.  Fracture of left mandibular body.  Fracture of right mandibular body.  Fracture of ribs 6 (left) and 7 (left).  Fracture of ribs 7 (right), 8 (right), and 9 (right).  Pulmonary contusion (mild).  Damage to right kidney.  Closed fracture of left ulna.  Closed fracture of left humorous.  Severe lacerations and contusions.

At 14:52:31, D2F began treatment of wound which included applying ointment originally gifted to D4M (item #38184) to eye sockets and visible lacerations.  Treatment decreased infection rate by 52%.  D2F provided hydration to Subject.  Subject unable to stay fully conscious during treatment.

At 17:12:15, D2F removed restraints on Subject.

At 20:01:02, Subject escaped out of the northwest window of the shack.  He took his knife (item #89180), additional jacket, and the ointment (item #38184).  By 20:15:03, Spearhead Alliance members realized that Subject was gone and immediately sent out D2M and D2F to find him.  Subject evaded pursuit by remaining in the shadow of a fallen log near the river.

Subject showed extreme resilience and determination.  However, such an injury has resulted in significantly reduced chances of victory.

Deaths, Day 007
08/24: D6M (by D2M)

Updated:
Health: 11%
Hydration: Below adequate
Likelihood to survive until Day 8: 10%
Likelihood to reach Top 5: 0.5%
Likelihood to be Victor: 0.012%

Chapter Text

The 133^rd Hunger Games – Day Eight

The next morning I wake up, and that alone is enough to wish I were dead.

How I managed to make it through the night, I don’t know.  But as I lay there on the hard ground next to the rushing water of the river, all I can wonder is why I’m alive.

Oh, Ilana!  I am thankful that she is dead so she would never go through what I am right now.

I struggle to remain conscious for the next several hours, and I force myself to carefully, carefully wash my wounds in the cold water of the river.  The icy waters flowing over my hot skin shakes my bones, and I take caution to not allow my teeth to chatter for pain is a constant companion with every movement of my jaw.  I use thick sticks to immobilize my arm, wrapping bits of fabric from my second jacket to stabilize my splint.

The river gives me water.  My pain gives me hatred.  It boils and sizzles deep within me, and I can only hold it within me because my broken and pulpy body will not allow it to be released.

Why do we all have to die?  What’s more, why do people like those disgusting disgraces for humans get to live?  Almost certainly one of them will be the victor for there are very few of us left.  Last night, the music played to announce the death of one tribute.  The District 6 male, I assume, who had been killed after he was forced to torture me.  He thought that by following the District 2 male’s instructions, he’d be spared.  But he wasn’t.  None of us will be.  And all I can hear is the sound of the anthem in my mind, playing long enough to signal his death.  It lingers in my head.  Everything lingers in my head.  I can’t distract myself.  I can’t escape from it.

The nightmares that wake me are inescapable.  I can’t open my eyes and blink away the frightening images seared into my brain.  They are there: real and tangible and ever-present in my mind’s eye.  All thoughts to turn my mind to happier times are fruitless as the images of the arena interject.  I can’t make them go away.  The District 7 male getting knifed in the neck during the bloodbath.  The District 12 female’s dismembered corpse.  Ilana’s snapped neck.  It’s all there, front and center.  They shove each other out of the way to be foremost in my brain.

I want to die.

I want this pain to go away.

And yet, I find myself cupping my hand in the river and drinking water to quench my thirst.  I feel around for anything edible and manage to find something slimy from the river’s mud I can’t identify but eat anyhow.  Despite the pain, despite the nightmares . . .

I want to live.

Chapter Text

D5M, Day 008
Subject remained in the same position throughout the day.  He cleaned and bandaged his wounds using the water from the stream and the few supplies he carried.  However, continued application of ointment (item #38184) decreased the chances of infection.  Subject managed to maintain focus during the anthem but lost consciousness shortly thereafter.

Deaths, Day 008
07/24: D4M (wounds sustained from #1103)

Updated:
Health: 10%
Hydration: Adequate
Likelihood to survive until Day 10: 2%
Likelihood to reach Top 5: 0.4%
Likelihood to be Victor: 0.01%

Chapter Text

The 133^rd Hunger Games – Day Nine

The birds chirp as though nothing has changed.  Their songs continue on even as we die.  They don’t care what become of us.  Nobody cares; their songs are merely reflections of the overall attitude of those who orchestrate the Hunger Games.  The world keeps turning and we keep dying.

Except for me, I suppose.  I feel stronger.  I clean my wounds and apply fresh bandages where I can using fabric from the jacket.  I drink my fill of water and eat whatever I catch from the stream.  Snails of some sort mostly.  I don’t have the luxury of fire, nor am I able to see what I eat which might be more of a blessing than I give it credit for.

It seems many, many years ago when Ilana and I slipped the pain pills in our pockets.  So long ago that I forgot their existence until I roll over and feel something press against my leg.  With shaking hands, I remove two from my pocket and slip them into my mouth.  I don’t hope for relief from my current state, but maybe this will keep any fever at bay.

I force myself to sit up.  This motion alone brings dizziness and the sudden surge of pain almost causes me to pass out.  I feel around me to assess my surroundings.  Twigs, small stones, leaves . . . everything I touch feels different somehow.  I pick up two small stones, each no larger than a half dollar.  Despite being the same size, one is heavier than the other.  One is slightly sharper, not as well shaped over the centuries by the rushing river.  Even their textures vary.  The difference is miniscule.  It’s not something I would have noticed if I hadn’t been forced to use other senses to observe my surroundings.

Suddenly something grazes by my hand.  I start, but my arm hurts too much to move away from the object, whatever it may be.  It didn’t feel like an animal.  Maybe a leaf?  I draw up the courage to reach out.  My fingers tap the ground nearby.  At last they come across something solid.

For several seconds, I don’t move.  It scares me to know that something is right there and yet I have absolutely no idea what it could possibly be.  But I know that it didn’t feel like anything of a threat, so I carefully pick it up and turn it over in my hands.

A parachute.

Somebody sent me a parachute?

Surely this must be a mistake.  People don’t spend ridiculous amounts of money on dying tributes.  I want to hope this means that I have a chance, but I won’t let myself.

How the hell did Solar convince someone to spend money on me?

And more importantly, why did Solar even want to send me a parachute?  She had made it damned clear that if I had gone against her advice, I’d never receive a package at all, even when I needed it most.  Especially when I needed it most.

The container opens easily.  I reach inside and my fingers graze over a small, smooth piece of glass.  Gingerly I take it in my hand and turn it over between my fingers.  It’s a vial.

Medicine?  Something even better than the ointment they sent the District 4 male after he was mauled by the bear?  It’s so tiny.  It wouldn’t be enough to apply topically.

Why would Solar waste her time and resources getting me medicine?  She’s made it very obvious that I wasn’t going to be victor.

Carefully so that I don’t spill even a single drop, I twist the lid off the vial.  Still unsure what I’m supposed to do with this, I raise it to my nose and inhale.

A sharp smell of almonds greets me.

Realization dawns on me and spreads through my body like a sudden and terrifying freeze.  Ice forms deep within my chest and propagates through my abdomen, my limbs, my head.  I start to tremble at the sudden chill that owns me now.  My jaw quivers and I struggle to keep my teeth from chattering.  No number of jackets can stop the cold within me.  I can barely control my hands to recap the vial.  For the first time since the District 2 male delivered the initial punch, I’m not thinking about my own pain.

I have no value to Solar.  I have served my purpose.  This is not meant to free me of my own misery but to relieve her of her own.  She has no desire to play mentor any longer.

My hand clenches around the vial.  Using what strength I have, I chuck the cylinder of untouched liquid into the river and hope that it sinks to the very bottom, never to be discovered again.

No cannons echo through the arena, at least none that I hear.  The anthem confirms this.  Although I can’t see the faces in the sky, I listen to the music and know that not enough time passes for a death to be announced.  Normally boring days call for Gamemaker intervention, so something must have caught their attention.  Is it me?  Are they waiting to see how long I live?  Is my life worth nothing at all that I can dwell in agony until I finally succumb to my injuries?

Why do I even question it anymore?  It’s clear they care nothing for me, and that’s even worse than outright disliking me.  I am nothing more than a specimen in a dish for the Gamemakers to prod.  Somehow this is what became of society and now I will die for them.  The thought fills me with such anger that I have never experienced.  But it’s a strangely quiet sort of anger, one that won’t turn to punches.  Instead I steep in it as I lay by the river and listen to the water rush past.  Do they expect me to be grateful for an extra day of life?

Chapter Text

D5M, Day 009
Subject showed some signs of improvement and is able to sit up without support.  He continues to clean his wound with river water and apply bandages.  The lack of sterility increases chance of infection, but routine application of ointment (item #38184) enables rapid healing of open wounds.  Ingesting XR23 tablets (item #34054) decreased temperature to within normal limits and reduced inflammation.  Resting for two days has increased healing rate and decreased risk of succumbing to injuries.

At 11:15:03, Subject received a parachute.  His ability to assess changes in his environment is remarkable considering his ocular damage.  Time elapsed between first noticing the parachute and opening: 00:00:43.  Subject received 1 milliliter of concentrated synthetic cyanide (item #87181).  After smelling the liquid in the vial, Subject discarded the item in the river.  It is concluded from observations that Subject understood the contents of the vial prior to discarding.

Subject remained in the same location for the duration of the day and stayed awake for the anthem.  No loss of consciousness during the day indicates a surprising improvement.

Deaths, Day 009
none

Updated:
Health: 18%
Hydration: Adequate
Likelihood to survive until Day 10: 80%
Likelihood to reach Top 5: 3%
Likelihood to be Victor: 0.01%

Chapter Text

The 133^rd Hunger Games – Day Ten

The rustling of bushes wakes me up.  I lay motionless for several minutes, waiting for a sharp pain that would indicate the end of my life.  When, at last, nothing happens, I force myself to breathe.  In, out.  In, out.  Pain floods my chest with every breath, but I need to breathe to be able to focus.  For several more minutes I lay on the hard ground and listen.

Birds.  Small animals.  The breeze through the trees in whispering gusts.  The rushing of the river by my side.

Once again, I force myself to sit up.  It’s almost easier today.  Or maybe I’ve just gotten used to the constant agony that sweeps over my body whenever I dare move.  My knee hits something solid, and I cry out.  My voice echoes around me, and I brace myself for the inevitable blade that will kill me.  Again, nothing happens.

I reach out and take the object in my hand.  It’s a package of some sort, not unlike the “gift” I received yesterday.  Instead of having a hard casing with a parachute attached, it’s a simple fabric wrapped around several small objects.  Curiosity gets the best of me, and I lay it on the ground and untie the package.

A roll of bandaging material.  A few scraps of stale bread.  A candy bar.  A bottle of liquid, half empty.

I unscrew the bottle and a sharp, nauseating scent wafts out.  Alcohol.

What a strange package.  Who the hell would have left this for me?  Certainly not one of the Careers because they would have killed me the moment they found me.

I tear off a small corner of bread and place it in my mouth.  I allow the bread to soften enough until I can swallow it without chewing.  To eat real food rather than the slimy bottom dwellers of the nearby river and random plants that are within reach—it’s phenomenal.  Even if I have to let each little piece dissolve on my tongue.

Since it’s been so long, I don’t allow myself to eat much.  I tuck the bread away and pick up the bottle of alcohol in my hands.

Am I supposed to drink this?  The thought amuses me for a moment.  I don’t even know who gave me this package so I have no clue why someone would want me to get drunk.  I’m already pretty easy to kill right now, so it must be as pain relief.  It’s tempting, but I don’t want to spend what little time I have left wasted.

Another idea comes into my mind, but I immediately dismiss it.  Alcohol will clean, but it will also hurt and I don’t think I can stand to be in any more pain, despite the few remaining pills of pain medication in my pocket.

But why am I here?  Why didn’t I accept Solar’s gift if I wasn’t going to do what I could to survive?

I know what I need to do, but it takes me some time to work myself up to it.  I take a few pain pills and wait for a couple minutes.  I should wait longer, but I’m afraid I’ll change my mind.

With great care, I unwrap the bandages around my head.  This material, dirty as it most likely is, will be saved.  Then I remove the gauze pads that the District 2 girl had originally placed.  Every day I had taken them off despite the ointment and discharge that caked the gauze to my skin, but I had nothing clean with which to replace them.  I tear off new bandage from the roll in approximately the same size and shape.

I force myself to breathe steadily.  I stuff the sleeve from the extra jacket into my mouth and bite down.  Tilting back my head, I hold open the lids of my right eye and pour in the alcohol.

My eye socket burns with a flaming heat so sudden, like an explosion inside my skull.  Dizziness threatens to claim me.  I force myself to pour the alcohol into the left socket and then, when I think that I cannot possibly take it any longer, I lean forward and allow the alcohol to drain out.  It runs down my face and spatters onto the ground.  Then I squirt in ointment, place the clean pads over my eyes, and tie it all back in place.  I barely manage to place the cap back on the alcohol bottle before I pass out.

A cannon booms around nightfall.  Shivering, I draw deeper into the cover of the fallen log from which I’ve barely moved over the last few days.  Slowly I break off pieces of the candy bar and allow the sweet chocolate to melt in my mouth and slip down my throat.

When the anthem plays, I know only one person has died today.

I have made it to the top five.

Sleep does not come easily.  I miss Ilana.  I miss her warmth, her comfort, her laugh.  I’m so empty right now.

I feel selfish for wishing she weren’t dead, and guilt jabs into me.  If I had been the one to fall and die, if she had been the one to enter that shack. . . .  To think that she could have gone through what I did hurts worse than any pain inflicted on me.  To think that she could have been tortured and blinded. . . .  I can’t think about this anymore.

Chapter Text

D5M, Day 010
Subject received a packaged gift from D9F at 05:22:43.  The package included bread (400 kcal), candy bar (800 kcal), bandage roll (item #19491), and ½ bottle of alcohol (item #48910).  Subject proceeded to clean out eye sockets with alcohol, apply ointment (item #38184), and apply fresh bandages.  Shortly after this procedure, Subject lost consciousness.

Deaths, Day 010
06/24: D9F (by D4F)

Updated:
Health: 19%
Hydration: Adequate
Likelihood to survive until Day 12: 10%
Likelihood to reach Top 5: 100%
Likelihood to be Victor: 0.01%

Chapter Text

The 133^rd Hunger Games – Day Eleven

Something about reaching the final five gives me foolish hope.  How can someone as broken as I am ever make it to victory?  But I also know that I had my chance to give up, and I threw it away.

Despite the pain, I force myself to use my body.  Leaning against the log I’ve been hiding next to, I push myself up to my feet where I wobble precariously.  I almost fall but manage to reach out with my good arm and catch myself on a tree.  My fingers dig into the bark, and I struggle to catch my breath.

I take a few steps.  It’s slow going, but eventually I start to grow used to not knowing exactly where to put my feet.  The uncertainty grows familiar.  I can take nothing for granted anymore, including that the next step I take will be on level ground.

Exhausted, I crouch down on the hard earth.  The river gurgles by me.  Trees flutter.  Everything is peaceful.  Yet I am on edge, waiting for something to happen.  Anything.

From behind me comes a shuffling through the leaves, but it’s not a tribute.  It’s too small.

A squirrel.

I turn around and listen to it move through the foliage.  Its tiny body scuttles around back and forth, pausing every so often.  I wonder if it’s watching me and trying to figure out if I am a threat.  Does it look at me and see somebody who’s helpless and as good as dead?

My fingers reach for my knife in my belt.  Quietly I draw it out and wait.  Listen.  The squirrel scampers around again.  Shuffles across the fallen pine needles.  I inhale.  Exhale slowly.  Then I release the knife.

The squirrel squeals.  I’ve hit it, but I haven’t killed it.  My stomach lurches.  I manage to maneuver in the direction I last heard it.  It starts chirruping again, a painful, terrible sound, and tries to move away but it’s too injured.  I find my knife, hack off the squirrel’s head, and retreat back to my place near the log.

Without the ability to make a fire, I’m forced to skin the squirrel and eat it raw.  It’s a tedious process.  Every piece I put in my mouth has to be small enough for me to swallow whole.  It’s gruesome and slow.  I wonder if the viewers at home are cringing while they watch me right now.  They’re probably disgusted by this scene.  Squirrels have more value than tributes, after all.

I finish the remainder of the bread and candy as well.  It takes all day for me to eat.  I know my jaw’s broken.  It’s not just the fact that I’m missing teeth.  My entire mandible is swollen, and my bite isn’t aligned like it used to be.  A few more of my teeth wiggle in place, ready to fall out if I press on them with my tongue.  Opening my mouth more than an inch or so is excruciating.

In the late afternoon, a cannon booms.  The sound jars me from a nap.

Four.

There are four of us left.

But who the hell are the others?

For the first time in days, I think of my family at home.  My friends.  My girlfriend.  They’re distant as though they exist in an alternate dimension.  But maybe our dimensions will reconnect.  Maybe. . . . .

I don’t want to let myself think that it could be true.

Chapter Text

D5M, Day 011
Despite significant injuries, Subject shows determination and fortitude.  He is ambulatory and alert.  Subject managed to obtain meat from a wild squirrel, though efficiency of knife throwing decreased since last attempt, as is expected.  Regardless, his ability to throw a knife without vision can be considered impressive.

Deaths, Day 011
05/24: D2F (by D2M)

Updated:
Health: 20%
Hydration: Adequate
Likelihood to survive until Day 12: 90%
Likelihood to survive the finale event: 2%
Likelihood to be Victor: 0.008%

Chapter Text

The 133^rd Hunger Games – Day Twelve

A cold mist wraps itself around me and permeates my body.  It bites through my skin and inches its way into my bones.  The suffocating presence wakes me up sharply.

It’s time, I think.  This is it.  There is no denying that the mist is Gamemaker made, not with the way it clogs my lungs and makes me tremble.  I have no choice about it: I need to either move or die.

I take my knife and push myself to my feet.  The pain is unbearable, but I manage to stagger in the direction that the mist guides me.  The cold, sharp jab of its presence nudges me forward, forbidding me from stopping and punishing me with a cold jolt when I slow too much.  It’s unforgiving as I hobble through the woods, tripping over rocks and roots and my own feet.

Then the mist disappears.  Uneasiness seeps within me, and I reach out to my side.  My fingers finally collide with a tree.  I crouch down, wincing, and try to bury myself in the bush at the base of the trunk.  Am I hidden enough or will I stick out to everyone who comes by?

I don’t have time to think about it before I hear voices.

“I don’t know how the hell he’s still alive,” comes the voice of the District 4 girl.  “You fucked him up pretty good.”

“Made the District 12 girl look like child’s play,” agrees the District 1 male with a laugh.

I dig my fingers into the bark of the tree to keep the rage within me from spilling out.  How they’re willing to torture us for their own personal entertainment.  The District 12 girl, though her death came fast, was murdered in the most brutal way.  I force myself to breathe.  Can’t get distracted by emotion.

“If this mist doesn’t get him, and I hope it doesn’t, then I sure as hell will,” says the District 2 male.  “I’d like to have a few words with him.”

“Athena was right—you guys are nuts,” the District 4 girl says.

“Yeah?  And look what happened to her,” laughs the District 2 male.  The District 1 male joins in with a light chuckle.

Bastards.  All of them.

“You go on ahead,” the District 2 male changes topics.  “I gotta take a piss.”

“Yeah, yeah, you always have to pee,” says the girl.  But she and the District 1 male keep walking, leaving Grant behind.

My heart thumps in my chest, pounding against my broken ribs and damaged lungs.  This is it: this is why I have been kept alive for so long.  Once the allure of betting over how long I’d last lying by the river wore off, there had to be some other reason to keep a useless scrap of a tribute around.  The viewers at home want to see the District 2 male finish me.  How many Capitolites will gasp with excitement when they see the District 2 male and I face off?  The taste of blood and hatred is strong and metallic in my mouth.

Schliiiick schliiiiick – Grant’s not relieving himself.  He’s sharpening a weapon, a knife, maybe.  Perhaps a knife the other two do not know that he has.  As he sharpens the knife, he whistles a merry tune as though it were a casual day in the woods.

Something snaps.  I can’t explain exactly what it is, or try to justify it.  All I can say is that the tribute who hesitated to kill the trapped girl from District 7 is gone, replaced by a merciless, adrenaline-fueled ball of anger and loathing hell-bent on not going down by the blade of this psychopath.

Lunging out of the bushes, I launch myself directly at the District 2 male’s whistles and knock him to the ground.  I land on top of him in a burst of pain that I barely feel.

Grant stabs me in the side, then tries to get to his feet.  I grab onto him from behind, wrap my good arm around his neck, and squeeze as tightly as I can.  He staggers and then swings his knife into my side again, and I release him.

He turns around on me, but before he can lift his weapon, I sink my knife into his chest.  He gasps.  I stab him again.

The District 2 male slumps to the ground.  He sounds like he’s trying to say something, but before he can get the words out, he falls silent.  The cannon booms.

Falling backwards, I take deep, panting breaths as the pain in my ribs and lungs strike me over and over again.  This is . . . I expected . . . I don’t know.  But I’m not satisfied.  I want him to pay for the pain he caused me, for the hope he tore from me.  I want him to suffer because he had claimed to kill Ilana and to use her death as some meaningless token to advance in his petty competition to be the best killer.  I want him to know what it’s like to have his eyes stabbed out of his face, or to have his body broken by bats and crowbars.  And I want to multiply it tenfold because I know that I will never be able to convey this burning sentiment to the Capitol and unleash my true feelings upon them.

But instead, I have only a corpse lying on the ground next to me, and I realize how easy it had been for him to escape the arena.  A few moments of struggle.  Fear, panic, but no real pain.  I grunt as I shove myself to my feet, and I stumble away from him, my blood-soaked knife in my hand.

I don’t know where I’m going.  The knife wounds on my side bleed.  Eventually I collapse on the ground in a heap, no longer able to hold myself upright.  The adrenaline wears away, leaving me with wave after wave of pain.  I force myself to hold on and to not lose consciousness.

At last I climb back on my feet again.  Three tributes left.  Two must die.  Maybe one will be me.  Maybe not.  I head in the direction that the other two Careers had disappeared towards, only to collapse on the ground again.  Lying on my back with the sticks and rocks and leaves pressing into my back, I try to gather the energy to move again.

It’s only the sound of approaching voices that gives me the strength to crawl across the ground until I’m reasonably certain that the bushes around me provide enough cover that I won’t be seen right away.

“…Must’ve finally found District 5,” says the District 4 female.

“’Bout damned time.  I can’t believe anyone could have survived those sorts of wounds,” says the District 1 male.

“Should have killed him right away,” adds the girl. 

“Would’ve wasted a lot less time,” snorts the guy.  “But Grant’s always one for show.”

They pause not too far from me, too caught up in their conversation to pay me much heed.  I can hear the way the girl shifts her weight from foot to foot on the pine needle.

The girl laughs incredulously.  “After what you did to the District 12 girl?  You’re calling Grant the one who does things for show?”

“That was different,” comes the District 1 male’s haughty reply.  “But anyway, where the hell is Grant?”

That was different.  Because torturing and dismembering a teenage girl is different from torturing and blinding a teenage guy.  Anger flares up inside me.  Pain.  So much pain.  I am ready for this to be done, one way or another.  I don’t care how it ends as long as I can make a stand.

I launch out of my hiding place towards the District 1 male’s voice.  Knocking him to the ground, I pin him by the collar.  I lift him up and slam him back down, ignoring the screaming of my own body.  His head connects with something.  A rock or a root jutting up from the cold, hard earth.  I slam him down again.  And again.  The cannon fires somewhere, but I slam him back down once more to make sure that he is actually finished.

“What the fuck?!” yells the District 4 girl.

I turn around and stagger to my feet, though I remain doubled over.  My hand clutches the knife wound on my side, trying to stem the flow of blood.  I don’t have enough strength to throw myself at her like I did to the District 1 male.  Already my head grows light and I struggle to remain standing.

The District 4 female runs towards me.  I listen for the briefest moments, then flick my knife in her direction.

Her footsteps stop.  She gasps and drops to the ground with a heavy thump.

My legs no longer support me.  I fall to the ground and drag myself towards the girl.  The sound of her gurgling breaths draws me closer.  My fingers feel for the knife planted her body and find it sticking up from her chest.  I pull it out.

I slice open her throat.

Above my head, a cannon fires.

“I am proud to announce the victor of the 133^rd Annual Hunger Games: Elijah Asher of District 5!”

My knife drops from my bloodstained fingers and I collapse to the ground.  The adrenaline drains from my body, and everything within my broken frame is assaulted with pounding agony.  I’ve pushed myself too far.  I can’t bear it any longer.  Dizziness overwhelms me as the world shifts beneath me.  And then I disappear into nothing.

Chapter Text

D5M, Day 012
Subject terminated three tributes within the final minutes of the Hunger Games: D2M (knife), D1M (blunt force trauma), and D4F (knife).  Considering the type of injuries he sustained, most notably complete blindness, and the disadvantages he had against three level-A tributes, Subject overcame a projected survival rate of 0.008%.

Continued monitoring of his recovery will take place in the victor treatment ward of the hospital.

Deaths, Day 012
04/24: D2M (by D5M)
03/24: D1M (by D5M)
02/24: D4F (by D5M)

Chapter Text

I am alive.

Time means nothing when you are strapped to a hospital bed and cannot see the world outside your window.  All that I know is the sterile smell of hospital cleaners, the clacking and tapping of shoes as people pass by in the hallway, and the gentle hums of robots delivering food and medicine from room to room.  Sometimes I am awake for a few minutes or an hour, but most of the time I sleep.  I feel no pain.  The restraints on my arms and legs keep me from moving as my body continues to heal.  What they’re doing to me, I’m not certain.

At one point, I wake up and sense that somebody else is in the room.  I cannot speak because the most recent procedure required that my jaw be wired shut.  So instead I lie there and listen to gentle music from a radio one of the nurses brought in for me, and I wonder who else would be in the room.  Plenty of nurses, technicians, and doctors have come and gone, but most had announced their presence, or at very least conversed with other staff.

Solar?

The thought brings a jolt of fear to me, but the panic is quickly dulled by the medication pumped into my arm.

I wait for the person to stand up or speak or do something to let me know who they are, but instead I am left with an uneasy silence that eventually gives way to chemically-induced sleep.

“Why can’t I see?”

My throat is rough and raw after not using it for so long.  The wire no longer binds my jaw.  Once more, my bite is realigned and the teeth that were missing have been replaced with little pieces of synthetic material that feel just like my original teeth.

The nurse adjusts the IV catheter in my exposed arm.  I can hear the smile in her voice as she speaks, “Don’t you worry about it.  The president said that it wouldn’t be natural.”

The machines beep around me.  The one that measures my heart and makes sure I am still alive—the EKG, I think she called it—beeps with every thunk of my heart.  Even and smooth, my heartbeat doesn’t betray the flash of anger that wells up inside me.

The kidney they surgically implanted isn’t natural.  The chunks of metal to stabilize my fractured bones aren’t natural.  The cold spheres they placed into my empty eye sockets aren’t natural.  They are supposed to fix things.  They have the technology to fix things.  Why won’t they fix my vision?

A bite of pain in my arm makes me wince.  The nurse apologizes and continues to tug on cords and cables.

My family, Lucinda . . . I will never see them again.  I will never again look on their faces.  The fading images in my mind are all I have left.  And Ilana. . . . Not now.  I can’t think of this now.

“When you were in the arena, we didn’t think you’d make it,” she says to me.  “The things you went through!  You’re honestly one of the bravest tributes I’ve ever seen, and it’s such an honor to be working with you now.”

I swallow and don’t move.  She doesn’t seem to care that I have no desire to carry on this conversation.

“But you’re not a tribute anymore, are you?  I should get used to calling you what you are: a victor,” she pauses and sighs.  “You were the best candidate for victory.  Your district partner would have been a good one, too, but I think that she wouldn’t have been able to take on three Careers like you did.”

I roll over in my bed so my back is to her.  It takes a few seconds to steady my breathing.

“Oh, Elijah honey, you need to lie on your back again,” the nurse coaxes me.  She reaches out a hand and places it on my shoulder.  “Otherwise you’ll mess up your healing in your ribs and lung.”

Slowly I roll onto my back.

“My side hurts,” I lie.  “Can I have more medication?”

“Oh, certainly,” she says.  I hear her fingers clicking against one of the machines near the headboard.  Moments later, my body starts to relax, and I begin to drift away.

Once more I wake up and I know I am not alone.  Although this time I can speak, I remain quiet.  I listen for something that gives the person away.  Anything to convince me that I am not losing my mind.

After several moments of probing beyond the ticking and beeping of machines, I finally hear the faint sound of breathing.  It’s not my own, I know that for certain.  Now that I have located the sound, I latch onto it and listen.  Whoever else is in the room is relaxed.  The breathing is calm.  Or, I wonder, the person may be sleeping. . . . 

Time passes, but before I am able to find out who it is, I find my mind growing heavy.  The next scheduled procedure, whatever that may be, nears and the medicines make sure that I’m unconscious.

“You have been a huge inspiration to us,” says a nurse, a different one from before.  Maybe it’s a different shift, or perhaps it’s the other nurse’s day off.  Since my concept of time is skewed by both the constant sleeping and the blindness, it’s difficult to make a conclusion.

She doesn’t seem to care that I am not engaged in the conversation.  I stare blankly up at the ceiling and try to drown myself in the somber piano melodies playing on the radio.

“Nobody believed you’d make it, and I say that with all the kindness I can, I hope you understand,” she chatters as she tucks the blankets around me.  “But we certainly believe in you now.  If you could only see that—oh!  I mean—Well, what I’m trying to say is that your victory has made a big impact.  There are people who are wearing special contacts to look like they can’t see, and Mirage just released a brand-new facial wrap that’s see-through (so it’s not dangerous to wear).  There’s even one fifteen-year-old girl who is so inspired by you that she has announced that she will not be correcting her vision loss.  She has a degenerative vision disease, poor thing.”  And she goes on and on.

Hatred seethes up within me like vomit and I barely manage to choke it down.  The hours go by, and the machines beep and click evenly.

Chapter Text

Eventually they don’t find the need to sedate me every few minutes for various procedures.  The major work is complete, and now they just need to fine tune the details to make sure I’m fit for presentation.  I don’t know what that means for me until a nurse comes in early one morning to discuss the plan.

He’s a tall man, I think; it’s hard to tell when you’re in bed and can’t compare yourself relative to another person.  He has a deep, burly voice.  But he sounds sad, in a way; I can’t really place it.

“Elijah, my name is Harmony Miller, and I am the nurse who will be working with you for the next couple days to help you get up to speed,” he says.  “You have experienced some unusual difficulties for a victor, and I want to make sure that you can adjust well to your new lifestyle.”

He waits for me to answer, but I remain silent.  I have no words to say to this.

Harmony pulls up a chair and sits by my bedside.  They have my bed angled so that I’m propped up somewhat.  Now the nurse sits roughly at my level.

“Every time a victor leaves the arena, he or she faces challenges adapting to their new role and everything it entails,” he explains.  “Your vision loss means that you’re going to have a more challenging time than most.  It is crucial that you begin to work on regaining skills that have been offset.”

“We can start by having my vision restored,” I growl.

Harmony sits back in his chair with a sigh.

“Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen,” he says.  “The decision has been made, and it is not going to be reversed.”

Of course not.  Why would the Capitol give me back my vision?  The notion that a society of technologically advanced people would fix the damaged senses of one of its citizens is just outrageous.  Why help someone when you can let him live in misery for your own entertainment?

“They have postponed the presentation of the victor to allow you time to adjust, but they haven’t postponed it by much,” Harmony tells me.  “You’re going to need to learn how to walk again, this time using a cane to help you navigate.  You will also need to know how to feed, bathe, and dress yourself.  Some of this we’ll go over here, but the rest will be continued after you return to District 5.”

Return to District 5. . . .

How can I even consider facing my family, my friends, and my girlfriend in this state?  I am broken and useless.  People want their victors to be strong, capable, and functional.  They want to know that their loved one returns from the arena completely intact.

And then my stomach lurches. . . . How will I be able to go back to District 5 alone?  How can I return to daily life knowing that Ilana is not in it?  How will I face her family and friends again?

Harmony stands up and leaves.  When he returns moments later, he places a tissue in my hand.  I turn it over in my fingers, trying to figure out why he gave this to me.

“You’re crying, Elijah,” he says after a moment.

Oh.

I don’t move.

Harmony sits back down in the chair.  He lets out a breath.  “You’re going to need to learn how to take care of yourself,” he says, not unkindly.  “It’ll be hard at first, but over time it’ll start to become second nature.”

When I don’t respond, he urges, “Elijah, wipe your face.”

My body feels too heavy for this.  But I lift the tissue and bring it to my face where I wipe my cheeks.  Slowly.  Everything is slow.  I can’t make myself move at a normal speed.

After that, Harmony insists that I get up and start moving again.  Part of me remains terrified that the moment I try to move, I’ll feel pain again.  But when he unhooks me from the machines and coaxes me out of bed, Harmony assures me that my body is healed and I can move without worrying about broken bones or internal damage.  I lean on him at first.  My legs are wobbly after days of lying in bed.  But then he has me walk on my own, first one step and then another, across the empty tile floors with a rail to guide me.  Then once he’s satisfied that my legs work well enough, he gives me a cane.  He places it in my hand and invites me to run my fingers up and down as he narrates what it looks like.  Really it’s only a simple stick with a rubber tip and, he says, a red tape to help others see it better.  Then he has me walk again, this time using the cane as a guide.  He instructs me to move around the room.  Now my cane taps against the ground and tells me when I’m about to bump into an object.  I reach out and feel a cold metal pole.  Harmony lets me try to figure it out with my fingers before he informs me that it’s the stand for an IV pump.

This is how it goes for the next hour or so.  The nurse allows me to explore the room and fills in the gaps after I’ve had a chance to try to guess what certain things are.  This allows me to create a mental picture of the room.  It’s larger than I expected.  Two chairs near the door, a bench that folds into a bed underneath the window . . . plenty of room for visitors.  But aside from my mystery guest, I seem to get no one.  Just hospital staff.

At last I’m too exhausted, both physically and mentally, to carry on with this anymore, so he instructs me to get back into the bed.  That takes a minutes to figure out, and I nearly get tangled in the sheets in the process.

“I’ll let you rest for a bit, and I’ll be back later to go over some more things,” Harmony says once I’m tucked into bed and plugged back into all the IV lines I need.  He asks if I need anything, to which I don’t reply.  Before he leaves, he says, “You’re going to be okay, Elijah.”

His footsteps disappear out the door.

Once more I’m alone with my thoughts.  I wish I weren’t.  I lean over and turn on the radio to the classical station.  This is the only one that doesn’t blast commercials every few minutes, and I won’t let the nurses change the station even when they play the same song for the hundredth time.  Or maybe all the songs just sound the same, I don’t know.  But when I listen to this station, I don’t have to think.  I can just focus on the music and pretend that nothing else exists.

Harmony returns just before lunch.  He settles into the chair next to my bed.

“I’m going to raise your bed up so you can sit for lunch,” he tells me.  After the bed has been adjusted, he continues, “We’re going to give you a table you can use here in bed.  When they bring out your lunch, we’ll go over how to approach meals.”

True to his word, the staff brings out a table that fits over the top of my bed.  Larger than a tray, it has room for my own plate, silverware, and glass, plus several serving dishes and a pitcher of water.  Harmony walks me through how to serve myself, first with water from the pitcher.  He instructs me on techniques to pour without spilling and to monitor my glass to make sure it doesn’t overflow.  Everything requires my full concentration.  Harder still is managing to serve food.

“There are two bowls.  The one on the left has applesauce.  The one on the right has cherry gelatin,” Harmony tells me.  He has me reach for one bowl, serve myself, and then do the same for the other.  Each time I put food on my plate, he has me make a note of where it is, how much space it takes up, and how much room remains for more food.  He assures me that for dinner, I’ll be able to eat a larger variety of foods, and within a few days, I can eat whatever I want.

Feeding myself, the simplest of all tasks, is a monumental undertaking.  So many things can go wrong.  I can’t just grab the nearest bowl I see, slop food on my plate, and pass it on to the next person.  Everything must be done with utmost care and precision.  Harmony says it’ll be faster once I get used to it, but he cautions that I’ll always have to concentrate more on my day-to-day life than the average sighted person.

Once I’m done eating, it’s time for a tour of the bathroom.  Or, as my nurse says, “The next step in learning independence.”

It’s not just about knowing how to use the toilet while blind—though of course that’s part of the lesson, too—but about how to organize my belongings in the bathroom so that I don’t lose things or use the wrong product.  Then he has me take a shower after he walks me through how to operate it.  He explains that when I take off my clothes, I need to set them down in a spot I’ll remember and not scatter them around the bathroom floor like I would have at home before.  And when I set out my new clothes—or in this case, when he set out my new clothes—I have to know the exact location.  It’s embarrassing being shown these things, like I’m a small child using them for the first time.  But at the same time, Harmony treats me like an adult who is perfectly capable of performing these tasks.  It’s confusing and exhausting.  I’m grateful when it’s time to return to my bed.

“Get some rest.  I’ll be back for dinner,” he says to me before he leaves.

I lay in bed and wonder how I’m going to deal with life now.  The life of a victor who can’t even perform basic functions like everyone else.  What will my life be like once I get to District 5?  What will I do now that school isn’t required and my world has been completely destroyed?

Navigating through my new darkened reality leaves me drained and I fall easily to sleep.

I wake to the sound of someone shuffling near me.  When I stir, the person pauses.

“I’m sorry, Elijah,” comes the voice of one of the female nurses that’s been with me over the past few days.  “I didn’t mean to wake you, dear.”

She continues with whatever she’s doing.  Probably changing out the bags of fluids that are keeping me hydrated and whatever else.  They explained it all to me back when I was still flitting in and out of consciousness and I didn’t retain nearly as much as they thought I did.  Now I can’t fill in the gaps by watching what they do each time they come in, so I accept the fact that I just won’t know.

I clear my throat.  “When Solar comes back, can you . . .” my words drift away.  I’m not sure what I want to ask exactly.  I want my mentor to at least announce her presence and not just sit in one of the chairs by the door and stare at me, but I don’t really want anything from her.  The feeling of the cold vial between my fingers still lingers in my memory.

“Oh,” says the nurse quietly.  “Solar hasn’t been here.  It’s very odd, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Why?” I ask, not certain if I’m supposed to be concerned or not that she hasn’t paid me a visit.

“Well, normally the mentor sticks around a bit more.  Last year Demeter refused to leave Basil’s side,” she explains to me.  “But I suppose ever mentor is a little different.  What you went through probably hit her pretty hard, poor thing.”

I furrow my brow.  This hit Solar hard?  What the fuck?  What about me?!  I’m the one who went through hell and back for no damned purpose, and now I’m at the mercy of a president who decided that people’s fashion whims were more important than my eyesight.

The nurse pats my shoulder, a gesture meant to be comforting but that sends irritation rolling through my body.

“You’ll see when it’s your turn to mentor,” she assures me.

To mentor. . . .

Oh fuck, I have to mentor. . . . Of course I do.  Why wouldn’t I?  I’m a victor, and that’s what victors do.  It doesn’t matter if I’m blind; I’ll still be responsible for the death of some random kid year after year after year.

Suddenly I can’t breathe.  My lungs begin to constrict, tightening within my rib cage.  Every time I draw in air, it goes nowhere.  I begin to gasp, a strange and pitiful noise as oxygen squeaks through my trachea.  Sitting up, I grab onto the railing of the bed and fight to force air into my lungs.

“Elijah, take deep breaths,” the nurse says.  Her hand returns to my shoulder, but I grab her wrist and push her away.  She continues, “You need to calm down and breathe.”

I can’t do it.  I can’t breathe, not when my lungs don’t work anymore.  What happened?  Did the surgery to fix my lung fail, and now I’ve blown it open?  My fingers tighten on the railing and I gag in my efforts to breathe.

Then I start to feel relaxed.  And sleepy.  I begin to slump over, and the nurse guides me back so that I’m laying down in the bed and not in danger of falling over the railings.

“There, there,” she says.  “This will help you calm down a little.”

Footsteps.  The voice of the male nurse, Harmony: “What’s going on?”

The female nurse leaves my side and walks towards the door.  “He’s having a bit of a panic attack,” she says.

The two of them step out into the hallway as though that really would hide them from me.  Maybe it works for sighted patients, but it doesn’t when you have no vision to rely on.  Their voices are more muted, but I strain to listen to their conversation.

“What started it?” Harmony asks.  The female nurse’s answer isn’t quite clear.  But then I hear Harmony again, “Let’s give him a break and not talk about the Hunger Games right now.  Thank you for taking care of him.”

Whatever drug the nurse gave me begins wearing off, and I don’t feel quite so sedated.  The music from the radio becomes a little clearer, and I hear Harmony saying something about it almost being time for dinner.  It seems like I just ate, but it must’ve been hours ago given the fact that my stomach is empty.

Harmony returns and walks me through the plans again.  Like with lunch, the food will be delivered to me to serve myself.  He talks to me as he sets out the table across the bed and moves the food from the delivery cart onto the table.  He tells me each step as he’s doing it, where he’s putting the food, and how each one is in a position related to another item on the table.

Then he sits down in the chair by my bed and watches me carefully, offering advice or instruction where it looks like I need it.  This time, I have two pitchers.  One with water and the other with juice.  Rather than pouring whichever one I want into one of the two glasses provided me, Harmony makes me tell him which liquid I intend to pour when I pick up the pitcher.  It’s easy to forget what went where, I realize.  Everything is far more complicated when there are options.  I have to smell the pitchers to differentiate between the neutral water and the sweet syrupy scent of juice.  The plates, Harmony tells me, are plain boiled chicken cut into cubes, broccoli florets, apple sauce, and bread.  Once again, I have to tell him what each one is before I serve myself based on the information he told me when he originally placed them on the table.  I scoop each one carefully onto my plate, though it’s much harder when you have discrete objects, and I manage to lose at least two pieces of broccoli and a few chunks of chicken.  Some roll onto my bed and others fall to the floor.  Harmony picks up the latter for me but instructs me to clean up what is on my bed and my lap.  The applesauce and bread are much easier to serve, but everything gets messed up on my plate and the bread soaks up the applesauce, becoming mushy and disgusting.  I eat it anyhow.

For dessert, they give me ice cream already scooped up into a small bowl, much to my relief.

“You did a good job today, Elijah,” Harmony says as he gets ready to leave for the evening.  “Tomorrow we’ll add in other skills.  I know it’s frustrating to have to relearn these things, but you’ll get the hang of it before you know it.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond to him; he knows better.

I slept so much during the day that I have trouble falling asleep.  I lay awake for a long time listening to the smooth and calming piano pieces the radio plays in the evenings, yet nothing brings me sleep.  Trying to stay in one place and let my mind go blank does nothing.  Every time I think I’m about to drift off to sleep, disturbing thoughts drag me back to the hospital room.

Then I hear footsteps.  Someone enters my room and settles in one of the chairs near the door.  The thin cushion whooshes underneath the new weight.  I breathe evenly and steadily.  Who the hell keeps coming in my room and watching me like this if it’s not Solar?

Fine.  Guess the person’s not one for introductions.  And I don’t want to be sitting here with a stranger watching me sleep.

“Who’s there?” I ask.  My voice, barely above a whisper, sounds so loud in the empty room.

Chapter Text

The chair grunts as the person stands up.  Footsteps again, this time coming closer to my bed.  The machines connected to me beep a little faster in anticipation.

“Sorry, Elijah.  I didn’t mean to startle you,” comes the voice of a man.  He pulls over the chair that Harmony normally sits in and makes himself comfortable.  “I thought you were asleep and didn’t want to wake you.”

“Great, but that doesn’t answer my question,” I say.  “Who are you?”

“It’s, ah, Ferrer.  From District 2,” he says.  “Forgive me, I don’t normally need to introduce myself.  I’m kind of making a mess out of this, aren’t I?”

Ferrer from District 2.  The victor of the 118^th Hunger Games.  Mentor, I presume, to one of the demons in the arena.  Wonderful.

I clench the bedsheets in my fists and try not to get too pissed off that I now have a District 2 mentor with me.

“What are you doing here?” I ask next, struggling to keep my voice steady.

For a moment he doesn’t reply.  I hear him sigh heavily.  Then, at last, he speaks.

“We didn’t want you to be alone.  It’s hard to—”

“’We’?” I interrupt.  “Who’s ‘we’?”

Ferrer clears his throat.  “Myself and a few other victors,” he says.

I frown.  Why the hell would they care that I’m alone?  And why would a District 2 victor, of all people, care?  Besides, I’m not alone; there’s always hospital staff here who watch over me 24/7.  I hear them in the hall sometimes, even if they don’t come into the room.  Their footsteps pause by the door for a minute or two as they make sure I’m alive before they vanish again.

“Whenever somebody wins the Hunger Games, the respective mentor is supposed to, well, support them afterwards,” Ferrer continues.  “Make sure that things are going well in the hospital, keep an eye on the new victor, try to negotiate extra time or additional physical therapy if it’s needed.”

“And Solar decided I wasn’t worth it?” I ask sharply.

“Solar . . . she’s, well—”

I interrupt again.  “Don’t tell me that this has been too hard on her and she can’t handle it,” I snap.  “Because if that’s the case, you can go fuck yourself.”

Ferrer doesn’t reply for a moment.  The chair squeaks as he adjusts himself.  I can’t tell if he’s trying to figure out what to say or if I’ve just shut him up completely.

“What Solar did to you in the arena was beyond wrong,” Ferrer says at last.  He picks his words carefully as though he’s dancing on shattered glass.  “When it comes to mentoring, we have unspoken rules, if you will.  Nothing that the Capitol places on us directly.  It just goes without saying that you don’t actively try to kill your tribute.  Honestly, in all my years, I have never seen a mentor send a gift like that.  There’s been plenty of poison, but never with the intention of killing the recipient.”

Figures that Solar would break whatever policies they have in place in order to try to off me.

“She thought that it would be a surefire way to kill you,” he continues.  “She didn’t think that you’d be able to identify what it was and you would just drink it thinking it would benefit you.”

“I was that much of a drag on her, huh?” I demand.  “She couldn’t fit me in her busy calendar and decided that she could do without me?”

“I can’t say I know what her motivations were,” Ferrer says.  Very diplomatic.  Gives me absolutely no information.

“So why are you here?” I ask.

“Because Solar refused to come help you,” he answers.  “As I said, new victors need—”

“No, why are you personally here?” I rephrase sharply.  “You pissed off you didn’t get a new victor this year and wanted to spend extra time in the hospital, or do you just feel bad that your tributes tortured me?”

“I will be brutally honest with you, Elijah, because it seems that’s the only way you’re going to listen to me,” he says.  “My tribute, Grant, was an absolute piece of shit.  He had the skills to be a victor, but I never would have wanted him to be.  The things he did in the arena were beyond reproach, and none of us in District 2 wanted to work with him.  Same for the pair from District 1.  So, yes, I do feel bad about what my tribute did to you, and that was one of the reasons I decided to take over in Solar’s absence.

“But the reality is that you can’t be left alone right now. If you were, you wouldn’t have the nurse, Harmony, here with you to help you adjust.  Nor would you have had the extra days to work with him.  They would have just thrown you to the wolves and let whatever happen, happen.  So don’t direct your anger at myself or any of the other victors who are trying to help you.”

Where had I heard something like that before?  Ah, yes, from my lovely mentor Solar.  Who tried to kill me from outside the arena when the people in the arena weren’t doing it fast enough, and then abandoned me once I lived.  It’s really a great mentality to have: pretend that you’re helping and then go in for the kill.

I clench my jaw and try to sort out what Ferrer’s saying.  Something about it unnerves me; it might be the fact that he’s saying that different districts are working together right now to make sure that I’m okay.  I’d be flattered if I weren’t so angry and confused.  What’s going on that there has to be multiple people involved?

“Who else comes in, and why hasn’t anyone been telling me that you’re here?”

“We haven’t been saying anything partially because you’re usually sleeping and partially because we didn’t want to upset you too much,” Ferrer says.  “It’s . . . unfortunate that your eyesight wasn’t able to be restored—normally all injuries related to the arena are fixed.  None of us have ever had to work with someone who is blind.  This is new territory for us, and there probably could have been better ways to go about it without scaring you half to death.

“To answer your other question, it’s myself, Hero from District 4, Pitch from District 7, and Lady from District 10.”

An odd assortment of victors.  I had assumed that the division between Career and non-Career remained steadfast even after winning the Hunger Games.  Probably stupid to think that nobody would branch out to other people who were in the same shitty position they are in.

Lady won the Hunger Games two years ago at the age of fifteen.  She was a taller girl and very strong for her age.  The Careers had asked her to join them, but she declined and went her own way.  This ended up working to her benefit after the Career pack was nearly wiped out following a Gamemaker event.  I don’t think it was supposed to decimate them, but they weren’t the strongest Careers to begin with.

Pitch won the Quarter Quell.  I was only ten years old at the time, but I remember that everyone was in a state of panic because the Capitol citizens chose the tributes that year.  My older brother, Henry, had his name on the list for the first time, but fortunately the Capitol didn’t care much about little kids, at least in our district.  The tributes they chose tended to be older—around eighteen or so—and were good looking.  But there were a few that were quite young and tiny.  “Cute” the Capitol called them, and they were dressed up in childish outfits for the various events before they were slaughtered by the older kids.

The year before that, Hero of District 4 won, but I really don’t remember much of it.  Probably because she was a Career and probably because the District 5 tributes were killed early.  At least I assume.

And Ferrer won back when I was a toddler.  He, like Hero, always seemed like a run-of-the-mill Career to me.

“So what did you guys all do, draw straws to see who was lucky enough to babysit me?” I ask.

“No, we decided like rational people to help you,” Ferrer replies tiredly.

Why?  Why me?  Why the hell do they care so much that they’re willing to band together and help me?  Then it occurs to me: I’m blind.  I can’t take care of myself, or at least they don’t think I can.  And, in all honesty, I don’t think I’ll be able to fend off the Capitol in my state, so who could blame them?

“Because you pity me,” I say.

“No, because you need help,” he corrects.  “New victors need help.  Did anyone go over what to expect after you’re released from the hospital in a few days?”

I shake my head.  “I’m just learning how to eat, walk, and use a toilet,” I reply with heavy bitterness.

“Alright.  I’m sure you’ve watched the Presentation of the Victor on television every year,” Ferrer begins.  “You will, of course, be expected to watch the recap on stage just like every other victor.  Pitch is in the middle of negotiating whether you’re going to get an ear piece that will give you a verbal play-by-play or if you’ll just be allowed to sit there and listen to the regular audio with everyone else.”

What a choice.

He continues, “Either way it works, you will be received on stage by your mentor.”

“Is she going to bail on that one, huh?” I ask.  “Or should I not get my hopes up?”

“No, she won’t.  There’s too much at stake to not show up to an event like this, and it’s the first time she brought a tribute to victory,” Ferrer tells me.  “So just be prepared that you will have to face her and everyone will be watching you.  It’ll be best to pretend that everything is okay.”

“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” I demand.  “She tried to kill me!”

“There are a good many people you’ll have to face in your life who wanted to kill you in the arena,” he tells me.  “And you just deal with it.”

“Great advice,” I reply sarcastically.  But it’s a weak attempt to deflect the fear rising inside me.  The terror that sprouts up from what he just told me.  I don’t really understand it, and that makes it all the more unnerving.

“After the presentation is a party at the Presidential Palace,” Ferrer continues like I said nothing.  “It’s going to be loud and chaotic.  You will stick with one of us the entire time, and we won’t let you get dragged away by, ah, anyone who might not understand your condition.”

He falters on the last part of the sentence like it wasn’t what he originally planned to say.

“There will also be some interviews.  The first one will be the next day, and for the next few days after that there will be many different people who want your attention.  After they’ve all had their turns to interview you, you get to go home.”

And then I’d be on my own.  In my very own victor mansion.

None of this sounds good.  I don’t want to be shown off to all of Panem.  I wouldn’t want to be even if I weren’t blind.  But knowing that my blindness inspired fashion lines and are stopping kids from correcting their vision loss, I’ll more than likely be a spectacle rather than a victor.  Everyone will want to get a glimpse of me as a novelty.  I might not be able to see their eyes on me, but I’ll still be able to feel them watching me.  And then after that a party with the president, the man who I now loathe more than anyone.  And interviews?  Interview after interview after interview.

“Sounds like they have everything planned out pretty well,” I manage.

“After one hundred and thirty-three years of Hunger Games, I would expect nothing less,” Ferrer replies cautiously.  “But you see how it’ll be beneficial to have a mentor with you through this?”

“Yes, alright, fine,” I mumble.

“It’s pretty late.  You need to get some sleep,” Ferrer says after a pause.

“While you sit here and watch me?” I ask.

“I can step out for a bit.  Get some coffee,” he says.

“Yeah, sure,” I say.

“If you need anything, just give me a shout,” Ferrer says as he stands up.  The chair legs grate across the floor as he pushes it out of the way.  “In the meantime, let me give you a hand so you’re not up all night.”

I hear him messing with the IV pump, and a moment later, my eyelids begin to feel heavy.  I don’t know whether I like or hate the fact that I’m being forced to sleep again, but at least I won’t be awake until sunrise contemplating all the shit he just laid on me.

Chapter Text

When I wake up, I can immediately tell that I’m not alone.  Once again, I have a mystery visitor.  But it doesn’t take long after I stir before I hear a girl’s voice: “Hey, Elijah, it’s me, Lady.  Ferrer told me I had to introduce myself as soon as you woke up.”

“Uhm, yeah, great,” I say sleepily.  Ugh.  Well, at least they’re actually listening to me and not leaving me to think that I’m alone in my room.  I push myself up and run a hand through my hair.

“I can leave if you want me to,” she says.  “Or I can stay.  Honestly I don’t care either way.”

From what I remember of Lady, she was always reserved but polite.  That was her outward appearance to the rest of us, of course; I have no idea what she’s really like.  She seems a little more outgoing than I would have anticipated, or maybe I’m just cranky because it’s way too early for introductions.

“Yeah, I think I need a moment,” I say, but no sooner are the words out of my mouth than I hear footsteps coming into the room.  I try to place them in my mind.  They sound familiar.  But footsteps are not as distinctive as voices, and I can’t assign these to anyone.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Harmony asks.

“Nope,” Lady replies.  “I was just leaving.  See you, Elijah.”

She heads out before I have a chance to respond.  Harmony comes over to my bed.

“Good morning,” he greets me.  “How did you sleep?”

“Like I was drugged,” I answer.

He chuckles.  Not sure if it’s some sort of nurse humor he appreciates or if he thinks I’m making it up.

“You just wake up?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

He then informs me that I have “ocular discharge” and need to clean myself up.  He explains what it looks like so that I know what, exactly, I’m cleaning, and then I excuse myself to the bathroom to take care of it.  As I wipe away the goo with a warm washcloth, I silently curse the president for condemning me to this state.

When I return, Harmony walks me through the breakfast procedure.  And again, I have to serve myself and pay utmost attention to every detail.  This time I don’t just have several dishes and two different beverages, but there are also sauces and spreads to deal with.  I make such a mess of it all that once more I have to head to the bathroom to clean myself.  Ugh, this is embarrassing.  As I stand in the bathroom and wipe myself down with paper towels, I wonder how I’ll know if I’ve managed to clean it all off me.  The stickiness on my skin gives it away, but what about on my clothes?  I do the best I can and head back to my bed.

“Today we’re going to be going over your wardrobe,” Harmony says once everything is cleared away from breakfast.

“What about it?” I ask.  I’m wearing a hospital gown and a pair of scrub pants, and I haven’t thought any further than that.

“When you go to your closet and choose a shirt, how do you know that it’s going to match the pants you want to wear?” he asks.

Oh.  That does present a challenge.  “I’ll only wear the same color.  All black, all the time,” I say.  “Will make laundry easy.”

“I’m going to teach you some techniques to help you keep track of what color your clothes are,” Harmony goes on without acknowledging what I said.

We spend the better part of the morning talking about how to label clothes so that I know what exactly they are and how to organize my closet and drawers so I don’t lose track of socks and underwear.  I’d think it was a completely boring discussion except that the fact that the reality of my situation weighs heavier and heavier upon my shoulders.  Every little thing that Harmony says will be critical in managing my new life, and I hate it.

What I hate more, however, is the knowledge that if it weren’t for Ferrer and the other victors, I wouldn’t be learning these skills right now.  The Capitol didn’t care about my ability to survive after the Hunger Games ended.  It seems so basic to teach someone who just lost his eyesight how to cope with daily tasks, and yet they really didn’t care.  An unsettling feeling sits in the pit of my stomach, distracting me from the nurse’s lessons.

When I grow too irritable to be of use, Harmony suggests we take a walk.

“No way,” I say.

“Why not?” he asks.  “You get along very well.  And you need some exercise after being in a hospital bed for so long.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek for a moment, trying to figure out if I should bother putting into words that I’m terrified of people staring at me.  This isn’t like I lost my vision through disease or accident.  I had my eyes gouged out on national television—everybody knows and everybody wants to see me for themselves.  I can’t just mosey around the hospital with people gawking at me.

“How about we do this: you go take a shower and change into some real clothes,” Harmony says.  “Then we’ll take a bit of a walk around here.  It’ll do you good to get some fresh air.”

“Fine,” I grumble.  I climb out of bed and head to the bathroom.  Harmony stays in the bedroom but has me leave the door open in case I fall or hurt myself or whatever else he thinks I’m going to do.  It takes me a few minutes to get situated.  I lay out my clean clothes in one pile, my dirty clothes in another, and my towel near the shower.  I feel around for the knobs on the shower and run my fingers over the little markers telling me how far to turn the knobs for warm or hot water.  It’s a stupid amount of work just to take a shower.  Once I’m in, I have no desire to leave, but eventually I reach over and turn off the water before Harmony thinks that I’ve died in the shower and comes to check on me.

“Feeling better?” he asks me when I return to the bedroom in fresh clothing.

I shrug.  That’s all relative.  But taking a shower allowed me a few minutes to gather myself together and accept the fact that if I don’t take a walk now, I’ll have to do it sooner or later.  And, I told myself as I stood in the scalding hot water and allowed it to run off my body and swirl down the drain at my feet, I’d rather try to get used to the stares now than wait until the presentation which will be broadcast live throughout Panem.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I mutter.

“Good, good,” Harmony agrees.  “I’m going to have you take my arm and we will walk together, okay?  Make sure to use your cane to help guide you.”

He takes my hand and places it on his arm.  It’s unusual, to say the least, to be holding onto some man’s arm as I walk.  But without it, I’d be pretty much lost.  I’m so focused on not running into anything that I’d easily become turned around were I left on my own.  I take a deep breath.

“You’re doing fine, Elijah,” Harmony reassures me quietly as we go down the hall.

I have an iron grip on his arm and I try to loosen it, only to grasp onto him firmly a moment later when I nearly tumble into a delivery robot that darts out in front of us.

“It makes a soft hum,” the nurse says.  “I know you’re probably overwhelmed right now, but make sure to pay attention to those things once this all starts to be not so intimidating.  You’re good at using your other senses.  Just don’t let yourself get too panicked, and you’ll do fine.”

It’s hard to dislike Harmony.  He’s not like the other staff I’ve encountered here at the hospital, especially the other nurses who chatter at me like I’m a complete idiot.  The disparaging comments and derogatory remarks are the worst because they don’t seem to notice that they’re saying anything offensive.  Most of the time they think they’re being encouraging or kind.  Even most of the other staff are intolerable, like technicians who barely talk to me as they prod me up and down for whatever tests they’re running, or the doctors who talk to each other as though I’m not just blind but also deaf.  Harmony, on the other hand, seems to genuinely want me to improve.  I wonder if he’s even from the Capitol or if he somehow sneaked in here when no one was looking.  He’s a contrast to the majority of these psychopaths.

As we walk, Harmony points things out to me.  Sometimes things I can’t see: crash carts off to the side that I narrowly avoid running into, or machines that make curious noises.  Other times he draws my attention to subtle changes, such as how the flooring switches from one type to another as we turn a corner.  He pauses and has me test out my cane so I can identify the difference.

Then we stop for a moment.

“We’re about to go outside.  It can be a little windy since we will be on a balcony over a dozen stories up,” he explains to me.  “The balcony is pretty large.  The floor we’re on isn’t nearly as big as the one beneath it, so they built a sizeable area up here that overlooks the city streets down below.  There are several tables with umbrellas and chairs as well as concrete planters, benches, and the like. What else would you like to know about the balcony before we go out?”

“Who is out there?” I ask.

I hear the smile in his voice.  “I was hoping you’d ask.  Never be afraid to ask that question because sighted people will forget that you can’t just stand there and obtain that information as easily as they can,” he says.  “To the left of the door, about ten feet away, a couple of nurses are having a break at a small table.  There are two women and one man.  Across the balcony towards the railing are Ferrer and Pitch.”

I have a strange feeling that this isn’t a coincidental meeting.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure,” I reply.

He opens the door and we head out onto the balcony.

Chapter Text

A cold wind greets me, and I wish I had worn a thicker shirt than what I have on right now.  Harmony leads me across the spacious balcony towards the two other victors.  (How strange to think of myself as one of them.  As a victor.  It seems surreal.  I’ve been so focused on losing my vision that I haven’t spent much time thinking about my victory.)  I’m keenly aware of how awkward I must look, but nobody acknowledges it, at least not in front of me.

“Ferrer, Pitch,” Harmony greets them.

“Hey, Elijah,” Ferrer says.  “I don’t think you’ve got a chance to meet Pitch yet, have you?”

“No,” I say.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Pitch says.  He sounds younger than Ferrer.  Or maybe it’s just that Ferrer sounds beaten down, more exhausted.  Ferrer reminds me, in a way, of Benjamin.  Though Benjamin probably returned to District 5 the moment Ilana died and he no longer had to deal with this.  Pitch sounds curious.  Or interested in the conversation.  I can’t tell.

“Elijah, I’m going to leave you guys to talk, is that okay?” Harmony asks.  I mumble out that it’s fine, and slip my hand off his arm.  He tells me that he’ll be at the table with the other nurses and to call him if I need anything.

Then I’m left with the older victors.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, not certain why my walk coincidentally ended here.

“You getting around okay?” Ferrer asks me.

I shrug.  “This is the first time I’ve left my hospital room and I was attacked by a robot,” I say.  “But why am I really out here?”

“Thought you needed some fresh air,” the man says.  “And we wanted to talk with you.  It’s much more—how should I say it—private out here.”

Private?  Out here where everyone can see us?  I frown.

“The wind,” Pitch says.  “Makes it harder to be overheard.”

Ah, that makes sense.  I am not surprised that the hospital rooms are bugged, though I can’t imagine what sort of excitement one would hear from those sorts of conversations.  A few good tidbits about changing IV lines?

“We have been sorting out the next few days,” Ferrer says.  “It’s been a bit of a challenge.  They want to treat you differently from other new victors, but not in a good way.”

“Elijah, I’ve managed to get them to not make you wear an earpiece during the presentation,” Pitch cuts in.  “The caveat is that they want to do an additional interview with you before you leave the Capitol.  Specifically about your blindness and how you’re adjusting.”

“That’s better than wearing an earpiece?” I ask incredulously.

Ferrer sighs.  “Believe it or not, yes,” he says.  “The presentation is . . . challenging, to say the least.  You’re not going to want to hear a narrated play-by-play while you’re sitting in front of all of Panem.”

No, I wouldn’t.  The thought of hearing somebody narrate my own actions in the arena unnerves me, but not as bad as hearing someone narrate Ilana’s actions. . . .

Ilana.  Oh, God, how am I going to sit there during the presentation and listen to her voice again?  How am I going to deal with her dying again?

My chest starts to constrict, and I feel my lungs no longer drawing in air.  My heartrate increases, each beat hard and loud and fast in my chest.  I’m having another panic attack, I realize, but that knowledge does little to help me breathe.  Pitch is saying something, but my head grows fuzzy and I can’t focus on him, not when I can’t even get my lungs to work.  One of them grabs onto my arm and a few moments later, I’m being nudged into a chair.

“Elijah, you have to try to breathe even if it feels like you can’t,” Pitch says.

My chest hurts.  I’m not getting enough oxygen, and I’m going to die.  To make it this far and then to die after victory!

Pitch continues to tell me how to breathe, and I’m tempted to punch the man to get him to stop because I can’t breathe, but slowly my lungs fill with a little more air.  I focus on inhaling and exhaling evenly, forcing myself to not backtrack into panic.  To not think about Ilana.

Once I have calmed down, I wipe the tears that run down my face on my sleeve and grasp the cane in my hand.  Shit, nice way to meet people.  But neither Ferrer nor Pitch seem fazed by this episode.  Instead I feel someone pushing a cold bottle into my hands.

“Water,” says Ferrer.  “Take a minute and drink some.”

I can’t even manage a thanks.  I unscrew the cap on the bottle with shaking hands and take a long drink.  The water slides easily down my throat and I drain the container.

Chairs grate across the concrete deck, and the other victors sit down.

“See if Harmony will get you anxiety medication,” Ferrer advises.  “At least to get you through the next few days.”

I don’t reply.  I don’t want anxiety medications.  I don’t want any medications.  I keep my head down and fiddle with the plastic bottle in my hands.

“You can’t have a panic attack during the presentation,” he continues.

“I won’t,” I say sharply.  I will not allow them to see how much they’ve damaged me.  How much they bother me.  That would only satisfy their bloodlust and their desire to see suffering and torment.  I will not give them that satisfaction.

Ferrer sighs.  He must get tired dealing with new victors, I think.  Or maybe he’s just tired of me.

“We need to go over the rest of the Hunger Games.”  Ferrer switches topics, if only slightly.  I don’t know what he means by that, and I cock my head to the side.

“He needs a break,” Pitch objects.

“There’s too much to go over,” the older victor says.  “We don’t have the luxury of time.”

“I’m fine,” I lie.  “Let’s just get this over with.”

“We want to let you know what else was going on in the arena so you’re not completely caught unaware during the presentation,” Ferrer explains.

“It was, um, an unusual year in many regards,” Pitch says.  “The Careers were on a rampage—it seemed like all of them were told that it was the year for a Career victory and they had to make it good.”

“Yes, Solar told me something to that effect,” I say dryly.  “Made sure I knew where I stood before going into the arena.”

Both men are quiet for a moment before Pitch continues, “The tributes from District 1, Gold and Cinnamon, did some absolutely terrible things to a few of the tributes.  The Careers caught the District 6 tributes.  The boy managed to talk his way into the Career pack, but the girl was tied to a tree and used as target practice.  The official cause of death was exposure after they left her out there for a few hours too long.  Then you know about the District 12 girl.

“District 2 wasn’t much better, as you found out for yourself.  Well, at least the male tribute.  The female tribute . . . I’m getting ahead of myself.  Anyway, Grant was the real ringleader of the show.  If it hadn’t been for him, I don’t think that Gold and Cinnamon would have done what they did, not to free them of guilt for their crimes, of course.”

“I never met Cinnamon,” I say, more as a musing than to really contribute to the conversation.  “She died earlier than the rest of them.”

“Yeah, she got in a fight with Grant.  He stabbed her and left her to die,” Pitch replies.  “Though she technically could have recovered, it was ultimately being rejected from their shelter that killed her since the nights got so cold.”

“I think I’m noticing a recurring theme.”  The District 6 kid, Cinnamon, me. . . . Sounds like the Careers thought they had a good thing going for them and didn’t deviate from their method.

“For what it’s worth, none of us mentors told our tributes to torture and maim everybody and leave them to die,” Ferrer interjects.  “Yes, we told them that they had to be outstanding compared to the rest of the competition, but I never imagined that they’d interpret it like that.”

“You weren’t supposed to escape, by the way,” Pitch says.  “They never thought you’d make it out of the shack because you were so close to death.  Grant nearly killed all the other Careers right then and there, he was so angry.”

“How did they not find me?” I ask. “I know they were drinking, but after the alcohol wore off?”  I hadn’t staggered very far from their shack, at least not to the best of my knowledge.  The river stopped me from going further.

“Ah, yeah, that’s the part I wanted to tell you about,” Pitch says.  He shifts in his chair.  “That was the District 2 girl, Athena.  She knew where you were the whole time but she kept Grant and the others away.  She knew that if he found you, he’d do something worse than kill you.”

“He was angry you escaped,” Ferrer adds.  “And he wanted to punish you for it.”

On the last day in the arena. . . .  It’s as fresh and clear in my mind as though I’m there right now, crouching in the bushes as I fight off the pain and force myself to stay alive a few minutes longer.  Grant had said he wanted to have “words” with me.  The way he said it had implied that a vocal interaction wouldn’t be the end of it, but I assumed that all he wanted to do was kill me.

“I probably would have died if he did anything else,” I say quietly.

“Fortunately, I think you’re right,” Pitch says.  “But the recap video will no doubt play up the fact that he had plans for you.  They like to create storylines, and the one between you and Grant was pretty entertaining if you look at it purely from the statistics.  Really increased the number of views and the money spent on the Hunger Games.”

“Oh, good, so I did have some value to our viewers at home,” I say with mock sincerity.  “I was really wondering if they had cast me out to die a slow and painful death and had forgotten me.”

“There was a betting war going on,” Pitch continues.  He clears his throat.  “They let you live because everyone was in a frenzy trying to place bids.  When that happens, they let the tributes coast for a bit without too much interference.  In this case, they were betting on how, exactly, Grant would kill you.”

I raise my eyebrows.  “What were my options?”

Pitch hesitates.

“Go ahead and tell him,” Ferrer says.  “He’ll end up hearing it one way or another, and better here than at the recap or anywhere else.”

“Grant bragged that he was either going to roast you over a fire alive, or gut you alive,” Pitch says.  “The bet was whether he’d do one of those things or if he would end up killing you in some more mundane manner.”

Ugh.  This was . . . beyond words.  My stomach clenches at the thought of experiencing either of those things, even if I know that what I said before was true: if Grant had tried anything else, my body wouldn’t have been able to handle it and I would have died right there.  Still, that thought does little to settle the bile that rises in my throat.

“He almost found you once,” Pitch continues.  “That’s where Athena managed to lure him away.”

“Is she the one who gave me the food and alcohol?” I ask.  “And the bandages.”

“No, that was the District 9 girl,” Pitch says.  “Of course, she got too close to the Careers and was killed.  The District 4 girl shot her with an arrow, so it was a quick way to go.”

Why would the District 9 tribute, of all people, give up items that could have kept her fed in the arena?  Sure, it wasn’t much, but it might’ve made the difference for her, just like it did for me.

“Guess I didn’t do a very good job at hiding if everyone could find me,” is all I can manage to say.

Pitch chuckles.  “No, it was pretty terrible.  But the Careers thought that the area around the shack had been thoroughly searched—and it had, by Athena—so they didn’t bother looking for you.”

“We Careers can be pretty dumb despite all our training,” Ferrer adds flatly.

“Athena was clever.  She won Grant’s trust enough that he wasn’t skeptical of her and didn’t doubt her ability to search for you.  Later, however, Athena told Grant that he was a sick bastard for the things he did to you and, well, he killed her.  It wasn’t anything overly brutal, at least as far as these Hunger Games went, but everyone at home was surprised.”

“How does that asshole killing people surprise anyone?” I ask.

“She was the one they wanted to win,” Pitch explains.  “As much as everyone loved watching the drama, popular opinion did not support any of the other Careers at that point.”

I should be relieved to hear that the Capitol citizens had some sense to them and weren’t ready to welcome home Grant into their arms.  But at the same time, placing bets and allowing him to do what he did without intervention convince me otherwise.  You can’t have it both ways; you can’t say that you dislike someone’s behavior and support them at the same time.

But it’s the District 2 girl that draws my curiosity.  She didn’t have to stand up to Grant for me.  She didn’t have to lead him away from me.  Why didn’t she kill me when she had the chance?

“And why, exactly, did she not reveal my hiding place?  She would have known that Grant would retaliate, so it doesn’t make sense that she would have confronted him.”

“Nobody knows for certain, but I imagine she felt bad for her part in what happened to you,” Pitch replies.

“Her part?  Like the first aid thing?”

“Not killing you to put you out of your misery,” Pitch says.  “Or maybe not stopping the others before they even got to you.  She knew what they were capable of, and certainly she must’ve known that what they had planned for you was going to be barbaric.  She couldn’t have predicted what would have happened to some of the other tributes earlier, but by the time they got to you, there was no doubt that your death was going to be painful.”

“There’s a complicated dynamic in the Career alliance,” Ferrer starts.  I want to ignore his Career-sympathizing excuses because I don’t give a damn about the Careers, but I’m also somewhat of a captive audience and, to his credit, Ferrer has been helping me.  “You want to make yourself stand out a little, but not so much that all the others turn against you.  You play up certain aspects of yourself to look stronger, more capable, and more desirable.  You want to make sure your teammates know that you’re both a threat and someone they need.  Athena probably went along with them because to do otherwise would have meant her own death.  She wouldn’t have lasted on her own.”

“So after she died, which psychopath did everyone want to win?” I ask.

“You,” Pitch answers.

I—what?  People wanted me to win?  How the hell could they actually want me to be their victor?  I was more dead than alive at that point.  I open my mouth to speak but then close it again because I have no idea what to say to that.

“The Careers were so absolutely despicable that nobody wanted them wandering around the Capitol or being paraded as victor,” Pitch adds.  “The District 4 girl wouldn’t have been bad, but by then everyone was so distraught about Athena and unnerved by the Careers as a whole, that she was pretty much ignored as a potential victor.”

“She didn’t really do anything outstanding, either,” Ferrer says.  “Speaking from a purely Career standpoint, I mean.  Athena had personality and she could be differentiated from the rest of the Careers.  The other girl was more of a follower than anything.”

The fact that people actually wanted me to win stuns me to the point that I barely care if I was a consolation prize or the least of all evils.  How anybody would have been able to watch that and then point at the mangled corpse on the ground and say, ‘yep, that’s the one I want to win’ blows my mind.

“Certainly no one actually thought I’d win, though,” I manage.

“No, nobody thought you would,” Pitch confirms.  “But everybody went nuts when you did.”

So that’s it.  I actually ended up being liked by the people of the Capitol.  I can’t say I’m flattered.  Especially to know that they only liked me after I escaped the shack.  Before that, no one cared.  I probably wouldn’t be too far off if I said that this surge in popularity in the arena has led to me not being able to see right now.  People didn’t care about me before.  They want me as I am now so they can relive all their wildest fantasies of torture and always remember what happened to me.

We sit in silence for a few minutes as the wind brushes across the deck in great strokes.  I let all this information roll through me as I try to process it.  Everything I went through to survive.  Every day was so intense.  But I was always thinking about me, about Ilana.  Everyone else didn’t matter.  I couldn’t let it matter because I had to focus on living to see the next day.  And now there are all of these interconnecting parts that weave the tributes together; the Capitol would be foolish not to take advantage of it for their recap video.  I lightly squeeze the plastic water bottle in my hands.

“Thank you,” I say.  I clear my throat.  “For telling me all this.”

“It’s going to be hard watching the recap video,” Pitch responds.  “No matter how well you think you can handle it, you ultimately won’t be able to.  All you can do is hold yourself together for a little while until you’re alone.”

I nod.

“Your relationship with Ilana . . . whatever that might have been . . . they’re going to play it up, too,” Pitch continues.

Yeah.  I figured that they would.  But it doesn’t make it easier knowing this.  I squeeze the water bottle tightly in my hand, willing myself not to disintegrate again.

“They will bring her up in interviews,” Ferrer adds.  “You’ll see her mentioned in any recap or review of your Hunger Games.  It’s what they do, unfortunately.”

I rub my forehead.  How the hell am I going to deal with this?  The confidence I had when I told Ferrer that I could hold myself together for the recap vanishes entirely.  My anger for the Capitol can’t compare with my sorrow for losing my friend.  I draw in a deep breath.

“We’ll talk about the interviews later,” Pitch assures me.  “In the meantime, let’s just tackle the presentation.”

“The interviews follow the presentation too closely—he can’t just work on one and not the other because he won’t have time once the presentation ends to switch focus,” Ferrer tells the District 7 victor.

“Okay, let’s just maybe call this good for the day,” Pitch says.  “The presentation is two days from now.  We can go over more tomorrow.  Is that okay, Elijah?”

I don’t answer right away since my brain had started to slip away to other places.  But his question pulls me back to the present and it takes me a moment to recall what he said and catch up.  “Oh, um, yeah.  Tomorrow’s fine.”

“Let me go get Harmony,” Ferrer says.  He stands up, the chair once more scraping against the concrete.  His footsteps disappear.  I try to focus on them, to memorize them.  But it’s harder than one would think, and eventually I have to admit that identifying people by how they walk is a skill that will elude me.

“Elijah,” Pitch says after a few moments.  “Thank you for sparing my tribute.”

It takes me a couple seconds to figure out what he’s saying, I’m so wrapped up in my own thoughts.  “The District 7 girl?” I clarify.

“Yeah, Helen,” he confirms.  “Grant snapped her neck soon after, but . . . she was able to know some compassion in her time in the arena because you spared her.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I say nothing.  It might not even be the sort of thing one responds to anyhow.  At the time, I felt like a coward for not being able to kill her, and I had been so angry that I was even required to make that decision.  In the end, she died.  Whether it was by my hand or someone else’s, it ultimately didn’t make a difference.

The sound of two sets of footsteps approaches, and I stand up.

Chapter Text

Harmony and I sit in my hospital room.  This time, however, I am not in my bed but on the bench beneath the window.  If I press my hand against the glass, I can feel the warmth from the evening sun against my palm.

“It’ll only take a few minutes,” he’s saying.  Trying to convince me.  “They just want to test your hearing to make sure that you have no progressive hearing loss.”

“I can already tell them that my hearing is fine,” I insist.

“Right, I know that.  And I agree with you,” he says.  “This is setting a baseline so that periodically in the future they can measure your hearing and keep it monitored.  When you lose one sense—”

“I didn’t lose my eyesight.  It was taken from me,” I snap.  “And it could very easily be returned if the incompetent bastards who run this place would give it back to me.”

“Elijah, that’s not going to help,” Harmony tries.  I can hear the strain in his otherwise calm voice.

“What’s going on?” comes Ferrer’s voice from the doorway.

Harmony stands up from where he sits a few feet away from me.  “I am trying to convince Elijah that he needs to go to the scheduled hearing test,” he explains.  There’s a bit of pleading in his voice as though he’s hoping that Ferrer will side with him and convince me to go with the procedure.  But certainly if there is anyone who will understand how much being in this place sucks, it’s another victor.

“They’ve already done enough tests,” I explain, my hand dropping away from the window.  “They don’t need to do another one.  My hearing is just fine anyhow.”

“Elijah, get the fuck over yourself and go to your test,” Ferrer says with finality.

I open my mouth to protest, but Ferrer only adds, “Now.”

“C’mon, with me,” Harmony says politely.

Part of me wants to stay right where I am on the bench and refuse to move, and I would probably do just that except that I remind myself that Ferrer is helping me when he absolutely does not need to do this.  He’s ill-tempered because he’s use to dealing with Careers, I remind myself, but that does little to make the sharpness better.  In fact, it might make it worse knowing that he is treating me like those cretins.  I’ll go to this hearing test as he directs, but I won’t go happily.  I swing my legs off the bench, grab my cane, and stand up.  Harmony’s hand is on my wrist, guiding my hand to his arm.

Before we go more than a few steps, Ferrer stops me.  “Don’t do anything stupid,” he says.  “Do the test.  Assume it’ll benefit you sometime down the line, okay?”

I grit my teeth and move away from him, following Harmony’s guidance across the bedroom and out the door.

In the hallway, I try to focus on my surroundings as my cane taps across the tile floors, but irritation clouds my mind.  The Capitol already has enough tests done on me, surely.  They don’t need anymore.  And there’s no way in hell I’m going to believe that this test is to be a “benchmark” for future hearing tests.  Harmony leads me from one corridor to another, and I lose track of it all even though he’s trying to give me an accurate depiction of the route.  Finally we come to a stop.

“We’re about to go into the testing room,” he explains to me.  “Once we’re inside, I’ll help get you situated.  But during the test, you’ll be by yourself so that I don’t throw off any of the results, okay?”

I don’t respond, but Harmony and I enter the room and he helps me find my seat, gives me a set of headphones, walks through what my surroundings look like, and says that the technicians will go over the instructions.

Over the headset, a woman explains to me what I’m supposed to do: press a designated button as soon as I hear a noise in through my headphones.  I press the button right away, and she immediately returns back in my headset and re-explains the rules to me with forced patience.  Because this entire thing annoys me to no end, I press it again as soon as she finishes, which causes her to explain the rules a third time, now with no pretense of politeness.  Finally I’m ready to go, and once the test begins, my headset begins whining at odd intervals.  As soon as I hear the noise, I press the button and experience a few seconds of relief before it returns again.

When it ends, I start to take my headphones off only to be told that it’s only the first part of the test.  Damnit.  Now they want me to use a dial to indicate what direction I think the designated sound originates from.  Slightly less annoying than the first task, but my disinterest shows through in a significant lag time that drives the technicians mad.  After about the fifth time, I hear a very ticked-off voice in the headphones: “We are going to start this test over again now that you are familiar with how it works.”

On one hand, I really want this to be over with as soon as possible.  But on the other, it brings me a flutter of pleasure to know that I’m pissing them off.

“Focus, Elijah,” comes Harmony’s voice over the headphones.  They must’ve dragged him into this to try to talk some sense into me.  Whatever.  I’m tired of this anyhow.  This time when we run through the test, I actually try and am rewarded with the woman telling me that I did a good job.

But then the tests continue.  There’s one where I have to focus on someone speaking in a quiet voice and repeat back what I hear.  Another one that’s similar but is in a louder environment.  Then they have me differentiate between sounds.  I have to identify whether I’m hearing leaves rustle in the breeze or if it’s the sound of a flag flapping in the wind.  I struggle with this one, not because I don’t know what I’m hearing but because there are so many things in life that sound the same.  It takes me way longer than it should because I’m actually trying to get it right.  Finally I start making things up.

“This is either someone throwing garbage in a can or a cat stuck in a bag,” I say flatly when there’s a vague rustling noise presented through my headset.  And then, when there’s the sound of what I can only describe as a toilet flush: “That’s the sound of my hopes and dreams disappearing.”

“Elijah, we know that you’re tired but we don’t want to have to restart this portion of the test,” comes the woman’s voice laden with irritation.

So I correctly tell them that the next noise is a squirrel chattering.  And then the next one is birds chirping.

And then, all of a sudden, a sudden bloodcurdling scream blasts through from my headphones.  I rip off the headset, chuck it across the room, and jump to my feet.  But I forget that I’m in a chair with a desk in front of me, and I trip and fall to the floor.  In my head, the screaming echoes.  My heart pounds, and my head becomes fuzzy.

Harmony is by my side.  I recognize his hands on me as he helps me up to my feet.  He presses the cane into my grasp, and I clutch it in my shaking hands.

“I think we’ll have to call this good for the day,” he says to someone else, his voice projected too loudly to be talking with me.

Then comes the voice of the woman who I heard through the headphones, but now she’s speaking over an intercom: “I’m very sorry about that, Mr. Asher.  I’m afraid one of our technicians pressed the wrong button.”

I hear a hint of something in her voice: amusement?  Entertainment?  Laughter?

“We have fortunately completed the test, so no need to repeat it at this time,” she continues as though that is the important thing in the situation here.  I don’t buy for a second that this was an accident.  I don’t know which direction is the door since I’m so turned around right now, but I tug at Harmony’s arm regardless.

“Thank you,” he says to the woman.  Then, to me, “Let’s get you back to your room.”

I don’t pay attention to anything he says on the return trip.  Maybe he says nothing at all.  I’m too busy trying to get the scream out of my head.  The way that it gurgled at the end, like someone was choking on their own blood. . . . All those soft sounds of rustling leaves and bird calls, and then suddenly a sharp and soul-destroying scream.

We come to a stop and it’s only when Ferrer asks what’s wrong that I realize that we have arrived back in my hospital room.  Harmony explains that there was a technical difficulty during the test that startled me.

“Let’s take a walk, Elijah—you need some fresh air,” Ferrer says.

“No, I don’t want to go anywhere,” I mumble.

Ferrer grunts.  “Yeah, you do.  Let’s go.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond before he’s moving to the door.  I release my grasp on Harmony when I realize the nurse isn’t going to be coming with us.  And then I’m on my own.  For the first time, I’m going to have to walk these corridors by myself with no assistance.  Fighting through the fear that still drips through me, I move forward with only my cane to guide me.  Ferrer walks quickly, pausing every so often to make sure that he doesn’t leave me completely behind.  His footsteps are impatient, however, and he doesn’t stop long.

When at last we get outside, Ferrer grasps my shoulder and half-leads, half-pushes me across the balcony until we are at the railing on the far side where we had spoken earlier in the day.  As soon as my hand touches the rail for support, Ferrer rounds on me.

“What the hell did you do?” his voice low but still angry.

“Me?!” I demand.  “I just did the damned hearing test like I was supposed to.”

“Like you were supposed to?” he asks with heavy skepticism.

“What do you want to know?” I ask.

“Why there were ‘technical difficulties’ that left you next to senseless,” Ferrer says.  “We’ll start there.”

“How the hell should I know why they thought it would be great to press the wrong button and freak me out?”

“Wrong button?  What exactly did they do?”

“I don’t know.  There was just screaming all of a sudden.  One moment birds chirping, the next moment a terrible scream.”  I still can’t shake it.

“It wasn’t an accident,” Ferrer says seriously.  “Did you do anything—anything at all—that may have ticked them off?”

“I—” but the words don’t come out of my mouth.

“Elijah.”

“I might have pressed the buttons at the wrong time.  Too fast, too slow.  Maybe I misidentified the sounds they were feeding me.  What does it matter?  It’s just a stupid hearing test,” I say, but as the words come out, I know that if anything was stupid here, it was me for not following their directions.  I can almost predict what Ferrer will say to this, and I’m regretting it already.

“Damnit, Elijah, you can’t just do that,” he hisses, his voice low but intense.  “That scream you heard was a warning.”

I grip the rail of the balcony with my free hand.  The metal is warm underneath my fingers.

“A warning for what?  Because I wasn’t taking the test as seriously as they wanted me to?” I demand.  “If that’s how they react, that’s—”

“Yes, that is how they react,” he cuts me off.  “I mean this in both the literal and the metaphorical sense: you push their buttons, they punish you.  End of story.  This time it might have been a jarring noise; next time it could be . . . a lot worse.”

I’m pretty much imagining that “a lot worse” has already happened to me.  What would they do next, cut off my ears?

“That’s it, then?” I ask.  “We just do what they say.  Forever and ever?”

“If that doesn’t satisfy you—if that’s not something you can possibly follow—then why don’t you just do what I say?” Ferrer says.  “And I say that, yes, for the time being, you do whatever you need to do to not get them angry with you.”

“What do they have to be angry at me for?” I demand.

Ferrer sounds like he’s about to answer that, but then he stops, hesitates, and starts again: “It doesn’t matter if they are or aren’t angry at you.  You need to keep out of trouble.  Not give them a reason to be angry.”

I grip the railing tightly and tell myself that I will follow what Ferrer tells me because he is my stand-in mentor and he, unlike my real mentor, hasn’t tried to kill me yet.  I have very high standards with this, clearly.

“Alright, fine,” I say after a second.

“Fine what?” Ferrer asks.

“I will listen to you.”

“Good,” he says.

Chapter Text

In my sleep, I hear their screams.  Echoing.  Blood.  Fear.  I can’t wake up.  Mangled bodies.  Death.  Can’t escape.

“Elijah, you okay?”

I push the blankets off me and sit up.  Sweat dampens the collar of my shirt.  It takes me several moments of deep breaths before I can acknowledge that I’m awake and sitting in the bed in the hospital.  The images in my mind’s eye slowly fade as I struggle to push away the last remnants of sleep that cling to me.

“I’ll get you some water,” Lady says from my bedside.

“No, no.  I’m fine.”

Lady ignores me.  Water sloshes into the cup on the nightstand next to my bed.  “It’ll be right here if you need it,” she assures me.

“Alright, thanks,” I manage.

The nightmares were worse tonight.  They crowded into my dreams and eliminated any rest I could have gotten.  I rub my ear as though that will help make the lingering screams vanish.

“They’re decreasing your medications at night to help you get ready to leave the hospital,” Lady says softly.

I turn up towards her but can’t make out her shape in the darkness.  Then I remember that it’s not low light in my hospital room that keeps me from seeing her but my own absence of vision.

“Less medication, more nightmares,” I say.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it,” she confirms.  “Sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” I ask.

She says somewhat sympathetically, “I dunno.  Guess I’m just sorry that you have to go through this.  The nightmares . . . they’ll come and go but they don’t ever really go away.  At least they haven’t for me.”

“Great,” I mumble.  I lay back down in my bed.

“You want me to ask the staff if they can give you something to help you fall asleep?” she asks.

“Nah,” I say.  Then I add, “Thank you, though.”

Lady returns to her chair.  She’s fiddling with something.  I’m not sure what she’s doing, but something that will help her pass the time while she waits with me in the hospital.

I try to coax myself back to sleep.  After a few minutes, I contemplate asking Lady to find out about the sleep medicine, but then I remind myself that I want to be able to wake up from the nightmares and not be chemically trapped within them.  Time goes by, and eventually I fall into a dreamless sleep.

In the morning, Harmony has me walk without his assistance to meet Ferrer and Pitch for my mentor meeting.  He follows behind me a few paces and has me lead him to the balcony.  Considering that I’ve only been there twice, and both times while quite confused and disoriented, I’m surprised that it takes only fifteen minutes to get there.  Harmony has great patience because we backtrack at least twice, and we wander the same hallways for the majority of that time.  Every now and again he gives me a verbal nudge to help me use my hearing or touch to identify my surroundings.

Once we are on the balcony, he accompanies me to the far side where I once again meet up with the older victors.   Harmony informs me that there is an empty chair and gives me directions enough that I can find it and sit down without falling on the floor.  Then he tells me that he’ll be sitting at the table near the door and leaves me with Ferrer and Pitch.

We exchange a few greetings, but then Ferrer launches right in: “Tomorrow evening is the presentation of the victor.  Hero has managed to hold off your escort, stylist, and prep team, but tomorrow they get full reign, okay?  Plan on spending the majority of the day with them.”

My body tenses.  I knew it was coming, but now that it’s nearly upon me, I wish for nothing else but to be free of it.  The last thing I want is the hands of the District 5 prep team tearing me apart and putting me back together, all without my consent and, now, vision.  I won’t be able to see what they’re doing to me, and I don’t trust that they’ll dress me in something respectable.  I take a deep breath and force myself to focus on the victors.

“Plan on them talking nonstop about your time in the arena without any regard for your preferences,” Pitch adds.

“I’d expect nothing less,” I reply flatly.

“You will let them talk.  Engage them a little so you don’t tune them out completely,” Ferrer instructs.  “No shutting them down because regardless of whatever you think, you need them right now.  Not for companionship but for political reasons.”

My stomach lurches.  I don’t like this.  I don’t want to be bound by these sorts of unspoken rules.  I rub my arm absently as I think about whatever the hell they’re going to say to me while they’re scraping every skin cell off my body.  My stylist, whatever his name was, had been tolerable for the short time I had to work with him, but I never trusted him enough to know that he had my best interest in mind.  And the rest of them. . . . The prep team members couldn’t stop talking about things that didn’t matter.  My victory, Ilana, the blindness. . . . such ample opportunity for them to torment me.

“Harmony will be staying with you,” Ferrer adds, pulling me from my thoughts.  “Since none of your team are familiar with working with a blind person, he’s going to help them make sure they don’t offend you in that regard at least.”

“Alright,” I say.  Not once has my nurse brought up the Hunger Games like it’s a badge of honor, and he has always treated me with respect.  Two things that are hard to find in the Capitol.  I find myself relieved knowing that he’s not going to vanish when the prep team arrives.

“The presentation will be essentially what you’ve seen on TV.  You’ll stand on a pedestal under the stage and they will bring you up where your mentor will receive you and lead you to your seat,” Pitch says.  “I have no reason to suspect that Solar is going to try anything strange, by the way.  All eyes in Panem will be on her.”

Despite Pitch’s words, I have this apprehension that she’ll do something sneaky but not all-out wrong.  Like abandon me on stage with no way to find the chair I’m supposed to sit in.  I shift uneasily in my seat thinking about it.  I file this thought in ‘things I never would have considered before I was blinded.’

“Pitch and I will be backstage in case you need anything,” Ferrer assures me.

I nod.  “Okay.”  I can’t manage to say anything more.  Nothing I can say or do will change the fact that I have to go through this ordeal in order to move forward with my life.

Leaning back in my chair, I fiddle with my cane and turn my face towards the breeze so that I can feel it on my cheeks.  Even if Harmony hadn’t told me the time, I can tell from the sun’s strength that it’s mid-morning.  For the briefest of seconds, I can imagine that I’m somewhere else.  In a time and place that came long before I heard my name called out by the District 5 escort.

“Once the presentation ends, we’ll go straight to the party,” Ferrer continues, and I turn back to him.  “All the victors attend, not just the ones whose district won, so there will be no problem that we’ll be with you.”

“We’ll keep Solar away, or at least restrict the time she has with you if it looks like blocking her entirely will be problematic,” Pitch says.  He leans back in his seat, the chair groaning a bit underneath him.  “Nobody is entirely sure what her issue is, and though we can be reasonably certain that she won’t bother you during the presentation itself, the party afterwards is anyone’s guess.  There’s enough people and alcohol that things can become unpredictable.”

“Speaking of, I know this should go without saying but I’ll say it anyway: no drinking,” Ferrer says.

“Yes sir,” I reply.  It never crossed my mind, and now that it’s been brought up, it makes me want to vomit a little thinking about losing control of all my senses with all those damned Capitolites around.

“I’m serious.  You’re going to have a hard enough time as it is, so you don’t need to make it more complicated,” he says sternly.

“Well, I’ll check that off the list of things I was really hoping to do at this party,” I reply dryly.  I wonder if the District 2 victor is this way with everyone or if he just thinks that I’m really special and likely to screw up at every possible moment.  “Really, Ferrer, I managed to get out of the arena while blinded.  Have some confidence in me that I have some common sense.”

It sounds as though he leans in closer to me.  “This is a whole different arena, Elijah.  Whatever you did back there to get out alive isn’t the same as what you have to do here to survive.”

“What’s that, some sort of Career life advice?” I ask.  But apprehension prickles the back of my mind.

“No,” comes Pitch’s voice.  “He’s right.  Career or not, you’re always in the arena even after you leave.  It’s just that the rules change.”

My stomach clenches.  Of course.  Ferrer had tried to drill that into me last night.  The Capitol always has control over me; I will always follow them.  Had I known that the life of a victor would be so constricted. . . .

It wouldn’t have changed things.  The fear in the arena is so great that you’re willing to do anything to get out of there.  You’re faced with your own death, you see others die . . . you just want to live for another day and make it back home to your family.  Even if I had known that I would always be controlled by the Capitol, I still would have fought to survive.  This knowledge sickens me.

“How long is the party?” I change topics.

“Three, maybe four hours,” Ferrer answers.  “But if there is an opportunity to get you out of it sooner, we will.”

That’s . . . longer than I thought.  I twist my hands around my cane absently as I wonder how I’m supposed to make it through the night.  In some ways, tomorrow evening sounds more impossible than lasting a day in the arena.  Funny that when you’re in the arena, you think that anything out in the world is more manageable.

“What about the interviews?” I ask.  “Those start the day after?”

“Yes,” Ferrer says.  “We’ve negotiated to postpone the interviews by a day on the grounds that your team needs to spend extra time with you to accommodate your disability.”

I snort.

The District 2 victor continues as though he doesn’t hear me, “But there are at least five interviews scheduled, and in relatively rapid succession.  So let’s talk about those.”

“Alright,” I say.  I tap my cane against the ground, listening to the sound it makes against the rough concrete.  “What about them?”

“The first interview will be the traditional ‘first interview with the new victor’ sort of thing,” Pitch says.  “So it’ll just be you being interviewed with Caligula.  This one will not be broadcasted live because when victors are so fresh out of the arena, having a coherent and appropriate interview can be tough.  It gives them time to edit any less desirable parts out.”

“But that doesn’t mean you have the ability to say whatever you want,” Ferrer warns.

I ignore him as Pitch continues, “You will have another one the same day, this time with your mentor.  Again, it’s not broadcasted live.  But that’s pretty much where the grace period ends.  After that, you can count on most, if not all, of your interviews being live with a large audience.”

I’m still stuck on the part about an interview with my mentor.

Ferrer seems to pick up on my hesitation.  “Solar might try to trip you up.  I’m not certain what angle she’s going to play as far as the reason she sent you the poison,” he says.  “Maybe she’ll say that she wanted to give you the option of freeing you from pain and that she knew that you would know what it was, or maybe she’ll say that it was intended for you to use against someone else since your ability to engage in combat was limited.  I don’t know.  But be prepared for her to manipulate the story however she chooses.”

The idea of her trying to weasel her way out of what she did sends sparks of anger through my nervous system.

“So she’s like this all the time?” I demand.  “You guys know her well?”

“She normally keeps to herself, at least when around the rest of us victors,” Ferrer answers.  “She can be a bit . . . odd, though I never thought that she would stoop to this level.  But since she is capable of trying to kill her own tribute, we can only assume that she’s capable of more.”

“What does that mean?  Am I supposed to pretend we’re good friends, or try to keep my distance during this interview?”

“I’ll try to see if I can get a feel for her,” Pitch says.  “I’ll let you know when I do.”

I rub my chin as I think about how this is going to go down.  All the different ways she’ll try to screw me over in the interview just so that she has the upper hand once more.

Suddenly all the anger I had been ignoring over the past few days rushes into me.  All the thoughts of hatred and disgust and everything else that had been festering within me ever since I received that vial . . . no, before that.  Before the Hunger Games began.  When we were still planning our strategy.  The anger courses through me, wrapping itself around my body, inside and out.

No longer able to keep myself in my seat, I stand up.  Moving only causes the anger to surge forth.  Next thing I know, I’m pacing.  Back and forth, back and forth.  I barely think about the cane I left back at my seat.

“Solar wanted me to abandon Ilana to be murdered in the bloodbath,” I say.  “She said it would get me more sympathy in the Capitol.  More sponsors.  And that was the only way I was going to get sponsors.  By allying with Ilana, I pretty much guaranteed that Solar wouldn’t help me in the arena.”

Nobody says anything.  Blood pumps through my ears, the anger flaring up as I recall the conversations I had with that woman.  Ferrer shifts uneasily in his seat.  Pitch shuffles around for a moment, like he’s adjusting his feet on the floor to stand up, but he doesn’t leave.  Neither of them do.

Now that I’ve said it and gotten it out there, the words are no longer bound to me.  The weight no longer constrains me.  My mentor, the real one, is a terrible person, and I have no qualms of telling the other two victors who have been with me since I was pulled from the arena.  I want them to know what sort of person they’re filling in for.  I don’t know why I do, but I do.

“Ilana isn’t—wasn’t—my girlfriend’s sister,” I continue.  The words pour out of me in a great and sudden rush, unable to be contained.  “She’s my girlfriend’s sister’s friend.  But Solar said that it was too much for people to wrap their heads around, so she shortened it.  We didn’t know at the time that her motive was to make people feel sorry for me after Ilana was killed. . . .  After I was supposed to let her die.  We thought she was genuinely trying to help us come up with a strategy to get sponsorships, so we agreed to it.  Or at least Ilana did.  I just went with it.

“And you know she never helped me for the interview, either?  She just ditched about ten minutes in after throwing around a few insults because I refused to follow her plan. . . .

“Is any of this common knowledge in the mentor circle?” I ask bitterly even though I know that it is not.  “Did she happen to let everyone know that she fucked over her tribute before the Hunger Games even started?  Or that she gunned to kill the other tribute right from the beginning?  How many tributes before me have been told they’re going to die because they’re not following some sadistic plan she has?”

I don’t expect an answer.  Not to any of it.  The anger surges through me, winding its way through my body from chest to extremity.

“Unfortunately nobody guarantees that the victors, though we come from the districts, are any better than the citizens of the Capitol,” Pitch answers.  His voice sounds strained, but calm.  “As sick and disgusting as it is, there are few rules that hold mentors in place.  As long as we appear to be mentoring, that’s all anyone cares about.”

His words vanish in my ears as the pulse of anger continues to pound through me.  She had been through the Hunger Games herself.  She knew how emotionally taxing it is.  And yet she didn’t care.  She loved to watch me writhe in torment as she taunted me with Ilana’s death or told me how unlikely it was I’d win.  And all of that is perfectly acceptable in this disgusting system.

I want to kill Solar, I realize with a jolt.  Not a jolt of fear or horror or surprise, but a jolt of longing.  I clench my teeth together to keep the sensation at bay.

What I did in the arena was acceptable and necessary.  But out here, things are different.  The anger that pushed me forward only a few days ago could not be coddled and nourished in the same manner.  But I wish I could wrap my hands around her neck. . . .

“I’m at a loss for word right now,” Ferrer admits.  His heavy voice strains as he speaks.  “Each mentor has different tactics, but once again I have never heard of a mentor doing that.  It’s not . . . implausible.”

“So am I still supposed to pretend to be happy to see her?” I demand.  “We’re just friends like nothing has happened?”

“I told you, I’ll look into it and get back to you,” Pitch’s voice strains.

His words do nothing to quell the anger.  Instead I allow the breeze to wash over me in the hopes that it will cool me down enough to return to the discussion.  The other victors give me time; neither of them tell me to sit down or prod me to hurry up.  It takes me several minutes before I return to my seat, and even then I can’t get comfortable.  The morning light no longer brings warmth but general discomfort.  I’m so exposed out here.

“For the first interview—the one just by yourself—they’re going to ask you a series of questions,” Ferrer says calmly, proceeding forth with our scheduled plans.  “They’re normally pretty standard: ‘What were you thinking or feeling or experiencing when XYZ happened?’ is the best way I can sum it up.  So they will ask you about everything from the reaping to prep week to your time in the arena.  They’ll ask about Ilana and your relationship, they’ll want to know how you handled getting tortured, and they’ll pry into your experience afterwards.”

The burning anger I had towards my mentor twists into sorrow for what happened to Ilana, like a great pit has fallen away within me, exposing a raw and gaping hole.  The jump from one extreme emotion to another takes its toll and leaves me drained.

I swallow hard.  “I—” But I can’t get the words out. 

Both men wait for me to figure out how to get my tongue functional.  Finally I manage, “I don’t know how to answer questions about Ilana.”

All the other things, I can handle.  I won’t like it, but I’ll be able to answer whatever else they want.  Hell, one way or another, I’ll even be able to sit next to Solar for the interview.  But Ilana?  To know that her life and death is nothing but a bit of entertainment for the audience. . . . To know that they don’t really want to know about her, but only want to see me writhe as they pluck at me over and over again. . . .  I cannot bear to see Ilana reduced to something so petty while her death burns so much within me.

“You can answer some of the basic questions and deflect some of the others,” Pitch says hesitantly.  “I normally don’t recommend it, but if it’s the only thing that will keep you from losing it. . . .”

“And by ‘deflect,’ Pitch means that you tell people that you’re so overcome with grief that you can’t answer them at this time,” Ferrer adds in.

“What do people think?  I mean, of me?  And Ilana.  I . . .” I struggle to find words.  All I can remember is Solar telling me how heartless I’d look if I was too close to Ilana in the arena.  I know I can’t exactly trust my old mentor as a reliable source, but the relationship I had with my district partner isn’t something I can really understand, and I don’t know how it was interpreted by viewers.  I wasn’t in love with her, but I did love her, I realize now.  I cared for her deeply.  In some ways, what Pitch and Ferrer suggest is completely true.  And yet I can’t bear to go into an interview and say this if people at home think that I love my girlfriend Lucinda (and I do . . . ).  My chest aches, but there’s nothing I can do to calm the pain.

“There are competing thoughts,” Ferrer says after it’s clear I can’t really vocalize what I mean.  He seems to catch on anyhow.  “Some people think that you were in love with Ilana since the beginning, some think that your relationship grew in the arena.  Others still think that it was really good acting, and still others think that it was nothing but a stress-induced bond.”

Honestly, it sounds like everyone is on the same page as me.

“And at home?” I ask.  “Back in District 5?”

“I’m going to be frank with you again, Elijah,” Ferrer says gravely.  “It doesn’t matter what the people in District 5 think.  Your job right now is to get yourself through this next part of the Hunger Games.”

“My girlfriend—”

“Your girlfriend just saw you get very comfortable with her sister’s friend,” he interrupts.  “But she’s the least of your problems right now, unfortunately.  You will have to deal with that fallout when you get back to your district, and hopefully she will be able to see that you needed to survive the arena, whatever that entailed.”

He might as well have punched me.  Nausea rises within me and I lean my head back to stare blankly up at the sky as I try to quell the sudden urge to vomit.  I focus on the warmth of the sun on my skin.

“Ilana was lucky to have you with her,” Pitch says quietly.  “The arena is a lonely place even if you’re surrounded by people.  Alliances offer little comfort if you know you will have to kill the others.”

I can’t respond to this.  Already I feel tears behind my eyelids.  Why the hell did Pitch have to say that?

Ferrer clears his throat and switches the subject.  “Pitch told you yesterday that they want to do an interview focusing on your blindness.  Expect it to come up in other interviews as well, but for this particular one, they will be asking you questions about how you managed to survive without being able to see and how you’re coping afterwards.  You will want to play up how helpful Harmony is and tell them about all the things he’s teaching you.”

What I wouldn’t do to have Ilana here with me now.  She would think this is all ridiculous, like I do, but she’d give me the courage to go through with it anyhow.  Maybe she’d make some ridiculous joke about it, or tell me that I’m a wimp for being so scared.  Hell, she could just smile at me and that would give me the strength to get through it all.

“Elijah?” comes Pitch’s voice.

I blink but, of course, it makes no difference.  “Yeah?”

“Just couldn’t tell if you were paying attention,” he says carefully.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

I’m not, of course, and we all know it, but the conversation goes on regardless because it must.  Ferrer and Pitch continue to go over all of the aspects of the interviews, what to expect, why each interview is necessary in the eyes of the Capitol, who the target audiences are, etc.  But despite all their effort, I’m not part of the conversation anymore.   Thoughts of Ilana still clog my brain.

I lay in bed, alone in the room.  This will be the last night I spend in the hospital.  Tomorrow night, after the party, I’ll stay in a hotel near the event.  And then it’ll be interview after interview after interview.

After preparing for the presentation and interviews with Ferrer and Pitch, I’m exhausted.  The emotions jumble within my brain and I can’t sort them out even if I had the energy to do so.  Fear manages to overshadow all else and sink its talons into my skull, keeping me from doing anything but worry.

Everything will change tomorrow.  I can’t pretend that it doesn’t exist, nor can I tell myself that I won’t have to face it for days still to come.  I am a victor, and tomorrow the entire world will see me for the first time since I left the arena more dead than alive.  Tomorrow, I will have to face all that happened.  All that I’ve done and all that I’ve seen.

Ilana.

The torture.

The three people I killed.

Tomorrow I will have to live through it all again.

Chapter Text

“Oh my goodness, there he is!” comes the voice of a woman.  Then all the other voices tumble out, mixing together and forming a chaotic soup of noise.  I sink back into my chair in discomfort.

This particular room, Harmony had told me when he first brought me inside to wait for the District 5 staff, was made specifically for stylists to work with their tributes before leaving the hospital.  He had described it as “comfortable” with enough room for the full team and their supplies.  The way their voices travel through the room, I know he’s not wrong.  It’s not a massive, echoing place.  But that’s really all I can get out of my observation skills before the District 5 team swamps me.

“There is so much work to do, I can tell,” says another one of the members.  I don’t know who.  I don’t know their names.  It’s not my stylist and it’s not Wilton, so it must be one of the Prep Team.

“There you are, Mr. Asher,” comes Wilton’s voice.  It’s surprisingly light, now that I’m forced to listen to it.  Not high-pitched, per se.  Just airy in a way.

But I can’t really sort out the other voices easily as they tall talk over each other forming an overlapping blanket of words.

“Yes, yes, there is much work to do,” Wilton agrees.  He walks toward me, and I feel him standing over me.  I don’t know if I’d have guessed that he is as tall as he is by voice alone.  He reaches over and runs a hand through my hair, which catches me so off guard that I stand up suddenly and knock my chair back with a clatter.

I feel their eyes on me.  Staring at me.  They grow quiet as they really get a good look at me.  I’ve lost weight since I’ve been in the arena, and even the IV nutrients they’ve supplemented my meals with haven’t been enough to replace the calories I burned.  Beside showering and brushing my teeth, I’ve done very little to care for myself.  The faintest bits of hair grow back on my jaw after whatever treatment was done to suppress hair growth.  And I’m sure they’ve noticed the blank stare in my hollow face and foreign cane in my hands.  It’s unavoidable.  I’ve changed, and for certain not for the better.

“We will get you all squared away before you know it,” one of the Prep Team members finally says.

“Excuse me,” comes the voice of Harmony from the doorway.  “Sorry I had to step out.  I’m Harmony, Elijah’s nurse.”

There’s a round of introductions in which I find out that the Prep Team members are named Sophia, Magic, and Presto.  My stylist hasn’t arrived yet, Wilton explains after he introduces himself.  Before the stylist will show his face, he wants the prep team to clean me up just right.

“That’s not a problem,” Harmony says.  Then he lays out how the various staff are to interact with me: They need to tell me what they’re going to do before they do it, they must ask me for permission before doing anything intrusive, and they have to avoid touching my eyes (or, rather, the prosthetics in my eye sockets).  The team members all readily agree to this.  Yet no one moves.  Everyone waits on edge to begin, but not a single one of them makes the first step.  This is new territory for them, and as eager as they are to explore, they fear the unknown.

Finally Harmony says, “What’s first?”

“Oh, a bath, for certain,” says one of the team members.

I frown.  Really?  I’d be offended that the first thing they think when they see me is that I need to bathe, but I remember that they think that anything that’s not slathered with makeup and wearing obnoxious clothing requires a bath first thing.

Harmony starts to tell them that I can bathe myself, but the words don’t get a chance to come out of his mouth before one of the prep team members comes up to me and says with a little too much effort, “Elijah, it’s time for a bath.  We’re going to go to the bathroom now!”

For the first time since I woke up in the hospital, I wonder if I can still roll my eyes.  But I just stand up and let one of them take my arm and lead me towards the bathroom adjacent to this room.  There they proceed to strip me while chattering away with things like “Now we’re going to get you into the tub” and “Would you prefer lavender or summer roses?” and “Should we turn the thermostat up?”  The effort they put into following Harmony’s instructions is comical as they start to talk me through how to get into the bathtub.  It’s a far cry from when they first got their hands on me as soon as I got off the train and barely told me what they were doing.

Once I’m in the water, they chatter about current affairs as though they’ve forgotten all about me.  I am a canvas they can absently slop paint on as they converse.  They scrub me down with a variety of strong-smelling soaps, though it’s not nearly as intense as the first time they bathed me; my skin had been cleansed thoroughly when they reconstructed my broken body.  When I’m out of the bath tub, they wrap me in a towel before giving me a fresh change of clothes, and once I’m dressed, they lead me back to the chair they found me in, the entire time talking to me like I’m an idiot who needs encouragement to move his legs.

“The chair is right here.  Right behind you,” one of them says despite the fact that I already have a hand on it.

“Just go ahead and sit there, dear, don’t you worry,” says another, a hand on my shoulder blade as she guided me into the seat.

I remember that Ferrer told me that I had to engage these people in conversation, at least a little bit.  But for the life of me, there is no way I can open my mouth now and have anything remotely polite come out.  I try to tell myself that they’re only doing their best to follow Harmony’s guidelines and they’re not too bright to begin with.

“Head up, just so,” says one, a hand on my chin to hold my head up while a fabric is draped around me.  “It’s time for a haircut!”

“Oh, goodness, that hair is just too wild!” chirps another.

Too wild?  Didn’t they just cut it . . . actually, I don’t know how long it’s been since they last had me in their possession.  I spend the next couple of minutes trying to calculate how much time has passed since the reaping as a means to keep me occupied.  One week (prep week), then the twelve days I was in the arena, and . . . that’s as far as I get because I don’t know how long I’ve been in the hospital.  I try to come up with some estimates, but eventually give up.

“I can’t wait for tonight!” comes Wilton’s voice from a different part of the room.  “This will be so exciting!”

That sets the prep team members into a gleeful frenzy.  They try to talk over each other, and I focus on sorting out the voices to distinguish between each one of them without really following their conversation.  But it’s hard to do one without the other, and their enthusiasm for tonight digs deep within my heart.

“Oh, Elijah, you’re crying, honey,” says one of them.  All the others in the room calm down for a moment.

I cough, trying to cover up a sniffle.  “Yeah, it’s the perfume.  Somebody’s perfume.  It’s too strong.”

They start apologizing, and then they sniff each other as they try to figure out the offending odor.  It’s fictitious but they don’t know that, and eventually they designate Presto as the culprit.  He apologizes left and right, and I tell him that it’s fine.

I never used to cry like this.  The sudden and insuppressible tears come without warning, and more often than not, I don’t realize that it’s happening until my cheeks are already wet.  Part of me wonders if it’s a byproduct of the eye damage, but I know it’s not the case.  The Capitol wants to keep me blind, but spontaneous tears would only ruin makeup and that wouldn’t fit their needs.  My chest clenches and I force myself to take a deep breath.

The team finishes up my haircut, then begins to clean up the extraneous hair that has grown since they last plucked and waxed me.  It’s not as painful, nor does it take as long.  “Touchup” as one of them tells me before they begin.

There’s little to do on my nails since those were cleaned up while I was asleep, but still the prep team smooths out the ends and makes sure that I’ll be presentable to my stylist.

“Whew, hard work always makes me a bit thirsty,” says Wilton.  He takes a slurping sip of something and sets the cup down with a clunk.  “Elijah, how are you doing?”

“Well I can’t say that the makeover is my favorite part of the experience, but I’m doing fine,” I answer somewhat honestly.  ‘Fine’ is more of a relative term than anything else.

Wilton laughs airily.  “You victors are so funny.  How could someone not like being made over?  If only I could live at the spa!”

“I can imagine how hard it would be to not see anything.  Certainly being able to feel 100% after getting made over is the only way to go,” says one of the team members.

“Yeah, sure,” I grumble.

We take a break for lunch, but Harmony won’t let me eat in private.  Instead a table, chairs, and food are brought directly into this room, and the six of us—myself, Harmony, Wilton, and the prep team—sit together to eat.  At first, nobody says much.  They’re all watching me, I know.  Everyone is trying to figure out how a blind person eats.  I try to ignore their eyes on me as I serve myself ravioli carefully.  For the first time, I am very appreciative that Harmony was so insistent that I learn detailed table skills.  But eventually as the novelty wears off, the others begin to drift into conversation until they’re full-swing in discussion as though I don’t exist.  This is fine by me.

“…Oh, of course I’m glad that Elijah won,” one of them says in response to somebody’ else’s remark I didn’t catch.  I perk up at the sound of my name.  “I just think that some of the other tributes would have made wonderful victors, too.”

“Sure, honey, but nobody wanted District 1 to win at all except for you.”

“They did terrible things, but can you imagine working on that girl’s hair?  And her cheekbones were just yearning for Ifso Cadel’s newest line of blushes.”

I stand up then, ignoring the food that I haven’t eaten.  “I’m going to go vomit now,” I say.  “Please excuse me.”

Without waiting for their response, I leave and lock the bathroom door behind me.  My breathing comes out rapidly and I try to pull myself back under control.  I can’t freak out on them.  I can’t lose my shit.  I run my hand through my freshly-cut hair (which feels more or less the same as it was before, except now it’s combed) and reassure myself that all I need to do is get through today.  That’s all.  Tomorrow is a different beast altogether, but not one I’ll think about now.  Right now, I’ll focus on making it to bed tonight.

And then, rather unexpectedly but true to my word, I vomit my lunch on the tiled floor.  I manage to grasp onto the side of the sink as my stomach heaves again, this time bringing up liquid.

The door clicks unlocked behind me and somebody steps inside quietly before shutting the door closed once more.

“A bit too much excitement, huh, Elijah?” Harmony says gently.  “Why don’t you come over here and sit down.”

He leads me over to a chair near the bathtub, and I sit down.  Putting my head in my hands, I mutter unnecessarily, “I’m really sorry.  I puked on the floor.”

“I’ll get it taken care of, don’t worry.  Just sit there for a minute.”

I’d feel guilty that he’s now cleaning up my ravioli puke from the tiles except that I’m so consumed by the daunting task of having to go back into the other room and face the District 5 team.  The sound of Harmony digging under a counter for cleaning products and snapping gloves onto his hands plays as background music to my scattered thoughts.  When at last he finishes, he washes his hands in the sink and then returns to me.

“Here’s some water,” he says.  “Take a few sips; don’t drink it too quickly.”

I sit up and reach out, and he hands me a plastic cup.  I take a few small mouthfuls as instructed.

“I am going to talk with your doctor,” he says.  “We’ll get you an anti-emetic and some electrolytes so you don’t get dehydrated. . . . We’ll figure out a feeding schedule so that you don’t overdo it over the next few days with so many big events.”

I nod.  “Thanks.”

The plastic cup crunches in my hand and water spills over the sides.

“Watch it there,” Harmony says.  He takes it from me carefully and hands me a paper towel.  “I’ll give you a couple minutes while I go talk with your doctor.  But then I think your prep team will need to see you again.”

“It’s okay; I’ll just—” I motion vaguely in the direction of the door “—go sit there and listen to them hype up what almost killed me.”

Harmony doesn’t say anything for a moment.  I wonder if he’s trying to figure out what to do with me.  Unlike the other Capitolites, he doesn’t mess with the topic of the Hunger Games.  And unlike Ferrer, he doesn’t tell me to shut my mouth.

“Stay here.  It’ll only be a few minutes,” he says at last.  A moment later, the bathroom door opens and shuts.

It occurs to me as I sit alone in the bathroom that Harmony may be the most dangerous person of all.  How easy it would be gain my trust by being nice and competent—two things that every other person in this hospital lacks.  The idea tears me in two; I want to be able to trust him, but I also know I can’t let my guard down.  Not if what Ferrer says is true and I am still in the arena.

Harmony returns.

“Your doctor approved the medication.  This injection goes into your muscle, like a vaccine, so it may sting a bit but it won’t be bad,” he says to me.  “I’m going to roll up the sleeve of your left arm and give the injection in your upper arm.”

I offer him my arm.  He rolls up the sleeve and a moment later the needle enters my muscle with a tight pinch.

“That’s it,” he says.  I adjust the sleeve of my shirt.  “We’ll let that kick in, and then we’ll get you something easier on your stomach.”

Why he bothers worrying about how much I eat, I don’t know.  It’s not like going a day without food is going to kill me.

He leads me out of the bathroom where I am greeted by the District 5 team who hurry over to make sure that I’m feeling well.  “You’re not sick, are you?” and “You must be absolutely exhausted!” and “You have such a big day today!” and so on.

They sit me back down in the chair and begin working on me again, though progress moves forward slowly since they finished most of the work already.  Instead they spend a fair amount of time talking about what they’re going to wear to the presentation tonight and if they should wear the same thing to the party or change in between.  They throw around names and titles I’ve never heard before, and I have no qualms not participating in their discussion.

The door opens, and this time everyone squeals in excitement.  One particularly high-pitched yip escapes someone.  But then I hear the voice of my stylist,

“Yes, yes, good to see you, Elijah,” he says.  He pauses for several long seconds.  His shoes clack as he walks around me in a circle.  “Hmm.  Mm-hmm.  Yes.  I see.  Ahh.”

He stops back in front of me and leans in, his breath strong in my face.  I press myself against the chair as much as I can.

“They did as well as I could have hoped,” he summarizes.  Then the sternness fades away, and his voice becomes jovial: “Lovely indeed!  It’s good to have you back.”

The prep team members whisper between themselves.  My stylist must have gestured to them because they hurry right over.  I strain to listen to the sounds of the team rummaging through bags and supplies.  The entire time, the stylist makes comments like, “This one right here . . . no that one’s too dark . . . try this . . . good, that brings out his natural color . . .” And the prep team goes right along with it.  Moments later they tell me that they’re going to start putting my makeup on, and I just grunt to acknowledge I’ve heard them.

Brushes of all sorts begin to sweep across my skin.  I hold as still as possible without knowing whether each brush stroke will vanish for mere moments or for minutes; I can’t see their hands moving around my face to know whether I can have a few seconds to relax.  They pause for the stylist to tell me that I need to remove my clothes so they can dress me in what I’ll be wearing for tonight.  But when they hear that Harmony wants me to eat, they stop for long enough for me to have electrolyte juice and crackers before I change into my clothes.

“Oh, Elijah, you’re so handsome,” says one of them once they step back and admire me.  I stand in the center of the room for them all to apply the final touches of makeup and whatever else they need to do.

“What am I wearing?” I venture to ask.

Wilton says, “It’s a very elegant navy ensemble modeled after the latest in men’s fashion that—”

“A navy suit with gold accents,” Harmony cuts in.

Wilton scoffs at the interruption.

“Thanks, Harmony,” I say.

My escort takes a deep breath and then regains control.  “Elijah, it’s time we get going.  You are the star of the show tonight, and I hate to make everyone wait,” he says.

I take a deep breath.  I will not panic.  I will handle this with as much professionalism as I can manage.

“Not yet, not yet,” my stylist says.

He takes my hand and attaches something to my wrist.  The cool, smooth metal against my skin makes me flinch; I can only imagine that it’s a handcuff.  But he releases his grasp on me, and I use my other hand to explore whatever he put on my wrist.  It’s not a handcuff; it’s a watch.  The open face allows me to feel the position of the hands so that I know exactly what time it is.

“Thank you,” I say as my fingers explore the face for a moment, getting used to the layout and the tiny little hands.

My stylist makes a happy “hmphf!” noise, and then he takes my hand again and presses something else into my palm.

“Glasses?” I ask as my fingers run across the surfaces of the object.  What?

“Sunglasses,” he corrects.

Nothing like really hitting home the fact that I can’t see shit.  But whatever; I’ll take it.  One more barrier between myself and the eyes of the Capitol.  I open up the sunglasses and slide them in place.

Chapter Text

D5V009 Recovery Notes

Subject continues to heal well.  Kidney transplant is successful with only 0.002% chance of rejection.  Surgical procedures unremarkable.  Synthetic teeth adhering well to repaired mandible.  Likelihood of surgical failure following release from hospital low.  Subject’s mass below ideal but steadily improving.  Subject’s remaining senses assessed for damage or weakness.  A hearing test was performed but the results must be interpreted with caution due to Subject’s inconsistent performance.  Ability to smell and taste appears to be unaffected.  Ambulation normal.  No peripheral neuropathy.  Subject is able to make full use of his limbs.

Psychiatric nurse Harmony Miller (ID# AED104) was assigned to assist in Subject’s recovery.  Miller’s experience with acute ocular trauma increased efficacy of rehabilitation.  Subject reacted well to Miller’s training and currently exceeds the anticipated recovery time.

Behavior: Subject withdrawn.  The nurses reported very little conversation which does not raise concern at this stage.  However, the lack of curiosity about his surroundings and his relatives is notable.  Subject rarely initiates interactions with others and remains reserved when others engage him in conversation.  He continues to show signs of antisocial behavior.  Subject appears to disregard authority but follows the directives of certain staff members and fellow victors.

It should be noted that Subject’s mentor, D5V008, did not provide after-arena support.  However, D2V021, D7V012, D4V021, and D10V011 appeared to assist in Subject’s recovery.

Final thoughts: Subject’s ability to adapt to his vision loss is remarkable and will be monitored in the future.  Overall prognosis: excellent (physical), guarded (behavioral).

Chapter Text

The face on the watch tells me that I have only fifteen minutes before it’s time for the presentation to begin.  I sit in a chair against a wall somewhere in the bowels of the auditorium, and I wait for my escort to tell me to get in place.  My leg bounces up and down as I try to flush all the nervous energy out of me before I face this dreadful night.

Everybody in all of Panem will be watching my reaction as the recap video plays.  I cannot break down.  I cannot let them see how much this bothers me.  My family, my girlfriend, my friends . . . all of them want to see me alive and well.  ‘Well’ being the critical component of this.  I draw in a deep breath.

The chair next to me squeaks with the weight of a newcomer.

“Hey, Elijah,” comes Pitch’s voice.  “How’re you holding up?”

I only nod as an answer.  If I try to talk, I’m afraid I’ll break down.

He starts to say something, but then an additional set of footsteps joins us.  These are distinctly female by the click of the heels.

“Oh, Solar . . .” Pitch says.  He falters.

I hear the amusement in Solar’s voice, “Good to see you, Elijah.”

“Fuck you,” I respond.

She laughs.  “That’s no way to greet your mentor,” she says.

“Oh, is that what you are?” I ask.  Anger threatens to bubble up and take over.  I struggle to keep it under control.  “I didn’t realize trying to kill your tribute was—”

“Maybe we can talk about this later,” Pitch interrupts.

I grit my teeth, but Solar only laughs again.  “Oh, I can definitely take a raincheck,” she says.  “See you in a few minutes, Eli.”

My hands twist around my cane tightly and even though I’m dimly aware that I have the power to break it, it doesn’t matter right here and now.  The only thing that matters is that I don’t try to kill my former mentor.

“Drop it,” Pitch whispers to me.  “Just let it go.  Take a breath or two.”

I breathe as instructed, and my mind clears the tiniest bit.

“There are a lot of people in this room, and any of them can hear your conversations in passing,” Pitch continues.  “I promise you, if you want, we’ll set up a time to discuss this with Solar, and you won’t be on your own.  Ferrer and I will do whatever we can to help you.  In the meantime, you have to keep yourself under control and not let her goad you.”

Although I know Pitch is trying to help me, his words only further irritate the part of me that I’m trying hard to suppress.

I lean back and rest my head against the wall behind me.  Just a few more minutes. . . .  Pitch remains in the chair next to me as the time ticks away.  I allow my mind to wander, redirecting myself occasionally so that I don’t delve into topics likely to upset me.

I almost don’t hear Wilton the first time he speaks, and it takes me so long to process what’s going on that he has to state again with a bit more irritation, “Time to get in place, Elijah.”

With great effort, I heave myself to my feet.  This is it.  I’m more scared now than I was before going into the arena.  There’s no rush of adrenaline to keep me going.

Pitch clasps my shoulder.  “You’re going to do fine.  I’m heading upstairs so I’ll be backstage in case you need anything,” he says.  He squeezes my shoulder before releasing it.  “I’ll see you afterwards.”

“Thanks, Pitch,” I say, but Wilton is already herding me away from him towards what I can only think must be the underside of the stage.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear the chattering of the prep team members but they start hushing each other loudly, trying to suppress their excitement.  I don’t know anything about the trio or what previous districts they worked for, but I imagine this might be the first time they have been on the team of a victor.  They can barely contain themselves as they manage to quiet down.

“I am going to go take my place,” Wilton tells me.  “But Laura here will stay with you until it’s time for you to do the same.”

Wilton leaves me, and I turn around as a woman says, “My name is Laura.  I’m one of the ‘backstage coordinators,’ if you will.  Just hang out with me for a moment.”

From somewhere above, a sudden roar of thousands of people rips across the auditorium.  My lungs tighten, and I have to remind myself to breathe again.

“A bit of stage fright is totally normal,” Laura reassures me.  “Just keep your head up and remember that you’re the one in charge.”

I cock my head.  What does that mean?  How am I the one in charge?  All those people out there get to decide my fate, not me.

The coordinator must pick up my confusion.  “They’re here to see you,” she says.  “If you weren’t here, they’d be here for nothing.  You’re the one running the show.”

It’s hard to believe what she’s saying, but I still try to convince myself that she’s right.  I stand up a little straighter when she instructs me to, and I try to puff myself up with enough confidence to believe even a half a degree that I am the one in charge of the situation.  The idea relaxes me a little, at least enough to control my body’s shaking.

After a minute, Laura says, “Your turn.  Let’s get you in place.”

She guides me a few feet over and instructs me to step up.  I find my place on the pedestal and she releases my arm.

The pedestal slowly lifts me up.  The motion, combined with the darkness, brings me back to my entrance into the arena for a flicker of a moment.  I force the thought away and listen to the sound of cheering and screaming grow louder and louder.  The hazy warmth of under stage transitions to an oppressive room temperature.  At last the cheering is so loud that I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it anymore.  The pedestal clicks into place, and I know that I am on stage with no hope of escape.

“Let’s welcome the victor of the one hundred and thirty-third annual Hunger Games, Elijah Asher!” Caligula Klora bellows out.

The audience screams louder, and I have to deliberately keep myself steady.

“Pretend to be happy,” Solar hisses at me.  I didn’t hear her walk up with the roar of the crowd before us, and her sudden voice nearly makes me jump.  But she grabs onto my arm and starts to move me away.  I’m not sure where exactly she’s leading me, though I assume it’s the chair I’m supposed to be sitting in.  With as much dignity as I can muster, I keep pace with her so she’s not dragging me.

“Sit down and enjoy the show,” she says.

I reach out and feel the chair next to me.  Carefully I move in front of it and lower myself in the seat.  Solar’s hand lingers on me for a moment more before she walks away, leaving me on my own.

“Without further ado, let’s get on with the program!” Caligula cries out, and the crowd answers with another deafening roar.  By the end of this night, I think, I’ll not only be lacking in vision but also hearing.

Music begins playing, and I brace myself.  Whatever happens, whatever they show on the screen . . . I need to deal with it.  Sit here and listen to the things I don’t ever want to remember again.

First they start out with the reaping, which doesn’t bother me too much since I’ve already seen the footage that first day in the train.  Nothing about it alarms me, though I find it odd to have no idea what everyone else is seeing.  Since I was there, I know what people were wearing and how the stage was laid out with the great containers holding all of our names, but now I can see none of that.  I can only hear the voices and the soundtrack, mostly, with a few other sounds like footsteps and the squeak of Wilton’s microphone as he adjusts it to his height.  It’s like everyone is watching the show and I’m in the next room with my eyes closed trying to sleep.

Then they move on to the tribute parade, the training scores, and the interviews.  Whenever I hear the voice of someone now deceased, I shudder internally.

And then there’s Ilana.  Her voice rings clear and kind as they play pieces of her interview.

My heart clenches, and I grip the armrest of the chair to keep myself from dissolving into tears.  But as her interview progresses, the sadness gives way to anger.  They aren’t showing this footage to honor her in a memorial.  They’re showing her interview because it forms a story to keep the people out there in the audience entertained.  The boiling sensation rolls within me, and I do what I did best as I lay in the bed of the hospital: I allow myself to stew in the anger but I don’t allow my body to betray what I’m feeling.  So I keep my face straight and focus ahead as I listen to the audio of the recap video.  Anger is the only thing that keeps the pain at bay.

Then begins the time in the arena.  I take a deep breath as I hear the gong signify the beginning of the bloodbath.  As the footage plays, the Hunger Games announcer, Janice Lovely, or Caligula Klora chime in with feedback and input as though they narrate a soccer match.  What we hear are their initial reactions to the events as they unfolded.  Surprise.  Excitement.  Those sorts of things that make my stomach twist.

Now we get into the meat of the Hunger Games, and the commentary dwindles away.  The story progresses chronologically, of course.  Grant quickly takes control of the Career pack, and the District 1 tributes eagerly go along with him.  The District 2 female, Athena, and the pair from District 4 are more hesitant but none of them protest or try to leave the pack.  I’m not offended that they are taking time away from my own storyline, but there’s a sickeningly heavy focus on the murder competition Grant proposes they have.

There’s plenty of focus on myself and Ilana, too.  They show us working together to find food and create shelter.  Although I can’t see it, I know that they’re really showing the two of us curled up together on the coldest nights.  Mixed in with this are scenes of the other tributes dying.  I never would have guessed what was going on if Ferrer and Pitch hadn’t told me about it, but that doesn’t make the cries for mercy or the gurgling sounds of breathing through blood-filled lungs any easier to bear.  Of course they include the scene in which Ilana killed the District 10 male, and the scene in which we allowed the District 7 girl to go free.

They hype up Ilana and my relationship.  They don’t really define it, per se, or try to make it more than it is, but there is plenty of attention on it.  I won’t allow myself to think about what is going on in District 5 right now as my family and friends and Lucinda watch this recap.

To hear Ilana again . . .

I almost don’t hate listening to this.  But I know that she’s going to die, and I know that everyone is going to be thrilled with the progression of events.  I steel myself as the story carries on.

Death after death after death.

And then, amidst all the violence and tragic ends, Ilana slips and falls and breaks her neck.  Her death is quick.  There was no way that she would have felt pain.  But pain wells up within my chest as I listen, a great shining ball of fire and light pulsating against my ribs.  I take a slow, deep breath knowing full well that the camera is on my face right now so that all of Panem can see my reaction to her dying again.

And then comes the next day.

The voices overlap.  Grant.  Athena.  The other Careers.  I try to allow myself to think of anything else, but I can’t.  Their words keep pulling me back time and time again.  And even worse than the words are the terrible sounds of torture: myself, gasping for breath and crying out every time a fist or bat or crowbar breaks my body; the weapons cracking against me and snapping by body to pieces; the huffs of excitement and anger expelled by the District 2 male with every blow he makes; the whimpers and sobs of the District 6 male.  I close my eyes, but I can’t make the images seared into my mind vanish, nor can I tune out the audio of the recap video.  I bite the inside of my cheek until I’m bleeding, and then I still don’t give up as I listen to Grant’s monologue before he pulls out the knife.  The dramatic music emphasizes what is about to happen, and I brace myself.  The music picks up and I hear my own screams amplified through the entire auditorium.

At last, there is silence which gradually gives in to quiet music.

The District 6 male, after stepping outside, continues to sob.  Grant yells at him to stop, but he can’t, so Grant kills him immediately.

Then Athena finds me and begins to patch me up.  I don’t know what’s going on in the recap video, but I know what they’re showing.  Despite the unbelievable agony and inability to stay conscious, I remember everything.  I can’t see the way Athena moves her hands to my face, but I can remember how I flinched at the touch of her fingers.  I don’t know what the name of the medication is, but I can feel how cool it was against my burning skin.

And I wonder, Why?

Why did Athena do this for me?  Why didn’t she let me suffer and die on my own?  I was no good, and I wasn’t going to live anyhow, at least not like that.  Why did it benefit her to try to help me?

Now that I am not fighting the pain and can see this from the outside looking in, I know that she took great care with me to ensure that she wasn’t causing me additional discomfort if she could avoid it.  She even loosened my ropes so that I wasn’t straining against them with my broken body.

There isn’t much time to ponder her motives before they show the scene of the great escape.  The Careers are outdoors enjoying their food and drink (the latter of which is predominantly consumed by Grant), and I struggle to make my way to the window.  The sound of my own grunts of pain are unsettling.  When I was there, I didn’t even realize I was making them.  Of course my focus was on getting out of there alive, not on what sort of things the people at home had to hear.

I leave and pass out by the river.  As the days go by and I come to terms with my situation, they show the other tributes woven into the story.  Grant proposes the ways he’s going to kill me, and he’s egged on by the District 1 male.  Athena and the District 4 girl remain mostly silent.  One of them, the District 4 girl, I assume, laughs with them on occasion.  But before it gets too far, they make sure to include the scene with the cyanide.  Listening to that—as little audio as there is—makes the anger prickle within me once again.  Especially knowing how Solar approached me before this ceremony without a single drop of remorse.  But the scene moves on, and now they’re showing the District 9 female give me supplies.  There’s no context; I have no idea why she did that, nor will I ever know, I suppose.  Moments later, she’s caught by the Careers and killed.

It’s another day.

“I don’t know how that fucker could have gotten so far,” comes Grant’s voice.  “Unless one of you guys knows something I don’t.”

There’s silence for a moment.

“Fine, we’ll find him.  And when we do, I’ll let him know exactly what I plan to do with him,” Grant huffs.

“Oh, just stop it!”  Athena.  “Enough with the torture.”

“What is that?” Grant demands.

“Just kill him when you find him.  Don’t drag this out any longer,” Athena repeats.

“That bastard personally offended me.  You think I’m going to let it go?”

She laughs humorlessly.  “You’re telling me that that miserable pile of flesh and bones that’s out rotting in the woods somewhere offended you?!” she nearly shouts.  “If anyone is a bastard, it’s you, Grant.  You’ve done nothing but make an absolute mess out of this, and you want nothing but for everybody to see what an absolute psychotic freak you are.”

Grant’s angry.  I can hear it in the way he breathes even before he speaks.

“You want to say that again?”

“You’re worried about your own reputation, but you don’t see that what you’ve done is absolutely disgusting.  Or maybe you do but you just don’t care.  Either way, you tortured and blinded a tribute for absolutely no reason.  You think that that’s what makes a victor?”  She laughs dryly.  “I think not.  You’re sick.”

One of them draws a weapon and a struggle follows.  Both grunt with effort, giving small cries as the other takes a good hit.  Grant cries out in pain at one point, but moments later Athena gives a small gasp.  Something hits the ground hard.

“What does it feel like to know that you’re dying?” Grant taunts her.

Athena can barely talk.  When she does, it’s with great effort as she pushes air through her damaged body.  “You’ll find out soon enough,” she grunts.  “When you . . . find the District 5 tribute, I hope . . . I hope he kills you . . .  slowly . . . and if . . . he’s already dead . . . I hope some-somebody else has the . . . balls to kill . . . you.”

“Keep dreaming, Athena,” he laughs.

“What’re you . . . waiting for?  You too afraid . . . to finish killing me, or are you . . . going to sit there like a coward and . .  . and let me bleed out?”

“You’re too soft for a Career,” he tells her.  “You were never going to make it.  Not when there are others of us who—”

“I know . . . where . . . where he is.”

Grant doesn’t finish his thought.  There’s a moment of silence in which I’ve wondered if Athena has died, but I hear no cannon.  Then her bloodied breathing continues.

“Bullshit,” Grant says quietly.

“I’ve known . . . all along. . . .”  She takes another breath.

A cannon fires.

Grant grunts and then there’s a sick thud and I know that he’s kicked Athena’s lifeless body.  He kicks again and again as he releases his anger on her corpse.

“You see that?!” Grant shouts with great panting gasps.  “That’s what happens if you think you can mess with me.  You two know this already, and I know you won’t make the same mistake.”

“Grant, you’re hurt,” comes the District 4 female’s voice after a moment.

He’s injured.  No wonder I took him down so easily.  In some ways, I’m annoyed that I could only manage to kill him with a handicap, but mostly I’m relieved that I wasn’t so overcome with anger and hatred that I managed to off the strongest tribute in one go.

Cut to another scene.

“What did he do to you?  The District 5 male, I mean,” the District 4 tribute asks.  They’re walking through the forest somewhere, branches swiping against their jackets and pine needles crunching underfoot.  A conversation about me, huh?  It makes me wonder if I was the actual focus of this discussion or if the video was edited to make me look more integral to everybody’s lives than I actually was.

Grant growls.  “How the hell did he manage to escape?” he demands, not directly answering the question.

“Oh, so he’s the one who got away?” the District 1 male teases.  I think that if the District 1 male (Gold?) weren’t so similar to Grant, the District 2 male would probably have turned on him right now.  When he speaks again, there’s not a single hint of amusement or humor in his voice.

“Damned right he did,” Grant says.  “I’m a Career—we’re all Careers—and yet he managed to escape right through my fingers.  How?  Well, when I catch him, I aim to find out.  And there will be no way in hell he’ll get away again, not with my sword through his abdomen.”

“Maybe he wasn’t as injured as he looked?” the District 4 girl offers.

“Nah, Grant fucked him up really good,” Gold says.  “Besides, he didn’t even have eyeballs.  Which was epic if you don’t mind me saying so.”

This lifts Grant’s darkened mood.  There isn’t as much anger in his voice now.  Instead there is pride.  “First time anybody’s seen that in the Hunger Games, I guarantee it,” he says.

“Damned right,” Gold agrees.

“You guys are unbelievable,” District 4 huffs.  “Did you ever think that maybe Athena helped him escape?”

“Tribute-sympathizer,” Grant spits.  The cloud appears over Grant’s head again.  “She got what she deserved, one way or another.  Nobody wants someone as weak as her sitting on the throne of victory.”

This scene fades out, and they transition to one of me doing my best to survive.  But this lasts briefly before they move to the morning of the final day.  We’re almost done with this damned video, I think.  I hear my own pained breaths as I limp across the cold ground, each gasp ragged.

The Careers banter back and forth before the topic turns once more to me.  None of them can believe I’m alive, and I don’t blame them.  But then Grant excuses himself, and once the others are out of earshot, I come out of absolutely nowhere and take him to the ground.  The fight is shorter than I thought, but finally Grant’s cannon fires.  I’m struggling to stay alive.  It’s obvious that I won’t make it much longer.  But I’m not dead yet.  I have killed once and I’ll do it again.

Kill.  That’s what I did.  I know that I killed three people, but there was no reason to talk about it or even think about it.  Now it’s in my face.  I took the lives of three people.  Three terrible, wretched people.  But three people.  And I didn’t care.

I don’t know if I care even right now.  I’m starting to feel hollower and hollower as time passes, and I fear I’m going to disintegrate into a puddle on the floor if they show something other than what’s on the screen right now.  So I fill up my hollow core with anger and let its buoyancy keep me afloat for just another few hours until this dreadful evening comes to an end.

I kill the District 1 male.  Then I kill the District 4 female.

I wonder, what was she like?  What was her name?  They must’ve said it at least once in the video, but I have no idea.

They pronounce me the victor.

And suddenly I hear the anthem blaring.  Here.  In the real world.  Right now.  I sit upright, not realizing that I had slumped down an inch or two during the video.  My ears ring with the music reverberating through the auditorium.  It takes several seconds to draw myself back to reality after I had succumbed to the fears and trials of the arena once more.

I stand up and moments later the floorboards shake just enough to know that I’m not alone.

The president.  I’ve seen this in years past, but now without being able to see it in progress, I had almost forgotten about the crowning of the victor.  But President Kincaid isn’t the sort of person to announce his presence and narrate his actions before he does them.  Instead his warm breath fills my personal space, and something thin and solid is placed on my head.  A crown, of course.

Deep breath, I remind myself.

The crowd howls wildly now, and I can do nothing but listen to them scream and shout my name.  A few seconds of uncertainty follow since I have no idea what the hell is going on at this point.  The president is no longer in front of me, that I know, but I don’t know if he’s still on stage at all.  Then there’s someone else by my side, and I feel Solar’s hand on my arm.  She leads me backstage amidst the never-ending cheers.

Solar vanishes, leaving me alone with no idea where I actually am.

Fortunately Pitch is at my side within a heartbeat, and around me I hear voices of a dozen people who have come to congratulate me and tell me how excited they are for my victory.  But Pitch shoos them away and tells them that we have a party to attend.

The presentation of the victor is done at last.  I managed to hold myself together and am no worse for wear at this moment.  Only the burning taste of hatred remains in my mouth as I listen to the shouts and cries of thousands of people who don’t care that they just watched twenty-three kids die.

Chapter Text

Pitch sits next to me in the limousine that drives us to the presidential palace.  We are far from alone.  Wilton, my stylist, and the entire prep team have crammed into the vehicle.  I tune out their inane chatter as I focus on the movement of the limo around me.

“The end is in sight,” Pitch tells me quietly.  “Hang in there.”

“The soonest possible moment, right?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” Pitch says.

I try to relax for the remainder of the relatively short ride.  This is the first time I’ve been out in the Capitol away from the tribute center, and things aren’t nearly as spread out here as they are in District 5.  Sure, we have our cities, but even those give way to long stretches of open land dotted with the occasional house or town.  To know that the president lives within mere minutes of where I’ve been for the past several days really confuses me more than it should.

I wonder what the Capitol actually looks like.  I’ve seen footage in various newsreels and propaganda, but now that I’m actually here, I’d love to know what, exactly, this hellish domain really involves.  How do these monsters live their lives?  Are they all in extravagant apartments and mansions?  Wouldn’t it be strange, I think, if some of them are actually poor?  District 5 isn’t poor, at least not anymore.  After the rebellion a hundred and thirty-odd years ago, everybody was poor, some just more than others.  Even the Capitol had its financial troubles.  But slowly the world started to transform into what it is, and the Capitol managed to pull itself and its favorite districts out of poverty.  The rest of us followed some time later.  We still have poor people, but we don’t have outright destitution, really.  Food kitchens, community pantries, and various organizations help to ensure that people have the basic needs met.  I wonder how many people here in the Capitol have to visit their local food shelter once a week to ensure their kids have something to eat every night.

Not that we’d be exposed to that anywhere near the president’s mansion, I’m sure.

The limo comes to a stop, and the District 5 team prepares to leave, their chatter flaring up in great excitement as they shuffle around.

“Everyone’s going to be paying attention to you.  They have cameras out there.  At least a dozen,” Pitch says to me as the others banter over who gets to show themselves first.  “I can’t be seen leaving this limo with you and the rest of District 5, so I’m going to stay in here for another minute.  Stick with Wilton.  I’ll have the driver go up a block and drop me off, so I’ll be right over.”

“I thought the plan was to not have me left alone at all this entire night, and now that’s what’s happening right away?” I hiss.

“That was the plan.  But sometimes plans have to be adjusted,” Pitch replies.  “Wilton.  Give him a hand.”

“Of course, of course,” Wilton says as he grasps onto me.  I manage to hold onto my cane as I’m half-pulled out of the vehicle.  Already the clicks of cameras surround me as Wilton helps guide me onto the sidewalk, and I force myself to ignore the cameras and reporters who are now shooting out questions.  I can’t make out what they’re saying and I don’t try.

Behind me, the limo leaves, and I remind myself that if I can get through the Hunger Games alone, I can get through this alone.

Relatively alone.  Right now, I hold onto Wilton and will him not to start up the walkway toward the palace.  Too my relief (and my horror), he takes his time and soaks up the attention lavished upon him.  This means that I, too, am in the spotlight.

But then I hear footsteps behind me despite the noise, and Pitch says, “Hey, Elijah.  Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” I respond.  I release my hold on Wilton who barely seems to notice.  Rather than grasping onto Pitch (as I wish I could do to give myself something steady in this moment of chaos), I fall into step next to him as he begins walking.  It is absolutely critical that I use my cane and pay attention to my surroundings; Pitch gets this, and he doesn’t speak as we walk up the path towards the mansion itself.

“Describe it for me?” I ask him after a few moments.  The majority of the cameras have fallen behind and I start to feel more at ease.  I’ve seen the palace in textbooks as a kid, but that was years ago, and it’s not like I ever cared enough to remember what it looked like.

“It’s a big place with way too many topiary in the front lawn,” Pitch says.  He pauses.  “Actually, I’m pretty shit at describing things.”

“I’m pretty shit at seeing things, so go on,” I reply.

He makes a noise that might be a suppressed laugh.  But he continues, “There must be over a hundred rooms in the place.  The exterior is white but they lit it up with a bunch of multi-colored search lights.”

“Flood lights?” I suggest.

“Yeah, that.” He stops walking and I do, too.  “Let’s see . . . Most of the rooms are lit up, but it appears that there are only people in the first two floors.”

“First two?  How many floors are there?” I ask.

“Six, no, seven,” Pitch says.  Okay, now I’m intrigued.  How can someone live in a house that has seven floors?  What do you even do with all those floors?  “We are about halfway up to the house, but in another few feet we’re going to hit some stairs.  Then there will be a few stairs and a stretch of flat path, then a few more stairs and flat path . . . looks like there are four sets of stairs in total, each one with a handful of steps.”

We start walking again, and I’m careful to mind the stairs.  My cane bumps against them.  “Is there a rail?” I ask.

“To your left,” Pitch replies.  So I reach out and find it after a moment of fumbling.  The District 7 mentor adds, “But every time the stairs level out, the rail disappears.”

“This sounds like an architectural nightmare,” I mutter.  “Does the president enjoy watching his guests topple around his front yard?”

“I kindly suggest no more remarks of that nature,” Pitch warns.

The handrail vanishes as Pitch promised and we are once again on a flat stretch.

“There are people at the top of the stairs, which we’ll reach soon enough.  And with them are tons of cameras.”  Pitch keeps his voice low and casual.  “The press isn’t allowed inside, so once we are through the doors, you don’t have to worry about the cameras.”

“I’ll just have to worry about everything else.”

“Remember it’s only one night,” Pitch tries to assure me.  “You’ll get through it.  Just don’t . . . just watch your words.”

I grunt in response.

At last we reach the top where the sound of voices grows louder.  Cameras click, people gasp in excitement, and someone starts cheering.  By my side, Pitch greets people politely and excuses us.  I’m grateful that I don’t have to say anything because the only thing that would come out of my mouth would be to tell them all to shove their cameras up their asses.

Once over the threshold (which has a lip that my cane fortunately picks up because Pitch forgets to warn me), the noise shifts from the excitement of the paparazzi outside to a more sophisticated and eerie murmur inside.  Somewhere in the background, classical piano music plays from a live pianist, and elsewhere I hear the faint sound of strings.  A small quartet, maybe.  But not in the same room as the pianist.  Multiple musicians play tonight.  Of course there are voices, too.  People chatter calmly amongst each other with the occasional peal of laughter piercing the air only to die down again.  The guests here are too wealthy to be consumed by the enthusiastic frenzy of the outdoor people, but they’re still the same monstrous creatures regardless.

There’s a bit of a lull before people suddenly realize that I am in their presence.  Then I hear gasps, and several people start welcoming me and congratulating me all at once.  They aren’t fighting for a chance to speak to me as much as they have forgotten that I can’t see who says what, and a normal round of greetings and well-wishes means nothing when it seems to come from everywhere simultaneously.

Pitch begins to introduce people when he knows their names, and when he doesn’t, he politely asks them to enlighten us.  I don’t bother trying to attach voices to names because there are far too many people and I care about none of them.  Their voices seem to meld together:

“We always knew that you’d make it!  Our money was on you since the beginning.”

“Now you finally have a chance to experience the Capitol.  I bet you can’t wait to explore.  That’s the great thing about winning the Hunger Games.”

“To watch you go from dying on the river bank to killing three Careers—I’ve never seen anything like that in all my fifty-two years!  It’s going to be hard to beat that next year.”

“My cousin lost her vision for awhile.  It’s really hard to deal with, but fortunately the doctors fixed her up.”

“Ilana was such a sweetheart.  Watching you two together was the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever seen.”

Sometimes they attach questions to their useless words as though they hope to engage me, but I don’t give them the satisfaction.  At least not until Pitch introduces a man named Arthur Snapdragon, and tells me that Mr. Snapdragon is one of the lead Gamemakers.  This time we aren’t greeting people in passing where a forced smile or nod of the head is enough to satisfy.  This time we have come to a stop and I know that they expect a conversation to ensue.

“You did very well in the arena,” Snapdragon says with approval in his voice.  “Though I have to say that I admired Ilana’s resourcefulness . . . she really knew how to identify edible plants.”

A pause.  Oh, right, he expects me to say something that would give him the praise he deserves after all his hard work making sure that we’d die just right.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” I manage.

Pitch shifts uneasily by my side.  He clears his throat.

“It’s okay, you don’t need to be shy around here,” Snapdragon assures me.  “I know this all must be pretty intimidating.”

“This is my first time attending a party without being able to see,” I agree.  “Makes things a little more complicated.”

“Mr. Snapdragon, I understand that you had a hand in the theme of the arena,” Pitch cuts in before I can say anything else.

“Oh, yes, the arena was my idea this year,” the Gamemaker says.  “We take turns on deciding who gets to choose and, I have to say, some of us are better at it than others.  But, really, what makes the arena is not the setting but what you put in the setting.”

“I liked the bear,” I blurt out suddenly.  But I stop short after that because I know ‘I liked the bear because I’m hoping it will escape from your labs and kill you all’ would not be a welcome topic.

Snapdragon laughs.  “That was a good one, wasn’t it?  Not my idea, but I can’t say that it was bad at all.”

He goes on for a few minutes about the various technicalities associated with the arena.  How each day they’d decide what temperature to set and every night it grew colder and colder.  “Except once you were by the river, we went a little easier on the cold settings to give you a chance.”

A chance to make them more money, I know.  But that goes unsaid in the conversation.

“I would chat more, gentlemen, but it looks like I’m about to be stolen away from you,” says the Gamemaker.  I bid him good night and Pitch leads me away.

“Careful, Elijah,” Pitch says.  An onlooker might think he’s warning me of an uneven spot in the rug or helped me narrowly avoid a table.  But I know that he’s telling me to watch what I say.  No sooner has he said this than who should arrive but the leader of the ‘tell Elijah to shut up club,’ Ferrer himself.

“How’s it going?” Ferrer asks casually.

“I’m only slightly drunk,” I respond.

He sounds like he’s about to say something before Pitch cuts in, “He hasn’t had anything to drink.  He’s messing with you.”

Ferrer swaps Pitch out for babysitting duties, and we continue to move around the party.  People stop us constantly to pry into the things that hurt me but I’m not allowed to admit they do, and once one conversation ends, another one begins with a completely different person who gives not one shit about what he or she says.  The more this goes on, the more I wish I were drunk.  And the more, I’m sure, Ferrer wants to throttle me.

“I can’t believe that you managed to make it through the Hunger Games when you were beat up so much,” says one woman whose name I immediately forgot but whose voice is forever burned into my brain as one of the most annoying sounds I’ve ever heard.  “It must’ve been difficult.”

“Yeah, a few broken bones, jaw broken in two places, punctured lung, had my eyes gouged out. . . . pretty ‘beat up.’  No big deal.”

At this point Ferrer excuses us from the conversation, wishes the woman well, and hauls me away from the main room.

“Elijah, get a grip,” he hisses.  He leans in close to me and keeps his voice low.  “You absolutely cannot be talking like that.”

“What the hell do you want me to do?” I demand.  “There’s no way that I can—”

“Good God, Elijah.  Yes, you can.  Be polite.  Thank them for their support.  Tell them that they have a great singing voice—I don’t care.  Just stop with the sarcasm.”

I don’t respond.

Ferrer adds, “Do you remember when you said you’d do what I say?”

Damnit.  I almost regret that I said that.  But I nod.  “Yes.”

“Then do it.  Please.”

Ferrer is a mentor, I remind myself.  He is actually trying to help me.

“Yes.  Alright.  I’m sorry.”

“Good, then let’s get out there and—”

“Ferrer, what are you doing with my tribute—I mean victor?” comes Solar’s voice.  “You going to finish what your own tribute couldn’t?”

My heartrate increases with the sudden presence of my would-be assassin.  I’m so exhausted from the constant struggle to remain sane that I can’t force myself to bring the rapid thumping in my chest under control.

Ferrer strains to keep his voice calm and even.  “Solar, pleasure to see you this evening,” he says.  “I was just allowing Elijah to have a moment.”

“A ‘moment,’ huh?” she asks.  She walks closer to us and I can smell a not-unpleasant perfume waft in my direction.  “May I have a word or two with my victor?  In private?”

“Absolutely not,” Ferrer responds.

“Okay, let me try it this way: Elijah, could you come with me for a second and tell your bodyguard boyfriend to chill the fuck out?”

“Wow, I can have the opportunity to be alone in the same room as the woman who tried, and failed, to kill me?  What an honor,” I reply.  “Surely nothing bad can come of that.”

“Still snarky as ever,” she says.  “And just as cowardly and clingy.”

“Whatever you want to say to me, you can say in front of my bodyguard boyfriend,” I reply sharply.

She says nothing for a moment before, “Fine.  I’ll see you later, Elijah.”  She doesn’t wait for a response before she walks away, the click of her heels vanishing into the din of the party.

I let out a breath.  Damn that woman.

“Alright, let’s get back to the party,” Ferrer says.  “You’ve been gone for too long.”

“Too long?  What would happen if I needed to use the toilet?” I ask, almost forgetting that Solar is out there in the invisible crowd now.  “Or does the party just move in there with me?”

Ferrer doesn’t answer but instead nudges me forward.  I have no other choice than to comply, and the two of us head back into the crowd of people.

Time passes.  I check my watch every few minutes, willing time to pass faster.  But it doesn’t.  It’s always this steady, monotonous trudge forward, and each interaction with another person is more and more painful.  No longer satisfied with the surficial questions whose answers must have been circulated to the entire guest list by now, people begin to ask me more personal things.  “What about your girlfriend at home?” is one of my all-time personal ‘favorites.’  Right up there with “Do you miss Ilana?”

Lady joins us for a few minutes.  She talks to me about the food she’s eating and offers to share, but I decline and tell her that I’m forbidden from eating the fruit of the underworld.  She snickers at this, but Ferrer pulls me away to give more people an opportunity to tear my heart out of my chest.

When I don’t think I can stand it anymore, I say to Ferrer a little more loudly than I should, “Wow, Ferrer, I’m fatigued.  The whole not being able to see a damned thing really drains me.”

“You’ll have to hang on for another few minutes,” he tells me.  “There are still a few people who want to say hi and who would be very disappointed if you left before they had the chance.”

“Can I write them a note instead?” I ask.  “I could probably figure out braille in the next year or two.”

He doesn’t humor me with a response, but at least he doesn’t tell me to shut my mouth.

The people who really wanted to ‘say hi’ include another Gamemaker, a laboratory technician, and the bloody president of Panem himself.  I don’t know what the hell Ferrer is smoking if he couldn’t have managed to at least give me a clue that I’d be in conversation with the president more than ten seconds before I’m thrust into it.

“How are you enjoying the party, Elijah?” President Kincaid asks.  His smooth voice is that of a politician whose only goal is to stay in power for all eternity.

“It’s . . . um, really nice,” I manage.  I don’t need Ferrer to tell me that I have to watch my mouth right now.  I might be stupid, but I’m not that stupid.  However now I find myself at a loss for words and struggle to say anything coherent.

“I wanted to personally apologize that your eyesight couldn’t be restored,” the president says with absolutely no remorse.  But he twists his voice in a way that might be misconstrued as true sadness to anyone with less than half a functional brain.  “Unfortunately our technology wasn’t capable of handling such a task.  I can assure you that we have made it the highest priority and will be searching for a way to amend this.”

His words cause the burning sensation in me to rise which boosts my ability to speak coherently.

“Thank you, sir,” I say with a little more confidence.  “I appreciate the effort.”

He touches my cheek and I will myself not to flinch.

“You’re an inspiration to a good many people,” the president says.  “Make sure to keep it that way.”

Then he excuses himself and vanishes into the noise.

I stand there for several seconds completely stunned.  “Now can we leave?” I barely manage to squeak out.

“Yes,” Ferrer says.  “We can now leave.”

He forces me to walk at a leisurely pace as we make our way to the door.  Once people find out that we’re on our way out, they flock to us to wish me goodnight.  I do my best to keep my head up and my brain afloat, but once we’re in the cool evening air, I don’t bother trying to remain polite.  Now I practically drag Ferrer down the steps and towards my temporary freedom.

Chapter Text

Once in the limousine, I deflate.  Everything within me vanishes, and I can’t even give Ferrer shit about not telling me that I would be talking with the president.  Instead I sit there and let my body go limp.

“You got through it,” Ferrer says to me.  “Good job.”

I can’t answer him.  The energy it took to remain stable over the past few hours has left me unable to function.  My brain can’t form words and even if it could, my mouth couldn’t utter them.

After a few minutes, the car slows and starts down a ramp or hill or something.  Ferrer explains to me that we’re going into the private parking garage under the hotel so that I can get out without being swarmed by cameras and reporters.  When the motion of the vehicle stops, Ferrer and I climb out of the car.

“Come on.  Time for you to get some rest,” the victor says.

He stays by my side as we head into an elevator and leave the echoing parking garage behind us.  The elevator moves underneath my feet, but the ride doesn’t last long.  Ferrer leads me down a heavily-carpeted hallway with a peculiar smell.  Something about it is familiar, I think.  Then I recall the time my soccer team stayed in a hotel.  It had the same weird odor, like they didn’t air out the hallways frequently enough.

The hallway opens up into a wider space where sounds bounce around more freely.  There are people here who talk quietly between themselves or walk briskly from one place to another, but I can’t tell how many.  We’re in the lobby, I note.  Ferrer leads me up to a desk.

“Good evening, Mr. Asher,” says the man behind the counter.  “You will be in room twenty-one fifty-two.  Here is your key.”

After a second, it occurs to me that I need to actually reach out so that he can put the key in my hand.  I can’t watch somebody’s movements to know the exact moment to stretch out my arm and take an object.  Once I figure this out, I feel a smooth piece of plastic placed in my opened palm.

“Please let me know if you need anything,” the man continues.  “There is a telephone in your room.  Press three to be directed to the front desk.  Press five for dining options.  Otherwise you will find your room completely stocked for your stay.”

“Thank you,” I reply stiffly.

Ferrer leads me away from the counter and once more we are in a hallway.

“You’ll be at this hotel for several days,” he tells me.  We pause, and I hear a faint whirring noise.  Another elevator.  “Hang onto the key.  If you don’t have a place to put it, don’t give it to anyone; just snap it in half and get another one when you return to the hotel.”

“That’s some top-notch security,” I remark.  The elevator doors open and we step inside.

“Yes, well, there are also plenty of strange people around here,” he says.  Then he adds, “As there are anywhere.”

I snort.

“How many floors are there in this place?” I ask as the elevator sails upward.

“Forty, I think,” Pitch says.  “You’re on the twenty-first floor.”

The elevator slows to a stop and the doors open again.  Pitch leads me down the hallway, and I count the number of steps it takes to get to my room.

“To your right, a little above your waist, there’s a marker so you know what room you’re in,” Ferrer says.

I lift my hand and feel around the wall as Ferrer tries to direct me in the right place.  At last my fingers run across a set of dots.

“I don’t speak braille,” I say.

“Just memorize them.  Know that pattern is yours,” Ferrer says.  “Each door has one, but every pattern is unique.”

My fingers linger on the raised dots for another moment before I drop my hand away.  Strange that a place that has virtually no blind people would incorporate braille into their lives.

“Alright, here I will leave you,” Ferrer says.  “You need to get some rest.  Call the front desk and set a wake-up time of ten-thirty so you can have time to get ready before your interviews.”

I nod.  “Yeah, sure.”

“Elijah, you did fine tonight,” Ferrer adds quietly.  “Try to get some sleep.  If you need me or Pitch or the others, call the front desk and they’ll send you through.”

“Thank you,” I respond.

Ferrer stays long enough to make sure my key works and I can get into the room.  Then he bids me goodnight once more and his footsteps grow fainter down the hallway.  I take a deep breath, step into my room, and close the door.

For several long seconds, I allow myself to just exist in the silence.  After all the chaos and confusion, I need a few minutes to let my brain relax.  Although I have no idea what my hotel room looks like, I know for certain there is a shower and I will most definitely take advantage of that tonight.  I peel off my jacket and drape it over my arm.  But first, before I think too much of showering, I want to explore my room a little and make sure that nothing is—

“Hello, Elijah.”

Shit.  I jerk to attention, staring out into my room as though I can see through the darkness towards the source of the voice.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand.  Anger flares up within me, and I struggle to suppress it.

Solar laughs.  “Really, is that any way to talk to your mentor?”

I have no words for this.  She knows that she is no longer my mentor.  She never was.

The bed groans as she stands up.  Her footsteps approach me.  I cling to my cane as though that will somehow ward this demon away.  But she keeps coming, and she only stops when she is right in front of me, her perfume so strong that I can’t ignore it.

“Elijah, Elijah,” she says.  “You’re such an insufferable idiot.”

Her hands find mine, and she plucks my fingers off the cane before I realize what she’s doing.  Then in a sudden motion, she flings the cane off behind her where it clatters against the wall and falls to the ground with a soft thump.

“What the hell?!” I demand.  It’s not like I can’t function without my cane, but she has absolutely no reason to do that.  This woman is a raging psychopath.

“Let’s have that meeting,” she says, leaning in closer.  Her breath is warm on my cheek.  “The one I took the raincheck for.”

“Get out,” I order.

She only laughs again.  “Make me,” she taunts.  Then she wanders away.  The bed sighs ever-so-slightly as she makes herself comfortable in my room.

Fine.  If she won’t leave, then I will.  I turn around and have my hand on the doorknob before she can protest.  She can have this room, and I’ll ask for another one.  I’m a new victor; certainly no one would protest such a request.  But then I hear her clicking her tongue.

“Running away so soon?” she asks.  “You going to go downstairs and tell them that I’m here?  That you’re afraid of your mentor?”

My initial instinct is to tell her that I’m not afraid of her, but the fear inside my chest disagrees.  Why the hell does she scare me?  She’s only a victor, like I am.  Still, I can’t shake the feeling of doom.  Instead I say, “No, I’ll just tell them that this room is full of vermin.”

“How are you going to get down there without your cane?” she asks.

I hesitate.  “Like I normally would.  By walking.  The cane doesn’t give me magic powers.”

“Sure.  But what happens if there’s something dropped on the floor?” she asks.  “Or, hmm, even if there’s nothing in your way and your cane is useless, what happens if you can’t find the elevator?  You going to just walk down the hallway groping the walls until you locate the button?”

She’s enjoying this too much.  Once again, she loves to see me squirm.  And what a better way to do it than to pounce on me in a vulnerable moment after an exhausting and demoralizing day?

Her threats don’t faze me.  I counted my steps.  I can find the elevator with minimal effort.

“Sure.  I don’t care.  I’m leaving,” I say.

“Great.  I’ll go with you.”

Shit, really?

My hand releases the doorknob.  I give in.  Pitch had said that they’d set up a time to meet with Solar so that I didn’t have to deal with her alone, but am I really in any great harm here?  She can’t kill me here in the hotel room; everyone will know who did it because somebody had to give her access to this room.  So I might as well get this over with so I don’t have to deal with her dramatics again.  Turning around, I start to navigate my way through the darkness hoping that I won’t crash into any furniture on the way.  When I’ve made it far enough that I’m not longer at risk of being heard out in the hallway but I’m not close enough to Solar to be mauled, I say, “What do you want?”

I hear the smile in her voice.  “You know I had to try to kill you, right?” she asks.  “You left me no choice.”

“Right, okay.  You’re doing the pointless mind games again,” I say, my voice thick with irritation.  “Cut the crap.  What do you want from me?”

She continues as though I didn’t speak, “All you had to do when you stepped into the arena was one simple thing.  And you couldn’t even manage that.  You just needed to leave Ilana behind, but you couldn’t do it, could you?”

This again.  My chest tightens.

“What the hell is your problem?” I demand.

“The question is, what is yours?” she replies.  “You can’t follow directions.  If you had done what I said, I bet you wouldn’t have found yourself in that shack, would you have?  You wouldn’t have been tortured.  You wouldn’t have been blinded.  And Ilana would still be dead anyhow.  Was it worth it?  Was ignoring my directions worth what you suffered?”

Wretched woman.  An unrelenting heat surges within me, and I clutch my hands into fists to try to get myself under control.  But it doesn’t work.

“I will kill you,” I growl before I can stop myself.

“Sure, go ahead and do it,” she says simply.

I don’t move.  I’m frozen right here.  I realize that despite the anger, I can’t just kill somebody just like that.  I don’t know if it’s because I’m not in the arena and understand that out here I can’t kill, or if I am too weak to go through with it, but I know that I cannot kill her.

She stands up and walks over towards me, each step deliberate.  Taking my hands in hers, she places them around her neck.  I feel her jugular pulsing underneath my palms.

“Kill me, Elijah,” she says.  “I really don’t care.”

I whip my hands away.  “What the hell?”

She leans against me and strokes my cheek.  “Do you know what that poison cost me?” she asks.  “So late in the Hunger Games when the price for bread was more money than you’ve ever seen in your life?”

“Do you think I care?” I ask.  I push her away.

But she moves back in again.  “I want to be compensated for my loss,” she says to me.

“Great.  Go take it up with whatever demon you sold your soul to and get out of my room,” I snap.  I move away from her but nearly trip over a small table.  Something wobbles and I instinctively reach out to keep it from smashing to the floor.  My hand brushes against the shade of a lamp.

She laughs.  Then she’s against me again.  Her chest presses against mine, and her fingers unbuckle my pants.

“No, wait, what?!” I demand.  I don’t wait for an answer before I push her away hard enough that it sends her reeling backwards.  My hands find the lamp again, and I grab it up, ready to hurl it at her should she come closer.

“You really think that’s wise?” she asks.  “To attack your mentor?  Certainly that won’t look good for a new victor.  And it really won’t look good to your family back home, would it?”

“Wh-what are you talking about?” I ask.

She walks back towards me and grasps onto the lamp before I realize what she’s doing.  “You’d really hit me with this?  And you think anyone would feel sorry for you or think that you’re the innocent party?” she laughs.  “Such a fool.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather be thought an idiot than be in here with you.”

“It’s bad enough that you have to go home knowing what you did in the arena . . . and how close you got to your girlfriend’s sister. . . . Do you really want to add more to that list?” she’s right next to me now, whispering in my ear.  “Nobody would believe it that you attacked me out of self-defense.  If I were them, though, I would.  You’re a coward, Elijah.  But they won’t see it that way.”

She places a hand on my side.  Slowly her fingers travel downward towards my pants and unfasten the button.  She leans in close to me and pauses long enough to kiss me on the lips.  I wrench away from her and stagger a few feet towards the door.

“If you leave, Elijah, I will make sure that your life is hell,” she says.  “. . . Neighbor.”

Shit shit shit.  My new mansion in victor village will be right near hers.  Maybe not exactly next door, but close enough that it doesn’t matter.  There’d be no escaping her.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Solar, it’s that she doesn’t deliver empty threats.  She’ll make my life hell as promised, and there will be no escaping her.

“Your little sister is cute,” she whispers.  “It would be really awkward if you end up mentoring her at some point, wouldn’t it?”

“No way you have the power to make that happen,” I snap.  But despite the confidence of my words, a sickening fear begins to slither through me.

“You think so?  Maybe, maybe not,” she says.  “But know that I had the power to send you one of the most expensive items on one of the peak days.  And now ask yourself if it’s possible that your sister may be reaped.  Maybe your brother, too.  At the same time.  Strange things have happened at District 5’s reapings.”

I swallow hard.  She’s not wrong, at least about the occasional oddities of who gets reaped in our district.  But could she really have the power to rig the reaping?

“Solar, you’re fucked up,” I spit out.  “Get away from me.  Leave my room.”

“I will,” she says.  “After you compensate me for the poison you wasted.”

She’s on me again.  This time her fingers find the zipper and she slowly slides it down.  I can’t breathe.  Anger gives way to fear, a cold, slick sensation that coats my ribs.  I desperately want to push her away again and make for the door, but her threats have me rooted on the spot.  George is only fourteen and Joule is twelve.  The thought of one of them going through what I just did hurts worse than anything I’ve felt over the past few weeks.  And to think of both of them. . . .

Solar begins to unbutton my shirt, and this time I don’t resist.  But I still try, “Solar, really, I’ll figure out some way to pay you back.  Can you just—”

She kisses me, her fingers still working down the line of buttons.  She really thinks that I am paying her back for not letting her kill me?  My mind is frantic, but I can’t manage to work out what’s happening because all I can think of now is next year’s reaping.

Solar tugs at my shirt once all the buttons have been undone.  I don’t push her away.

I wake up in bed by myself.  I lay quietly for several minutes and probe the darkness for any sign of breathing or any noise that would give away that someone else is within my space.  My heart thumps in my chest, making it difficult to hear; eventually I’m satisfied that I am completely alone.

And then . . . I do nothing.  My body’s too heavy to move.

At last I force myself to reach out towards the end table and pick up my watch.  It’s a monumental effort for such a small task.  My finger traces the little hands on its face.  6:52 AM.  Ugh.  I close my eyes and wish that sleep will consume me, but it doesn’t.  Instead I think about yesterday with the presentation and the party.  Solar.  My chest constricts.

I feel like an idiot.  There’s no way that a district resident, victor or not, has the ability to rig the Hunger Games.  There’s no way that she’d manage to get my brother or sister (or both) reaped. . . . And yet she did manage to send me poison late in the Hunger Games.  Whenever I’ve seen poison sent to tributes, it’s normally within the first few days and the Hunger Games announcers make a big deal about it due to its exorbitant cost.  To obtain poison, she had to have a great amount of wealth.  Since there was no way she could have gotten people to pool their money together for a dying tribute, I’d bet anything that she has rich (and powerful) connections.  And if her connections can get her poison. . . .  My fear was justified, I know.  I have no way to know that her threats are empty.  But I can still feel her unwanted hands on my body. . . .

Not wanting to think a moment more about what I did, I push myself up in bed with great effort and run a hand through my hair.

How the hell can I feel both so heavy and so empty at the same time?

I heave myself out of bed and fumble around for the bathroom.  My cane vanished the moment Solar threw it away from me, but I’ll find it in a few minutes.  In the meantime, I stretch out my hands and hope that I don’t bump into anything that my fingers don’t feel first.

Once in the spacious bathroom, I run over every square inch to ensure that I know exactly what it looks like—and that I am truly alone.  I lock the door and slump against it, but I pull myself away moments later when my thoughts begin to travel down paths I don’t want to pursue.

I stay in the shower far longer than needed, but here the warmth of the water forbids me from thinking about much, if anything.  It’s only the growl of my stomach that tells me I need to move on with the day; I haven’t eaten anything since the crackers yesterday afternoon and the ravioli I vomited up before that.  I reluctantly turn off the water, step out of the shower, and head to the sink to brush my teeth.

A few minutes later, I’ve found an entire closet full of clothing.  Panic threatens to choke me when I realize this is the first time I’m going to dress myself without having someone else choose the clothes and heaven only knows what I’m going to end up wearing.  But to my relief, the tags of the clothes all contain little markers to let me know what color each item is.  Harmony.  He really made sure that I wasn’t going to get outright screwed over.  I pull on something that probably matches.  Anyway, I tell myself, making sure my clothes match is really the least of my problems right now.

I spend the next several minutes fumbling around my bedroom.  It’s way too large and contains the king-sized bed, a couch, several chairs, two televisions, and a kitchenette stocked with food, drink, and cutlery.  I pick up my discarded clothes as I go and toss them into a pile near one of the chairs to deal with later.  I come across my cane and run my hands along it to make sure it’s not damaged.

For breakfast I order food through my telephone. While I wait for it to come, I head out onto the deck through the double doors on the opposite side of the room.  At this height, wind moves in great gusts across the balcony.  I find two chairs and a small table out here and make myself comfortable.

If the wind makes it difficult for words to be heard, could it somehow obscure my thoughts, too?

Chapter Text

At eleven thirty, Wilton knocks at my door.

“Rise and shine!” he calls out.

When I open the door almost right away, he laughs.  For a moment, I think he’s laughing at me like I really didn’t match my clothing as well as I thought, but then he says, “I thought I’d have to pry you out of bed.”

“Um, no, I’m reasonably good at telling time,” I respond.  I don’t bother to mention that I’ve been up for hours, alternating between sitting on the balcony and flipping between television channels.

“Your stylist and prep team cannot wait to begin,” Wilton says as I follow him out into the hallway.  “The interview is right here at this hotel so you don’t have to worry about going anywhere at all.  But don’t fret, we’ll show you the sights of the city at some point.  Of course, ‘sights’ might not be the best word to use, but” blah blah blah.  Wilton goes on as we get into the elevator and descend a few levels.  He loves to hear the sound of his own voice, but he doesn’t tell me anything useful such as what floor we’re going to, who will be there, what I’m supposed to expect, etc.  I do learn about his breakfast, how much of an inconvenience (“though not an unwelcomed one”) it is to navigate through the cameras and reporters to get to the hotel, and how excited he is to have his very own interview tomorrow.

He leads me off the elevator and as we start walking, I tune him out and continue to count my steps.  However voices down the hallway distract me, and the numbers become jumbled up as apprehension for what is about to come grows greater and greater.  It doesn’t sound like there’s a crowd of people, but it’s difficult to sort it all out.

“Ah, there he is!” cries a voice.  It’s one of the prep team members.  Which one, I don’t know.  But she runs over and comes to a halt mere inches away from me.  “I almost forgot to ask first!  Elijah, can I give you a hug?”

Right now, I don’t want anyone touching me.  But I can’t get out the words to give her an answer; they stick to the roof of my mouth.

“There will be time for hugs later,” Wilton tells her after a moment.  “Now, why don’t you get him all ready for his interview?”

For once I’m grateful for Wilton, but only just a little as he passes me over to the prep team.  They lead me away to another room and start telling me that they’re going to remove my clothes.  But when I feel a hand on my shirt, I flinch and step backward.

“Sorry,” I mutter.  I hesitate, not certain what I should say.  As much as I hate them, I’ve never recoiled from their touch when they’re helping me in or out of clothing, and I can tell by the pathetic noises they make that they’re a little hurt by my action.  Finally I say more harshly than I anticipate, “I can manage this.  Just because I’m blind doesn’t mean I’m incapable of taking off my clothes.”

I proceed to remove all the clothes they tell me to, and then they help me into a new suit.  My fingers run up and down the lapel.  The fabric is soft and comfortable.

“What am I wearing?” I ask them, echoing my question from yesterday.

Wilton starts in, “The finest of suits from—”

I cut him off, “In vernacular, please.”

He huffs, but says, “A dark burgundy suit with golden accents.  You can feel along the edge of the lapel right where your fingers are, there’s a small thread of embroidery.  That was stitched by hand.  Your stylist is phenomenal at incorporating small but elegant details.”

“And the tie is the finest silk,” one of the prep team members adds.  “Your stylist made it just for you.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” I respond, trying to be at least remotely polite after I snapped at them a few minutes ago.  I’m not sure who else my stylist would have made ties for, but I guess a stylist has to do something the rest of the year when the Hunger Games are not in session.

“We have a guest,” pipes up one of the prep team members.

Fear jolts through me and I can only imagine it’s Solar.  But the fear washes away the moment I hear Harmony’s voice, “It looks like you guys are getting along alright.”

He walks over towards us and stops a few feet away.  “Sorry I’m late, Elijah,” he says.

“It’s okay,” I answer.  Honestly, I’d forgotten he was coming.  Or maybe I hadn’t been told.  I can’t remember.  The past few days have been one thing after a next, half of which I’d rather never remember and the rest of which was only mildly less disturbing.

Over the course of the next few minutes, the team puts finishing touches on my outfit, combs my hair, applies a light layer of makeup, and gives me a few well-meaning but completely off-the-wall pep talks.  The interview is about three minutes from starting when Ferrer and Lady both arrive.

“Oh, Elijah, that suit looks great on you,” Lady says.

“I really hope it brings out my eye color,” I respond.

“I bet you could get all sorts of prosthetic eyes to match your suits.  Of course, you’d have to take off the sunglasses.”

“Ah, that’s too bad,” I say with fake disappointment.  “The sunglasses are part of the look, per my stylist.  Guess eyeballs to match the day of the week are out.”

“Alright, looks like they want you on set,” Ferrer says.

All humor drains out of me within a second, as though somebody sucked it away with a vacuum.  This is it: my first interview as victor.  Nobody really cared about the one as tribute; it’s only three minutes and you’re crammed in with twenty-three other people trying to out-do each other.  Now there isn’t any competition to draw attention away from me.  This is all about me.

“Deep breath,” Ferrer reminds me.  I follow his direction, and then he leads me towards a chair.

I sit down and make myself comfortable on the velvet cushions.  My fingers run up and down the fabric as I try to acquaint myself with my surroundings.  From elsewhere in the room comes the voice of Harmony.  He’s not talking with me, though; I realize after a few moments of listening that he’s going over with Caligula Klora how best to handle me, for lack of better description.

A minute later, footsteps approach, and I hear Caligula’s voice: “Hi there, Ferrer.  Fancy seeing you here.  Hope your day’s going well.”

“Yes, and yours?” the District 2 victor asks.

“Just fine.  Can’t wait to start the interview.” Caligula pauses for a moment and I hear him sitting down in a chair not too far away.  “Now, Elijah, it’s been a bit of time since our first interview, and that was a very different style.  So I’ll go over that with you before we begin.  Your nurse, Harmony, explained to me that you might also want to know what the set looks like, is that correct?”

“Yes, please,” I answer.

“Great,” Caligula replies.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Ferrer says.  His footsteps retreat and I am left with the interviewer.

Caligula lays it out clearly: The small set involves only three cameras, and I am to not try to ‘look’ at any of them.  My attention should be on Caligula the entire time like we are engaged in conversation.  There are two chairs, one of us sitting on each, which face each other at an angle so we can both converse easily while allowing the cameras to see us clearly.  In front of us is a small coffee table with a potted flower and a few books for decorative purposes only.  Next to my chair on an end table is a cup of water that I can drink at any point during the interview.  The room is twenty feet by thirty feet, so the only people who will be present besides us will be the camera crew, the director, my nurse, and my mentor.  But at this time in the explanation, Caligula hesitates.

“She’s not coming,” I reply tersely, and leave it at that.

He mumbles like he’s disappointed, but waves it away.  “We’ll get to talk with her later,” he says.

My stomach lurches.

I remind myself that I just need to get through this interview first, and then I’ll deal with the next one.

With all of the introductory information out of the way, Caligula invites me to relax and answer questions naturally.  Then there’s a countdown and someone tells us that we’re good to go.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.  I am excited to begin today’s interview, and I thank you for joining us to share this special occasion.  I have with me our newest victor, Elijah Asher from District 5,” Caligula says to no one in particular.  “And what a pleasure it is to be with him here today.”

He then addresses me, “Elijah, what we saw over the past few weeks from the time your name was called at the reaping to when they pronounced you victor was one of the most fantastic experiences that we as a nation had the pleasure of witnessing.”

Holy shit.  Okay.  That’s . . . one way to begin an interview.  I remain solid in my chair and will my heart to quiet so that the cameras don’t pick up the frantic pounding in my chest.

“There was adventure, excitement, revenge, and heartbreak all rolled up into one arena,” Caligula continues without hesitation.  “And we, as a nation, want to know more about what you went through on your journey from tribute to victor.  When you heard your name called at the reaping, what was your initial reaction?”

“’Oh fuck,’” I say quite honestly.

Caligula laughs.  “Okay, let’s try that again,” he says, momentarily breaking ‘character.’  “This time be a little more descriptive and a little less vulgar.”

I draw in a deep breath.  How the hell am I going to get through this interview?  I know that I have to, and I know that I’ve made a promise to Ferrer (several times now) that I will do my damnedest to play along, but now all of it seems so daunting.

“It, um, didn’t seem real,” I try again.  “You know someone’s going to get chosen every year, but you don’t think it’ll be you because there are so many kids.  My school alone has several hundred students, and that’s just one school out of dozens in the district.  So you know it’s possible, but it doesn’t seem probable.”

“Uh huh,” Caligula says as he listens to me.  “Now, one of the most intriguing things about your story is that your district partner, Ilana, was actually your girlfriend’s sister.  Can you tell us more about that?”

“I don’t understand the question,” I say before some smart-ass remark emerges from my lips.

“What was your relationship like with her before you were reaped, and how did that affect you during the reaping itself?”

Time to try to keep the lies straight.

“We ended up at some of the same events over the past couple years, but we didn’t normally hang out together,” I say carefully.  It’s a difficult thing to speak the truth layered with lies while also trying to protect myself, my girlfriend, and my dead friend’s family.  “She was a year behind me in school but had been moved up to more advanced classes, so we saw each other on occasion.  As far as the reaping . . . I . . . I think I was probably more stunned than I looked on television.”

“You two looked very nice at the reaping,” Caligula says like it was something I was worried about.  “And also at the parade.  The next time we officially heard about our tributes was for the training scores.  Let me tell you, everybody was impressed with your eight.  That put you right up with several of this years’ Careers.”

“Yeah, I was surprised,” I admit.  “Watching it from home in past years, I never knew what would get you a ‘good’ score, so I didn’t have much in the ways of expectations.”

And now I’m remember Solar telling me that I made myself a target.  But I can’t think of her now.  I force myself to push through the memory and stay with Caligula in the present.

“That score did you wonders, you know,” he says to me.  “It really drew a lot of attention to you at the interview.  Everyone wanted a glimpse of what happened in the training center.”

“Ah, that’s secret, isn’t it?” I ask.  “I’m not supposed to say?”

“That’s correct,” Caligula admits.  “As much as I hate to say so because I’d love to have a bit more information about prep week.  But you and Ilana were really just wonderful to watch on stage.  Both of you had such great presence.  I think, if you’ll forgive me, your reaping caught our attention and the training scores made us interested, but it was the interview that made us fall in love with you two.”

“I didn’t think I was that good,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

Caligula laughs.  “Well, it’s much different watching somebody else’s interview than it is when you’re the one being interviewed.  Trust me, I know.  You should see what a mess I am if somebody tries to interview me!”  He laughs some more and finally manages to calm down enough to proceed: “Fortunately for you, you had a very good interview.  We really wanted to be a part of your story from that moment on, and I think I can speak for others as well.”

“I’m flattered,” I say, but I rinse the sarcasm from my words before presenting them to the interviewer.

“But now, let’s talk about the arena.  What were your thoughts when you were raised up and you first got a glimpse of the forest?”

I pause for a second as I think.  My first thought was sheer terror, but Caligula seems to prefer the more artistic responses and doesn’t think much for the boldness of the truth.  So I go with something that’s more or less true: “I didn’t get a chance to appreciate the forest until I was away from the Cornucopia.  I was more preoccupied about not getting killed and finding Ilana than I was about admiring the scenery.”

“Okay, that’s fair enough.  So once that gong went off, what was your plan?”

“Grab a bag, meet up with Ilana, and run fast as hell,” I say.  “Which is pretty much what happened.”

I reach for the glass and take a sip of water.  Cradling the glass in my hands, I hold it against me and try to focus on its smooth, cool surface because I know that the upcoming questions will just become more and more intense as he delves further into the arena.

“You and Ilana made a pretty good team, didn’t you?” Caligula says.  “There were several other alliances, including the one you found later, but none of them worked quite as well as the one from District 5.  I know that you said you didn’t know Ilana that well before the Hunger Games began, but we got to see real progression between the two of you over the next several days.  Can you fill us in: how would you describe your relationship with Ilana?”

“Um, no, I can’t,” I say.  My lungs start to constrict again, and I know I’m about to go into another panic attack.  I can’t do this while being interviewed.  I won’t let it happen.  I start to take deep breaths preemptively in the hopes that it’ll stop the attack before it turns into a complete mess.

Caligula pauses.  “Why don’t we get you some more water, Elijah,” he says, the stage persona vanishing for a moment.

“No, I’m fine,” I lie.  “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Alright, take as much time as you need to answer the question,” he tells me.

Which, on one hand, is very kind of him to say.  He can see me getting worked up and he wants me to not get overwhelmed.  But on the other hand, the reason I’m worked up is because he’s prodding me about my dead friend, and he’s not going to let me leave until he gets some answers.

Several minutes go by.  I finish the glass of water and somebody refills it.  Finally I feel like I can continue.

“I really can’t define my relationship with Ilana,” I try to explain.  “And I don’t think it really needs to be explicitly stated anyhow.  She was my friend, I can say that, but that’s all I know.”

Please stop asking me, I think.  But I know he won’t.  This is the sort of stuff they do to victors after they leave the arena.  They love to talk about all sorts of things that make you wonder what is wrong with them.

“An alliance only works if there’s trust and both parties have something to bring to the team,” Caligula says.  “What do you think you each brought?”

I take a deep breath.

“Ilana was much better than me with edible plants.  I don’t know what I would have done if she hadn’t shown me what was edible and what wasn’t because most of it looked the same, at least initially,” I say.  This is probably the most honesty they’re getting out of me tonight.  “But I was better at hunting squirrels.  Neither of us could figure out how to fish.”

“Yes, you really complimented each other in that way,” the interviewer agrees.  “It was very good you had each other.  Besides, it really helped on those cold nights.”

Oh, here we go.

“I didn’t know that air could get so cold. . . . I kept waking up thinking I would see snow, but there never was any,” I say, directly skirting around the fact that he wants me to talk about how Ilana and I had to use our body heat to stay alive.  “Fortunately we were able to build decent shelters.”

“Mmm, yes, the temperatures got down into the twenties on many nights,” Caligula says.  “You and Ilana were very smart to sleep together, plus it was just so adorable to watch.”

Ugh, okay.  I don’t know what to say to that.  “Not really what we were going for, but sure,” I say.  “Our priority was not freezing to death.”

“You were successful with that.  Of course, all good things must come to an end, and that includes alliances in the Hunger Games,” Caligula begins.  I brace myself for this inevitable discussion.  “Ilana’s death was so unexpected for us to watch at home, and I’m sure that it was for you as well.  We all know that there can only be one winner, but it’s hard to keep that in mind when we watch things like what happened on the sixth day.”

One would think that if one were interviewing someone and that someone could barely hold himself together when discussing a tragedy that occurred, it would not be acceptable to continue on digging into the thing that makes him so sore.  But that’s not how things go in the Capitol, and I have no ability to tell Caligula that I am done with this interview.  So instead I sit there in silence and try to fight back tears that brim in my eyelids, thankful that my stylist had the foresight to have me wear sunglasses.  (Not that that was the reason he did it, but I don’t care at this point.)

“So, Elijah, what was it like to know that your alliance came to a sudden and unexpected end not at the hands of other tributes, but by one misplaced step?”

I draw in a deep breath and will myself to answer calmly.  Once more, I tell myself that I promised Ferrer that I’d follow orders and behave myself.  But the pain of Ilana’s death stabs me just as sharp as it did the moment she died, and the fact that this bastard has the ability to sit here and dig the knife in deeper sickens me to the point that I don’t think I can go on pretending anymore.

“Don’t give me this bullshit about alliances.  She was my friend, Caligula,” I say.  I can barely push the words out of my mouth.  “It doesn’t matter how she died.  She was a wonderful person and I’m lucky to have known her.  I just wish . . . that she didn’t have to go through that.”

“I can see that her death really upset you,” Caligula says, thus winning the award for the most observant person in the entire Capitol.  I grit my teeth together and try to tell myself that getting upset with him will get me nowhere.  “You made it far together, and I can say that we at home were very sad as well when she died, but I know that for you, it was much different than for us at home.”

“That is correct,” I allow myself to say.  I don’t elaborate further.

Caligula seems to see that following this route of questioning will get him no further, so he switches to something else that I knew would have to come up: the events in, and relating to, the shack.

“When Grant, the District 2 male that is, found you the next day, did you think that you’d get away alive?” he asks.

“I knew I had a chance, but I also knew that it was slim considering that I was outnumbered,” I answer, my voice still heavy with thoughts of Ilana.  The abrupt transition from one topic to another proves more challenging than I expected.  “Anyway, I saw an opportunity and I went for it.  It didn’t work out.”

“No, it certainly didn’t, but you did stab Grant in the leg,” Caligula agrees.  “Did you have any idea what the Careers were planning to do to you?”

“Um, no, but after Ilana and I found the District 12 girl, it was pretty clear that somebody out there was mentally unstable and had the ability to use weapons, which really narrowed it down to one of the Careers,” I answer.  “I didn’t know that the whole lot of them were completely batshit insane.”

“I think that our viewers at home, and myself of course, really want to know what was going on inside the shack,” he says.  “We were able to see it all unfold in real time, but we didn’t know what it was really like.  Can you enlighten us?”

“Imagine being hit by a truck, then have the truck back over you, and then getting hit by the truck again,” I say dryly.  “It was like that, but worse.”

“Once you were tied up and beaten, did you think you would be able to leave there alive?”

“Um, I wasn’t really doing a whole lot of great thinking at that time,” I reply.

“The Gamemakers released a list of the various injuries you sustained from that one encounter with the Careers, and it’s, honestly, very impressive,” he says.  I hear paper shuffling from his direction.  “You had a broken nose, a concussion, four missing teeth, five broken ribs, a punctured lung, two bones broken in your left arm, kidney damage, and some of the worst lacerations and bruises I’ve ever seen.  And that’s not to mention the fact that your eyes were gouged out and your jaw broken in two places.”

I shift uncomfortably.  “That sounds like the absolute worst grocery list you could have come up with,” I say.  “I really don’t want to know where you’re shopping.”

Caligula gives a small laugh that sounds almost genuine.  “You have a very funny sense of humor,” he says.

“Thanks, it’s the trauma,” I reply.  “Really brings out my best qualities.”

“Okay, okay, you know that can’t be aired,” Caligula manages, and then he doesn’t bother trying to contain his laughter.  Ferrer might not like the way I speak, but someone here does.  Even if I have absolutely no respect for this someone, at least I know that the Capitol appreciates some of the finer aspects of my personality.

The interviewer manages to pull himself together, though it takes him another minute and a few tissues into which he loudly blows his nose.  Then he asks for someone to come and bring him a waste can so he can throw away the trash.

“Right, let’s get back to business,” he says at last.  “Our viewers at home would love to know what it’s like having such an impressive set of injuries.”

Oh, hell, he’s just setting that up for a really good retort.  But I can’t say it.  I know I have to control myself.

“Really painful,” I finally decide on.  “And I don’t recommend trying that out at home.”

“No, certainly, not,” Caligula agrees.  “Now Athena, the girl from District 2, helped you out afterwards.  You remember that?”

“Yes, I do,” I say.

Caligula continues, “It was hard to tell for certain how much of that afternoon you really remembered.”

“Pretty much all of it, unfortunately,” I say.

“So you remember that she helped you out?”

“Yes.”

“Any thoughts on that?” he asks when I don’t clarify.

“No.”

“Alright,” he says.  “She helped you escape, in a manner.  If it weren’t for her, you might have lasted a day or two if you were somehow able to escape the ropes without them being untied.  Her care for you got you through the roughest parts.  And, of course, the fact that you stole the District 4 boy’s medicine really helped.”

“Didn’t seem like he was using it,” I reply.

“You had some pretty decent first-aid skills,” Caligula continues.  “Where’d you learn that?”

I shrug.  “Took some courses awhile back.  Always good to know some first aid,” I explain.  “Of course I didn’t think they’d be applied in this manner because I was really out of my comfort zone with this one.  Our instructor didn’t exactly teach us how to clean your empty eye sockets with drinking alcohol.”

“One of the things that really impressed me the most about you, Elijah, is how well you adapted to being blind,” Caligula says.  His voice is serious now, and I think he might actually mean it.  “As much as our hearts ached for everything you’d been through, nobody thought you’d make it through the night.  And when you did, we believed that you might be able to make it through the worst of your wounds, but the blindness was really the major factor that took you out of the running.”

“Well, I kind of had the same thoughts,” I admit.

“How did you do it?  How did you pull through it all while not being able to see a single thing?” Caligula asks with genuine interest.  The questions now aren’t just for the ‘viewers at home’ but for himself.  He’s interviewed many victors in the past who have endured all sorts of shit in the arena, but to have one who was blinded and lived to tell the story?  That’s not something that he’s ever had the pleasure of hearing.

I can’t answer for a minute because I don’t know how to describe what I went through.  Even to people who aren’t as dimwitted and bloodthirsty as the Capitolites, it would be next to impossible to explain.  So I edge away from the complex emotional component of it that I know he’s really asking about and delve into something that might be easier to grasp.

“I still had my other senses,” I begin.  “I could still throw knives, as you saw, so I knew I wasn’t completely out.”

“A phenomenal talent, by the way,” he says.

“Yes,” I agree without further comment.

“And when you received that parachute with the cyanide, what were you thinking?  Did you know what it was?” Caligula asks.  “Because of course we at home knew right away since we were told, but you had no way to read the label on the bottle.”

“Yes, I could tell what it was,” I say carefully.  I refuse to think about who sent it, or the consequences for discarding it because I will never make it through the interview if I start down that path.  So I stick with the things that are less dangerous to talk about.  “I didn’t need it, so I threw it away.”

“Tributes don’t tend to throw away gifts they receive—”

“Tributes also don’t tend to be almost murdered by their mentors, either,” I snap.

Caligula doesn’t respond for a moment.  “Elijah. . . .”

“What?!”

“I’m going to give you a second,” he says.  “I need you to calm down.”

Calm down?!  Calm down, my ass!  How dare he even imply that I am ungrateful for that traitorous ‘gift’!

But he sits there and waits as I fume, and slowly the fume turns to a sizzle, and after a few minutes more, I’m once again acceptable to show on television.  But the anger still lurks beneath the surface and I’m afraid that if he says something inflammatory again, I’ll end up losing my shit completely.

“Fine,” I say.  “I’m ready.”

Caligula takes a breath.  “The morning of the last day, you woke up to the mist and responded extremely well given your condition,” he says.  “The Careers couldn’t believe you were still alive.  Did you know that they were looking for you?”

“Yes.  I figured they’d find me before the finale, though.  I didn’t expect to be hide and seek champion of the year,” I say flatly.

Caligula chuckles.  “We certainly didn’t expect you to make it out of the mist.  Time after time again, you continued to surprise us,” he says.  “And you didn’t disappoint, even in the last moments of the Hunger Games.  How did you manage to pull through it and kill three powerful Careers in the span of minutes?”

“I just wanted to be done,” I say.  “Kind of like this interview.  I’m ready for it to be over.”

Caligula stops again.  He sighs.  “Alright, Elijah, we’re almost there.  Back up, and answer the question again.”

I give myself a few moments to think it over.  Not too long because I’m half afraid I’ll just stand up and leave the room if I don’t keep pushing myself forward.

“I knew that the Hunger Games wasn’t going to last more than a couple hours at most, and I made it that far, so I took a chance,” I answer.  “I couldn’t see that Grant was injured, obviously, so it was a really big chance that I knew I likely wouldn’t survive.”

“What were you thinking as you heard the cannon that signaled Grant’s death?”

Oh, geeze, what a question.  I steady my heartbeat and allow myself time.  Might as well.  Tomorrows’ interview(s?) won’t give me the luxury of thinking over my answers and editing out whatever garbage pours from my mouth.

“I was thinking pretty hard of not dying,” I respond.  “Because I knew that I was.”

“Mmhm,” Caligula agrees.  “Your vitals were not very high after that fight.  Yet you still had the strength to kill the District 1 male.”

“Yes.”

I can’t tell if he’s disappointed that I don’t willingly elaborate, but he then says, “And then you killed the District 4 female.  That was a fight that we’ll never forget.”

“It wasn’t much of a fight,” I say hesitantly.

“No, I guess it wasn’t.  Not when you’re such a master at throwing knives while blind,” Caligula says.

I don’t even have the energy to come up with a retort for that.

He continues, “When you heard the announcement proclaiming you victor, could you believe it?  What were you thinking?”

“I was still thinking about not dying,” I reply.  “The announcement didn’t seem real, but I also wasn’t exactly in the best state of mind to begin with.”

“We are very happy to have you with us, Elijah,” Caligula says.  “Would you have thought, when you were in the arena, that you were one of the people’s choices for victor?”

“Um, no, I wouldn’t have,” I say.  I’m about to add that I’d really question their judgement if that’s how they felt, but I fortunately manage to hold it off.

“I can tell you that being on the outside here at home, it was a wild ride to watch what happened in the arena,” Caligula tells me.  “There were such highs and lows that it was really fun to be a part of your journey.  Most of all, we’re thrilled to see that you’ve recovered well.  Do you have anything to say to our viewers at home?”

I don’t even bother trying to reply.  Caligula waits patiently, but when I don’t answer, he exhales heavily, and carries on.

“That is all the time we have for today, but I know that we’re going to be getting some fun interviews in the near future,” he says.  I’m not certain if he’s talking to me or if he’s now addressing the camera.  “In a few minutes, we’ll interview Elijah and his mentor, Solar Graham.  And later on, we’ll discuss with Elijah what the recovery process entails.  Thank you all for joining us today, and we’ll see you shortly.”

That’s it.  Interview #1 done.  But I don’t feel any relief, just the sensation that I am on a treadmill that will never stop, even after I’ve tried to pull the power cord.

I stand up without being excused, grab my cane, and head for the door.  As I’m going into the hallway, it occurs to me that I have absolutely no idea where I am, nor do I know what button to push on the elevator to get me to the right floor.  Not that I want to go back to my room, but it’s the only place I can think of right now.  I don’t get very far before I hear footsteps catching up with me, and short of breaking into an all-out run, I can’t avoid them.

“C’mon, Elijah,” Ferrer says.  “Let’s go get some lunch.”

Chapter Text

We sit outdoors at an open-aired restaurant thirty stories above the city streets.  The hotel has half a dozen places to eat, and that doesn’t include a few small shops that serve snacks or desserts.  It does make me wonder who the hell actually goes to these places.  It’s not like people from the districts can leisurely visit the Capitol, and the Capitol, while big, isn’t sprawling enough to require over-night accommodations to get from one side to the other.  So what’s the point of mega hotels?

“Elijah?” Pitch asks.

“Hmm?”

“You’re spacing out again,” he says.  He’s concerned, I realize.

They all are.

Shit.  Did I really mess up that badly at the interview?

As soon as Ferrer found me mid-escape, he directed me to the elevator where we met Pitch and Lady in the corridor outside the restaurant.  I was too out of it to care much about where we were or what the hell was going on, and it’s only now that I’ve been sitting here for nearly twenty minutes that I’m feeling the slightest bit coherent.

“It wasn’t the worst interview,” Lady says somewhat hesitantly.

Nobody says anything in reply.

I don’t even remember what I ordered when the waiter came by a few minutes ago.

Nothing makes sense.  Everything’s so discombobulated. I hate not being able to see anything around me.  Being able to be visual wouldn’t solve all my problems, but it would sure as hell make things easier.  I don’t know where I am, not really.  I can’t see who else dines on this patio.  Everything I do is based so fundamentally on trust and right now my head aches and trusting anyone is the last thing I want to do right now.

“I can’t do another interview,” I say.  My voice strains.  “Not today.”

“You have to,” Ferrer says.

“Can we postpone it?”

“No.”

I listen to the sound of voices from other tables carried around the deck by the breeze.  There’s not much I can pick up before the wind whips the words away into the afternoon, which is why we’re out here to begin with.  I’d like to appreciate the moment, but I can’t.  I don’t feel like I’ll appreciate anything ever again.

“How terrible was it?” I demand.

Ferrer sighs.  “It wasn’t terrible, Elijah, but there were a few things that . . . you left yourself open.”

“Open?” I ask.

“Nobody’s surprised when a new victor struggles to make it through the first interview, but in doing so, you allow them to see your weaknesses,” Ferrer explains.  “And unfortunately you left plenty of opportunity for people to take advantage of this.”

“You couldn’t have told me this before the interview?!”

“What would that have really changed, Elijah?” Ferrer sighs.  “You can’t keep your mouth on track even when you’re given clear instructions that you have to, so how would a warning have made any difference, besides causing you unnecessary stress?”

I frown.  “So what, exactly, did I leave myself open to?”

“Well . . . it’s clear that you get angry and irritable very easily.  And no one’s surprised that you couldn’t talk about Ilana; that will come up again without a doubt.  But the most obvious issue was that you flipped out when Caligula mentioned the poison,” Ferrer says.

“What does that mean?” I ask meekly, afraid that I might already know the answer.

“It means that Caligula’s going to have more content for your interview this afternoon,” he says.

In a matter of a couple hours, I will be interviewed with Solar.  This was already something I dreaded massively, and after last night, I had even more reasons to want to avoid it.  But now, knowing that I somehow made things worse. . . .

How the hell could Ferrer not have at least warned me about this?!  I could have, I don’t know, made sure to have a break down at some other point in the interview so that it wouldn’t draw more attention to Solar’s gift.  If I had known, I could have held myself together better. . . .

I shift uneasily in my chair.

At some point the waitstaff comes and delivers food.  I hear the plate clink down on the table in front of me, and somebody asks me something, but I don’t really hear it and I don’t bother asking for clarification.  My stomach surges and I’m afraid I’m going to be sick; focusing on holding myself together requires all energy right now and I can’t devote the strength to being polite.

Ferrer tells me to eat, but I can’t.  Not even when he reminds me that I’m supposed to be doing what he says.  His words sound far away in my ears.

“We need to talk about this afternoon’s interview,” Ferrer says.  “Elijah?”

“Yeah, yeah.  I’m listening,” I mutter.

The only one currently eating at the table is Lady.  Her silverware clinks against her plate, and she chews much louder than anyone I’ve ever heard.  But focusing on the sounds she’s making helps draw me back to the present.

“I tried to find out more about Solar’s motives for sending you the poison, at least what motives she’s admitting to,” Pitch begins.  “Unfortunately this Hunger Games she’s been staying away from most of the other victors and mentoring remotely.  Not at the mentor room in the training center, I mean.”

“So nobody knows why she decided to off me?” I ask skeptically.  “Because I could take a good guess.”

“What her actual motives were and what she’s saying her motives are can be two different things,” Ferrer says.  “The former doesn’t matter as much as the latter, at least for the sake of this interview.”

“What was she like in the training center before you went into the arena?” Lady asks between mouthfuls of food.  “I don’t know her that well.”

I exhale.  “A complete psychopath,” I reply.

“If you’re a bit more objective, it would help,” Pitch says.  “Might give us some insight.”

Right, right.  I think about it for a minute, trying to find the best way to explain how terrible this person is.  The weird thing is that at first she didn’t seem to be that bad in the sense that her behavior could be excused as quirks or eccentricities, but the more time passed, the worse she became.

“I remember the first thing she did, or one of them at least, was tell Ilana and myself who would be mentoring with whom.  Benjamin didn’t seem to care.  (What is his problem, by the way?  Never mind, I don’t want to know.)  I had no objections to it, and neither did Ilana.  We watched the reapings which seemed pretty standard fair.”

And then I excused myself for the night.  When I was done showering, Solar was in my bedroom waiting for me to begin mentoring duties or whatever.  I can’t help but wonder if I should have known, based on this incident, that she would have shown up in my room last night without permission.  It’s stupid, but I know I really should have been more careful, maybe been more aware that Solar has boundary issues.  I force myself to continue on and not think about it.

“That was the only normal thing, I think.  She kept getting more and more bizarre.  Telling me all sorts of things like how she wouldn’t give me sponsorships if I didn’t abandon Ilana (I think I mentioned that already) and how I wasn’t going to make it because the Hunger Games were rigged for the Careers.  How Ilana was only pretending to be nice to me and would take advantage of me, and how I’d devastate Lucinda by being close to Ilana.  Our conversations went from somewhat normal mentoring stuff to how I was a failure in life.

“Plus she really enjoys pissing me off.  Every time we met, she found something else to throw on me.  It wasn’t just bad enough that she wanted Ilana to be killed in the bloodbath so that I could get ahead, but she kept, you know, rubbing it in my face.  Like she enjoyed tormenting me more than actually being productive.”

“Geeze, she sounds like a nightmare,” Lady breathes.  She stopped eating while I talked and doesn’t lift her fork again.

That’s an understatement.

“Elijah, I know you don’t want to hear this, but it is absolutely imperative that you do not say anything that will give her any reason to further irritate you during the interview,” Ferrer says.  I start to open my mouth, but he cuts me off.  “She knows exactly how to get to you, and she will do it.  You don’t want that to happen during an interview.”

Yes, she does know exactly how to get to me.  If only he knew how good she was at that.  For whatever reason, she has the ability to hone in on sensitive topics and dig her claws in tightly so there’s no way to escape.  It’s crazy because she’s completely nuts and it’s obvious she is, but there tends to be the smallest bit of truth wedged in there to make what she says almost plausible.

“Fine, so what do I do?” I ask.

“Answer Caligula’s questions as respectfully as you can,” Ferrer advises.  “Let Solar talk and don’t try to stop her too much.  And absolutely do not take any bait.”

That’s it?  Really?  I could have guessed this sort of advice on my own.

“We might not have found out why Solar sent you the poison, but we do know that she doesn’t spend a lot of time around the rest of us mentors,” Pitch says.  “I can only assume that it means that she has other people who she spends time with because she’s not the sort to lock herself away from the world.  Which means that she probably hangs out with Capitol citizens.”

“Meaning?” I ask.

Pitch doesn’t answer right away.  When he does, he’s carefully picking his words.  “She has a different set of friends than most of us.  And when she wants to talk with someone . . . she goes to different people.  Who may or may not have different information than the rest of us.”

“Okay, you’re being too cryptic,” I say.

“He’s trying to tell you to be extremely careful because she may have powerful friends and acquaintances in the Capitol,” Ferrer translates.

Ah, great.  It was easier to think that Solar was making it up than to know that it is very likely the truth.  The more than time goes on, the more I dread this interview.  After all the things she has done, it seems like everything just gets worse and worse.

“It would also be a good idea if you—” Pitch starts, but he falls silent when somebody walks over to our table and comes to a stop.  At first I think it’s a waiter come to fill our glasses.  But it’s not.

“Sorry to interrupt, but Caligula is requesting that Elijah return to the interview room to begin this afternoon’s next interview.”

“It’s two hours early,” Ferrer protests.

“There has been a schedule change,” the man says.  “If you please, Mr. Asher.”

No.  I remain seated, my body too heavy to move as I wait for someone to say something that will keep me from being handed over to this man.  But no one says anything at all, and I know with each passing moment that there’s no way I’m going to get out of this.

Finally Ferrer’s chair scrapes against the ground as he moves it backwards.  “Let’s go, Elijah,” he says.

Chapter Text

“Welcome back, Elijah,” Caligula greets me as I return back to the interview room.  My prep team has switched out my suit for another one.  They automatically told me that it’s green before I can even ask.  At this point, I didn’t bother to question whether I’m wearing a flattering forest green or some obnoxious lime shade.

“The interview wasn’t supposed to start until 4:00,” Ferrer says to the interviewer.  I hear the tension in his voice as he strains to remain casual.

“Oh, of course,” Caligula says to him.  “But his mentor insisted that earlier would be better so that he could have a restful evening.”

It takes every ounce of strength not to start shaking from the anger that burns in me.  The notion that Solar is still my mentor is so unfathomably ridiculous that I know that Caligula is either an absolute moron or completely twisted.  I don’t know which one would be worse.  Either way, he has agreed to push forward the interview start time, and now I have missed out on whatever time I had left of actual mentoring.

The shittiest part is that right now, I have no idea who is in the room and I cannot be certain that Solar is not here.  I take great care not to let my expression betray my thoughts.

Ferrer tries to work with Caligula to buy me another hour, but the interviewer only says, “Oh, no, I’m so sorry.  Our processing team has already finished the last interview and is eager to begin working on the next one.  We want it to be absolutely perfect for tonight.”

“Of course,” Ferrer agrees, “but it would also—”

He stops mid-sentence and I don’t know why until I hear Caligula give a low whistle.

“Solar, you are absolutely gorgeous, my dear,” he compliments her.

The carpeted floors mute the sounds of her heels, but I can smell her perfume as she grows closer.

“Thank you, Caligula,” she says, her voice dark but playful.  “Had to wear something to celebrate the occasion. . . . Elijah, I see you’ve managed to get through your first interview just fine.  I’m sorry I couldn’t be here.  But, you know, so goes the life of a mentor.”

Ferrer puts his hand on my shoulder and I know it’s a warning more than anything else.  I must be content with merely thinking whatever comments I truly want to voice.

“Of course, you must have such a busy schedule,” Caligula says.  “We’re grateful that you were able to take time out of your day to be here right now.”

If I didn’t know Caligula, I might have thought this was sarcasm.  But after suffering through the last interview, I’m pretty sure he couldn’t form a sarcastic sentence if he tried.  He is, instead, sincerely grateful that Solar joined us, but I only wonder how full of shit she is.  Does she really have a busy schedule, or is she making excuses for forgoing her duties?  And what sort of things would fill her schedule anyhow when she’s supposed to be looking after me?

“Now, Elijah,” Caligula begins.  “The setting is very much the same.  The main difference is that we’ve swapped out your chair for a couch for the both of you to sit on.  Plenty of space for the two of you.  Wouldn’t want you to feel too cramped since there still are some lingering disagreements between you. . . .”

“Oh, don’t worry too much about us, Caligula,” Solar reassures him.  “Come on, Elijah.”

She places a hand on my arm and begins to lead me towards our seats.  Her grip may be loose, but I feel her fingers burn through my jacket.

“See you in a bit,” Ferrer says hesitantly.

Solar stops and I reach out to make sure that she actually led me to the couch.  My fingers brush against the soft velvet.  Same set of furniture, I note.  I find the arm of the couch as a guide and sit down on the seat.  The cushions sink as Solar joins me.  I don’t know how much room we have between us, but at least we are not squished next to each other.

“Alright,” Caligula says as he sits in the chair near ours.  “I think moving this interview a little earlier works out for all of us.”

“Oh, good,” Solar says.  “I was worried that we might’ve inconvenienced you.”

She speaks so easily with him.  Of course she does, I realize; this is far from the first interview she’s done.  Her Hunger Games were nineteen years ago.  I don’t know how long Caligula’s been around hosting this event, but Solar’s had plenty of experience over the years and knows how to work the interviewer.  And I’ve had . . . a grand total of one actual interview.

“Not at all,” Caligula assures her.  “Elijah, I know we were just here a few minutes ago, so you don’t need to hear too much from me.  Again, you’re going to ignore the cameras and just focus on myself and Solar, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” I mumble.

“Alright,” he says with a smile.  “Sit up straight, you two, and let’s get on with the show.”

I make sure that I hold myself with as much confidence as I can muster, and I keep my cane by my knee on the opposite side from Solar.  I don’t think she would attack me and if she did, I certainly wouldn’t be able to use it as a weapon, but at least she can’t take it away from me as easily.

Once again, there’s a countdown and then we are being recorded.

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to our next segment of the interview!  Once again, I am joined by our newest victor, Elijah Asher of District 5, and with us now is his mentor Solar Graham,” Caligula says to the cameras.  “Ms. Graham won the 114^th Hunger Games, and she has been kind enough to spend some time with us tonight.  I, for one, cannot wait to hear her perspective of the 133^rd Hunger Games.  This is after all a very important event for her since it is the first time she has brought a tribute to victory.”

There’s a brief pause and I know he’s turning to us to prepare the first question.  My heart thumps loudly, and I try to hang onto the anger within me to force myself to calm.

“Solar, I can’t believe it.  Can you?” he asks.

I hear the smile in Solar’s voice, but I also know that it’s not the sort of smile to meet her dead eyes.  I don’t think she has that capability.

“I have been around for many Hunger Games, Caligula, and I can tell you that there have been times that my tributes have come close to winning only to fail in the final minutes,” she begins, and already I’m questioning her line of thinking.  “I knew from the very moment I set eyes on Elijah at the reaping that we had a real shot at victory.  Sometimes tributes are promising, but they aren’t able to handle the stress of the arena.”

“Wow, that must’ve been magical to look a tribute and think, ‘That’s him!  That’s the one who’s going to win!’” Caligula encourages her.

“Not magic,” Solar says.  “It’s just the way the reaping works.  Sometimes you get a good one and sometimes you don’t.”

“And Elijah certainly is a good one,” Caligula agrees.  “What was it like working together?”

Solar laughs.  “I’ll be honest, Elijah is completely shit at following directions,” she says.  “I mean, absolutely terrible.  You tell him to do one thing and then he does the opposite.”

I grit my teeth.

“Elijah, really!  Is that so?” Caligula asks eagerly.  “That’s not something we hear often from our mentors.”

“Can’t deny it,” I say.  “But honesty we can say ‘shit’ on national television but not ‘fuck’?”

“There may be some mild editing,” Caligula says.  “Now, let’s try that again: Is what Solar says true that you didn’t follow her directions?”

“Not all of them,” I reply.  “Only the ones that were terrible.”

“Oh, and you were able to figure out which instructions your mentor gave you that were terrible?” he asks with surprise.  “I’d think that with all her mentoring experience, she’d have top-notch mentoring advice.”

“If that were the case, she probably would have had more victorious tributes before me,” I answer.

There’s a pause.  Then Caligula says as the persona falls away, “Okay, listen, Elijah.  I know today’s been a big day for you and you’re tired, but we need to complete this interview.  Go ahead and answer the question again. . . . Third time’s the charm.”

“Yes, she is right,” I answer.  “I did not always follow her advice the way she expected me to.  However, there were many times in which I did do as she instructed.”

“Can you give us an example?” he asks.

“No.”

Pause.

“I’m not supposed to reveal what happened in the training center, right?” I confirm.

“Once again, you are correct,” Caligula agrees.  “What about you, Solar?  Anything that comes to the top of your head?”

“There were some strategies we discussed to increase his chances of winning,” Solar responds.  “I can’t reveal anything, either, of course; maybe future tributes will be willing to listen to a reasonable approach to victory.”

To which I can only think about how many tributes she’s told to let their district partners die in the bloodbath to get sponsorships.  And how many will come after me and be told that they have no hope of winning.  Solar sickens me.  There is not one thing she’s done so far that has made me see that the ends justify the means.  She is merely a disgusting human being.  But, of course, I can only sit here in silence and simmer to myself as the interview goes onward.

“Do you think that his time in the arena would have gone differently if he had followed your advice?” Caligula asks her.  “Or would it have been more-or-less the same?”

“It’s hard to say because when you’re coming up with strategies before your tribute enters the arena, you have to understand that things may change based on what the arena actually is and the various tribute dynamics,” Solar says.  “I believe that if he had followed my advice, he would have been less likely to have had to been captured by the Careers.”

“What do you say to that, Elijah?”

“Yeah, might not have been captured but might have ended up dismembered instead,” I answer.

“That District 12 girl had a pretty sorry end,” Caligula says.  “And I’m glad that you didn’t face the same fate.  Now, what about the District 5 alliance?  Was that something you two worked on before going into the arena.”

“Oh, certainly,” Solar replies, and here I almost lose it entirely.  I press the soles of my shoes against the carpet and clench my teeth, doing my best to remain as in control of myself as I possibly can.

She continues, “As mentors, we don’t automatically assume that our tributes will be in an alliance just because they come from the same district because more often than not it doesn’t work out that way.  I can only count a handful of times in which the District 5 tributes paired together.  But when I saw the way Elijah and Ilana interacted with each other in the training center, I knew that it was for the best.”

“How so?” Caligula asks.

“I could really see that they meant a lot to each other, just in their simple interactions,” Solar replies.

I remind myself what the older victors told me over lunch: you can’t let them see what pisses you off the most because it will just be fodder for later interviews.  Because right now, I loathe Solar with everything in my being.

“That’s so sweet,” Caligula says.

“It really was,” Solar agrees.  “Of course, I suppose it’s not too surprising given their history.”

“History?” Caligula asks, completely intrigued.

Meanwhile, I focus on breathing.

“Oh, yes . . . I guess you guys didn’t go over this in your previous interview,” Solar says, her voice twisted into surprise.  “Well, it’s not mine to tell.”

“Elijah, you’re withholding something from me, my friend!” Caligula says.  “Can you explain this history?”

Part of me wants to lie and make something up, but I know that one way or another, Solar will rip the truth from me.  So I take a deep breath and face the truth knowing that it will hurt me for so many different reasons.

“A few years ago, I asked Ilana out,” I say as calmly as I can.  “We didn’t know each other that well; I took a chance and went for it.”

“And how did that go for you?” he asks, completely enthralled.

“It didn’t,” I reply evenly.

“And your girlfriend at home?  She knew about this?” he continues.

“Yes,” I say.  “Again, it was awhile ago.”

Because everybody thinks that Ilana was my girlfriend’s sister, they’re going to have a field day with this fun fact.  Can’t get one sister, so I move on to the other.  Ugh.  And what’s Solar doing about this?  Why did she bother to bring it up?  I have no idea what she’s thinking, nor can I even know her facial expression right now.  Is she staring at me smugly, or looking through me with her undead gaze?

“No need to be so reserved, Elijah.  We’re all friends here, and your history is our history,” Caligula tells me.  “Was it challenging mentoring them knowing that they were so close, Solar?  I mean, only one of them could return.”

“Yes, there was that aspect to it,” Solar agrees.  “But my focus was on making sure that Elijah got back alive.  Ilana was a sweet girl, but . . . Benjamin was her mentor and had her best interest in mind.”

Benjamin didn’t give a shit about Ilana, but whatever.

“Once Elijah was in the arena, what were your initial thoughts?”

“I knew that he had the physical ability to make it out of the Cornucopia area just fine.  Neither he nor Ilana were stupid enough to try to get anything more than what they needed,” Solar says confidently.  “Honestly, I wasn’t that worried during the bloodbath.”

“Nor did you need to be, we could see that,” Caligula says.  “I don’t know about you, but I was impressed that he thought to grab the knife from the District 7 male’s neck.  It certainly came in handy later on in the arena.  Solar, when you saw the arena’s theme, what was your initial reaction?”

“It was something that Elijah wouldn’t be totally out of his element in,” she says.  “We have plenty of forests around District 5.  Plus Elijah expressed his ability to find shelter and navigate through the woods.  It was fortunate that Ilana was there to help him find food, otherwise he would have eaten nothing but squirrels for the entire time.”

“At least it’s good protein,” I mutter.

“Yes, they really made a good alliance,” Caligula agrees.  “We at home thought that their alliance was the best one there, and it was obvious how well they complimented each other.  But as a mentor, was your perspective the same as ours?”

“No alliance is truly 50/50; you want your tribute to pull just a little more weight and be the stronger of the two members,” Solar says.  “It was hard to tell with them, at least at first, because they were so close to each other and almost equally matched.  However, Ilana didn’t have the technical weaponry skills that Elijah did, and I think that’s what made a huge difference.  It was also clear that he was able to get them through some of the more emotional times.”

“I noticed that, too, on both parts.  But, Elijah, I have to say it was just so sweet how you comforted Ilana when she was so upset.  Really warmed our hearts.”

“Glad that Ilana trying to deal with the horrors of killing someone made you feel warm and fuzzy inside,” I say before I can stop myself.  Once the words are out, I close my mouth and say nothing more for fear that all the anger will pour out in a soup of profanity and hatred.

“Alright, Elijah.  Why don’t we take a break?” Caligula says.  “Cameras?  Turn off for a few minutes.  Get Elijah some water, too.”

I don’t care about water.  I just want to be over and done with this.

“You okay, Elijah?” Solar asks me.  The fact that she even bothers to ask me makes it very much not okay.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie.

Somebody comes over and gives me a glass of water which I sip tentatively.  I’m not thirsty, but having the water in my hands provides an additional bit of comfort for whatever weird reason.  Maybe because I can focus on this rather than the person sitting on the couch next to me.  The cushions shift as she adjusts her weight.

She leans in closer to me and whispers, “Don’t worry.  I have everything under control.”

I don’t know what that means, but of course it causes me to worry.  She settles back into her seat.

After a couple minutes, Caligula asks if I’m ready to proceed, and I tell him that I am.  He rephrases his last statement, and this time Solar is the one to address it.

“It was nice to know that they had each other, and I hope that Ilana’s—and Elijah’s girlfriend’s—family at home wasn’t too concerned about them since Elijah was making sure that Ilana was taken care of,” Solar says.  Oh, so that’s how she has everything under control.  “But ultimately the Hunger Games isn’t about keeping each other warm when the temperatures get low, and their alliance wasn’t going to last forever.”

“Yes, that’s right.  The alliance is only one aspect of the Hunger Games,” Caligula says.

“Elijah was able to do what he needed to do, even if he found himself hesitating when it came to the District 7 girl,” Solar continues.  “Ilana’s kill was a gut reaction without any real thought behind it.  That’s not to be confused with instinct.  Elijah has instinct.  It’s being able to know when to kill and when to let go that really allows you to succeed in the Hunger Games.

“For example, by letting the District 7 girl go, it confirmed his suspicions that they were being followed.  If he had killed her, he never would have known.”

Or, perhaps, I let her go because I was trying to be a decent human being.  I don’t appreciate the way she’s painting me for the audience, but I don’t say anything at all to contradict her.  It might be one of the more pleasant things she’s said about me all night.

“That is excellent insight,” Caligula notes with a tone of admiration.  “This is why I love talking with mentors.  Are you saying that it was Elijah’s instinct that allowed him to succeed?”

“I think it was more that it made him different from his district partner and more capable of the two to win,” Solar says.  “Ilana didn’t have that drive that Elijah has, and so it wasn’t a great surprise that she died.  How she died, on the other hand, was a complete shock.”

I hate her.

I hate this woman so much.

My chest aches like it will rip in two, one part wanting to say something to defend Ilana and the other part (either a more cowardly or more reasonable part, I’m not certain) just wants to keep my mouth shut to be over and done with this interview because nothing I will say can make this better.  And somewhere in it all is a great and terrible loathing for the woman who sits next to me on the couch.

“Yes, her death was absolutely shocking,” Caligula says.  “She was a good girl.”

“A good girl, yes, but not the sort of things victors are made of,” Solar corrects.

“Still, I wouldn’t have complained if she were our victor,” Caligula says.  “Now, switching gears a little here.  Elijah and I have already talked a bit about what happened to him after the Careers caught him, but I am wondering what you, as his mentor, were thinking when all that was happening in the shack.”

Solar laughs.  “Yeah, it’s not really a mentor’s ideal situation,” she says.  “Obviously it was hard to watch since I personally knew Elijah and hated to see him suffer like that.  But from a strictly mentor perspective, it was just crazy trying to keep up with it.  Did you, watching it from home, follow it all?  It was nuts.”

“Oh yes, it was definitely something that we watched,” Caligula tells her.  “What an absolutely amazing and horrifying thing.  I think it was a turning point for Elijah.  What do you think, Solar?”

“Definitely.  I think that if it hadn’t happened to him, it wouldn’t have given him what he needed to actually be victor,” she says.

“What do you mean by that?” asks Caligula.

“He was wrapped up in Ilana’s death, and I think it would have distracted him too much,” she says.  “So while I didn’t want him to have to go through what he did, I recognize that it was a massive point of character growth.”

I’d like to put Solar what I went through and see if she still has the same opinion about it when all is said and done.  Nobody should be beaten and tortured for the purpose of ‘character growth.’

“Did you think he’d make it out of there, or were you thinking that it was the last you’d see of him?”

“I was on the fence,” my former mentor answers.  “I thought he was doomed until the District 2 girl helped him out.  Once she gave him a hand, I knew he had a shot.  And I knew that he was going to take it.”

“And he lay there by the river bank for a couple of days, after which point you sent him the cyanide,” Caligula says.  “I want to know about this, and I think I can speak for the viewers at home as well.  Why did you send him poison?  Were you actually trying to kill him?”

“I know it’s not customary for a mentor to send her tribute a gift like that, and it was an extremely hard decision to make,” Solar starts.  I hear her . . . start to get choked up?  I’m not certain.  It’s subtle, whatever it is; she’s a damned good actress.  “But after all he had been through and all he was currently suffering, I couldn’t watch him struggle any longer.”

“So you’re saying that you sent the poison with the intent of killing him?” Caligula clarifies.

“Yes,” she answers.  “I didn’t think he was strong enough to make it, and I know that if I were in that state, I’d want to be relieved of my pain.  And after watching the interviews . . . I knew that his family would think the same way.”

“By interviews, you’re referring to the top eight, right?”

Oh shit.

What the hell.

The top eight interviews. . . . Whenever the last eight tributes remain, their families are interviewed in some terrible mockery of hope that their kid will live.  With everything that happened in the arena and since, I had forgotten entirely that my family was interviewed at any point.  I feel queasy thinking about them watching what I’d gone through and then having microphones and cameras shoved into their faces with the tears still shining on their cheeks.

“No, I’m referring to the special interview they did the next day,” Solar answers.  “Watching what his family and his girlfriend had to say was absolutely devastating.  And this came only a short time after the top eight interviews where they had so much hope for him. . . . It hurt them so much to see what he was going through, and it was so obvious that they wanted his suffering to end.  The way his little sister sobbed so hard she couldn’t form words. . . . It was just terrible.  Fortunately there were some very generous sponsors who felt the same way and were willing to contribute to the gift.”

I nearly say something, but instead I brace myself and focus on getting through the interview.  Solar knows how badly I love my siblings.  That I’d do anything for them. . . . And now she knows that it’s my weak point, and she will use it to her advantage.  I will not give her the satisfaction of reacting to her comments about my family.

“What did it feel like when Elijah threw away that gift?” Caligula asks.

“Incredibly frustrating,” she responds.  “You work hard in order to get your tribute something he needs, and then to have it tossed away like that?  Yeah, that was beyond disrespectful.  And the sponsors weren’t thrilled about it, either.  However, when all was said and done, he managed to pull through.  It all worked out in the end, so whatever.”

“Elijah, did you know that it was poison?” he asks me.  He’s already asked me this earlier, which means that they’re likely editing it out due to my outburst.

“Yes, I did,” I say.

“And you still threw it away knowing that it was something that your mentor managed to obtain for you?” Caligula asks.  “I’m sure you know how prices increase—”

“Yes, I’m very much aware,” I snap.  From by my side, I swear I hear Solar laugh under her breath, but it’s so faint I can’t be certain that I heard right.  “I wasn’t ready to die, so I got rid of it.”

“It looked to me that you didn’t want to die at all,” Caligula says.  “Otherwise you would have held onto it in case you needed it in the future.”

“Yes, I had no plans on killing myself.  At least not without taking down some of the damned Careers in the process.”

“I can see that he has some of that determination,” the interviewer observes.

“I really shouldn’t have bothered with the sponsorship,” Solar says.  “Because he really is shit at following my directions.”

The two of them get a bit of a laugh out of that.  Ha-ha.  Because it’s so funny that I decided not to kill myself.

“So speaking of the Careers, the final few minutes of the Hunger Games were absolutely wild.  Solar, what was your take on it?  Could you imagine that your tribute would kill three very huge contenders while in his condition?”

“No,” Solar replies.  “I thought he was stupid for throwing away the poison, but then I saw what he was really capable of, and I knew that I was the stupid one.  I knew all along how stubborn he was, but I didn’t think it would extend to trying to cheat death.

“Watching him kill Grant was satisfying, to say the least, but I think it was the final kill that really drove home how much of a victor he really is,” she continues.  “It’s freaky to know that he can throw a knife while blind and have it not just hit the target but be such a devastating hit.”

“I agree with you there, Solar,” Caligula says.  “It was breathtaking.  You must be so proud of him.”

“Yes, I am,” she says.

Never have greater words of bullshit been uttered.  I hold my breath.

“And Elijah, now that you are out of the arena and you know why she sent you poison, what do you think about it all?”

I release the breath and focus on answering something mildly coherent that doesn’t betray my anger.  “Well, it’s nice to know that she had my best interests in mind when she tried to kill me, but I much prefer being alive here today than being dead,” I respond flatly. “I think my family will agree.”

“That’s wonderful,” Caligula acknowledges.  I wonder if he even heard a word I said.  But he’s continuing on, “What does the future look like for you two with a new victor and mentor in District 5?  Solar, are you going to let him mentor next year instead of you, or are you going to give him a hand?”

“I’ll have to talk with Benjamin about that,” Solar says.  “As nice as it would be to have a break, but I think Elijah might need some extra help mentoring given his disability.”

“Yeah, right.  I’ll be fine,” I say before I stop myself.  Well shit.  But I don’t backtrack and leave it at that.  Besides, it wasn’t like the Capitol was going to relieve me of mentoring duties just because I can’t see; it would be dumb to think otherwise.  I’ll just have to figure it out as I go, but I’d rather proceed, well, blindly than have Solar’s ‘help.’

“So stubborn, Elijah,” Solar says with a bit of tease.

I don’t respond, and Caligula starts wrapping things up, “Well it was wonderful having you two here with us tonight.  Solar, you must be so proud of Elijah and what a great honor he has brought to District 5.  Thank you both for joining us, and I look forward to future interviews.”

Then, to the camera, I’m sure: “Thank you all for tuning in and I hope that you’ll join me soon for our next interview with Elijah as we discuss the recovery process.  Have a wonderful night and enjoy this great weather!”

Chapter Text

“That’s it—you’re free to go,” Caligula says, and I stand up immediately.  Snatching up my cane, I begin to map out my escape.

“Where’re you going so fast?” Solar asks.  “You’re so tired you want to get out of here that quickly?  At least be polite and say goodbye to Caligula.”

“It’s a good thing we moved the interview up,” Caligula chuckles.  Solar joins in with a laugh.

“Would you like to come with us to dinner, Caligula?” Solar asks the interviewer, and it’s a few heartbeats later that I realize she said ‘us.’  Like her and me.  Together for dinner.

I need to get out of here right now.

“Oh, no thank you, Ms. Graham,” Caligula replies.  “I need to get home and spend some time with the wife and kids.”

“You’ve been so busy the past few weeks; they must miss you,” Solar says sweetly to him.  I start to edge away, moving around the other side of the couch as subtly as I possibly can while my ex-mentor flirts with the Hunger Games interviewer.

Once I am free of the couch, I head in the direction of the door.  The cane bumps into a wall and for a few panicked seconds I think that I’m going in the completely wrong direction.  But after poking around for a bit, I find the exit and slip out through the open doorway.

I nearly run into someone who fortunately dodges out of the way just in time.

“Hang on, Elijah.”  Pitch.  He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I wonder what he’s doing.  I’m contemplating just continuing on, but then he says, “Let’s go for a walk.”

I’m exhausted.  My brain has ceased to function, and I’m so weary that I feel I will collapse at any moment.  The idea of passing out on the floor brings a sense of relief that I’ll finally be able to sleep and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.  I know I should hold myself together long enough to make it to my room, but the idea of returning to that place sends a shiver through me.  Despite how badly I yearn to curl up in bed, I don’t protest at Pitch’s request.

“You’re almost done,” he says as we step into the elevator.  “A couple more days and you’ll be home.”

A couple more days sounds lifetimes away.  I can’t even think about what will happen within the next few days.  And how am I going to manage interviews that are live?  How will I stand being in front of hundreds and hundreds of people who wanted to see me dead and try to tell them how great it is that I got the opportunity to fight to the death for their benefit?

The elevator thrums underneath me but I can’t even tell if it’s going up or down.  It’s all part of the massive blur that the day has become with one nightmare following the next.  The doors glide open so quietly that I don’t hear them (or maybe my brain’s so addled I can’t hear them) and Pitch has to prompt me to follow him out.  When I do, he begins to explain that we’re on the observation deck.  Its point is lost on me since there’s absolutely nothing I can observe, but I only follow him quietly out of the corridor and into the harsh wind.

“Sorry, I should have told you to bring a jacket.  Or, really, brought a jacket for you,” Pitch says.  When I don’t reply, he stops.  “Alright, Elijah, what’s up?”

“I’m tired,” I say.

“Too early to go back to your room.  There’s some coffee over there.  Will help us keep warm a bit.”

Pitch buys us coffee (or maybe he doesn’t because I don’t remember any financial transaction, but then again I don’t really remember walking over towards the coffee kiosk to begin with) and then he leads us across the deck out into the wind that whips our hair and clothing in great gusts.  The coffee warms me just barely.

“How many more interviews?” I ask finally in between sips.

“Three,” Pitch answers.

“I didn’t realize victors had to do so many,” I say.  “Normally I’ve only seen one or two.  Or maybe it’s that the rest aren’t mandatory for us to watch?”

Pitch sighs.  “There normally aren’t this many,” he admits.  “They do one or two, maybe three, depending on the circumstances.  But five is . . . not normal by any means.”

“How did I get the honor of five interviews?  Besides that extra one that was negotiated.”

Pitch hesitates.  Maybe he doesn’t know.  After all, it’s not like he’s actually my mentor.  Still, he’s much better versed in the politics behind the Hunger Games than I am.

“You generated a lot of attention in the Capitol,” he says.

I furrow my brow.  “What does that mean?  And more importantly, how do I get rid of it?”

“You don’t,” he says.  “Get rid of it, I mean.  People might lose interest in awhile, particularly after a new victor is declared next year, but you’ll always be something of interest to them.”

“Because I’m blind,” I say flatly.

“That, and because of all you went through,” he corrects.  “You didn’t really have a typical experience.”

Wonderful.  I sip more coffee and focus on the warm liquid sliding down my throat.  When that doesn’t make me feel better, I listen to the way the wind beats against us and the flap of fabric (an umbrella? an awning?) in the distance as it’s thrashed about.

I can’t stop thinking about the damned interview, and the way Solar pretended to be completely innocent in all regards.  The way she played the poison and pretended that its purpose was to relieve me of pain. . . . To help my family.  But the more I ruminate on this, the angrier I get.  My grip tightens on my coffee cup, and I have to physically tell myself to loosen up or I’ll crumple the cup and burn my hand.

“The top eight interview with my family . . . I haven’t seen it yet.  And Solar. . . She said that there was an additional interview the next day.”

Pitch mutters something under his breath that I can’t quite catch with the wind around our ears, but then he says for me to hear, “They did the standard top eight interview after Ilana died, but then after you went through what you did, the Capitol took the opportunity to interview them again.  Your family was pretty torn up for that second interview, and no one can blame them.  The fact that Solar even brought it up is messed up, but then using it as a reason for what she did. . . . That woman needs to be locked up somewhere.”

I can’t agree more, but I’m still stuck on my family.  “Were they okay?  My family, I mean.”

“They were obviously distraught.  On occasion, the Capitol will do this to tributes’ families when something particularly dramatic happens, but they’ll pretend to be sympathetic to whatever is going on.  Only makes it worse.  Your family held themselves together pretty well, all things considering,” Pitch answers.  “But what Solar failed to mention is that they did yet another interview while you were in the hospital, and they were beside themselves with happiness.  So don’t let her get to you.”

As relieved as I am to hear that my family is okay, it does little to quell the fear.  Solar knows how much my family means to me, and she will continue to use it to her advantage.  And what am I supposed to do about that, especially when we move into our new place?  ‘We’ because I know my family won’t want me to be on my own.  I wonder if I can somehow convince my family to stay behind in our old house so that they don’t need to be near my former mentor. . . .

There’s time to think of that later.  I have to just focus on the present and consider what challenges I face in the immediate future.  Three more interviews.  Just three more, and then I’m done.

“When are my next interviews?” I ask.

“You have two tomorrow and one the following day,” Pitch says.

“And then I leave?” I ask.

“The day after the last interview, you will leave,” he confirms.

So close.  But I’ll focus on tomorrow, and then once tomorrow ends, I’ll focus on the next day.  I don’t have the energy or the strength to do any more than that, and I certainly can’t wonder what it will be like to be Solar’s neighbor.  Enough worry and fear cloud my mind.

“I should probably eat,” I say when my stomach suddenly reminds me that I haven’t had anything since breakfast.  I shift my cane to the same hand as my coffee momentarily to check the time.  Nearly 5:00 PM.

“Sure.  There are two or three decent places in this building.  What do you want?”

“Two or three?  I thought that Ferrer told me there were half dozen restaurants here,” I say.

“And I said decent places,” Pitch replies.

“Fine, I’ll let you choose, as long as Solar isn’t there,” I answer.

Chapter Text

Pitch walks with me back to my hotel room after dinner.  It’s nearly 9:00 PM; neither of us were in a great rush to leave the table and the wait staff couldn’t deny that they enjoyed having two victors in their presence.  They spoke to Pitch with familiarity, though they were far from distant with me, too.  I suppose having our traumas aired on television made them feel much closer with us than they really should have been.

We stop by the door and I fumble in my pocket for a second before I find the key card.  As I slip it into the reader, I can’t help but fear that I won’t be alone in my room when I enter, just like last night.  The lock clicks, and I stuff the card back into my pocket before opening the door.  I hesitate.

“Everything okay?” Pitch asks.

“Yeah, fine,” I lie.  But still it takes me a couple seconds.  “Er, do you think you could help me work the heater?”

It’s the first thing that pops into my mind.

“Sure,” Pitch says.  I can’t tell if it’s suspicion I hear in his voice.  Maybe I’m hearing only what I expect to hear.

I open the door and step inside, allowing Pitch to follow in after me.  The door swings shut on its own.  Pitch flicks a switch (the lights, I assume) with a click and steps further into the room.

“Where’s the heater?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly, because now I’m realizing that there might not be one.

After a few moments of wandering the room, Pitch begins to fiddle with something.  Meanwhile, I wait and listen for the sound of somebody else who might be here.  I start wondering if she could be in the bathroom, and I open the door wide and strain to hear the sound of breathing.  Nothing.  But the bathroom is so large that she could easily be standing on the other side, pressed against the wall, grinning at me and silent.  I hate my blindness and everything it has taken from me.

“Elijah?” Pitch asks as he comes to the doorway of the bathroom.  “It’s on the wall adjacent to the bed.  So if you’re lying in bed, it’s the wall to your left.  Anyway, there’s a thermostat with raised buttons that have up and down arrows so you should be able to figure out which is which.”

“Thank you,” I respond, still half distracted by my own predicament.  But since Pitch hasn’t mentioned anything about anyone else being in this room or the bathroom, I know that I should be able to relax at least somewhat.  Still, it’s hard to shake the uneasiness.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I respond and hope that I’m at least moderately convincing.  “Just tired.”

“Alright, give me call if you need anything,” Pitch says.  He lingers for another moment.  Then he takes a step into the main room and says, “I’ll see you later.  Set your alarm for 9:00 AM because tomorrow’s first interview is a little earlier.”

“Sure, thanks,” I say as I follow him towards the door.

After he leaves, I remain by the door and make sure that it automatically locks behind him.  Then I call the front desk to set the alarm for the morning and to request that they reset my lock and erase all outstanding keys.  “I’ll come pick up a new key in the morning,” I tell them.

Finally able to relax a little, I strip off my clothes (piling them in one area, as Harmony showed me) and take a shower.  Once out, I dress in flannel pants and a t-shirt, then flop on the couch.  With nothing else to do, I turn on the television and flip through channels trying to find something that is not remotely about the Hunger Games.  Minutes pass before I find some old soap opera about a woman and her twelve children who all have the name ‘Jim.’  It makes absolutely no sense, but I can relate to that because neither does my own life right now.  And anyway, it helps lull me into a state of calm because despite my exhaustion, I don’t think I could go to bed and fall asleep right now if I tried.

As I begin to nod off on the couch to the sound of one of the many Jims complaining about his third wife’s taxidermy collection being confiscated by the police for drug trafficking, I hear a click off in the distance.  It’s a faint noise, and I almost ignore it and allow sleep I so desperately want to come over me.

Its only moments later that I realize the click was from the door.

“What sort of garbage are you watching?” Solar asks with a huff.  She stands over me.  I can smell her perfume.

My heart thumps and I start to sit up, but she pushes me back, her hand firmly on my chest.  She sits down on the edge of the couch, nearly pinning me in place even as she moves her hand to pick up the remote from by my side.

“How’d you get in here?” I demand.  Anger begins to pull the sleep away from me and clears my mind.

“Front desk,” she says as the television snaps off.  “Turns out they don’t mind if a mentor comes to help out her distraught victor.”

I hear the grin in her voice.  The mockery.

Resetting the keys did nothing.  Not when they’d allow access to the very person I don’t want in here.

“I figured that if you really wanted to keep me out, you would have thrown the deadbolt,” she says innocently.  “Since that wasn’t locked, I knew you wouldn’t mind if I came in to check on you.”

I frown.  “There is no deadbolt,” I say.

“Oh, is that your excuse?” she asks with a laugh.  “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that you did a good job at today’s interviews.  Both of them.  Very good.”

“You’re such a piece of shit,” I mutter.

“Elijah, when will you realize that I am trying to help you?” She sighs.  “Or you’re too stubborn to care about that?”

“Help me?!” I demand.  “How the fuck does making me tell the entire nation that I asked Ilana out count as helping me?!  And how does saying that shit about her not being a good victor make the situation any better?  Stop with the bullshit, Solar.  Stop pretending that you’re helping me.”

“I don’t think you really understand the point of a mentor,” she says.

“Leave my room, Solar,” I instruct even though I know she’ll only leave when she’s ready.  She didn’t respect this request yesterday and there’s no way she will respect it today.  I sit up and she doesn’t try to push me back down.  Now we are roughly at the same level.  “I don’t want you in here, mentor or not, deadbolt or not.  Get out.”

“I think we need to talk before I leave,” she says quite seriously, and for a second I buy into it.  But then I remember that she’s full of garbage.  Always was and always will be, no matter how reasonable she sounds.

“Oddly enough, I’ve had enough of talking with you,” I say.  I try to stand up, but she grasps my arm and holds onto it firmly.

Her fingers twist into my skin.  “Do you want to know why they hate you, Elijah?”

“No, I don’t, and I don’t care,” I reply.  I don’t even know who ‘they’ are, but I’m sure plenty of people out there hate me for various reasons.  And that’s okay because I probably hate them right back.

I jerk my arm away from her, and she releases her grip.

“Yes, you do.  Because it affects you, and it will affect your future,” Solar insists.  She stands up and follows me towards the door where I pause and slip on my shoes.

“A great many things affect me and my future, but honestly I just want to sleep for a few minutes,” I say.  “Or is that too hard for vampires like you to understand?”

She laughs.  “That’s a good one.  Haven’t heard a blood-sucking comment like that in a good few minutes now,” she responds.  Then she moves in front of the door so that when I go to reach for the handle, all I touch is her arm.  “I promise you, Elijah, it’ll be worth your time.”

“Since the price to pay for rejecting the wonderful opportunity to kill myself was having sex with you, I can only imagine how I’ll have to repay you for this glorious knowledge,” I growl.

“Let’s go and sit back down and have a discussion like adults,” Solar responds, not acknowledging my comment.  “Because it’s not just your future but the future of your family as well.”

I start, and she knows that she has gotten me.  She leans up and kisses my cheek briefly, her smile brushing against my skin, before pulling me back into the room and away from the door.  She sits down on the couch and I follow suit, maintaining as much distance between us as possible.

“Fine, you’re here; I’m listening to you.  What do you want me to know?” I demand.

She reaches over and touches my jaw.  I bat her hand away.

“You’re so easy to piss off, Elijah.  I’d think that you’d have figured it out that living like that is only going to get you into more and more trouble,” she says with amusement.  She readjusts herself in the seat and to my relief, she maintains her distance.  “This is why you need a mentor.”

“Well if you see one, let me know,” I retort.  “In the meantime, stop drawing this out.”

“You know why you’re still blind?” she asks.

“Because the president said that returning my eyesight ‘wasn’t natural,’” I say with obvious contempt.

“And why did he say that?” she continues.

“Because he’s a giant douchebag, most likely,” I snap.  “Would you stop trying to be dramatic and just come out with it?”

She clicks her tongue.  “You wouldn’t really say that about our leader, would you?  I’d advise against it,” she warns.  And I hate her even more because I know she’s right.  “You’re still angry about last night, aren’t you?  Don’t pretend you hated it.”

“Fuck you, Solar,” I growl.

She speaks again, a smile in her words, “Anyway, regardless of your thoughts on the matter, we still need to work together.”

“Excuse me?!  After everything you’ve done to me, you think that I’m going to willingly work together with you?!”  This woman is out of her damned mind if she thinks that I’m going to follow along with her just because she’s ‘my mentor’ or whatever other reason she’s going to lay out on me.  “I will not work with you.”

“You’re going to need to because your life and the lives of your loved ones depend on it,” she says.  “We need to keep up appearances.  Don’t want all of Panem to think that we hate each other, do we?”

“How does us hating each other affect my family?” I demand.

“Ah, see, you have so much to learn about the Capitol,” she says haughtily.  “But fortunately you have me to teach you.  And today I have some very good information for you.”

“I’d rather be hit by a bus than learn from you,” I mutter.

“I can see I found you when you’re in a foul mood.  You know, I think I will leave,” she says to me suddenly.  She stands up.

Solar is really leaving?  That easily?  And after she dangled information in front of me?  Of course she did . . . she wants to hear me ask her to stay, I realize.  How disgusting.  I’m so repulsed by this that I don’t care if I miss out on whatever information she has as long as she leaves this damned room.  I stand up and follow her to the door again.  She pauses for a moment and I know she’s waiting for me to beg her for information.  But I don’t.  Instead I open the door for her to leave.

“See you tomorrow for your next interview,” Solar says to me as she steps out into the hallway.  “Get some sleep so you don’t look so terrible.”

I don’t give her the satisfaction of an answer and instead I close the door firmly.  Her footsteps, padded by the carpeted hallway, disappear.  I can’t be certain that she’s really gone, so I head back to the bathroom and pull the vanity chair away from the counter.  Wedging the back of the chair underneath the doorknob, I give myself a little extra peace of mind that she won’t come in and if she does, then at least I’ll hear her this time.  My hand reaches for the deadbolt, but there is none.

Figures.

I cross the room, kick off my shoes, and crawl into bed.  Pulling the blankets underneath my chin, I curl into the mattress and try to will myself to sleep.  My body needs it, my mind needs it . . . and yet I can’t help but wonder about whatever information Solar wanted to give to me.  About whoever ‘they’ are.  About how this involves myself and my family.  Part of me is angry that I’m so stubborn that I wouldn’t ask her, but the better part of me is relieved that she is no longer in my room regardless of what information I missed out on.  At long last, I fall into a fitful sleep haunted by deep shadows and general uneasiness.  I wake and stare out into the darkness for an indeterminable period of time before I fall back asleep.  I don’t stir again until the phone rings with my wake-up call.

Chapter Text

The prep team meets me in a small room at the hotel to get me ready for the interview, but the interview itself will be at a local park.  Once I’m dressed, I expect that Ferrer or Pitch will accompany me to the interview.  But they don’t.  Instead I find myself once more in the company of Solar Graham.

“You’re either taking your mentor duties seriously or you don’t want to look like you’ve abandoned me entirely,” I comment as I settle into the backseat of the car.  They’ve done away with the limousine transportation, but as my fingers run across the leather seats and jewel-encrusted plating on the door, I can tell that this vehicle was made for luxury.

Solar slides into the seat next to me, moving unnecessarily close.

“Have I ever abandoned you?” she asks me sweetly.

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“Just relax and enjoy the ride.  It’s not very far from the hotel,” she says.

The car hums smoothly underneath us, stopping occasionally for cars or lights or kids playing in traffic or whatever.  As the car slows down and I hear crowds of people ahead of us, I find myself asking, “I don’t suppose I should know what this interview is about, should I?”

“Just another interview,” she reassures me.  “They all start blending together.”

“Any idea of what sort of questions they’ll ask?” I take a stab at trying to get information from her knowing that it’ll be useless.

“Pretty much the same crap you’ve already answered, but this time they want to see you in person and make sure they’re not being duped,” she replies.  Then she sighs.  “That’s the thing about live interviews—everyone’s watching you so they know it’s 100% real and there’s no editing.”

“Gee, thanks, you really have this mentoring stuff down, don’t you?” I ask.  But her work here is done: I’m starting to feel more uncomfortable than I already was.  It’s one thing knowing that you’ll have to do a live interview sometime in the future; it’s another when it’s actually thrust in your lap and there’s no pretending it doesn’t exist.

“Since this is your first time here, when we get out of the car, why don’t you take a hold of my arm so that we don’t get lost?” she suggests.

“I think I’d rather get lost,” I mumble.

“You won’t once you’re out there,” she says.

The car creeps slowly forward.  I sink down in my seat a bit and Solar reassures me that the windows are tinted.  Had it been anyone else on this planet who said this, I might have taken that as fact, but I know that there’s a pretty good chance that they’re not.  At last the car stops and the door opens.  I sit up and wait for Solar to slide out of the car before following after her.

I don’t know where I am or who is here.  All I can hear is a large crowd cheering in the distance.  They’re not right around us, but they’re there somewhere.  I realize part of my anxiety is not being able to see anything around me, not just the fear of being picked apart onstage.  If it were Ferrer or Pitch or Lady with me, I know that I can ask for help and get them to tell me what’s going on.  But Solar . . . well, there’s no point.

Finally I hear a voice, a distinct sound amidst all of the chaos.

“Elijah, Solar, great to see you guys today,” comes a lady’s voice.  “The interview will start in a few minutes here, so just hang tight for a minute, okay?  Do you need anything?”

“Uhm, yes,” I say, remembering how very long ago Harmony had instructed me to speak up for myself and ask for information about my surroundings.  (Where is Harmony anyhow?)  “Can you, er, describe the setting here for me?”

“Oh!”  But the woman’s surprise gives way to warmth, “We are currently backstage.  This is North Park, and the stage was constructed specifically for this purpose, so I’m afraid I can’t be too descriptive. . . . But we’re outdoors, and back here you’re behind curtains so that no one—citizens or press—can have access to you right now.  In a couple minutes, you’ll go up those stairs to your right.  We’ll have somebody go with you.  And then through the curtains is the stage itself.  Everything is open air, so you get the pleasure of the morning light wherever you are.  Anything else?”

“Sure, who is interviewing me and who is in the audience?”

“Why it’s Starshine Publius!” the woman sounds rather surprised that I either didn’t know who was interviewing me or don’t know who this Starshine person is.  But she says, “And there’s a couple thousand of your biggest fans out there from all over the Capitol.  They’ve come to hear your interview.”

“Oh, great, thanks,” I say.  My mouth feels dry, but I don’t bother to ask for water because it’ll do no good.  “What does the stage look like?”

“That I don’t know,” the woman says.  “I’ll see if I can some more information for you—they rearranged it several times this morning trying to get the best lighting.”

A few minutes later, Starshine comes to introduce herself and go on about how wonderful it is to finally meet me.  She’s a news anchor for a local television station, and she won out a bid to do the interview.  But despite dropping that tidbit of trivia into the introduction, she gives me a thorough run-down of the stage which sounds pretty similar to what Caligula had set up.

“You will enter and get seated first, and then we’ll draw the curtain,” she explains to me.  “That way you don’t need to fumble around the stage or anything, and we can make sure you don’t trip over any wiring.”

Wow, that’s so nice of her.

So that’s how it happens.  One of the backstage staff leads me towards a set of metal stairs and out towards the stage itself.  The chair is in the shade of an overhang, but I still feel the warmth of the sun reflecting off the wooden planks.  Once I’m comfortable with a bottle of water in my hands, Starshine gets herself settled in and whispers to me that everything’s going to be okay.  The crowd hums and cheers on the other side of the curtain as they wait for their first true glimpse of me, at least for those who weren’t able to fit themselves into the packed auditorium on the night of the presentation.  But this will be the first time for them all to hear me speak live, and the excitement pulses.

Music begins to play, and then the curtain draws back to the sound of wild cheers that fill the entire park and then some.  All I can think is that most new victors don’t have to go through this.  Just me because I’m lucky.  And probably because someone really does hate me out there.  If I were any other victor, I’d already be on my way home.

“Welcome, everyone, to the wrap-up of the 133^rd Annual Hunger Games,” Starshine whispers into the microphone.  “Please, let us all quiet our lips and open our minds to the sounds of the world around us.”

Uh, what?

But the crowd slowly draws to a murmur and then a hum and finally everyone becomes quiet except for the shuffling of bodies.

Well, this is quite the . . . different approach to an interview.  I hesitate to say that I prefer it because I don’t know what yet is in store, but it sure as hell beats the screaming audience.

“Thank you,” she continues at a whisper.  “Today Elijah Asher of District 5, our newest victor, joins us for discussion.  But hold your applause and express your appreciation within your heart.  Focus your thoughts towards our stage right now and let it illuminate the path.”

I’m not sure what stuns me more: the fact that this woman is conducting her audience engagement like this or the fact that the audience follows along without question.  I sit uneasily and wonder what weirdness is in store for this interview.

“Now,” she continues once everyone’s thoughts are illuminating the path or whatever, “Let us begin.”

I hear her take a deep breath over her own microphone.  When she talks again, she is no longer whispering but her voice is still low and calm.

“Elijah, we’ve heard so much about you from media and other interviews, but to have you here in our presence is another thing entirely.  It’s such an honor that you’re with us this morning.  How are you doing?” she asks.

“Er, um, I’m doing fine,” I reply uncertainly because I’m not prepared for such a basic question.

“Well that’s wonderful,” she says.  “This is a very special interview because you are not going to be answering questions not just from me but from the entire audience.”

My mouth goes dry.  Questions from the audience?  What the hell?!  Who in this terrible world decided that this would be great for somebody who just lived through the most traumatic event in his life?  Interviews are one thing.  Hell, even a live interview would be better than a live interview with audience participation.

And Solar knew about this.  I know beyond a doubt that she was very well aware that this was not your “normal” interview, and she deliberately mislead me.

“The way it works is like this: you, the audience, will submit questions on your personal devices, and I will receive them on mine,” Starshine explains to the massive crowd of people.  “From there I will choose questions to ask aloud for our newest victor.”

I can’t tell what happens next in the brief silence that follows.  I imagine that people are looking down at their devices, their fingers plunking in questions that they so desperately ask what they want answered.

“Alright, Elijah, ready for the first question?” Starshine continues to keep her voice low and calm as though that really has some benefit right now.

“Yeah, sure, why not?”

But my heart thumps and my hands begin to shake.  I grasp the water bottle they gave me to keep from trembling visibly.

“Oh, this is a good one, submitted by Dakota P.: ‘How did you learn to throw knives so well?’”

In the grand scheme of things, this is an easy one to answer.  It’s frustrating that people can ask any question they want about my personal life and I have to provide an answer.  But I know now that there are worse things they could be asking about, so I have to be content with divulging more of my life to them than they deserve.

“My grandpa taught me how to whittle wood when I was a kid as a way to pass the time,” I explain.  “And I ended up throwing knives around when whittling got boring.  Guess I got pretty good at it over the years.”  I leave off the part about my dad giving me a hand getting things set up because I don’t want to get anyone in trouble for potentially ‘training’ for the Hunger Games.

“How lovely,” Starshine says.  “Did your grandpa approve of you throwing them?”

“I mostly did it when he wasn’t around,” I answer.  “He probably wouldn’t have been thrilled.”

“Now, our next one from Archimedes R.: ‘When did you meet Ilana?’”

“A couple years ago,” I answer.

“Can you give us a hint where?” Starshine follows up on.  I shrug and she continues, “Daedalus Q. asks, ’Was it weird going to the Hunger Games with your girlfriend’s sister?’”

“Going to the Hunger Games was a ‘weird’ experience to begin with, so I can’t really tell you if it was made weirder being with Ilana or not,” I answer dryly.

Suddenly I’m thinking about being with Ilana on our last night before we entered the arena.  Holding her in my arms knowing that it would be the last time I was able to do so.

I clear my throat and sit up straighter.

“Frida P. asks, ’What’s it like not being able to see?’”

“Go put a blindfold over your eyes and keep it there forever,” I say.

“Hieronymus R. submitted, ’How did you relearn to walk?’”

“I’m blind, not lame,” I respond.

“I believe that Elijah will be answering questions relating to his blindness and recovery in his next interview with Caligula Klora,” Starshine says calmly.  “If your question does not get answered on this topic today, I encourage you to contact our Hunger Games interviewer to make sure that your voice is heard.”

Maybe some of the dumber ones can be filtered out.  Then again, the dumber ones take time away from the more intrusive ones.

“This one is submitted by Timmy who is eight: ’I once had a blind dog and he got hit by a car.’”

“That’s not even a question.”

“Submitted by Myron A.: ’Did you like killing Grant after what he did to you?’”

“No, I didn’t like killing anyone,” I answer.  I swallow the hatred that bleeds into the back of my mouth.

“Was it at least satisfying?” Starshine asks.  “I can only imagine that it must have been.”

“No, it wasn’t.  And honestly I just wanted to be done with the Hunger Games at that point.  I’d been through enough.”

She makes a sympathetic noise.  “Of course you had,” she agrees.  “Anonymous asks, ’Are you single now because I have my school prom coming up and I really need a date?’  And there’s also a phone number provided.”

“I am not single, and I’m not going to prom,” I say.

“Submitted by Rosalba E.: ’What’s it like coming from poverty and seeing our city?  Is it really weird culture shock?’”

“District 5 doesn’t have poverty, at least not like that,” I say.  “But yes, there’s culture shock because no one there gets quite the same excitement out of killing kids.”

My voice edges on irritation.  My words have blown through the barrier of what is safe to say in an interview.  I know this, and yet I can’t seem to reel myself back in, not with the way my blood races through me.

“This is one from multiple people: ’How excited were you when you won the Hunger Games?’”

“I wasn’t very conscious at that moment, so I can’t really say.”

“What about afterwards?” Starshine asks.  She seems adamant to draw out answers from me when I’m not willing to give them; although I can be curt with the audience questions, I know that I have to be careful when answering her.  It’s hard when the questions rub against my insides, and it’s all I can do to keep myself from jumping up and leaving.

“Well, it was nice to be alive.  Wasn’t too thrilled about everything that had happened.”

“Achilles N. asks, ’What was your favorite kill you made?’”

“I don’t remember.”

“’Who hit you harder, the District 6 male or the District 2 male?  Because the District 6 male had a better weapon but the District 2 male was stronger.’ Oh, good question Hortensia B.”

“I don’t remember that, either.”

“Elijah, interviews only work when you really align your mind and recall what you feel,” Starshine says.  She doesn’t offer another question but waits for me to go back and address the last one.

And I don’t answer her.

This turns into a waiting game, but at last Starshine is forced to give in and start asking more questions from her device.

“Here is a classic from Junia F.: ’What was your favorite part of the Hunger Games?’”

Sitting with Ilana at night and looking up at the stars.  Holding her in my arms.  Curling against her and feeling her even breaths against me.  Knowing that I wasn’t alone. . . . The memories assault me suddenly and uncontrollably.  Several seconds pass before I finally realize that I can’t exist in these moments right now.  So I push away her warmth and focus on the sounds of the interview.  The audience members clicking new questions into their devices, a bird cawing from a nearby tree, the occasional voice rising up on the wind.

I think of the two victors from District 5, the brothers that Benjamin mentored many years ago, who vanished from Panem without a trace.  And I wonder if they had to go through this, too, and if that’s why they made their escape.

“Leaving the arena,” I answer.

But I will never leave the arena, will I?  I am always a spectacle for their entertainment.  Always at their whim.

“Marianas T. asks, ’Did you love Ilana?’”

“Yes,” I say, the word slipping out of my mouth before I can stop it.  A flash of panic bursts through me.  What have I done?  I keep my expression neutral and pretend that it doesn’t bother me at all even though my mind’s already trying to find ways to backtrack or to explain our relationship more in depth.  In the end, I don’t elaborate.  It’s not theirs to know.  Fuck them.

But then I remember that this interview is going to be shown all throughout Panem.  To my family.  To my friends.  To Lucinda.

My heart aches, but I don’t move.

The audience murmurs at this response.  I’m sure I’ve given them more fuel for their questions, and I hate myself for it.  I hate myself for it all.  But I sit quietly and accept that in mere moments I’ll have another question launched at me.

“Thomas R. asks, ’Are you angry at your mentor for trying to kill you with poison?’”

“I guess there are worse ways to go,” I reply because I know that the truth would only lead me deeper into hell and lying would free her from what she did.

“Submitted by Paper V.: ’What do you miss most about the arena?’”

“I don’t know.  It’s really great when everybody’s trying to kill you,” I say deadpan.

“There must be something you miss the most,” Starshine pries.

“Ilana.  I miss Ilana,” I respond evenly.

And, God, do I miss her.  I ache thinking about it, knowing that I can never go back in time and be with her again.

“You two had a very special relationship, didn’t you?” the interviewer asks.  She almost sounds sympathetic or understanding.  But I know she’s not.  She’s just trying to pull information out of me for entertainment.  Quiet voice or not, she’s just as rancid as the rest of this rotting lot of people.

“You can ask the next question,” I respond.

Starshine doesn’t ask right away but pauses a heartbeat or two longer.  Then she clears her throat and continues, “Archibald T. says, ’Many victors say that they have a hard time adjusting to life after the arena because there is so much to learn about the Capitol.  What are you most eager to experience?’”

Absolutely nothing.  But that’s not an acceptable answer.

“I hear there are some nice sunsets,” I say.

“Aemilius B. asks, ’What advice do you have to any potentials out there who are eagerly awaiting the opportunity to go to the arena?’”

“If you want to go for it, sure.  I guess we can weed you out of the gene pool.”

“Elijah, there are a lot of perfectly fine boys and girls like yourself who are looking up to you right now,” Starshine tells me.

I don’t respond to this.  There’s nothing to look up to me about.  Not me, not my new role, not anything.  What I went through was disastrous and isn’t something to be admired.

“Camilla N. submitted: ’What do you think your girlfriend will say when you get back knowing how close you were to her sister?’”

“I . . . don’t know,” I answer honestly.  I hesitate, and Starshine must thing I have more to say because she doesn’t ask the next question right away.  But if I have more to say, I’m not telling them.

I’m too busy wondering what Lucinda is going to do when the train takes me back to District 5 in two days’ time.  Why the hell wasn’t I watching my answers more closely?  Why did I allow myself to speak my gut reaction?

At last Starshine moves on.  “From Nellia D.: ’What are your plans for the future?’”

“No idea,” I reply.  “I guess I’ll move back to my house—er, well, my place in victor village—and go from there.”

What would I do once I’m back home?  I still have one more year of school, but I don’t know if I can manage that now, especially not in this state.  I can’t think about it right now.  I need to stay on track.

“From Brooklyn O.: ‘I saw your interview with Caligula last night and I would like to know more about what it was like to be tortured.  Can you explain?’”

I was pretty certain I explained it well in yesterday’s interview, but clearly I have no idea what the hell I’m talking about even though I was the one who lived through it.  How can I possibly satisfy these bloodthirsty abominations?  There is no answer that will fully satiate their bloodlust.

Suddenly I’m back in the shack.  I can see nothing, but I can feel everything.  Everything.  The pain, the broken body parts shifting with agonizing pulses, the blood and vitreous humor dripping down my cheeks.  Moments later, I snap back to the interview, the whispering and hum of the crowd that yearns to start cheering at any moment.  Yet a lingering ache remains in my chest, my side, my arm, my face. . . .

“Um, very uncomfortable,” I manage. 

“It must’ve been,” Starshine agrees as though she could really understand.  “Do you think you could clarify?  We’ve seen many victors over the years who were exposed to harsh conditions, but yours is something we’re not familiar with.”

“I don’t know if anyone here’s ever been tortured, but it was probably similar to that,” I respond.  I can still feel a lingering pain and discomfort in my body, a ghost of what I actually went through.

“It’s hard to talk about, I can tell.  That’s okay, Elijah,” she says to me as though it really is okay.  We both know she’s just saying that and doesn’t mean it.  She continues on, “From Unicorn S.: ‘If Solar sent you something besides poison, what would have been most helpful at that point in time?’”

“A magical cure, probably,” I say, still fighting off the physical discomfort and not fully concentrating on the question.  “But I would have taken food or fresh water or bandages or a gun or a dragon that would slay my enemies.  Really anything would have been preferred.”

“Submitted by Nerva I.: ‘Do you foresee yourself working harmoniously with Solar for future Hunger Games?’”

“I guess that depends upon Solar,” I say.

“Pomponius H. asks, ‘Do you think that your girlfriend will be upset that you didn’t save her sister?’”

“You guys really don’t give a shit, do you?” I ask back.  “I think my girlfriend would have been upset regardless of the situation knowing that either me or Ilana could win and the other would end up dead.  And that’s as a best-case scenario.”

“Elijah, let’s take a moment to align our hearts with our lips,” Starshine says calmly and quietly.  “Your world has been inverted with your victory and your sudden fame.  Sometimes inversions upset our internal balance.”

She remains quiet for nearly half a minute.  The sound of her steady breathing fills the microphone.  In some ways it calms me, which only pisses me off more.

Once we’re all internally balanced, she continues, “Glaucia I. submitted: ‘Can you please elaborate on your relationship with Ilana?  I know you’ve answered questions before, but we haven’t gotten any real information.  Thanks!’”

“No, I’m not going to elaborate,” I reply.  “There’s nothing to elaborate on.  You’ve already got your answers, at least as far as I’m concerned.  Just leave it alone, okay?”

I swear if anyone else mentions Ilana, I will break down.  But instead I tense my body and clasp the water bottle in my hands as I try to hold on for a few more minutes.  I don’t know how much time we have left, but I don’t think I can make it much longer than what I promise myself.

Starshine doesn’t correct me again, even though she makes a sound like she’s about to say something only to fall quiet again.  After a moment, she speaks up, “Fluffy Y. submitted: ‘Did you like the theme of the arena?’”

“It could have been worse,” I say.  “If you tossed me in the desert, no way I would have survived.  At least in this arena, we could find food, water, and shelter, even if it got damned cold at night.”

There.   An answer.  More than a couple sentences.  Surely that will hold them over for awhile.

“From Marcus N.: ‘Would you do it again if you had the chance?’”

“You’re asking me if I would want to relive watching my friend die, being tortured and having my eyes gouged out, and then living in agony for days on a riverbank half starving before killing three people in a desperate act of survival before nearly dropping dead?” I ask.  “Really?!”

“Nonus G. asks, ‘Do you mind being blind?’”

“Yes, I mind it,” I snap.

“Cuddles J. submitted: ‘Do you think you’ll have a normal life?’”

“Honestly have no idea what’s normal anymore.  So sure, why not?”

“We only have time for a few more questions,” Starshine says, much to my relief.  “From Tacitus R.: ‘Are your prosthetic eyes the same color as your real eyes?’”

“Absolutely no idea,” I reply.  “They could be glow-in-the-dark for all I know.”

“Valentinus Y. asks, ‘What did you think when Athena started helping you out?  Did you think she was going to kill you?’”

“Again, I was pretty much out of it at that point in time,” I say.  “But no, I didn’t trust her.”

“One more,” Starshine says, and it’s hard to keep the relief off my face.  “Floriana D. would like to know, ‘Are you eager to return to the Capitol next year to mentor?’”

“No, not really.  I need a break,” I respond.  And because I know that I can’t outright say no to the Capitol, I continue, “Need some time to figure out how to do basic things again.  But I’ll be back soon enough.”

“Alright, that’s all we have today,” Starshine whispers.  “Thank you so much for coming out here this morning.  I know you have many more questions, and I encourage you to reach out to the others who are interviewing Elijah to see if you can get some of your questions answered.  I’d like to ask you all to always keep an open mind and a welcoming soul.  Thank you very much.”

Music begins to play again and the cheering picks up as Starshine no longer requests that they keep the noise level down.  Through it all, I think I hear the curtain draw, but I don’t move until Starshine walks over to me.

“Thank you, Elijah, truly,” she says somewhat genuinely.  “You are free to go, but keep in touch.  I’d love to do more interviews with you in the future, once you’ve had the time you need to settle yourself to your new life.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I say completely unenthusiastically.  I hoist myself to my feet, grab my cane, and head offstage, careful not to trip over any wires.

Chapter Text

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Solar asks as the car begins to pull away from the park.

I don’t answer her.  I sit with my head leaned back and my face towards the ceiling.  If I lose track of reality again, I might leave this planet entirely.  And to completely space out during the interview?  To think that I was back in the shack?  I still can’t shake the uneasiness that lingers within me.

“The next interview you won’t have quite as large of an audience,” Solar assures me.  “It’s much more intimate.”

“Can’t wait,” I mumble.

Wherever we’re going, it’s not back to the hotel.  This time we go someplace farther out, though still within the confines of the city if the steady pace of the car is anything to indicate our location.  Solar leaves me to my silence for the majority of the drive.

I don’t know how I’ll manage another interview today.  That last one . . . I hate Solar even more than before.  She may not have chosen the interview style, but she sure as hell could have told me what to expect or given me insight into how to answer the questions.  I know that I didn’t handle the interview well, and I’m terrified that I just left myself open for further torment.

At last the car comes to a stop and my stomach lurches.  I don’t know where we are, and I can’t ask Solar.  I don’t even know if the driver is accessible right now because I can’t see if there is a partition dividing us or if the car is completely open.  I’m vulnerable right now, and it creeps me out.

“Here we are,” Solar says, unbuckling her seat belt.

“Where is ‘here’?” I ask.

“The Hotel Oregano,” she says.

“That’s a dumb name, but I assume that’s where the next interview is?”

“Yes,” she says.  “It’ll be in front of a small audience of fifty people or so.  Plus it’ll be broadcasted live for everyone at home to watch.  But people paid good money to see you, so better perform well.”

“I suppose I should embrace my new life as circus animal,” I say.

She laughs.  “Yes, that’s right, a little organ grinder’s monkey,” and she moves out of the car.

Already I can hear the clicking of cameras and the chattering of reporters and press.  They encircle the car, or at least the area around where I’ll exit.

I unbuckle myself and follow after my former mentor.  Once my feet are on solid ground, she takes my arm.  I jerk away from her.

“You’re in another mood, aren’t you?” she whispers.

“Maybe I just don’t want you touching me,” I reply right back, my voice just as low.  But when she takes my arm again, I let her.  There are too many cameras and too many people around here to object.

Solar leads me inside, but the cameras don’t stop at the door.  Someone within the hotel directs us somewhere, but with all the noise and the buzzing of my own brain, I can’t make out the words so I’m almost grateful that I’m not alone.  We walk down a corridor and head through a door.  The paparazzi must not be able to follow us any farther because the noise of dozens of people vanishes behind us.

“Ah, there you are,” comes a voice.  It’s something somewhat familiar, but I can’t place whose it is or where I’ve heard it before.  Female, definitely.  Not old, but not a kid, either.  I haven’t had to do much guessing of who belonged to what voice or what each voice looked like because I just haven’t really cared much.  But now I’m realizing exactly how shitty it is to not be able to see who is talking to you when you don’t know the person at all.

“Hero,” Solar says with surprise that I think might be genuine.  “What’re you doing here?”

Ah, Hero.  The fourth member of Ferrer and Pitch’s babysitting committee.  Not that I can complain because if what they said was true, Hero helped keep the prep team and my escort away while I was in the hospital.

“Just came to check in on Elijah,” she says.  Her voice is confident but casual.  “And also to let you know that the interview has been cancelled.”

“Cancelled?” Solar sound skeptical.  I don’t care.  Already a weight flies off my chest.  I take my arm off of Solar’s and allow myself to breathe deeply.

“Well, something of that nature.  Anyway, Elijah’s not needed for it, so there’s no point in you being here,” Hero says nonchalantly.  But I hear the irritation in her words regardless.  She isn’t a fan of Solar, though I wonder if it originates from a common history or merely from the things I’ve told Ferrer and Pitch.

“You’re not lying to me, are you, Hero?” Solar asks.  She tries to sound innocent, but I hear the poison in her tongue.

Hero laughs.  “Yeah, right.  Anyway, Elijah, you don’t mind hanging out here a bit, do you?  Just til Pitch arrives?”

“That’s fine,” I say.  How can I possibly protest when I’ve somehow managed to escape another interview?

How the hell did that happen?

“Unfortunately we’re not allowed to have guests backstage, so I’ll see you later, Solar,” Hero says.

Solar doesn’t move.  She doesn’t speak.  I don’t know what’s going on between these two women, but I’m sure as hell glad that I’m not part of it.

At last my former mentor says, “Are they refunding the guests’ tickets?  Surely they must be disappointed in this turn of events.”

“Don’t worry about it.  Everything’s under control,” Hero says.  There is little assurance here; it’s far more of a warning than anything else.  “There’s a side door down the hallway a bit so that no one wonders why you’re leaving now.”

Solar, not one to leave without the last word, says, “I’ll be back to pick Elijah up.”  Then she heads off, her footsteps disappearing.

When they have at last vanished, Hero says to me, “C’mon, Pitch should be here any moment.”

“What happened?” I ask before we can make it more than two paces.  “Why did they cancel the interview?”

“They didn’t.  It’s just that you’re no longer the focus.  Hurry up before Solar changes her mind and returns.”

Still wondering what Hero means by this, I keep my step as quickly as I can.  Fortunately there is little in our way, and the cane swings freely before me.  We pause long enough for Hero to open another door and then we find ourselves in a carpeted room.  I can’t tell how big it is or who is here; all I know is that we aren’t alone.

I don’t have time to be confused before Hero tells me to sit in a chair along the wall and wait for Pitch.  She excuses herself after I’ve done as she instructed, and for the next couple minutes, I try to piece together whatever the heck is happening.

At last the door opens and someone walks up to me.  I’m beginning to get better at footsteps, though knowing that Pitch was supposed to be here also helps.

“Elijah?” the District 7 victor asks.

“Hmm?”

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know what’s going on, so I don’t think I can answer that right now,” I admit.  Not knowing the circumstances under which the interview was cancelled or changed or whatever, I’m hesitant to be too relieved.  “Did I screw up my last interview badly enough that I’m not allowed to be in front of a live audience?”

Pitch doesn’t say anything for a moment, which is a terrifying confirmation of my suspicions.  At last he sighs and sits down in the chair next to me.

“It’s clear that as the interviews go on, you’re falling apart more and more,” he says after a few seconds.  “The Capitol doesn’t want to hear that you’re not handling this as well as they’d like, but unfortunately you’re going to crack while on live TV, and they want to avoid that at all costs.  So when Ferrer and the others offered to take over your next interview, they couldn’t say no.”

They . . . took over my interview?  They were really willing to deal with that shit so that I wouldn’t have to?  I’m both flattered and embarrassed.  I shift uneasily in my seat, trying to get comfortable but knowing that it won’t happen.

“Ferrer and who?” I ask.

“Ferrer, Hero, and Jericho from District 1,” he answers.  “They’re doing an interview on the Career pack this year.”

“And . . . they’re doing this for me?”

“Yes, they are,” Pitch confirms.

A bunch of Careers willing to go into the spotlight just to make sure that I don’t have to?  So that I stay a few more feet from falling into insanity?  My initial reaction is to think that they want this attention and have eagerly seized the opportunity (isn’t that how the Careers always seem on television: eager for attention and ready to do whatever it takes to make sure all eyes are on them?) but I also know Ferrer well enough to think otherwise.  He doesn’t seem the sort of person who eagerly calls attention to himself.

“What do I owe them?” I ask, fearing that the answer will be something I’m either unable or unwilling to give.

“Er, nothing,” Pitch says.  “You don’t ‘owe’ them anything.”

Yeah, right.  But I’m too tired to press the matter; I guess I’ll find out sooner or later, just like I did with Solar.

“Once they begin, we’ll go ahead and watch the interview live,” Pitch explains to me.

I don’t want to watch it, but I know that I’m not in a position to protest.  Nobody had to take over the interview for me, and I’m grateful enough that I’ll watch whatever they want me to.

“Where are we exactly?  And where are they?”

“They are in a banquet room that’s been converted over for the interview, and we’re just down the hall,” Pitch explains.  “There’s a television in here, and we’ll be able to watch the interview without going anywhere; I don’t think anyone’s going to bother disturbing us while it’s on.  Currently we’re the only people in here.”

“Are the people who paid for the interview going to be angry that I’m not there?”

“Maybe, I don’t know,” he says.  “But better that they’re angry than you go up there in front of them and have a breakdown.”

After a moment, he adds, “I don’t think they’ll be too disappointed, not when they get to hear from the people who mentored some of the Careers.”

It does little to reassure me.  The list of people who hate me might be growing as we speak.  This only reminds me of Solar, and how she randomly appears in my room at the most inconvenient times.  I shift in my seat and start to bounce my leg up and down to distract myself, but it doesn’t work.

“Elijah?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s okay that you’re struggling with this.  I don’t think you were really expected to handle this well.  It’s just that—”

“I’m fine,” I cut him off, not wanting to talk about it.  Doesn’t matter if it’s reasonable that I can’t handle the onslaught of interviews; it’s still awkward to be babied and protected by the other victors.  Add to that how much it sucks to have to be helped wherever I go because I can’t see, and I can’t say that the whole victory thing really is as great as it’s made out to be.  It beats the alternative, but only barely so.

We sit together in silence for a few more minutes before Pitch stands up.  A few moments later, the television turns on.  The volume fluctuates for a second or two, and then levels out.  Pitch returns to his chair.

I don’t recognize the interviewer, so it’s probably another person who won a bid.  But this one is a little more mainstream than Starshine; at least he doesn’t speak in whispers and make people focus their minds or whatever.  He introduces the three victors and explains their roles in this Hunger Games.  Ferrer mentored Grant; Hero mentored the District 4 male, Sam; and Jericho mentored the District 1 female, Cinnamon.  Nobody mentions that this interview slot was supposed to be mine, and the interview moves right along.

Everybody handles the questions well.  Or at least better than I would if I were in their position.  However, most of the questions still find their way back to me somehow.  The interviewer asks Hero what it was like to have her tribute receive the same score as me knowing that Sam had been better prepared to handle the arena.  Hero gives some generic response that disrespects neither her tribute nor me.  Ferrer is asked about his tribute’s personality and how eager he was to into the arena.  Jericho is asked something similar.

The questions carry on as such.  Turns out (surprise) that Grant was a complete bastard even before he went into the arena.  I forget that not everyone is aware of what a little asshole he was in the training center and how he cornered the District 9 girl.

District 9!

Suddenly I’m lying back out by the riverbank, pain overwhelming me so badly that I can barely move.  My hand brushes against something strange and I start.  A package.  A small gift that will both confuse me and give me the smallest bit of hope.

And then I’m back in the room with Pitch.  Just like that.

I draw in a deep breath and try to push away the pain that lingers behind like a ghost clinging to its old body.

“You okay?” Pitch asks.

“Yeah, never better.”

I swallow hard and focus on the television again where Jericho explains that his tribute was not only extremely prepared but also a massive candidate for victory.  This then turns into a discussion about how she interacted with the other Careers and the argument that eventually ended in her death.  Jericho points out that had it been any other arena, she would have been more than capable of making a comeback.

Meanwhile I’m still thinking about the District 9 girl.  What was her name?  How did she survive so long by herself when the temperatures plummeted to their coldest?

Ferrer starts into a bit of a speech about Career mentality and how the Career pack functions.  I don’t really care enough to pay attention, and yet I find myself listening anyhow.  The other two chime in and add to it when needed.  None of them make excuses for what their tributes did, but they do try to convince the audience that ruthlessness is, to some degree, normal for a Career.  They get asked about what the Careers did to me, and to my relief, none of the victors condone that behavior.  In fact, they go so far as to advise against it for future Careers.  Ferrer then has to answer an onslaught of questions about Grant: why he did what he did, what Ferrer thought of it as his mentor, how it was received by District 2 in general, what it means for next year’s Careers, etc.  His voice remains steady throughout the grueling questioning, and he navigates with apparent ease.  I know he has many years on me in terms of interviews, but I can’t help but be jealous that he can glide through it all without a hiccup while I can barely keep myself together for more than a question or two.

And then there is the sheer horror at the thought of doing interviews like this over and over and over for years to come until I finally die.

The interviewer asks Hero and Jericho about their tributes’ deaths and how disappointing it was to lose such promising candidates.  This is the sort of stuff mentors have to answer, I realize.  It’s not bad enough that their tributes die, but then they have to relive it over and over until the audience loses interest in them.  I did not like the Careers, but I feel sorry for their mentors right now.

Then the questions turn back to Ferrer and how Grant spent such a good amount of time looking for me.  The other two mentors’ tributes were dead by now, so all the focus goes to District 2.  The interviewer wants to know why Grant didn’t just kill the other Careers and then come looking for me, and once more Ferrer goes into a speech about Career strategies and mindset.  Turns out that Careers are a lot less confident than they appear, and killing your allies too soon is something only the strongest (or dumbest) Careers can manage.  Since Athena’s mentor isn’t here, Ferrer has to answer a few questions about her, too: what she was like, how she fit into the Career pack, and her goals for handling such a “rambunctious” (the interviewer’s actual word) group of Career tributes.  He also wants to know why she helped me, and Ferrer explains that no one really knows but gives a host of possibilities.

Then come questions to all three of them as to whether they’re angry that I won, and of course all three of them say no.  If they’re lying, I can’t tell, though from what Ferrer said to me when we first met, I don’t think any of them would have been thrilled to have psychopaths in their mentoring rotation.

The next question is about whether I’m a worthy victor, both in comparison with the alternative (the Careers) and as an individual person.  The interviewer in particularly emphasizes the fact that I’m blind, and immediately Jericho shuts the interviewer down and tells him that it’s especially that I made it out of the arena after being blinded that I’m “worthy” of being a victor.  The other two echo similar sentiments; no one considers me useless or undeserving of my title.  I don’t know what to think about it.  I’m both flattered and suspicious.  Why would these Careers say that my victory was fine when their tributes failed?  Aren’t Careers all about success and winning?

Finally the interview wraps up and the interviewer thanks them all for their time and insight.

“I don’t have to go out there, right?” I confirm.  I clear my throat, hoping that I don’t sound as little and fearful as I feel right now.

“No, I think they’re probably satisfied as it is,” Pitch responds.

“Can we leave before Solar shows back up?” I ask.

Pitch exhales.  “She’s not easy to get along with, is she?”

If only he could know.  Instead I say, “I’d rather not be around her if I can help it.  She doesn’t exactly show any remorse for, well, anything.”

Ferrer, Hero, and Jericho appear before too long.  The District 1 mentor says hi to Pitch and me before excusing himself, and it’s only after he leaves that I realize maybe I should have thanked them for taking over the interview.  But the words stick in my throat; I have no idea how to even form a coherent sentence about this.

“Elijah, you want to go for a walk?” Pitch asks.

“Where?” I don’t want to be around any cameras.

“Plenty of trails around the Capitol if you know where to find them,” he responds.

“I’m game,” says Hero.

“You guys have fun; I need to do things,” Ferrer responds.

Pitch, Hero, and I head outside.  I try to ignore the snapping of cameras and yammering of voices pounding me with questions as the other victors lead me to a waiting cab.  We pile inside and close the doors.  Pitch rattles off instructions, and the car lurches forward.

For the remainder of the day, I follow along with Pitch and Hero, trying my best to appreciate the fresh air.  But my brain has decoupled from my body, and doing anything but mindlessly wandering after the other two is impossible.

Chapter Text

“What do you want, Solar?” I ask when the mattress dips under her weight long after I retired for the night.  Sleep weighs heavily on my eyelids.  I rub them wearily before reaching over to the end table for my watch.

“How’d you know it was me?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

My fingers feel for the watch face.  2:15 AM.

“You know, I was actually sleeping pretty decently,” I mutter.  I know better than to ask what she’s doing here or to throw her out, but I still take a jab at the latter so that she has no reason to pretend that I didn’t mind her presence.  “Get out.  I don’t want you in my room.”

“Your little entourage is taking good care of you helping you out with your interviews like that,” she whispers to me as she makes herself comfortable in the blankets.  “Geeze, you’re like an oven.  How do you sleep like this?”

“It’s none of your business, and you won’t have to deal with it if you leave like I asked.”

She adjusts blankets around herself and sighs dramatically.  “I’m not going to touch you again.  Unless you want me to.”

“What the hell is your problem?” I demand.  “Why do you keep harassing me?”

She laughs, but it almost sounds sad.

“You want the information or not?” she asks, directly avoiding my question.  Not that I expected an answer.

“What’s it going to cost me?” I counter.  I try to move away from her, but end up getting tangled in the blankets.  Irritated, I tug at the layers of fabric to try to free myself, and eventually manage to untwist them from around my body.

“You’re leaving?” she asks.

“There’s no point in leaving, not when you’ll just follow me anywhere and have access to whatever room I’m in even if I explicitly asked the staff to allow no one to enter my room except me.”  Not that I’m bitter or anything.  I straighten out the blankets now that I’ve moved away from her a little, and I lay back down.  “So what is this information going to cost me?”

“You need to tell me whether you want it or not.”

I snort.  “You have no idea how financial transactions work?  You don’t just go in the store and agree to pay for a loaf of bread without knowing how much the baker charges.”

“Things are different in the Capitol,” she says, her voice low.  “Do you want to know?”

“No,” I respond.  I roll over so my back is towards her.  “If you’re going to stay here, just don’t mess with the thermostat.”

She sighs again, this time less dramatically.  “I’m trying to help you.”

“Then shut up and let me sleep,” I respond, even though sleep has vanished from me and will take a while to return.  I hate Solar.  I hate her with everything in my being.  The idea that she is lying in bed right next to me and there is nothing I can do only fuels that hatred.  Squeezing my eyelids shut, I lay there in silence for several moments.

“You weren’t supposed to win the Hunger Games,” she whispers to me.

Ugh.  Of course she’s no going to let me sleep.

I roll back over and face her.  I was pretty much a wreck by the end of the Hunger Games.  Anyone can see that I wasn’t ‘supposed’ to win by any means.  “I’m not getting myself into any legally-binding contract by listening to you tell me what I didn’t agree to hear,” I say.

She continues as though I said nothing, “It was supposed to be a Career victory this time.  You weren’t supposed to win, nor were any of the others.”

“So you’ve told me,” I respond bitterly.  “But what does it matter if the Careers were all nutcases and weren’t suitable for being victors?”

“Your opinion doesn’t matter.  It’s not up to you or me or any other victor or citizen to determine who the winner should be.  That’s beyond our paygrade,” Solar replies.  “If one of the Careers were supposed to win, then it should’ve been that way.”

“Then maybe the Gamemakers should have tried a little harder to rig it,” I say.

“They did rig it,” she says.  “And more importantly, they didn’t touch a single hair on a Career tribute’s head when everybody knows they should have been offed by a Gamemaker event.  Once you were lying helpless by the river, they knew that it was going to be one of the Careers winning.”

“Yeah, yeah, they wanted Athena,” I say.  “And when she died, they wanted me.”

“No, the people at home wanted that,” Solar corrects me.

“So what does it matter?”

Solar groans.  “You’re so dumb.  The people at home wanted you and Athena.  The people in power wanted a Career.  Any Career.  Not you.”

I don’t get it.  If the people in power really didn’t want me, then why didn’t they just kill me off, or lead one of the Careers to me, or anything like that?  Why did they let things unfold as they did and then get angry about it?  Gamemakers have ultimate power in the arena.  They can kill whoever they want and help whoever they want.

“Guess I am dumb because I’m still pretty confused,” I admit.  “They should have just killed me if they didn’t want me to win.  Had the river flood or something, I don’t know.”

“Hmph.  It’s more than just that.  The Gamemakers can do anything, but that doesn’t mean that they will,” Solar says.  “It’s a balance between pleasing the viewers at home and making sure that the right person wins.”

“So it’s the Gamemakers who hate me,” I say.

“Ugh, you’re really struggling with this.  It’s the people in power,” she says like I only have two brain cells functional right now.

“Forgive me for not being able to read your mind,” I mutter.  “So the Gamemakers are not the people in power?  Who is in power?”

“I can’t tell you everything, Elijah,” she teases, but her words lack the bite that they normally do when she dangles information in front of me.  “What fun would that be?”

“So you want to give me information without actually telling me anything?  Sure, sounds fun,” I respond.  “But what does this actually have to do with me, exactly?”

“It means that they’re watching you.  Watching whatever you do,” she says.

“Isn’t everyone?” I ask, but I’m feeling quite uneasy with this now.  She wouldn’t be telling me this if it were common knowledge.  Her goal is to unnerve me, and stating the obvious doesn’t really get to me in that same special way.

“Planning revenge against you,” she adds.  “Waiting for an excuse.”

“Well, nothing for me to worry about at the time being,” I say.  “Not like I can do anything.”

“They taught you about past victors in school, and I know they’ve taught you about me,” she says.  “Elijah, how many siblings do I have?”

“Seven?  I think that’s what they said,” I answer.  “But what does that have to do with anything?”

“I didn’t ask how many siblings I had,” she corrects.

I open my mouth but close it again.  Honestly I have no idea the current number of siblings.  Although she is lauded for her status as victor, the books and lessons mostly focused on her Hunger Games itself and her life at that time.  Her rise from a poor, overcrowded family to greatness.

“I have two, Elijah,” she says.

“I’m . . . sorry for your loss?  Losses?” What does she want from me?

She moves in closer so that her lips are against my ear.  “They were all killed.  All of them.”  Her breath is hot against my skin, and I shy away.

“I’m sorry, really,” I say as I rub my ear.  “Why are you telling me this?”

Once again, she comes in closer.  Her fingers press against my cheek to keep my head in place so I can’t move away.  “It’s what happens when a victor doesn’t listen,” she whispers.

Now I push her away, shoving my arms out against her.  She grunts when my hands hit her body.  I don’t care if I’ve hurt her.

“Why the hell do you do this?” I demand.  “What do you get out of freaking me out?”

She snorts.  “You think I’m making this up?” she asks.

“Yeah.  Or at least being . . . I don’t know, overdramatic?”

“Ask Pitch about his family,” she says.  “He didn’t listen at first, but he learned.  He’ll never tell them no again.”

“You’re messed up, Solar,” I state.

She laughs.  “Yeah, I know.  Now, do you understand what I’m telling you?”

I don’t know if I understand, but do know that I won’t be sleeping again tonight.  If what she said was true and that both her and Pitch had family members offed because they didn’t follow directions. . . .  Then I remind myself that Solar is full of shit and I can’t trust her.  I’d be stupid if I allowed her to get to me.  She knows that I can’t just walk up to Pitch and ask him about his dead family members in order to prove her wrong.  There might be some truth in what she’s saying, but certainly she’s hyping it up just to unnerve me.  If she weren’t, then maybe she would choose more appropriate times to talk to me. 

“Solar?  Leave me alone,” I say and I roll back over.

She lays quietly for a few minutes.  Her breathing is easy and steady.  I think she’s fallen asleep, but after some time, she pushes herself out of bed and tosses the blankets down.

“See you later,” she says.

“I suppose I’ll have the joy of your presence at the interview tomorrow?”

“Nah, you’re free from me.  I have a date.  Harmony will take good care of you, though.”

“Oh, so you’re allowing Harmony back at interviews?” I ask skeptically.

“Goodnight, Elijah.”  Another no-answer.  Fine, whatever.

“Good riddance, Solar.”

Sleep doesn’t come for the remainder of the night, but I hold onto the thought that Solar will not be with me at the upcoming interview.  Harmony will be there instead.  I’m not sure why he hasn’t been at the previous interviews, though I don’t think I’m far off in assuming it was Solar’s doing.

Chapter Text

The last interview.  Then I get to go home.  Tomorrow I will be on the train to return to District 5.

“You ready, Elijah?” Harmony asks.

When Caligula told me that Harmony wasn’t just going to be present but would be part of the interview with me, I nearly cried.  Anything that takes stress off me right now is a welcomed relief.  Ferrer stayed with me as the prep team did the final touches on my wardrobe and explained that most of the technical questions would be directed to the nurse and the personal questions would be for me.  This would allow the audience to better understand what I had gone through.

He didn’t say that Harmony’s participation was a more recent change based on yesterday morning’s interview, but he didn’t have to.  Pitch told me that it was obvious I wasn’t handling interviews very well.  Having Harmony present with me to mitigate the situation might be the only thing that keeps me together.

“Yeah, let’s get this over with,” I reply.

Harmony helps me find his arm so that he can lead me onstage, but he hesitates.

“You know that I will need to answer some intrusive questions about your medical condition that under normal circumstances would be protected by privacy laws?” he asks.

“I’ve come to understand that those laws don’t exist for victors,” I respond.

“I can’t comment on that, but I just didn’t want to surprise you,” he says.

As with yesterday morning’s interview, I get situated on stage before the curtains draw.  This time the interview is back in the auditorium where the presentation of the victor took place.  The musty backstage smell gives way to the openness of the theatre when the nurse and I step out onto the stage.  From behind the curtain hums the voices of thousands of people eager to see me live.  This time I won’t be answering their direct questions; instead Caligula has prepared all the questions and interview topics.  But they’re eager to hear about my blindness and how it has affected me; most of them have never seen a blind person.  To a Capitol citizen, that’s a thing of the past, altered by sophisticated technology.  Even in District 5, it’s rare to find anybody afflicted with complete blindness unless it was the result of an accident or the individual has declined corrective procedures.  Technology has helped keep blindness from the majority of the population.

Harmony and I have our own chairs.  He explains in a quiet voice that there is an end table between us with two glasses of water, one for each of us.  He directs me to my glass so that I know where it is, and I pick it up and take a sip before putting it back down.

“You ready?” Caligula asks us.  We both say that we are.

Caligula gets settled into his seat, and there are a few hushed voices around us making sure that everything is in place.

The music starts, and Harmony tells me in a loud whisper I can barely hear over the cheering of the audience that the curtains are being drawn back.  The cheers and cries grow louder, but they’re not as obnoxious as they were when I first heard them only a couple nights ago when I was brought onto this stage for the first time.  I doubt the crowds have diminished; if anything, they’re getting greater and more enthusiastic.  No, I am only getting used to being in the spotlight against my will.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!” Caligula calls out to them, which earns a great whoop from the audience.  “Welcome back to the final segment of our interview with Elijah Asher of District 5, the 133^rd victor of the Hunger Games.”

He has to wait for several minutes for the crowd to calm down enough for him to proceed.

“Tonight with us, in addition to our beloved victor, we have his own personal nurse who helped him with his recovery.  Let’s all welcome Harmony Miller!”

Once more we have to wait for the cheers to die down.

“Harmony—if I may call you that? Okay thanks—has worked with Elijah since he woke up in the hospital,” Caligula explains.  “I think before we go any further, it would be great if we could have Harmony explain a little bit about what, exactly, happened with Elijah.”

The nurses tried to explain things to me in the hospital, but half the time I was out of it and the other half the time I wasn’t in the best mood to listen to disjointed bits and pieces of information from the lips of people who praised the Hunger Games.  If Caligula had asked me this question, he wouldn’t have gotten a very good answer not just because I wouldn’t want to tell them but because I actually don’t know enough.

“When Elijah was in the arena, he had both of his eyes punctured with a knife, as you know,” Harmony begins calmly.  “This essentially destroyed the eyeball itself, meaning that there was no way to repair the eye.  In order for his vision to be fixed, it would require an ocular transplant.  Ultimately the entire eyeball would have to be taken from elsewhere and placed into Elijah’s eye socket.”

He continues on for another minute or two explaining how complicated eyes are and the fact that an eye transplant would have been extremely challenging and was likely to result in failure.  He does not address anything even close to whether restoring my eyesight would be ‘natural’ or whatever excuse the president gave for not letting it happen.  Instead he approaches it from a clinical perspective that is dumbed down so the audience can follow along.  Caligula still needs to stop and ask him to define words every so often, but overall it’s easy enough to grasp.

“What about laboratory-grown eyes?” Caligula asks.  “I know that other organs can be grown in labs.  Are eyes any different?”

“The technology behind eye transplants is a little slower than with other organ transplants,” Harmony explains.  “Scientists have been successful in growing eyes in labs, but actually transplanting them into a human has been done only a couple of times.  The success of these transplants is variable, and more research must be done before they can be performed routinely.

“Additionally the concern with Elijah is that his body had undergone several traumatic injuries that needed to be addressed.  Any time major surgery is performed, whether it’s to repair fractured bones or replace a damaged organ, there are risks associated with it.  The more complicated the procedure, the more risks.  Elijah had a kidney transplant in addition to other surgical fixes, which is well within the power of our skilled surgeons.  However, this makes the risky eye transplant procedure even riskier, and his body was more likely to reject the transplant which would have opened up other issues that would take weeks, potentially months, to fix.”

With every word he speaks, Harmony walks a fine line, I realize suddenly.  It’s common knowledge that the Gamemakers can create muttations within laboratories, so how implausible is it that they can create functional human eyeballs?  The explanation he gives sounds logical until you remember that many victors have severe internal damage and get patched up all at once without issue, including multiple transplants.  Harmony knows just as well as I do that it’s not a matter of not being able to or not being successful at it; it comes down to merely the fact that the ‘people in power’ have no desire to give me back my sight.  But he can’t say it without putting himself in jeopardy.  And it occurs to me for the first time that I am not the only person here who has to watch his words carefully.  This Capitol citizen, of all people, must guard himself from the very people he embraces.

“That’s absolutely fascinating,” Caligula says.  “I would have thought there were many of such transplants.  You hardly ever see blind people after all.”

“Most blindness in Panem results from disease or aging changes, both of which can be reversed,” Harmony continues.  “When you have physical damage to the eye from an injury, for example, the situation becomes more complicated.  Fortunately many laws and regulations requiring protective equipment in the workplace mean that we’re far less likely to see traumatic injury.”

“That would make sense.  But it’s so rare to see a victor whose injuries inside the arena follow him outside,” Caligula says.  “To me, I can’t imagine how much of a challenge it would be for your hospital team to accommodate such a serious issue when you’re used to patching the victor up back to normal.”

“To be fair, Caligula, I am not part of the regular team who works with victors,” Harmony says.  “I was called in because I have experience working with patients with eye trauma and vision loss.”

“And in most of your patients, would they have their vision restored?”

“Some do, and some don’t,” he answers.  Everything about Harmony is calm.  I don’t think the Capitol calls nurses out to do interviews very frequently, but you’d never guess that the man might be nervous from the way he conducts himself for this interview.  Every line he delivers is clear and respectful, unlike anything that they manage to get out of me.

“Why is that?”

“Sometimes the patients choose not to have their vision corrected,” Harmony says.  “And sometimes, like Elijah, there isn’t an immediate fix for their situation.  So even though we’ve never had a blind victor before, we at least have the skills and experience to understand what somebody who has recently lost his eyesight needs for recovery.”

Caligula turns his questions now to me as he asks, “Elijah, whenever we see tributes turn victors, our first glimpse of them outside the arena is them ‘whole’ again—”

“Pardon me, if I may, Caligula,” Harmony cuts in.

“Oh, yes, please,” says the interviewer.

“When we have patients who have lost a sense or who have lost a limb that cannot be replaced or repaired, we still refer to them as being ‘whole’ people,” Harmony says.

“Of course, Harmony.  Thank you for correcting me,” Caligula says.  “Elijah, what was it like when you woke up and found that you wouldn’t be able to see again?”

“Dark,” I say.

“Can you tell us a little more about that?  Were you upset that you weren’t going to have your eyes replaced?” Caligula pries.

“Of course I was,” I answer more sharply than I mean to.  But I inhale and continue, this time with a little more restraint.  “I was pretty pissed to know that I was never going to see again.  I wasn’t certain why they hadn’t fixed it.  Didn’t realize that technology had its limitations.”

“Mmhmm,” Caligula agrees.  “Looks like we’re all learning a bit more about this process, aren’t we?”

“Hopefully within the next few years, we’ll make advances in this field,” Harmony says.  “Having a victor who has lost his vision will no doubt encourage hastened research.”

“What does the recovery process look like, Harmony?” Caligula asks.

Harmony spends some time explaining what he helped me do during the first couple days: everything from using a cane to re-learning how to feed myself and perform basic hygienic tasks.  He provides details in some areas but fortunately allows me a modicum of privacy in others.

“Was it hard to get around?” Caligula asks me.

“Yes.  Much harder than you’d think,” I reply.  “There are so many things to trip on in a hospital.  Plus there are robots that deliver supplies and everything which make it more challenging.”

“Can you describe some of the challenges that the rest of us may not think of?”

“It’s easy to get lost, so I have to pay close attention to everything around me.  The way things sound or how far away one door is from another.  Little details that it’s easy to overlook even if you can still see,” I respond.

As much as I hate interviews and never want to do another one in my life, I find that it’s far easier to talk about being blind than it is to talk about being in the arena.  Which is stupid because I don’t want to talk about my blindness with these people.  I don’t want to be on national television telling the whole country that taking a few steps is disorienting and challenging.  It’s stupid and pathetic and it’s not theirs to know.  But still I find myself talking when the interviewer asks questions.

“So how do you know if you’ve made it to the right place,” Caligula asks.

“Er, well, right now people are telling me because I’m pretty much never left alone,” I say.  “Once I get home, I’m not certain.”

“Elijah has only been in the recovery process for a few days now, and he’s done remarkably well,” Harmony explains.  “Sometimes it’s easy to forget that it has only been a short period of time.  When he returns back to District 5, he’s going to continue rehabilitation which may take months, possibly years, depending on his pace and what his future goals are.”

“What will his recovery look like in District 5?”

“His new place in victor village is being retrofitted to accommodate his blindness,” Harmony explains, which is news to me.

“What sort of things need to be changed?”  Caligula asks.

“There are so many things that sighted people like you and me don’t think much about,” the nurse says.  “Furniture needs to be in logical locations and shouldn’t have additional parts or pieces that one can bump into or snag clothing on.  Flooring must be as slip-resistant as possible and needs to have textural changes any time you approach stairs or something similar.  Everything must be labeled with raised lettering so that it’s easy to distinguish between bottles of medicine, for instance, or cans of food.  There are many modifications within the kitchen.  Some things can be removed or altered once he gets used to his place, but most things will need to remain there long term, if not forever.”

Forever.

I’m going to be blind forever.  This isn’t a thing that will one day get remedied.  This isn’t a matter of technology.  This is something that I will need to live with for the rest of my life.

I draw in a deep breath as Harmony continues on with different ways my new place is being remodeled.  He and Caligula discuss various things that would enhance my ‘standard of living’ and let me lead a ‘normal happy, healthy life.’  But the more they continue, the more overwhelming it becomes.  I will no longer be able to get up, throw on some clothes, wolf down breakfast, and be good for the day.  Everything must be meticulously organized and arranged, from personal belongings to my calendar of events.

“What do you say to all this, Elijah?” Caligula asks.  “A new place and a whole new lifestyle.”

“It’ll be a change,” I reply.  The words are heavy in my mouth.

“Yes it will be,” he agrees.  “Are you looking forward to moving in?”

Right near Solar.  Neighbors.

“Yeah, these renovations sound interesting,” I say.  “Glad that I have them.”

“You sound very lucky,” Caligula says.  I’m not, and he really is stupid for even trying to spin it that way.  If I were lucky, I would be back home right now, never having my name drawn from the bowl.  “Do you think your family will move in with you?”

My family near Solar.  The woman who threatened to pull strings and have George and Joule sent to the Hunger Games.

“If they want to,” I answer calmly as I can manage.

The interview continues on, and I answer questions where it’s appropriate and spend the rest of the time listening to Harmony and Caligula talk back and forth about me.  The topic turns to my family and how they would need assistance to relearn things, too.  After all, Harmony says, they can’t just come inside and throw their shoes wherever makes the most sense for them, and they need to make conscious efforts when putting away groceries or using products in the bathroom.

I know that I can’t control what happened to me, but I feel a stab of guilt knowing what I’ve put my family through.  Between watching me in the arena and having to deal with the blindness afterwards, they have been through one ordeal after the other.  I’m supposed to be the one who gets screwed over, not them.

Caligula asks about my family members and he’s thrilled to know that I’m one of four.  I would have assumed that this was common knowledge by now.

“Do you think they’ll have a problem adjusting to this?” he asks.  “It’s good to know that you’re not alone through this.”

Yeah, right.  Good to know that they have to suffer, too.

“I hope not,” I answer simply.  From there Harmony picks it up and says that they’ll have some trouble, but, like me, they’ll get used to it quickly and then it’ll be part of life.

What would I do without Harmony?  He explains everything carefully to Caligula and the live audience, never once talking down to them or getting impatient.  Just like he did for me when I was still in the hospital.  He is more formal with Caligula than he was with me; back in the hospital, he spoke his words with more kindness and sincerity as he retaught me how to eat and bathe and put on clothing.

“I think, Elijah, your situation will bring a world of difference for people who have lost their vision,” Caligula says.  “All we have learned here about your situation really has educated us as a whole about blindness and the challenges of adjusting.  It’s brave of you for wanting to share with us.”

We both know that there was no voluntary component of this interview which means that there isn’t much in the way of ‘bravery’ on my part.  All I can think of is the Capitol girl who I was told was so inspired by me that she’s not correcting her vision loss; she will be doomed to a life of darkness because why?  Because it was trendy at the time?  Because she thought there was something beautiful or noble about it?  She’s a damned idiot.

At last the interview draws to a close.  They know all about me now.  There is nothing left to say.  Caligula thanks us both for coming and joining him, and then he tells the audience that tomorrow I will be on my way back to District 5.  “But don’t worry,” he adds.  “I’m sure there will be additional interviews in the future.”  There will be.  But for the time being, I won’t have to deal with it.

Chapter Text

“You’re not going back to the hotel right now,” Ferrer says as we climb into a cab outside of the auditorium.  Before I can contemplate whether that’s a relief or not (because where else would I go?), he adds, “We’re meeting up with some of the other victors.”

As the cab driver navigates the city streets, Ferrer points out some of the notable buildings and attractions.  Some of them I vaguely remember from history lessons, but most relate more to things the average district resident doesn’t care about: shopping centers, museums, sculptures and monuments, etc.  Maybe if I could see these things, I’d find myself caring more, but as he lists off each building, it seems that they just get repeated over and over.  How many malls does one city need anyhow?

“Have you been to most of these places?” I ask.

“A few of them,” he says.  “Sometimes when I come back to the Capitol in between Hunger Games and I don’t have the obligation of mentoring, it’s worth seeing some of the stuff they have here.”

“You come back in between Hunger Games?” I ask, the rest of his sentence lost entirely.  Uneasiness washes through me with the thought that I’ll have to come back here more than the annual obligation.

“Not very often, but sometimes it happens,” he says.  “It’s not that bad.”

I snort.  Not bad for him.  He also didn’t have an interview with the entire nation about why his body doesn’t function right.  I’d rather jump off a bridge than have to come to the Capitol in between Hunger Games.

“Alright, we’re almost there,” Ferrer says.  “We’re—”

“Where’s ‘there’?” I demand.

Ferrer huffs.  “I was about to tell you that before you interrupted.  Lady’s house.  Will be a small get together.  Small, of course, by Capitol standards.  I don’t know how many people Lady’s actually invited.  Many victors have already returned home, so there won’t be too many even if she invited everyone.”

“Lady’s house?” I ask.

“Well, her apartment,” Ferrer says.

Sure, I guess.  Lady won two years ago, which would make her about seventeen now.  I guess seventeen year olds can have their own places to live.  It just isn’t very common in District 5.  There are very few teenagers I know (myself included) who I would pin as mature enough to own and maintain their own place.  Most would throw wild parties every night if given that much power.  But going through the Hunger Games changes you.  I’m not sure I can say that it matures us, but priorities shift for certain.

The car slows to a stop but Ferrer doesn’t lead us out right away.

“You okay?” he asks.  When I nod, he says, “Let me know when you’re ready.”

A party.  With people.  Not a big Capitolite party like after the presentation, but a smaller party with people who went through what I did.  Even though I know that Solar won’t be invited, I can’t help but fear that there are more like her in the victor pool.  But, I remind myself when the panic starts to weave its way through my chest, there are many victors who have helped me over the past few days.

“You guys, er, have parties frequently?” I venture.  My hand runs across the smooth door panel.  This car isn’t as expensive as most.  Probably just a run-of-the-mill cab.  Not that I mind.

“I wouldn’t say ‘frequently’ but it happens on occasion,” Ferrer answers.

My finger taps absently on the plastic trim as I think.  “I assume that the occasion is, well, me?”

“You have to stay in the Capitol much longer than the average new victor, so yes, that’s why we are having a get-together,” Ferrer answers.

I don’t respond to this.  After a minute, Ferrer says, “Am I going to have to pry it out of you or are you going to say what’s bothering you and spare us both the trouble?”

“I . . . don’t really want people pitying me,” I admit at last.  “I appreciate the help everyone’s given me, but I don’t want everyone feeling sorry for me.”

“This isn’t exactly the group that hands out pity,” Ferrer says.  “You don’t have to worry about that.”

I suppose not.  But none of them were ever blinded, were they?  None of them will have to adjust to both the Hunger Games and eternal darkness.

It takes another couple of minutes before I say, “Alright, let’s go.”

Ferrer doesn’t push me to hurry up as we walk down the sidewalk and up the small walkway towards the apartment.  My cane finds the first step, and he waits as I fumble my way along.  When we reach the top of the steps, he raps his fist twice on the door before it creaks opens mere seconds later.

“Hey, guys,” Lady says.  “Come on in.”

We step in, and the District 10 victor closes the door behind us. “Would you prefer being introduced to everyone, or do you want to just chill and watch TV or something?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.  “How many people are here?”

She pauses for a moment and I know she’s counting.  “Not including us, five,” she says.  “More might be coming, I don’t know.”

When I hesitate, Ferrer says to Lady, “Go ahead and introduce him to everyone.”

“Alright,” she says.  “This way, Elijah.  We’re in the entryway right now, but people are in the living room and kitchen, which are connected.”

I follow after her.  She pauses for me after my cane hits a few small things that I have to navigate around, but I eventually catch up to her.  Even though I should be more at ease with the other victors than I am with the Capitolites, I can’t help the self-consciousness that rubs inside my ribs.  Perhaps it’s because I won’t be able to see people’s facial expressions when they’re talking and I’ll have to spend extra time focusing on what people are saying.  I won’t be able to tell that they’re sizing me up, judging me, or pitying me.

Lady begins to make the introductions once we are in the next room, and I try to hang onto the voices and file them away in a mental catalogue, but I know that the sounds will blend together and fade into nothing.  It’ll be quite some time before I can start to identify based on voices.  First she introduces me to Basil Gonzalez of District 11 who won last year.  I remember he was a tall, thin kid who people didn’t think twice about, but eventually became a fan favorite.  Then to Terra Woods of District 12 who won the 129^th Hunger Games.  Like Basil, she won at fifteen years of age.  There were several within the past few years who were ‘younger’ than your typical victor.  She was a powerful girl despite her age and managed to elude death several times.  Then to Vulcan Plume of District 2 who won the 111^th Hunger Games.  His victory was before my time and he always fell into the lump of ‘Careers I don’t care about’ in the list of victors.  Strange to think of him as an actual person.  Lady mentions that he didn’t have a tribute here this year, which only makes me wonder if it was voluntary or if all of us are expected to be here even when we aren’t mentoring.  Then she introduces Bran Grist of District 9 who won the 127^th Hunger Games.  District 9, like District 5, doesn’t have a huge number of wins, so the living victors are easily enough counted on one hand.  That said, I don’t remember a whole lot about him or his victory.  And finally to Joule Leonard of District 3 who won the 109^th Hunger Games.

“My sister’s named after you,” I say stupidly.

I hear the smile in her voice.  “Thank you.  That’s quite the honor,” she replies.  She sounds like she means it, and I wonder how many times she’s heard similar sentiments.

Lady has me sit down on a couch next to Bran.  The television’s playing, but I have no idea what it’s about since the volume has been turned so low.  Nothing Hunger Games related.  Maybe it’s more damned soap operas.

What does one talk about with a fellow victor?  How do people spend their time at these parties?  Back home before this all happened, I assumed that the victors from one district had nothing to do with those from other districts.  We only ever saw our own victors in person, of course, at the reaping.  People rarely travel between districts, and when they do they require a pass that indicates their travel has been approved by officials.  Usually it’s work or research oriented but very, very rarely people can travel for other reasons.  (I once knew a kid who went to District 4 on vacation.  He came from a wealthy family that had connections, and I always thought he was so lucky to see the world.)  Now I understand that victors willingly socialize with each other, and the division between Career and non-Career doesn’t mean that much when you’ve all been through hell.  But that doesn’t give me any insight into what people discuss in their free time.  Surely everyone doesn’t sit around talking about the Hunger Games nonstop?

“Which hotel did they put you in?” Bran asks.  His deep voice is somewhat antsy, if that makes any sense at all.  I try to hold onto it and memorize it.

“I don’t know the name,” I respond.  “Lots of floors.  Way too many elevators.  The view might be great but I wouldn’t know.”

“He’s in the Carrington,” Lady says.  “I think that’s where they stick most of us when we’re new.”

“Oh, that one,” Bran responds.  “It’s okay.  The restaurants are mediocre.”

The two of them get into a discussion about hotel cuisine.  It seems that both are well-versed in the best places to eat in town, though Bran clearly has a better grasp of what options are available.  They start getting into different types of dishes I’ve never even heard about, and keeping up in the conversation becomes challenging.

“Elijah, you’re at the Carrington?” Terra butts in at one point.

“So they say,” I respond.

“What’s up with the security there?” she asks.  “I have an acquaintance who works as a bell hop and says that you keep having to change out your cards and request that no one else has access.  Everything okay?”

Well shit.  Never expected news like that to get around.  I shouldn’t be surprised.  Such dumb, mundane requests being snapped up and carried off in the wind. . . . Such complete Capitol bullshit.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” I say.  “I just don’t want anything out of place in my room.”  Lame, but what else am I supposed to say?  I’m terrified of my mentor?  Who the hell would ever think me capable of handling myself if I admitted that?  No, if there is one thing I need right now, it’s to make sure that people know that I’m at least somewhat independent.

If anyone doesn’t believe it, they don’t say anything.  Instead the conversation turns to what people are going to do when they get back to their respective districts.  Immediately I forget Terra’s inquiry and latch onto people’s plans.

Maybe it’s because I’m returning home blind, but I struggle with knowing what I’ll do with myself once I am back in District 5.  I’ve been doing my best not to think about it because there’s always some other more pressing hurdle to deal with, mostly revolving around the onslaught of interviews.  Once more, I manage to push the thought out of my head enough by clinging onto their words and listening to them plan for birthday parties or time with their families or continuing education or whatever. I can think about my future later.  Right now, I have to get out of the Capitol.  That’s my goal.  That’s what I need to hold onto.

The doorbell rings and someone jumps up and trots out of the room.  I strain to listen from the hallway to see who will be joining us, but instead I hear Lady call out, “Pizza’s here, guys!”

Everybody begins to move, except I hear Joule say, “I ate way too much at lunch.”

Somebody (Terra, I think) asks if I want anything, but I decline.  I could eat; it would be good because I didn’t have much breakfast today.  But I don’t want to eat in front of everybody, especially something so messy.  I’m not ready for that yet.

The smell of pizza nearly overwhelms me as it wafts into the living room from the kitchen.  It mingles with their voices and the clinking of plates and silverware and glasses.  Too strong.  Everything begins to fade and blur together.  I try to focus on one sound or smell only to have others push through and blanket my senses.

“Elijah, can I get you water?” Joule asks.

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” I say.

She’s quiet then.  Maybe she’s left.  It’s hard to really hear anything with all the noise and the smells.  My stomach lurches.

I stand up.  I need to breathe.

Cane in hand, I fumble my way into the hallway, but once I’m there, I don’t know what to do.  I can’t go back to the front door; that would only take me to the street where anyone can see me.  But I don’t know the layout of this house and I can’t see where I’m going.  Surely there must be some other place I could go to get a breath.

“Fresh air?” The District 3 victor’s voice comes from my left side.  When I don’t answer, she says, “This way.  There’s a nice porch out here.”

She leads me down the hallway into the unknown, around a corner, and out onto what I assume must be a patio.  The sounds of the party drift slightly muted from the house.  Afternoon sun spills into the patio, and I explore just enough to find a railing and grasp onto the sun-warmed wood.  From here, I can also hear the thrum of car motors, the occasional dog bark, and someone far in the distance blaring music a little too loudly.

Something behind me creaks, and I jump.

“The furniture out here is all wood,” Joule explains.  “Makes quite a racket when you want to sit down or stand up.”

I nod.  Just got freaked out by somebody sitting in furniture.

Then another set of footsteps join us.  “Anybody want a drink?”  Bran, I think.  “Cherry-flavored soda.”

“Sure,” I answer.

“You want it in a cup or is the can fine?” he asks.

“Can’s okay,” I say.  I reach out and he puts a cold can into my hand.  My fingers find the top and I pop the tab.  The can hisses as the gases release.  I take several gulps despite the fact that the beverage is too cold and too sweet.

There’s a creak again, and I know that Bran’s made himself comfortable on the wooden furniture.  This time, knowing what the sound is, I don’t jump.  He adjusts himself, the wood groaning underneath his weight, but once he settles in, the furniture falls silent.

“Another Hunger Games come to an end,” Bran sighs.

Another.  These people have been doing it for year after year after year.  Some people like Joule and Vulcan have been doing this for more years than I’ve been alive.  Others like Lady and myself stand at the brink of a lifetime of misery.  This is how it is.  This is how it will always be.  Maybe one day hundreds of years from now people will realize that the Hunger Games have no real purpose and thus abolish this practice, but that will not be something I see in my lifetime.

Suddenly I realize I’m crying.  Shit.  Somebody presses a napkin in my hand and I wipe my cheeks, but the damage is already done and now whoever can see me (I assume only Joule and Bran, but heaven only knows) has witnessed me silently crying like a moron.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“You’ll get used to it,” Bran mutters, but he doesn’t sound very convincing.  If anything, he sounds pretty shitty as I feel.

“What was her name?” I ask.  “The District 9 girl?”

“Barley,” Bran replies.  “Barley Mills.”

“Can you, um, if you get the chance . . . I don’t know what the norm is,” I stammer.  “Can you thank her family for me?”

Bran’s quiet for a moment.  “Sure,” he says.  “I’ll do that.”

The Capitol continues to thrum with activity, but it’s all distant and for the first time since I woke up in the hospital, I don’t feel like the attention is on me.  Here in the sheltered patio of Lady’s apartment, I have the first few moments of peace in weeks.

“I don’t know what to do when I go home,” I blurt out.

Stupid.  They might be victors, too, but they don’t need to be burdened with my own insecurities.  They have their own to deal with.

“It will take some time to adjust,” Joule says kindly.  “We all felt that way when we first came home.”

“Heck, I still feel that way,” Bran admits.

“Once you get settled in, they’ll make you choose a talent which is how they keep you occupied since you’ll never need a job,” Joule explains.  “It’s whatever you want as long as it’s reasonable.  You’ll find ways to pass the time between your talent and whatever other hobbies you develop.”

I take a sip of my drink.  I can’t really imagine myself developing many hobbies.

“My mom keeps telling me to go back to school,” Bran says.  “Learn from my mistake.  Develop some good hobbies or your parents will get after you to pursue your education.”

Joule laughs. “Bran, you sell yourself short.”

“Like high school?” I ask.  “I assume they’ll let you do homeschooling?”

“Something like that,” Bran says.  “The Capitol University accepts victors and offers remedial classes to catch up.  Maybe I’ll just stay local, though.”

Learning through the Capitol sounds like a nightmare.  If the district schools push the propaganda and Capitol-centric curriculum so heavily, the ones actually within the Capitol must be unbearable.

“I think my days at school are over,” I mutter.  “Anyway, not like I would be able to read the textbooks.”

“You’d be surprised.  The Capitol might have its quirks, but they’ll bend over backwards in many ways for their victors,” Joule says.  “Have you thought about learning braille?”

“What would I do with that?” I ask.

“Would make you more independent for starters,” Joule replies.  “You won’t need to rely on people to read things for you all the time.  I don’t know how it is in District 5, but here in the Capitol, laws require braille in many places.”

“For all three blind people, huh?”

Joule laughs again.  It’s not an unpleasant sound, and I know she isn’t laughing at me.  “Well, this will work to your benefit,” she says.

When one has to relearn how to do basic functions, the idea of learning an entirely new writing system is daunting.  If walking from one side of the room to the other proves challenging, how can I possibly manage to learn an archaic form of communication that almost no one else uses?  But the idea piques my interest regardless.

“Sure, why not.  Not like I’ll be able to do any of my other hobbies ever again,” I reply.

“What were your hobbies?” Bran asks.

“Soccer, mostly,” I say.  “Not like I’m going to be doing much knife throwing at this point.  Used to play videogames, too.  My friend had an old system we’d spend hours on.”

“You could still run,” Joule says.

“Stuck on a treadmill for life?”

“I saw it once on a documentary.  They’d have a blind runner paired up with a sighted runner,” Joule says.

“I don’t think I have that sort of faith in anybody at this point,” I answer honestly.  “They’d probably just lead me into a tree.”

“You can get a dog!” Bran suggests a little too loudly.  “I once saw that!  An old man with this big old dog that kind of just lead him around and told him when it was safe to cross the street.”

“You said your grandpa taught you how to whittle wood,” Joule says.

“Yes, when I was a kid,” I respond.  I swish the soda around in the can.  Not much remains.

“Have you thought about taking that hobby up again?” she asks.

I scoff.  “Yeah, I’d probably cut my fingers off,” I reply.

“Not with the way you handle a knife,” she says.  “You don’t have to do it, but consider it.  I don’t think that you’re as lost as you think you are.  Getting out of the arena messes with your head, and it’ll take time to adjust, but you will adjust.”

That’s . . . very kind of her to say, and I find myself without words to respond.  My hand runs across the smooth wood of the railing.  Every year, victors have come before me and they managed to deal with the traumas of their arenas.  Perhaps it’s not so far-fetched to think that I, too, will be able to overcome whatever obstacles rise before me.

“Elijah, do you want anything to eat?” Lady’s voice comes from the doorway.

“Do you have any cereal?” I ask.

“Cereal?  Yeah, sure.  Do you care what kind?”

“No,” I say.

“Alright.  I’ll bring some out.  Hope you’re okay with almond milk,” she says and then her voice vanishes.

For the rest of the evening, nobody talks about the Hunger Games.  Instead I listen to them tell stories about themselves or their friends or their pets, each one tangentially related to the next and spawning all sorts of strange conversations.  On occasion I’ll chime in, but it’s enough effort to keep up with who is who, and I get lost in the various tales they tell.

At last people begin to disperse.  The mood becomes more somber, but only slightly as people begin to wish each other goodbye.  The trains leave at different times tomorrow, Ferrer explains, so this’ll be the last time most people see each other before they return to the Capitol.  When everybody’s said their goodbyes, Ferrer leads me outside and to a cab, and we head back to my hotel.

Tomorrow I go home, and then what will I do?

Chapter Text

I might as well leave the door unlocked, I think as I brush my teeth and pull on my flannel pants and t-shirt.  After Terra told me about her bellhop acquaintance, I figured there was no reason to ask for my card to be rekeyed.  More rumors would spread, and Solar will figure out some other way around it anyhow.

It’s nearly midnight when Solar slips in through the door.  From where I lay in bed with the blankets pulled up around me, I can hear her creep through the darkness.

“You left the lights on,” she says to me.  “If you’re not careful, you’re going to rack up quite the energy bill back home.”

“I don’t suppose there is any use telling you to leave, is there?” I ask wearily.

“Security has been tripled; getting in here was challenging enough,” she responds.  “I can’t leave without being seen.  And you wouldn’t want me to be seen leaving your bedroom, would you?”

“There’s always the balcony,” I offer.

The mattress sinks ever so slightly as she crawls into bed with me.  “This is the twenty-first floor.  Climbing down isn’t an option.”

“You can jump,” I suggest.

She doesn’t answer that as she moves herself closer against my body even as I move away from her.  Instead she says, “I saw your interview.”

“Yeah?  I thought you had a date.”

“I did.  And we watched the interview.”

“That’s super romantic,” I say, but I feel her hands on my waist, travelling towards the elastic band of my flannel pants.  “Woah, hey, stop.”

Her hands move away again, but she remains next to me.  I’ve already inched as close to the edge of the bed as I can.  The only other option would be to move off the bed entirely, but where would I go?  The room is only so big.

“What’s wrong, Elijah?” she asks innocently.

“I thought I already compensated you for the poison,” I say.

She laughs sharply.

“You think one night pays that debt?  You really are stupid, aren’t you?”  Her hand rests on my stomach as she curls up next to me with her head on my pillow near my shoulder.  “The things I had to do to get you that poison.  And then to have it all thrown away just like that. . . .”

“That’s not my problem.  You’re the one who made the decision to buy it,” I say.  The weight of her hand on my stomach grows heavier and heavier with each passing second as I realize that there’s no way I’ll be able to talk myself out of this any better than I was able to the other night.  “I don’t care what it cost you.”

“You were a terrible tribute to mentor, and you’re an equally irritating victor,” Solar responds.

“Tell me why you’re doing this,” I say.

“I’ve told you already,” she responds boredly.

“I find it hard to believe that this is a standard practice for mentors and new victors,” I say.

She props herself up so that she is half over me.  Her hand strokes my cheek.

“They didn’t tell you about this?  All your victor friends, I mean?” she taunts.

“Why are you doing this?” I repeat.  There must be a reason.  Anger pulses through me every time her fingers touch my cheek.  I grab her wrist and squeeze.

She wrenches away from me.  “Does it matter?” she asks, irritation sharp in her words. 

I suppose not; it won’t make a difference in terms of what happens tonight.  Still, I deserve to know why she’s doing this.

“Things work differently in the Capitol,” she adds.  More cryptic non-answers.

“You know, I don’t care if somebody saw you leaving right now,” I say.  “You just got here after all, so they’ll just think you had to deliver a message or wish me luck or whatever.”

She laughs darkly.  “You don’t think I’m giving you a message right now?” she asks.  “You’ve never been very good at listening to me.”

She leans in to kiss me, and I know that I may not be able to control what will ultimately happen here, but I won’t go down without a fight.  I let her lips stay on mine for a moment before I grab her by the arms and half push, half toss her towards the floor.  She lands with a yelp and heavy thump.  For half a glorious second, I pretend that she’s dead.

“Fuck!  Damnit, Elijah!” she cries out before letting out a string of obscenities.

I sit up and push myself towards the center of the bed, but it does little to keep me away from her.  Within seconds, Solar is on top of me, pinning me into the mattress with her hands digging into my shoulders.  Her breaths come out in pants.  Something warm and wet drips down onto my cheek.

“You’re bleeding,” I say.

“And you’re going to pay for it,” she hisses between clenched teeth.

I suppose I was going to pay for it anyhow, and I hang onto the little bit of happiness that fluttered within me the moment I threw her off the bed.

Morning comes, and Solar is still here.  She must’ve been serious about increased security in the hotel.  I listen to her even breathing for several minutes before heading to the bathroom.

The hot water of the shower runs over my skin.

I am going home today.  I am finally going home.

And then what am I going to do?

What will my family do?

Lucinda?

I’ve been successful at not thinking about her for days now.  She has watched everything unfold live.  She’s seen me curl up with Ilana when the nights grew cold.  She’s seen me admit that I loved her sister’s friend.  Although I’m sure Lucinda is happy I’m alive (I hope she is), I know that our relationship will never be the same again.  What would she say if she knew that I had kissed Ilana in the privacy of my training center bedroom or that I’ve had sex with my mentor?  These would destroy her.  Even if I could explain the situations (not that I can really even explain them to myself), nothing would ever justify what I’ve done and repair the damage to our relationship.

Despite the warmth of the water, I shiver.

I’ve lost Ilana.  I’ve lost my eyesight.  I’ve lost myself.  And I might lose Lucinda, too.

I take a deep breath and struggle to keep the panic at bay.  But only emptiness replaces it, and I am left feeling hollow and alone.

Time passes, and I force myself out of the shower.  Wrapping a warm towel around myself, I take another few breaths and mentally assign myself the next tasks to get through the day.  With robotic motions, I brush my teeth and comb my hair.

My clothing is in the main part of the bedroom, so despite never wanting to see Solar again and certainly not when I’m not fully dressed, I tighten the towel around my waist and leave the bathroom.

“Not only are you going to waste all the electricity but you’re going to use all the water in District 5,” she says from elsewhere in the room.  I ignore her and head to the closet.  Her footsteps approach and she pauses near me, but I open up the closet doors and begin searching for something to wear.  It’s hard to pretend she’s not here, but eventually she heads off to the bathroom and the door shuts behind her.  The water turns on, and I slip into my clothes for the day.

Since I’m not hungry enough for breakfast and I don’t want to mess with anyone possibly finding out about Solar, I sit on the couch and flip on the television.  Many stations still give recaps of the Hunger Games or play the interviews, so it takes a few minutes before I find some sort of nature documentary.  There’s minimal speaking, and when the narrator does chime in, it’s only to say what the animals are doing.  No Hunger Games.  I tune out the rest of the world and focus on bison roaming the plains in great herds.  I’m vaguely aware that Solar is out of the shower and wandering around the room, but if she says anything to me, I can’t hear beyond the stamping of hooves.

A knock comes at the door and I start.  I push myself off the couch and am heading towards the door when I hear it click unlocked.  Fear zips through me as I wonder who could be entering the room, but then with horror I realize that Solar is answering the door.

“Oh, hey Pitch,” she says calmly.  “Nice to see you this morning.  I was just about to leave.”

“What—” the confused District 7 victor starts.

“Just giving my victor a few final words of mentoring.”  Her voice is nonchalant.  Maybe with a bit of a smile.  Smug.  Yes, that’s the word.  She steps into the hallway.  “See you at the train station, Elijah.  Don’t be late.”

A few seconds pass, and then Pitch steps in.  The door clicks closed behind him.

“So what they said about you constantly rekeying your door was true,” Pitch says.

I don’t answer.  What the hell am I supposed to say anyhow?  Solar is despicable, but I cannot fathom trying to explain what’s going on right now.

Pitch takes my silence as answer enough.  “How often has she been in here?”

I lean against the wall.  “Every night,” I reply.

“What does she want?”

“To annoy me, mostly,” I answer carefully.  “And also compensation for the poison she sent me.”

Pitch is quiet for a moment.  “And by compensation, you mean. . . .”

“Yes, that’s what I mean,” I snap before he can get out the entire sentence because I don’t want to hear him say it.  It’s awkward enough that it happened, but to have to actually admit it is another thing entirely.

Pitch draws in a deep breath.  “Solar is disgusting,” he mumbles.  “I can’t believe she—”

“Can we not talk about this?” I ask.  But despite the sharpness of my words, there is no energy behind them.  I’m tired.  Defeated.  I want to go home and never think about any of this ever again.

“Alright,” he says.  Moments later, he adds, “I need to make a phone call.  I’ll be back in about five, ten minutes.  Okay?”

I groan.  “Really?  Fine, whatever.  It’s not like the entire nation doesn’t need to know about my personal life.”

“This is serious, Elijah,” Pitch says.  “Solar has far exceeded what any of us thought she was capable of, and she crossed a line that never should have been approached to begin with.”

Pitch steps out of the room when I don’t respond, and I turn my attention back to the television.  I can’t concentrate, however, and all I can think about is that now everyone in the entire damned country is going to know that Solar and I slept together.  They won’t know the truth (because I doubt that anyone will care, and even if they do, no one will admit that one of their precious victors is such a demon), which means that I’ll forever have the burden of pretending that I wanted to have sex with her.

When Pitch at last returns, he says that we’re ready to go to the train station.  I have no belongings here, so I take only my watch and the cane.  Pitch reminds me to bring my sunglasses, which requires a couple extra minutes before I find them in the bathroom.

Neither of us speak much as we head downstairs.  He gives me a few quiet comments to keep me on track, and he informs me that there are members of the press in the lobby and outside, but I am to pretend they’re not there.  Once in the cab, we leave behind the clicking cameras and voices vying for my attention, but I still can’t relax.  The cab ride takes forever even though I know its length is just relative to my impatience.  When the cab finally stops, Pitch doesn’t get out right away.

“There’s nothing I can do about Solar,” he says heavily.  “We were able to pull strings and talk with people to make sure that you got all the help we could get you while you were here in the Capitol, but as far as District 5. . . . I have no power or connections.  And . . . shit, I should have done more to make sure that she stayed away from you.  I’m sorry, Elijah.”

My fingers fiddle with the handle on the door, running over the smooth plastic.  If I wanted to leave the car, I can’t; I don’t know that I wouldn’t be stepping into traffic.  So I’m at the mercy of Pitch who wants to have a conversation that I don’t want to have.  I clear my throat.

“I’ll be fine,” I respond gruffly.

A thick silence falls over us.  Pitch finally opens the door, and I slide out after him.

No sooner do we get to the platform that Ferrer tells us that the District 5 train will be leaving a little later than scheduled.  My mind immediately pulls up a hundred different scenarios for why it’s late, and none of them are for good reasons.  Pitch directs me over to the bench where we sit down and wait.  I check my watch occasionally.  Ten minutes.  Fifteen.  Half an hour.  Finally after forty-five minutes, the District 2 victor meets up with us again and says that I’m good to go.

My heart thumps as I stand up and grasp the cane in my hands.  This is it.  I’m finally going home, whatever that may entail.

“Elijah, Harmony will be accompanying you back to District 5 and helping you get adjusted to your new place,” Ferrer says as we begin to amble in the direction of the train.

A weight I didn’t realize had pressed down upon me vanishes.  Suddenly returning to District 5 doesn’t seem quite as daunting.  Funny how I never thought that the presence of one person, and a Capitolite at that, could relieve so much pressure.

Pitch’s phone call, I remember.  Whatever that was about, no doubt it has something to do with the fact that my nurse will be returning home with me to help me adjust.

“I assume this was a last-minute change,” I say.

Ferrer clears his throat.  “Well, yes.  Some changes to the schedule were necessary,” he says.  “But this should help make the transition a little better.”

And make sure that I’m not driven entirely insane by everything as the world collapses around me one piece at a time.  To make sure that I have some barrier that will keep Solar away.

“You ready?” Ferrer asks.

“Yes,” I say.  I hesitate knowing that I should express my appreciation for everything Ferrer and Pitch have done for me the past few days.  None of it was anything they had to do.  I take a deep breath.  “This has been an absolutely shitty time and I never want to repeat it.  But thank you both for your help.”

“Best of luck, Elijah,” Pitch says, briefly touching my shoulder.

Chapter Text

D5V009 Final Post-Games Notes

Subject stayed at Carrington Hotel for four nights following release from the hospital.  Staff reports Subject requested his room key card be rekeyed, but no issues beyond that.  Room left lived-in but clean.  No notable interactions with other guests.  Visitor list included D2V021, D5V008, and D7V012.

Although Subject was scheduled for five (5) interviews immediately following the presentation, he only completed four (4).  Subject’s ability to participate in interviews greatly deteriorated, and the schedule was rearranged to accommodate Subject’s condition.  Subject becomes easily overwhelmed.  Subject becomes agitated and verbally aggressive.  Interviews must be heavily monitored in future.

Subject continues to adapt remarkably well to his vision loss. 

D2V021 requested psychiatric nurse Harmony Miller (ID# AED104) accompany Subject on return to home district citing psychiatric stress due to blindness.  Miller was approved for travel and will remain with Subject until a rehabilitation team is organized and properly trained.

Subject’s antisocial behavior continues to be problematic.  Remediation requested.  Remediation postponed upon [redacted]’s request.

Chapter Text

When I first rode this train weeks ago, I never thought I’d be making the return trip.  It seemed impossible that I had a chance of winning.  Yet here I am.  I sit in the chair near the muted television and concentrate on the movement of the train.  At any moment, I think, Ilana will come get me for dinner.  I’ll hear her voice.  I’ll feel her hand on my shoulder.  But the hope that I will see her again vanishes when I remember that the return trip is a solo trip, and it is only made possible because Ilana and twenty-two others are dead.

In hours, I will return to District 5.  The others with me in the train squawk with excitement.  I go through the motions to keep them from bothering me, and no one cares about my silence.  We eat dinner together, and I sit quietly afterward while everyone converses about the Hunger Games and how exciting they were and what people plan to do next.  I’m present, but I’m not really here.  Nobody expects much out of me because they are so wrapped up in their own worlds.  They focus on the din and chaos of conversation; they don’t listen to what is spoken in the stillness.  Whenever Harmony checks in on me, I cannot find words to give him.  There is no way to explain the ache in my chest and the longing for what can never be.

Despite being surrounded by a group of so many people, I have never felt so alone.

I know that when the train reaches the station, I will find myself once more in the company of people who don’t understand what I’ve gone through.  Although they all know what I have lost, they will never understand what it has done to me.  Victory is more than being the last person standing.  It requires giving up so much of yourself that you wonder how much of you is really left.  The only people who have any inkling of what I’ve truly gone through are the mentors, and I cannot bear the thought of being in their presence longer than I must.  So instead I face an even greater loneliness as I try to adjust back to normal life knowing full well that things can never be as they once were. 

The thoughts of everything I must do when the train pulls into the station overwhelm me.  All the people I have to greet.  All the strained relationships I need to mend.  But these thoughts pale compared to my thoughts of Ilana.  Once I step off this train, the connection between us will break.  I will remember her, but our journey together will end.

I feel her with me here.  I don’t want to let go.

Chapter Text

My parents barely wait until I am off the train before they throw their arms around me, and in that instant, all is okay for a brief flicker of time.  It takes everything in my power to not dissolve right then and there because I know that there are cameras watching me from every angle.  Mom sobs openly, and Dad is more reserved, but even his voice chokes with emotion when he welcomes me back.

“’Lijah,” comes my little sister’s voice.  As soon as my parents release me, she takes their place with her arms tightly around me.  I hug her tightly.

My older brother Henry joins in, nearly squishing Joule between us.

“George?” I ask when Henry and Joule step back.

Moments later, my younger brother shuffles over and gives me a reluctant hug.  It’s not that he isn’t happy to see me, I know.  I hold him close to me.

“Who all is here?” I whisper.

George squirms out of my arms and a few seconds later begins to give me the run-down in a quiet voice: my grandparents (who barely wait until my little brother has stepped back before they’re hugging me, too), my friend Anthony, several other classmates and teammates, many of my parents’ friends, and a lot more people that George has no clue who they are and I likely don’t, either.  However the one person I wanted to see the most has not made an appearance.  I try not to be disappointed, but even as people greet me and welcome me back, thoughts of Lucinda fill my mind.

The reporters give me space as I greet everybody, and fortunately I’m not forced to interact with the vast majority of the people here.  On occasion I hear the squawk of one of the Capitolites ordering people about or gushing for the cameras.  George tells me that there must be at least a hundred people crammed into the small station, but most of them are just here to glimpse the new victor.  Maybe they know me in some way (a friend of a friend, or someone I went to school with years ago), but they don’t know me well enough to claim to be my friends.

“Glad you’re back,” Anthony says as he hugs me.  He sniffles but covers it up with a cough.  “You kicked ass.”

“Thanks,” I say.  I don’t feel like I kicked ass.  If anything, I had my ass kicked pretty well.

“Can I come by and see your new place?” he asks when he releases me.

“I’d be pissed if you didn’t,” I answer.  And although I say it lightheartedly, I know right then and there that it’s the truth.  If all my friends just ditch me, what the hell will happen to me?

Then we have to pose for the cameras.  Myself, my parents and grandparents and siblings, Anthony, a couple friends from my soccer team and school.  I give up at some point and decide that if they want pictures, they’re going to have to get them without me posing.

“Let’s go home, Elijah,” my dad says at last, and I say goodbye to Anthony and the others.  My family leads me out of the train station, and there are so many of them around me that I don’t have to worry about getting lost or holding onto anyone to help me find my way.  We’re a somber group, despite all the happiness, as we pile into my family’s vehicle.  Mom and Dad sit in the front, Joule and me in the middle, and my brothers in the back.  Normally there’s a fight to see who gets middle seats, but things are different now.  Everyone’s on their best behavior.

For several minutes, no one speaks.  An awkward silence fills the car, the air laden with unvoiced questions.  They want to know what has happened to me.  They want to ask me about the Hunger Games from my perspective.  But they cannot do that yet, and so they handle me with gloves because I am so fragile I may shatter at any moment.  They yearn for me to tell them that everything is okay and that I am perfectly fine, but we all know that it cannot possibly be.  They saw what happened in the arena.  They saw the subsequent interviews.  I am already broken.

“Why didn’t you do that other interview?” George suddenly pipes up.

“George!” Mom hisses.

“Really, George?” Dad echoes.

Henry must sock him in the arm because George yelps.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“The previous interview didn’t go over as well as they hoped,” I turn slightly towards my brother in the back seat.

“I thought some of your answers were funny,” Joule says.

“Unfortunately they wanted serious replies,” I tell her.

She exhales.  “Lame.  They asked dumb questions, what did they expect?”

I can’t answer that.  What is dumb to us is serious to them, and unfortunately that’s the reality of it all.  After about ten minutes, Dad finally speaks up.

“We’ve already started to move in to your new place, I hope that’s okay,” he says.  His voice wavers like he fears my response to this news.  “It looks really nice.”

My heart clenches.  They’ve moved in near Solar.  Everything I didn’t want.  There has to be a way to make sure that they don’t complete the move and they return to our old home.

“What about the old house?” I ask.  “What happens with that?”

“We haven’t decided yet,” Mom says.  She, like my father, treads carefully with her words.

“They want to make sure that you’re okay before they decide,” George says.

Mom clears her throat and I know that she’s glaring at my little brother.  They must’ve had some discussion before picking me up on how to talk with me or what subjects to not bring up.  George has been failing in all regards.

I grin.  “Alright,” I say.

“Mom also says that you’re too skinny and need to be fattened up,” Joule tells me.

“Food in the Capitol wasn’t as good as they make it out to be,” I respond to her, not wanting to get into how difficult it is to eat when you’re constantly on edge and being torn apart from the inside by interviews and useless social events.  “I’m sure I’ll fatten up soon enough.”

“Maybe we should give Elijah a break,” Dad suggests.  It’s his polite way of telling everyone to shut their mouths before he actually tells them to stuff it.

“It’s okay,” I say.  “I missed you guys.”

“We missed you, too,” Mom assures me.

Our old house could easily fit into the new house several times over.  As I stand on the lawn of the new place, I ask my siblings to describe it.  At first this request confuses them, so I have to remind them that I can’t see it, and that kicks off a whole bunch of comments (sometimes conflicting) about what the mansion looks like from the outside, and when they run out of information about the exterior, they start describing the inside.  From what I gather, the place is three stories tall (not including the attic and basement), has twelve bedrooms and twelve and a half bathrooms, and has a whole bunch of completely nonsensical rooms that I’ll never use.

“Who are the neighbors?” I ask, clinging to the hope that I will not be next door to Solar.

All kids take a tour of victor village at least once in their elementary career as a bit of an incentive to go to the Hunger Games, so I am familiar with what it looks like.  Every district’s village is different, they tell us, but I’ve only ever seen this one in person.  There are twenty houses, each one on a sizeable lot of several acres.  The architecture of the houses unifies them, but no two houses are exactly alike.  How they decide which victor gets which house is beyond me (our teachers always assured us that we would get whatever house we wanted even if we didn’t get to choose it).  The paved road that runs through the village curves slightly to form a wide, meandering ‘u’ shape with most houses on the outside of the ‘u.’  My siblings have already told me that there is a great open field behind the house, and farther on, woods.

“Benjamin lives next door, over there,” Joule says.

“He can’t see where you’re pointing, dumbass,” George say.

“Shut it, George,” Henry orders.  Then he clarifies for our sister, “Benjamin’s place is on the right if you’re facing your house.”

“And who’s on the left?” I ask.

“I think it’s empty,” my older brother answers.

“It belonged to one of the older victors,” George corrects.  “One of the dead ones.”

I am the ninth victor of District 5.  The only other victors are Benjamin and Solar.  Two have vanished.  The rest are ghosts.

“Lively neighborhood,” I answer.

“Solar lives around over there,” Joule says.  “I know you can’t see where I’m pointing, but I really can’t describe it very well, so you’ll have to imagine that you know where it is.”

“She’s saying that Solar lives a few houses down, but we can’t see it from here because it’s around a bend,” Henry translates.

Relief.  I take a deep breath.  At least there is some distance between us.  I am still not comfortable with my family being so close, but I’ll take what little victories I can.

“Show me the inside,” I say to them.

Joule and George bound ahead but Henry stays behind with me.

“I’m sure you’ve probably guessed, but Mom and Dad asked us not to bother you with too many questions or bring up the Hunger Games more than necessary,” my older brother says to me.

“Figured as much,” I reply.  I start walking slowly in the direction of the house and Henry does, too.  The smooth lawn has been recently cut.  The scent of freshly-mowed grass is strong, and my cane taps the ground without much resistance.

“They’re really worried about your mental stability,” Henry continues, his voice lower.

I laugh dryly.  “Yeah, me too.”

My brother doesn’t say anything for a few seconds as we walk.  I guess it’s hard to know that our parents aren’t over-exaggerating things.  I’m not doing well.  Right this moment, I’m okay.  But in general, I’m only hanging on.

“If you ever want to talk, let me know,” Henry finally says.  My cane smacks against something.  I tap around to try to identify what it is.  “I know I don’t know what it’s like to be in the Hunger Games, but I guess I’m better than nothing.”

“Thanks,” I say.  “For starters, what is this?”

“Oh, the bottom step,” he says.

“They gave me a house with steps?” I ask.  “This’ll make bringing in the groceries fun.”

Henry snickers.  “Yeah, they’ve modified a lot of stuff inside, but there are random things that they seem to have forgotten entirely,” he says.  “C’mon.  There are three steps, then the porch.  Then it’s a small step up into the house.”

I reach out and my hand touches a railing.  At least they gave me that.  I use it to help guide me up the stairs, vaguely aware that I have turned into an old person with my cane and constant need for hand rails.  Sure, it’s a different type of cane, and my hair isn’t yet grey (I hope), but I feel rickety and delicate regardless.

“You should see your room,” Joule’s voices from some somewhere within the entryway.  “Well, not ‘see.’  But what do you do?  Feel?”

“Echolocate,” I say as I step inside the house.  Despite the heat of the summer, the air conditioning keeps the place crisp and cool.  “Just make a bunch of dolphin clicks and get a picture of the room.”

Joule giggles.  “You’re dumb.  C’mon, it’s upstairs.”

The four of us head upstairs together in single file.  George wants to show me some strange balcony or alcove he found, and Joule insists I see my room, while Henry wants to know if I would prefer to start on the first floor because it’s the most rational.

“When did you guys move in?” I ask as we head down the hall towards my room.

“We started moving our stuff in a few days ago,” George tells me.  “Mom had me pack up the stuff in your room.  Sorry for going through your junk.”

Maybe in some previous lifetime I would have been pissed that my parents had one of my siblings go through my belongings, but that’s the furthest concern in my mind.  All of my private life has been ripped open and dumped out for everyone in the country to see.

“Oh, shoot, I forgot to tell you that I haven’t unpacked everything yet,” George says after I run into a stack of boxes.  Somebody grabs onto them to keep them from toppling over.

George proceeds to tell me to follow him, and he takes me on a ‘tour’ of the room.  Some furniture has been brought in and placed in somewhat random locations (which George proudly tells me is his doing), and we have to sidestep the packing boxes of my belongings.  He notes that the some of the furniture is new, provided by the Capitol, such as the bed and the lamps.  He makes sure to lead me around the perimeter of the room, stopping at a closet, then a second closet, then a bathroom, then a third closet which is almost as big as the bathroom.

“Are all the rooms this size?” I ask.

“Some of them.  Mom and Dad have one of the big ones, too,” Henry explains.  “The rest of us have smaller ones.”

“I have two rooms!” Joule says proudly.

I sit down on the foot of my bed.  As Joule and George begin bantering about what part of the house to show me next, it occurs to me that this is the most pure conversation I’ve had since I was reaped.  There’s nothing about death, nothing about murder, nothing about trying to make it through the next interview.  Listening to my siblings argue with each other was never high on my list of conversations I wanted to be around, but now I can’t get enough of it.  My cheeks are wet, and I wipe my eyes and hope that the others don’t see that I’m crying.

“Everything okay?” Henry asks.

“Yeah, just some discharge,” I respond.  “Turns out having your eyes gouged out has its repercussions.”

My siblings fall silent, and I’ve effectively ruined the moment.

“Does it still hurt?” George asks.  He comes over and sits down on the bed next to me.

“George,” Henry warns.

“No, it doesn’t,” I say.  “Fortunately.”

“Is it weird not being able to see?” Joule asks.  “I mean, really.”

The sorts of questions the Capitol citizens would ask.  But coming from my siblings, they’re innocent, genuine inquiries, not probing and horrible things that I’m required to spill my guts to people I neither know nor care about.

“Yes,” I answer.  “I never realized how much I relied on seeing things.  Now I have to switch to listening to everything and using a cane and . . . it’s definitely no substitute for eyes.”

“My friend told me that we’re not supposed to say things like ‘see you later’ or ‘hey look at this’ because you can’t see anymore and will be offended,” Joule says.  “Is that true?”

I snort.  “No, that’s not true.  I really don’t care.”

“It’s just random phrases people use,” George tells her.

“You can’t play soccer anymore,” Joule says sadly.

“Yeah, I know,” I say.

“That sucks,” George adds.

“Guys, maybe we should give Elijah a break,” Henry suggests, filling in for our parents’ in their absence.  Classic Henry move.

But George stands up and says, “Now do you want to see the weird alcove?”

“Yeah, alright,” I say.

For the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening, my siblings take me around the house and show me everything.  My little siblings insist that I go into every single room to get acquainted with it and know how big it is, what the walls feel like, what furniture is present, and the like.  Every once in awhile Henry tells them to calm down, or my parents stick their heads in to make sure I’m not getting too tired out.  But I forget about the Hunger Games, and in some ways I forget about being blind, or at least why I’m blind.

The house really does have twelve bedrooms, and Joule and George each have two of them, which is fine by me.  In addition to the standard rooms (living rooms, kitchen, etc.), there is also a study, a library, a television and gaming room, and two offices, among others.  The sheer number of rooms makes filling them with personal belongings challenging, but the Capitol has furnished it with beds, dressers, tables, and decorative objects of their own.  I’d like to burn them all, but there’s no point.  Not when the entire house itself is a ‘gift’ from the Capitol.

Chapter Text

We eat a late dinner around a Capitol-provided dinner table that’s big enough to fit a family of six.  The smells of home-cooked turkey and potatoes, freshly-baked bread, and steamed vegetables mingle together.  This is what Mom and Dad had been doing all afternoon while we explored the house.

“Elijah, honey, do you want us to serve you?” Mom asks.

“Mom,” comes George’s voice from two seats over.  “Didn’t you watch the interview?  He can serve himself.”

“Er, yeah, if you just tell me what’s in each bowl or plate, I’ll be fine,” I respond.  While I know that my family has watched every single bit of me they could get ahold of, I find it unnerving sitting here with them knowing that they saw every interview, heard each question, and watched me struggle to stay composed.  But the moment passes as plates get swapped around the table.  Each time somebody hands me something, they say what it is, and I serve myself a small portion, keeping everything as separate as I can.  It takes a considerable amount of energy to focus on the constant back-and-forth of dishes.  Every meal I’ve had since I woke up in the hospital has been simple by comparison.

“Do you have everything you need for school, Joule?” Dad asks after we’ve all managed to get ourselves and our food settled.

I perk up.  “It’s too early for school, isn’t it?” I ask.

“They’re making me do summer school,” Joule explains with a groan.

“You’re going to have fun,” Mom encourages her.

“George doesn’t have to do summer school,” she whines.

“Honey, you need to get caught up on your science,” Dad says.  “George is doing fine.”

“Ugh, way to compare your children,” Joule mutters.

“You know that we’re not comparing you,” Dad replies.

I have a strange feeling this isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation.  Neither Henry nor George butt in, so I know it’s probably best to stay out.  Joule’s not a bad student, but our school system is competitive and sometimes it’s easy to get left behind.  From what we’ve always been told, other districts don’t put so much emphasis on academics.  Not that you can’t find challenging courses, but when the majority of your population will probably end up working in factories or fields, it’s not as big of a priority.

“I’ll take you to the store tomorrow to get whatever you’re missing,” Mom says to my sister.

Joule grumbles, but she can’t escape from the fact that while George is messing around the new place for the remainder of the summer, she’ll be stuck inside a classroom wishing she were anywhere but there.

“Tomorrow we should go explore the yard,” George says.  Joule mumbles something and Mom tells her to hush.  My little brother adds, “Fine, we’ll wait for you.”

This conversation is so terribly normal, it’s beautiful.  To think that I ever thought our dinners were dull.  I might be able to pretend the Hunger Games never existed for a few minutes if I could only see them gathered around the table.  I can pretend that I do.  I know that George scarfs down his food faster than anyone in the hopes that he can be excused and run off to do other things, but Joule probably puts away more on her small frame than he does.  Henry is more restrained but will easily sit here longer than any of us to finish a third helping of food.

“Elijah, don’t you want any more?” Mom asks with concern.

“No, I’m full,” I tell her.  My stomach shrunk since the last time we sat down to a family dinner, and I can’t eat nearly as much as I used to.  It isn’t the end of the world since I’m also not nearly as active, but I’m sure one way or another my mom will find a way to make me gain weight.  “Thanks, though.  It’s nice to have real food again.”

“Well, there will be leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry later,” she says.  But then she’s immediately distracted by Joule who is saying that Henry’s stealing food off her plate when she’s not looking, which Henry insists he isn’t doing.

When things get calmed down again, Dad says, “George, why don’t you go with Elijah upstairs and help get his things unpacked?  Joule, you and Henry can clean up the dishes.”

“I can help Elijah unpack,” Joule says.

“I’m the one who packed them, so I know where everything is,” George insists.  His chair scrapes as he pushes away from the table.  “C’mon, Elijah.”

“George, it’s late, so don’t make too big of a mess.  The rest of his stuff can be put away tomorrow,” Mom instructs.

I stand up, tuck in my chair, and follow after my little brother.  He moves faster than I do and leaves me behind.  I push away the mild panic and remind myself that this just gives me an opportunity to figure out where my room is on my own.  The hardwood floor is covered with a thick runner that leads down this corridor which, I think, is where my room is located.  My cane taps ahead of me.  Eventually I run out of carpet and find myself on hardwood floor again.  I struggle to remember if I was on carpet or wood when I stepped into my room.

“Elijah?” George says.  “Down here.  One room over.”

“Yeah, sure, thanks,” I say and follow after his voice.

“I wish you could see what this place looks like,” George says once I step into the room.  “It’s really crazy, like it was built two hundred years ago or something.  Obviously they’ve modernized it, but some of the lamps and rugs and wallpaper are straight up out of something I’d read in literature class.”

“I’m sure that we can assign one of the empty rooms for séances,” I say as I sink down onto the foot of my bed.

I hear George grunting as he picks up a box and staggers over.  The mattress bounces when he tosses it onto the bed.  He sits down next to me.

“It must be really bizarre to come back home but then not move into our old place,” he says quietly.

“It’s really bizarre to come back home period.  I didn’t think I would,” I reply honestly.  “I’m not sure whether being at home, our old home that is, would make a difference.”

George says nothing for a second, and then a moment later he throws his arms around me and buries his face into my shoulder.  I start, not expecting the gesture, and certainly not from him.

“I didn’t think you’d come home.  I missed you so much,” he sobs.

“Hey, it’s okay,” I tell him, hugging him firmly.  “I’m back.  You don’t need to worry.”

George eventually lets go and sits on the bed next to me.  I can hear the tears still in his words even though he has stopped crying.

“That was the worst thing to watch, Elijah,” he whispers.  “But even worse than watching was not watching because you never knew what was happening.”

My little brother, aged fourteen, should have been worried about how he was going to spend his summer with his friends.  He should have been concerned with enjoying another few months before Mom and Dad expected him to get a part-time job to keep him out of trouble.  Hell, he should even be worrying about the transition from junior high to high school the following term.  He should not have had to spend the last several weeks fearing that his older brother would be killed.  He should not have had to watch what happened to me and see me suffer for days as I teetered on the brink of death.  And he certainly should not have had to listen to commentary like it was a sporting event, like my life and the lives of the twenty-three others with me meant nothing.

Words stick in my throat and I struggle to say something remotely comforting.  But there is nothing that would make things any better.

“What’s in this box you brought over?” I ask, reaching out and tapping the big box on the bed.

“Um, it’s your books,” he sniffles.  “Which in hindsight was kind of stupid to pack, but Mom just told me to pack your stuff and I was so happy you were alive that I didn’t even think.  Anyway, it was blocking a box of clothes, so I had to move it.”

“Are there books in the library?” I ask.

“Some.  But there are a lot of fake books just for decoration,” he answers.

“Alright, let’s move the books in there tomorrow,” I tell him.  “What else did you bring?”

George moves from the bed and shuffles around the room.  “Ummm,” he says aloud.  “This one has some of your clothes.  The rest are somewhere around here. . . . Oh, this one has your stuff from the bathroom.  And then here’s a bunch of miscellaneous junk I found.”

He grunts and returns.  The mattress doesn’t sink as much as it did with the first box.

“This one has shoes, underwear, and a few movies and your toothbrush,” he says.

“What a combo.  Why isn’t my toothbrush with the rest of the bathroom stuff?” I ask as I stand up and reach out to the box.  My fingers slide over the cardboard and find the smooth packing tape sealing it shut.

“I forgot to put it in,” he answers.  “But it doesn’t matter because the bathrooms all have toothbrushes, toothpaste, towels, blah blah blah.  I really over-packed because I didn’t realize that they’d provide so much stuff.”

I pick at the tape on the box, but then George says, “Hang on, I took one of your knives.  I hope it’s okay.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I answer.  I move my hand away as George shoves in, and I listen to the knife slice through the tape.  The box pops as my brother pulls at the flaps.

“Oh, um, and also.  When I was packing I found some magazines under your bed.  Since you can’t see anymore, I was wondering, um. . . .”

“Yeah, you can have them,” I say before he can stammer out the rest of his request.  At least it was George who packed up my room and not my parents.

“Thanks,” he says brightly.  He shuffles through the box.  “I put your underwear inside your shoes so that I’d have to pack fewer boxes.  Hang on, I think your socks are in a different box.”

For the next fifteen minutes, George scurries from one box to another trying to assemble clothing for me.  As he does so, he explains that the Capitol actually supplied me with a full wardrobe of brand new clothes, but he thought I’d want my old stuff anyhow.  When he is finished, he’s managed to dig up something for me to wear tonight as well as something for tomorrow.

“Fortunately they told us that we didn’t need to bring all the furniture,” he said.  “I’m sure Dad would have made me help him move it.”

“They didn’t provide somebody to move things for you?” I ask as he hands me a wad of clothes.

“Yeah, but Dad turned them down and said we could do the majority of the work ourselves,” he said.  “So we packed the moving van and they brought everything over.  I think the majority of stuff is still at the old house, though.”

“What’ve you guys been doing the past few days?” I ask casually, trying to get a feel for how things have been around here, especially if Dad was putting everybody to work.

George sighs.  “Well, there were a lot of parties.  Like a lot.  Like every person who ever knew you wanted to celebrate,” he says.  “Even the others were getting tired of all the parties.  We eventually started going in shifts, like Dad and I and Joule would go to one party in the afternoon while Mom and Henry would go to another in the evening.  That way we each didn’t have to go to every party.”

Not the same sort of party I attended, I know.  George is much more introverted than most of the family and gets worn out easily in social settings, so I’m not surprised that he wasn’t a huge fan of attending them.  But to know that the rest of my family grew weary of get-togethers shows that things were getting out of hand.  Still, I’d take a dozen District 5 parties to one Capitol party any day.

“Mom made us scrub the entire house clean, and then when we got here, we had to do it all over again even though it had just been professionally cleaned,” he says.  “So Henry, Joule, and I just pretended we were cleaning and flushed toilets and ran water or whatever until Mom was satisfied.  And then Dad made us do all this manual labor.  We didn’t even get paid for it.”

I laugh at the absurdity of this all.  Here I was relearning how to do stupidly simple tasks and suffering through interviews, and Mom and Dad were making my siblings clean the house and mow the lawn.  What I would have given to be in their position!

“What?” George demands.

“Nothing,” I say.  “But I should probably go take a shower before dawn.”

“You don’t need me to help you with that, right?” George asks hesitantly.

“No, I can bathe myself,” I tell him, and he exhales with relief.

I stand up and turn the wad of clothing over in my hand.  My fingers sort through the various fabrics until I’m satisfied that I have clean underwear, shirt, and pants.

“Thanks, George,” I say.

“Aye,” he responds.  “And while you’re showering, I want to put these boxes off to the side against that wall—oh, sorry, against the wall opposite the bed.”

I head into the bathroom and lock the door behind me.  It takes several minutes for me to acquaint myself with the bathroom.  In the tour my siblings gave me before dinner, I didn’t spend as much time as I needed to really learn where things were.  Now I run my hands over stacks of puffy towels, smooth stone countertops, and cold metal knobs.  I learn where there is a chair for me to set my clean clothing, and a rack to hang my towel closer to the shower.  I find a hamper for my dirty clothes.  Once I’m somewhat satisfied that I understand the layout of my bathroom, I turn on the water for the shower.  Less than a few seconds pass before the hot water streams out; not as instantaneous as it was at the Capitol, but far faster than it was at our old home.  I strip off my clothes, toss them in the hamper, and climb in the shower.

If you had told me a month ago that my fourteen-year-old brother would pack my belongings into boxes, move the boxes to a new house, and unpack for me, I’d have told you that you were insane to expect him to do that sort of work.  But I see now that it wasn’t just me who was changed by this whole experience.  Henry speaks differently, too; he always took the “oldest child” role seriously, but now he sounds even older.  More mature.  More serious.

Turning off the water, I reach over for a towel only to find it soaking wet.  The design of the shower leaves it open to the air with no privacy whatsoever, but at least I don’t have to worry about shower curtains clinging to my legs or needing to clean glass doors.  As I wring out the towel, I find myself wondering if they gave me this style shower so that I would have fewer things to trip over or hurt myself on, or if they wanted to show me that they could take away my privacy even within the comfort of my own bathroom.

I don’t know what to do with the sopping wet towel, so I hang it over one of the handles before slowly inching my way forward towards the pile of fresh towels.  I dry off and pull on my clean clothes, then step into my bedroom.

George is long gone.  I fumble around the room to ensure that he closed the door behind him, and then I crawl into bed.  It’s a great sprawling mattress, not unlike what they gave me in the Capitol, which dwarfs me completely.  A far cry from the twin bed I slept on for years.  I close my eyes and will sleep to come, but fear creeps through me for reasons I don’t know.  It’s only when I stick out my hand and pat the mattress around me that I realize I’m checking to make sure I’m alone.  I am.  No one else is in this bed.

But my hand brushes against something soft, and I pick it up and turn it over.  My fingers find two beady eyes on a worn plush face.  George packed my old teddy bear, the one I had when I was a kid.  Curling it up into my arms, I close my eyes once more and try to sleep.

Chapter Text

As comfortable as the bed is, I can’t fall asleep.  My brain rolls around in my head, a mixture of fear and anxiety and anger propelling it back and forth.  At any moment, I expect the door to open and Solar to step in, and even though I know that I am safe here and my parents have locked the house up tight on my request (though without knowing the exact reason), I can’t ignore how vulnerable everything has made me.

I push myself out of bed and wander around my room.  Like with the bathroom, I make myself acquainted with it by feeling every surface and committing each step to memory.  It’s considerably harder given all the boxes blocking a chunk of the room.  My hands run across the smooth wood of furniture, and they feel all the lamps and vases and whatever else the Capitol has stuck in here.  I have to appreciate the irony of giving me decorative objects that serve no purpose, like a random statuette of a turtle placed on the windowsill.

Suddenly there’s a light knock on my door.  I freeze.  Terror shoots through me.  But no, I tell myself, Solar doesn’t knock.  She enters and takes what she wants, all without asking.

Moments later, I hear Henry’s voice, “Elijah?”

I slowly head across the room and open the door.  Although the danger vanished the moment I heard his voice, my heart still pounds firmly against my ribs.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asks.

“No,” I say.

“I saw the light on under the door and assumed you were awake.  It was only after I knocked that I realized how stupid I was. Sorry,” he admits.

Another reminder that I am not the only person who has to make adjustments.

He continues, “It’s nearly 3:00 AM.  You okay?  Well, that’s probably a stupid question. . . .  I’m on a roll.”

“Just having trouble sleeping,” I mutter.

“You want to go on a walk?  Down to the kitchen. . . . I want some leftovers,” he says.

“Yeah, sure,” I say.  I run a hand through my hair and yawn.  His footsteps begin retreating, and I follow after them before they have a chance to disappear.  Henry leads me through the house; without him as a guide and no fresh scents wafting from the kitchen, I never would have made it on my own before giving up somewhere.

Despite how tired I am, my brain picks up every little signal it can.  The sound of Henry’s step.  The creak of a floorboard on the staircase.  A gust of wind that rattles the trees outdoors.  Everything calls for my attention, no matter how small.  Without the sounds of my family bustling about, the house becomes less of a home and more of a threat.  An arena all on its own. . . . I try to shake off that thought and focus on not getting lost.

I let out a breath of relief when I finally reach the kitchen.  Based on the information my siblings gave me earlier, I know that the kitchen has an island with long-legged chairs, so I feel around until my fingers find the granite countertop, and then I hold onto it and make my way around the island until I find the chairs.  Pulling one away from the counter, I hoist myself onto it and make myself comfortable.  My eyelids droop, and I wish I could go back to bed and fall asleep, but I know I’ll only end up awake until dawn in the great loneliness that is my king-sized bed.

Henry digs through the refrigerator.  I listen to him rummage around and pull things out.  Bags crinkle and bottles clink on the counter top.  The refrigerator hums, only to diminish when the door closes.  A drawer opens and silverware rattles around before clunking down onto the counter.  I spread my fingers out on the granite and feel the vibrations.

“Did George get you situated?” Henry asks, suddenly breaking the silence.  My brother must see that he startled me because he quickly adds, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I reply tiredly.  “Yeah, he did pretty good.”

Henry continues to move around the kitchen.  After several minutes, he moves in closer momentarily before stepping away.

“Made you a turkey sandwich.  It’s on the counter in front of you,” he says.

My hand pats the counter until I find the sandwich.  He literally put it directly on the granite counter top without any plate or paper towel underneath.  But he also sliced it in half for me, so I’ll overlook the fact that he didn’t bother with appropriate place ware.  Carefully I lift one half up and take a bite.  Something falls out the bottom of the sandwich and hits the counter.

“You didn’t give me a plate, so you’re cleaning this up,” I tell him.

He exhales sharply.  “Fine, whatever.”

Turkey, cheddar, pickles, onion, tomato, mayo, mustard.  Wheat bread.  Not a bad sandwich at all.

“Don’t tell Mom, but I prefer turkey in sandwich form,” I say.

We continue to eat in silence.  Henry inhales his sandwich and makes a second one as I’m still finishing the first half of mine.  I eat slowly partially because of the uncertainties of not being able to see what I eat but also because I have questions of my own that weigh me down and make movements more difficult.  At long last after Henry has returned the packages and jars to the fridge, I find myself working up enough courage to speak.

“Today, when I got to the train station . . . Lucinda. . . .” But despite the effort, I can’t get the words out.

Henry stops chewing and swallows a mouthful.  He doesn’t speak.

“I know it’s been hard for her, so I guess I’m not surprised, but. . . .” I try again in his silence.

“Lucinda’s kind of messed up,” Henry says tentatively.

My heart beats faster.  “What does that mean?”

“I haven’t seen her in a few days, so I don’t know how she currently is, but she was pretty torn up when you were reaped, and then seeing you with Ilana . . .  And what happened afterwards. . . .”  My brother hesitates.  “I think she had a nervous breakdown.”

“Oh, God,” I mutter.  I knew that it would destroy her, but to hear it actually said aloud makes my heart burn in pain.  “Is she . . . is she okay?”

“I think you should give her space, Elijah,” he says.

I don’t know what I expected.  Perhaps in some stupid way, I thought that she would be more resilient and manage to be the stronger of us.  It’s foolish and selfish for me to think that.  But to know that she completely fell apart. . . . That it wasn’t just my worst fears playing with the back of my mind, but actual reality. . . . Shit, Lucinda, what did I do to you?

“Fuck,” I say as I rub my forehead in frustration.

“Elijah, I don’t think there was anything you could do,” Henry tries to comfort me.

Of course there was something I could do.  I could have kept my mouth shut, for one.  I could have not been so damned close to her sister’s friend, for another.  There were many, many things I could have done that maybe could have kept Lucinda from going over the deep end.  My chest tightens.  I breathe.  Force myself.

“I’ll let her parents know that you want to meet up with her, if you’d like, but she probably needs a few days,” Henry says.

“Yeah, okay.  Thanks.”

A few minutes pass as I try to convince myself that maybe Henry is wrong and Lucinda isn’t as bad as he says.

I hear a noise that jars me from my thoughts.  Alert to the new sound, I cock my head.

“What is it?” Henry asks.

Before I can answer, I know that someone else has entered the kitchen.  Moments later, I hear Joule’s voice: “Did you make one for me?”  She clambers into the chair next to me and leans her head on my shoulder.

“All these nice beds and no one can sleep,” Henry comments.

“George will be down in a second.  He had to pee first,” Joule says.

Henry sighs.  “Hope Mom wasn’t planning on making anything with the leftover turkey,” he says, but already the refrigerator hums as he opens the door.

“We’ll just tell her Elijah ate it all,” she says.  “She’ll never be mad at him.”

That makes one person.  I have an entire city full of people pretty ticked off at me in some regard or another.  Because I lived when I wasn’t supposed to, because I suck at interviews, because I didn’t answer their questions, because whatever.

Joule instructs Henry what she wants on her sandwich, and Henry makes it as desired.  He asks every now and again what she thinks George would want, but before he can finish, our younger brother appears in the room and gives Henry the final input on his sandwich.  As they go about with the sandwich making, I can’t drag myself away from thoughts of my girlfriend wasting away after watching me in the arena.  But I force myself to fight through it for the sake of my siblings at least.

“So you’re going to summer school?” I ask my sister, choosing the most normal topic I can think of.

She grunts.  “Yeah, unfortunately,” she says.  “It’s my punishment.”

“You’ll be able to bring up your grades,” I offer.

“Hmph!  It’s not about grades.  It really is a punishment,” she says.  “I beat up George, and now I’ve doomed to a summer of physics and chemistry.”

I raise my eyebrows.  “You beat up George?”

“She didn’t beat me up,” George corrects.  “She just jumped me and punched me a few times.”

“Uh, why did you do that?” I ask Joule.

She doesn’t answer.  No one offers to step in and say what caused this outburst, leaving me wondering why the hell my little sister decided it would be great to beat up her older brother when she’s never done anything like that in her life.

“She also got suspended from school two days before,” George says.  “So it wasn’t a one-time thing.”

“Why did you get suspended?” I ask, now even more concerned.

“I punched Sarah Schroedinger,” she replies meekly.  “And Ann Pascal.”

“What the hell?” None of my siblings were troublemakers, and least of all Joule.  I knew that she could fight if she wanted to because that came with the territory of having three older brothers (not that any of us ever laid a hand on her, but she’d throw herself into our fights regardless, and Henry eventually taught her to punch after she kept asking), but never once had she actually done anything.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says darkly.

“Alright,” I say.  “Any other fun turn of events that I should know about?”

Once again, I’m greeted by silence.

“Mom and Dad argued a lot.  I thought they were going to get a divorce,” George says suddenly.  He sounds so young and afraid.  A chill runs through me.  “They even started screaming at each other.”

“They weren’t going to get a divorce,” Henry says, but even he sounds uncertain.  “And they’ve calmed down quite a bit in the last few days.”

“Since I won,” I say quietly.

“Yeah,” Henry agrees.

If I had died, would they have gotten divorced?  How many families had the Hunger Games broken up over the years?

I can’t finish the rest of my sandwich.

My girlfriend had a mental breakdown, my little sister has been punching people, and my parents got close to going separate ways.  Nobody handles the Hunger Games well, including the people at home.  When you’re in the Capitol, you can only think of yourself; very rarely can you turn your thoughts to anyone else, and that is only because you need that person for survival in some way.  Meanwhile when you think of home, it’s such a vague notion of ‘I hope everyone is alright’ without really thinking about the ways that they’re not alright.  That’s not something you can afford to do.  And they were most certainly not alright here.

“Well, I’m back, so now everything can return to normal,” I say.  It’s meant to be a joke, but I can’t afford any humor in my words.

“I wish,” Joule says.  Then: “Elijah, you’ve made a huge mess.”

“That’s because Henry didn’t give me a plate,” I respond.

Henry snorts.  “I don’t know how long I have to wait until I don’t have to tolerate your bullshit again,” he comments.

“What was the Capitol like?” George switches the conversation entirely.  This time, Henry doesn’t tell him to watch himself because all three of them want to know about it all.  None of them says anything as they wait for my response.

“When I got there, I didn’t see much of it,” I start.  “From the train window, it looked pretty much like they show us in school: towering skyscrapers and buildings sprawled in all directions.  They took us from the train to the place where they got us ready for the parade which was a short drive and honestly I wasn’t focused on the scenery.  Then after the parade I spent the remainder of the time in the training center.  And after the Hunger Games, well, I couldn’t see anything, so I can’t tell you what it looked like, but it was loud.  Very loud.  Very busy.  I travelled by car, either by limousine or taxi or whatever they gave me.  I don’t know if it’s customary for people to use cars since it’s such a massive city, but there were plenty of traffic lights we stopped at.”

“And the food was terrible?” Joule asks.

“No, not at all.  It was really good, actually, and there were all sorts of things I hadn’t tried here,” I say.

“They didn’t let you eat?” she follows.

“They did.  It’s just, er, slower to eat now,” I say.  “And there were always things to do.”

They had their own problems here.  No reason to get into my own.  Or, at least, my own that they don’t already know about in unnerving detail.

“Did they all wear really funny outfits like they show on TV?” she asks.

“Yeah, pretty much,” I say.  I probably would have more to report of this absurdity if I had been able to see the party, and now I’m kind of grateful that I didn’t.

“What did you do in the training center?” George asks.  “Why do they keep it a secret?”

“I suppose it adds mystery to the whole thing, and it allows people to make speculations when they bet,” I respond.

“People were betting on you?” Joule cuts in.  “Really?”

“Yeah, apparently quite a bit,” I say.  “I don’t know, nor do I care, about the details.”

“Wait, money for or against you?” she asks.

“Both,” I say.

“Wow, that’s so weird,” she says.

“Back to the training center,” George says.

“Uhm, let’s see.  There were three days of training, which was pretty much a joke.  They’d teach us survival skills or weaponry, but it’s hard to just learn something from nothing,” I explain.  “It only works if you have some basis of knowledge beforehand.”

“So did you just throw knives the entire time?” George asks.

“No, I stayed away from that because I didn’t want people to see that I was actually somewhat good at it,” I say.

“’Somewhat good,’” Henry scoffs.  “Right.”

I ignore him.  “So we primarily stayed with the survival stuff.”

“’We.’  You mean you and Ilana?” George asks.

“Yeah,” I say.  “We stuck together during the training.”

“Were you actually in love with her?” Joule whispers.

“Joule!” Henry hisses.

Words choke up in my throat and I can’t answer my sister.  I press my palm against the cool granite countertop.

“Sorry, Elijah,” she says sincerely.

I can’t even respond to this, either.  My throat tightens and my stomach clenches.

“Maybe we should try to go back to bed,” Henry says, but no one moves.  He then says, “George, Joule.  Bed, now.”

They groan.  “Way to go, idiot,” George mutters to our sister.  He yelps when Henry smacks him.

“It’s okay, they can stay,” I find my words again, but just barely.  They come out choked and uneven.  “I’ve heard worse questions.”

“Yes, but you shouldn’t have to from your own siblings,” Henry responds flatly and I know he’s glaring at the two of them.  He’s right, of course.  I find myself wondering what’s worse: my parents’ method of not talking to me about it at all, or opening myself up to any questions they want answered, even the more invasive ones.

There was a time and place where if my siblings had gathered around me and asked me personal questions, I would have told them to shove it.  If one of them had asked about my love life, my reaction would have been to kick them out of the room, not to come completely unraveled.  We were close enough, but we weren’t that close.  Now I have no privacy, not even from my own family members.  Whatever they want to know, they’ll end up knowing, whether it’s directly from my mouth, through gossip, from an interview, or from the actual Hunger Games footage.

“I haven’t been to the basement or attic yet,” I switch topics.  “Maybe tomorrow you guys can show me those?”

“Yeah, sure,” Henry says.

“Wait til I’m back home,” Joule pleads.  “It’s bad enough I have to go shopping.”

“I thought you liked shopping,” George says.  I, too, was under that impression.  She would go out with her friends or Mom any day if you gave her a few dollars in cash.  Not that we had a great deal of extra spending money, but Joule always got a little more than George and me since we were able to wear Henry’s hand-me-downs over the years.

“No, it’s dumb,” she responds.

I wonder if this is a recent change or if she’s always hated it and pretended that she enjoyed.

“How big is the yard?” I ask them.

“It’s massive,” George says.  “I don’t know exactly how big, though.  They didn’t put fences on it.  We can check that out, too.”

“We should get a dog,” Joule says dreamily.

“Yes!” George agrees.  “We could get a whole bunch of dogs!”

“I think we have enough on our hands that we don’t need dogs,” Henry says.  “We haven’t even finished moving in.”

There it is: the topic of everybody moving into this house.  I want to say something, but I don’t know how to bring it up.  My siblings, masters of questioning, will want to know exactly why I don’t want them to move in (which is a fair question, I admit) but if I tell them they don’t want to be around Solar, they will need to know the details.  And that is a route I will avoid at all costs.  Sooner or later I will need to come up with a good reason why they shouldn’t complete the move, and I’ll have to make it fast.

“I will trip over them,” I say.  “Every single one of them.”

“You’re such a pessimist,” Joule says.  “We’ll train them to avoid you.”

“Are you going to eat the rest of that?” George asks.  Before I have a chance to respond, I feel someone in my space and know that he’s scooping the remains of the sandwich off the counter.

“I think it’s time for us to clean up and go back to bed,” Henry says.

I can’t tell for certain, but I think Henry’s the only one who actually cleans up.  Joule remains in the chair next to me, and she leans her head against my shoulder once more.  George chomps audibly on the remainder of my sandwich.  At one point, something moves into my space and I jump back, startling Joule and nearly falling out of my chair.

“Sorry, that was me,” Henry says.  “I, um, forgot that you—well, I didn’t forget that you can’t see.  But I forgot to give you warning.”

“It’s okay,” I answer.

It’s not okay.  None of this is okay.  Our lives shouldn’t be this messed up, but they are; that’s our reality now.  And what did Ilana say?  My opinion of the situation won’t change the fact that this is what we have been dealt.  The only thing that it’ll change is how we react to it.

Chapter Text

The next morning I wake up to my mom knocking on my bedroom door to tell me that I have to get ready because Harmony is here.  I had entirely forgotten about him in all the excitement of seeing my family again.  But I pull on the clothes that George had found for me last night and brush my teeth, then I head downstairs.

“How’re you doing, Elijah?” Harmony asks as I step into the family room.  Maybe it’s the family room.  I still don’t know my way around here.

“It’s pure coincidence that I ended up in the same room as you,” I admit.  “I honestly have no idea what’s going on in this house.”

Harmony chuckles, and then he sends me off to the kitchen to eat breakfast.  When I protest and tell him I’m not hungry, he will hear nothing about it and refuses to get started until I eat a bowl of cereal at least.  He instructs me where to find the bowls and cereal that have been set out on the counter so that I don’t need to search every single cupboard.  As I eat, he makes small talk with my mom in the other room, complementing the new place and telling her that she’s done a great job adding personal touches.

“That’s your nurse?” George’s whisper comes out of nowhere.  Before I realize what’s happening, I heave my empty bowl in the direction of the voice.

My brother cries out suddenly.  Conversation drops away from the other room, the words replaced by footsteps.

“Shit, George, I’m sorry,” I say.

“N-no, no.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize you didn’t know I was there,” he says.

“How long were you—”

“Um, the entire time you were here,” he admits.

Creepy.  I walked into the kitchen, found the cereal and bowls, served myself, poured milk, and ate my entire meal without realizing that there was someone with me in the room.  Makes me wonder if I’m completely oblivious or if he was holding his breath the entire time.

“Is everything okay?” Mom asks from the entryway of the kitchen.

“Yeah,” George says.  The bowl clinks against the counter as he sets it down.

“Turns out my siblings need to start wearing bells like cats,” I answer.  My hands shake, and I shove them into my pockets so that no one will see.

“Oh, George, what happened?” Mom asks.

“I startled Elijah,” he says.

“Well let’s get some ice on that,” she comments.

Wait, I actually hurt him?  I stand stunned as Mom moves around the kitchen.  She digs into the ice bucket of the refrigerator, I think, and George mumbles something as she does so.  She tells him to grab a towel, then she instructs him to hold ‘this’ (the ice wrapped in the towel, I assume) against his cheek.

“Hey, Elijah, you ready?” Harmony asks, and it takes a moment to place where his voice is coming from.  He stands near the doorway.

“Um, yeah,” I say.  “I’m just . . . .”

“Your mom is taking care of him,” the nurse tells me.

I nod and follow Harmony out of the kitchen.  Fine or not, I still just accidentally threw a bowl at my brother.  It had been such a split-second decision that I felt like I had no control over in that moment, but until I heard George cry out, it had seemed the right thing to do.  Instinct.  Suddenly I am back in the interview sitting next to Solar on the couch as she tells Caligula that what makes me different from Ilana is my instinct.  And even when I return to the here and now, I can’t shake the thought that my “instinct” is going to get one of my siblings hurt.  Or worse.  Fear bursts through me, and my lungs constrict.  What if it hadn’t been a bowl?  What if it had been a knife?  I stop walking and lean against a wall as I take a deep breath.  Then another.

“Would you like to sit down?” Harmony asks.

I shake my head.  “I’m fine.”

But we stand there for another half minute as I try to regain control of myself.  When I start walking again, I’m shaking and my cane trembles in my hand but I won’t let myself dwell on it.  I can’t.  But still my brain keeps reminding me that I’m a murderer, and murderers can easily kill again.  And again.  And maybe this time it won’t be someone I despise but somebody I love dearly.

We come to a stop.

“Elijah, where are we?” Harmony asks.

For a stupid second, I panic as I think that he is actually asking that seriously like he has no clue where we are.  But then I realize that he asks me as verification that I’ve been paying attention to my surroundings.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

“Alright.  We’re in the second floor hallway in the southern wing,” Harmony tells me.  “Your bedroom is in this hallway.  Can you find it for me?”

I take another deep breath and tell myself to focus.  I grasp my cane in my right hand and slowly start to walk down the hallway, making sure to stay on the carpeted runner.  When at last the rug disappears, I know I’m getting closer, so I reach out with my left hand and begin to feel the walls for doors.  My fingers brush against textured wallpaper, and at one point they stop on what I can only imagine is a wall sconce.  But I keep moving until I reach a door.  I can’t tell if it’s mine.  It never occurred to me to try to figure out if my door differs from the other doors.

“Is this it?” Harmony asks as he walks over.

“It might be,” I respond.

“If it’s not your bedroom, what else might it be?” he asks.  “I understand you and your siblings spent some time exploring yesterday.”

“There’s a spare bedroom on one side, and . . . a closet on the other.  I think,” I say.

“So how many doors are there between the beginning of the hallway and your room?” Harmony asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“How about how many are between your room and the end of the hallway?”

“I don’t know that, either.”  If I were being graded on this, I’d fail.  Even without a grade, being so completely lost leaves me miserable and irritated.  My future looks bleak if I find myself discombobulated even within my own home.  My hand drops away from the door.

“Let’s continue down the hallway a little, okay?” Harmony suggests before I have a chance to sink into complete despair.

Once more I reach out and feel along the wall until I come to another door.  It feels exactly like the first one, the same thick engraved wood and polished doorknob.  I run my finger down one of the decorative grooves before I step back.

“It’s warmer here,” I say.  “Not on the door, but in general.”

Without waiting for him to say anything, I take a few steps more.  My cane hits a wall perpendicular to the one my hand was on, and I reach out.  Instead of more textured wallpaper, I find glass.  A window.  Sunlight.  The end of the hallway.

Now I turn and walk back to the first door, the one I originally stopped at.  “This is my room.”

Once inside, I find myself navigating straight for the bed, as though touching its smooth comforter (which I hadn’t actually placed back on the bed properly but lay at a heap at the foot of the bed) would assure me that I had come to the right place.

“Well done,” Harmony says, and then he has me explain to him how I managed to figure out which room is mine.  He goes through a few more ideas to help me out so that I can better become acquainted with familiar locations so that I don’t become turned around easily.  “It will always be challenging.  But over time it will become more comfortable and you will find that many of the things you struggle with now will no longer be much of an issue, if they remain an issue at all.”

I find that hard to believe, but I have no reason to protest when he’s clearly helping me, so I keep quiet.

Harmony walks over towards the door and closes it before coming back to me.  “Now, I wanted to talk with you before your siblings come to help us,” he says.  “Please, have a seat.”

I sit down on my bed.  The desk chair squeaks as he wheels it closer.

“You know that I am here to help you adjust, but adjusting means more than accommodating for your vision loss,” he begins seriously.  “You are a victor, and that means that your world has radically changed.  I won’t comment on whether it’s for better or for worse, but it has changed and sometimes victors have difficulty handling the newness.”

I scoff.  “You can’t tell me if it has changed for the better or for the worse?”

“Elijah, I really cannot comment on that,” he says warningly, and I know in that instant that he is dead serious about it.

“Alright,” I say.

“You know that I am a psychiatric nurse, right?” he asks.

For some reason that surprises me.  I didn’t realize that someone who works with crazy people would also work with blind people.  Guess I’m lucky he does since I clearly fall into both categories.

“So you’re going to pick my brain apart?”

“No, I’m going to help you process what has happened and help you figure out tools for the future,” he replies calmly.

“The Capitol sent you to do this?”

Harmony picks his words carefully.  “The Capitol wants to ensure that you get settled into your new role without much complication,” he says.

“They do this for everyone?”

“No,” he says.  “Your friends advocated for you.”

Friends.  Huh.  Either I really looked like such a mess that they pitied me, or maybe they really are my friends and had my best interest in mind.

“So what do we do?” I ask.  “What’s the next step?  How do I process things?  Are we going to have therapy sessions?”

“The other component to this is that the Capitol does not want to admit that their victors may possibly need any assistance after leaving the arena besides getting help for whatever physical issues they struggle with,” he continues just as carefully as before.  “Which means that I am formally not allowed to provide any sort of counseling or psychiatric therapy.”

“But . . . you’re a psychiatric nurse,” I say.

“I’m here because of my experience in ocular trauma,” he says.

“Okay, okay, I’m extremely confused now,” I admit.  “You’ve told me you’re a psych nurse and you can help me but you can’t really help me?”

He hesitates.  “I also cannot recommend any sort of medication that may potentially be related to any psychiatric effects of what you recently experienced, but I can, if needed, discuss with my supervisors if I feel that you need anything to help you with physical issues related to, say, your blindness.  So if your blindness is causing sleep issues, or anxiety, or anything of that sort, we can work on that.  My psychiatric background may be of use in that regard.”

Once again, Harmony treads a fine line.  This time, he’s risking his neck to help me.  I don’t know what that entails, but I do know that the repercussions if this were ever known could mean more than losing his medical license.

“Understood,” I say.  But to what degree I actually understand, I don’t know.

A sharp knock at the door ends the conversation.  Harmony stands up, and a moment later, the door opens.

“Good morning,” he says.  “Are you ready to help us?”

“Yeah,” George replies.

“I can only stay til I have to go shopping,” Joule says dramatically.  She comes over and flops onto the bed next to me.  “These beds are so soft.”

George comes over and climbs up next to us.  “This one might be softer than mine.”

“That’s because Mom had to put a rubber sheet on your bed,” Joule says.  I don’t know what happens next, but I assume that George either tackles her or tries to forcibly cover her mouth to keep her from saying anything else.  Joule squeals and squirms away.

“Hey, stop,” I interrupt them.  I reach out and grab onto the closest one to keep them from mauling each other.  My fingers sink into fabric and I twist.

“Let go!” Joule says.

“Then stop being an asshole,” I say.  “Apologize to George.”

“No way,” she protests.

“Really?!” I demand.  Since when has she turned into such a little beast?

She jerks away from my grip.  “Sorry, George.”

“Apology accepted,” George mutters.  But he moves around the other side of me to put distance between himself and our sister.

“Alright, let’s get started,” Harmony says before there’s a chance for anyone to try anything else.  “We need to make sure that things are sorted out in here.  George, I understand that you packed your brother’s belongings and moved them over here.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” he says proudly.

Harmony assigns my little brother the job of hauling the boxes out of my bedroom and into the spare bedroom next door so that we could bring things in and put them away as needed.  While George does that (without grumbling after all his hard work of getting them sorted out and pushed against the wall), Harmony gives Joule the task of going through the closets and trying to figure out what sorts of clothes are in there.  Then he and I start to rearrange furniture without the boxes in the way.  George stops every now and again to give us a hand since no one is comfortable with me lifting anything heavy.  Harmony patiently points out to my siblings what sort of things to avoid when arranging furniture or decorating the room, such as not having electrical cords that may look out of the way to them but could be major tripping hazards to me, or not having furniture that juts out too far into the walking area that a sighted person might be able to see and step around but I wouldn’t be able to.  At this point, Joule is bored of looking at the closet, so Harmony gives her the label maker and instructs her what size font to use so I can run my fingers over the raised letters and know what they say, then set her loose in the bathroom.

“Everything in there is going to be labeled,” I say to Harmony as we push the last piece of furniture into place.  He only chuckles.  Then he tells me to walk around the room and make sure that everything is to my liking.  When I report that it is, he says that it’s time to start to put things away.

The Capitol provided me a ridiculous amount of clothing, most of which I will never wear.  So then begins the arduous task of going through the closets and pulling out every single item and laying it on the bed.  Were I able to see, dealing with my wardrobe would take only an hour or two, if that.  But I can’t, and it’s well into the afternoon by the time we’ve sorted out what I don’t want (George and Joule packed them into boxes) and marked everything I do want so that I know what color each item is.  We stop briefly for lunch, but I just want to get it over with.  Joule grumbles when Mom tells her it’s time to go shopping, and Harmony, George, and I return to the room to pack away all the clothes.  This part is far more tedious because Harmony insists that I put everything away personally so I know where it’s all located.

By the time we’re finished, I’m exhausted and can barely move.  Everything within me wants a break.  I yearn to be able to blink my eyes a few times and see again, as though my blindness is nothing more than some sort of training exercise.

“It is time for me to head out,” Harmony says.  “Good job today, Elijah.  How are you doing?”

I shrug.  “I’ve been better.  But I’ve also been worse.”

“You get a good night’s sleep,” he says to me.  “I’ll be back tomorrow morning.  I plan on working with you four days a week at the current time, okay?  Oh, and if you get a chance, go ahead and go through the bathroom cupboards and the medicine cabinet to make sure that the labels make sense.  The label maker is on your desk if you need to relabel anything.  If you’re not sure if something is right and don’t want to put a label on it, I can check in the morning.”

“Thanks,” I say.

Dinner is more subdued than last night, though Joule tells Dad and Henry about her shopping trip with Mom.  From my observation, it was less about shopping and more about keeping Joule distracted.  Sounds like a boring outing, but she talks about it like she had fun.  Maybe she did.  I really don’t know anymore.

“You okay, Elijah?” Dad asks.

“Yeah.  Just tired,” I reply.

“You guys get a lot of work done up there?” he asks.

“Didn’t feel like it,” I say.  “Pretty much just went through the clothes.”

“Harmony said you accomplished a lot,” Mom says.

I think Harmony would say I accomplished a lot even if I sat in a corner twiddling my thumbs all day.

“You can’t expect to do as much as you did before in the same period of time,” Dad says.

I groan.  “Yeah, thanks for reminding me.”

Nobody says anything.  Perhaps we’ve gone into the forbidden territory of ‘reminding Elijah why he is the way he is’ or whatever my parents don’t want to bring up.

I rub my forehead.  “I think I’m getting a headache.  Can I be excused?” (Which, I realize as soon as I say it, it’s pretty dumb for somebody to go through a teenage murder pageant only to turn around and ask his parents if he can be excused from the dinner table.)

“Sure,” Dad says at the same time Mom says, “You need to eat some more.”  But I stand up and leave the table regardless.

Once in my bathroom, I lock the door and slump over the sink.  Maybe my head hurts, maybe I’m just stressed.  I reach over for the medicine cabinet Harmony says is here that I haven’t yet discovered.  I pat the wall nearest to me, and then the one ahead before I finally feel it.  The door swings open, and I go through the bottles one by one trying to figure out which one might help.  But with labels like “medicine” and “I don’t know what this is” and “I think this is illegal,” I end up closing the cupboard door and deciding to deal with the headache on my own.

I return to the bedroom and flop onto the bed.  Perhaps sleep will come to me tonight.  How long can a human body last without sleep anyhow?  My fingers feel the watch’s face.  Only 7:54 PM.  Too early to sleep.  Then I decide that I don’t care.  I slip off my shirt and pants and pull the comforter over me.  But it’s a long time before I finally fall asleep because the only thing I can think of now is Lucinda.

Chapter Text

It’s cold.  I lie on the hard ground, my shoulder pressed into the layer of twigs and sticks and pine needles beneath me.  But despite the cold, despite the discomfort, I am content.  Because Ilana is in my arms.  I tighten my grip around her and bury my face in her hair.  I hear her mumble something in her sleep.  I hold her against me, the warmth from our bodies melding together despite the deep cold that burns my bones.  Everything is alright.  Everything is okay.  Ilana is with me again.

Time passes.  We fear nothing.  She sleeps, and I lay there wide awake appreciating each moment we have together.  I don’t move for fear that something will change.  I want nothing to change.  Ever.  I absently pull leaves and bits of twigs out of her hair as she sleeps in my embrace.  I flick dirt off her jacket.  Her dark brown hair has been recently washed which doesn’t make any sense for some reason I can’t really understand.  My lips graze the top of her head.  She smells of shampoo.

“Eli,” she says.

“Hmmm?” I ask.

“Eli.”

“What’s wrong?”

I pull myself away from her slightly so that I can see her while she speaks.

As soon as I glimpse her face, I suppress the urge to push her away.

Blood coats her skin and clings to the roots of her hair.  Her eyes are nothing but vacant black holes with rivulets of blood streaming out in multiple directions.  Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly, lips red and wet.

Despite the horror that surges through me, I can’t move.  Her body weighs down my arms.

“Eli, I think I’m dead.”

“Elijah, hang on.”

A hand presses into my shoulder and keeps me in place.  I blink, uncertain why I suddenly can’t see.  I claw at my eyes, trying to remove whatever covering blocks my vision.  Nothing changes.

“Stop.  You’re going to hurt yourself.”

The hand moves off my shoulder briefly enough to grab my wrist and pull my fingers away from my eyes.

“Wake up, Elijah.”

I stop moving.  Wake up?  I’m asleep?

“What’s going on?” I ask thickly, finally able to find my tongue.

“You were having a nightmare,” comes Henry’s voice.  My brother releases his grip on me.

“I can see . . . when I sleep.  I can still see,” I mumble.  “Ilana. . . .”

I push myself into a sitting position and rub my eyelids.  The skin around my eyes stings, and I hope I haven’t actually cut myself with my nails.

“You need some water?” Henry asks.

“Yeah, sure,” I say.  “Thanks.”

Henry disappears and a few moments later begins to rummage around through the bathroom.  I listen to the sound of the water flowing from the sink as I try to pull myself from the nightmare.  No matter how many times I blink, the image of Ilana’s bloodied face remains steady.  When he returns, Henry says, “What’s with all the labels in there?”

“Harmony gave Joule free reign with the label maker,” I say.  I reach out and Henry places a plastic cup in my hand.  I sip slowly.

“She labelled your towels, so head’s up for when you need one,” my brother says as he sits down on the edge of my bed.  “And pretty much everything else.  Including each spare roll of toilet paper, some of the individual floor tiles, and the shower curtain.”

Even the cup in my hand didn’t escape the label frenzy.  As I adjust my grip, I feel raised lettering against my skin.  I run my fingers over it.  It takes a second before I can ‘read’ what it says.  “Cup #2?”

“Yeah, there are three cups, labeled #1, #2, and #4,” he says.

“How the hell did she manage this?  She wasn’t even in there that long,” I mutter.  I place the cup down on the end table.

“Are you cold?” Henry asks.

“Huh?  No, why?”

“You’re shaking,” he says.  He’s quiet for a moment.  If the cold doesn’t cause me to shake, then it must be fear.  Remnants of the nightmare.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, suddenly embarrassed that he has caught me in this position.

“I’ll get you an extra blanket,” he offers, but I decline.  No number of blankets will chase away the things that haunt my dreams.

“Did you talk to Lucinda’s parents?” I ask quietly.

“Yeah,” he says.

“And?”

Henry sighs heavily.  “They’re going to talk with her,” he says.  “But they think it’s going to take some time.”

“Why doesn’t she want to see me?” I ask.

“I told you, she’s just messed up and she needs some space,” he answers.

I lay back down in bed and stare up at the ceiling, though all I see is an overwhelming and oppressive blackness.  The ever-present darkness that consumes me night and day presses in on all sides, suffocating me.

For some sudden and inexplicable reason, anger flares through me.  I twist the sheets between my fingers and try to control the waves of emotion, but it’s all I can do to keep it from showing on my face.  Inside, I can’t stop it from ravaging across my body.

“I’m going back to sleep,” I manage calmly.  “Thanks for the water.”

“Elijah. . . .” Henry starts.

I close my eyes and roll over on my side away from my brother.  It’s not his fault.  Whatever is causing this anger, that is.  I know that it’s not Henry’s fault.  But knowing that does nothing to make anything better.  Instead the anger only amplifies, and I know that further conversation will make it worse.

“Alright, I’ll see you in the morning,” Henry says as he stands up.  He hesitates for a moment, but walks towards the door, clicks the light switch, and closes the door behind him.  Its several long seconds until I’m certain he’s gone before I let myself think again, as though I couldn’t bear to unleash my thoughts while he was present for fear he could hear them all.

I pull the blankets tighter around me, burying myself away.  But what I really want to escape are my own thoughts now.  It wasn’t Henry I had to keep them from; it was me.  I don’t want to have these things inside my head, and there’s no way I can get them out.  Because now I understand that I am angry at Lucinda, and that only brings creeping numbness that starts to take over from the inside out.

Harmony spends the better part of the morning helping me finish with my room.  He removes some of the more unhelpful labels in the bathroom, then teaches me how to use the label maker to make my own.  As we relabel the bottles of medication, I realize how much I rely on other people now.  I just have to trust that he tells me the truth when he hands me a bottle and gives me the name and concentration; not that I wouldn’t trust him, but I find myself frustrated that I can’t do this on my own.

“It’s time to take a break,” he says after I waste yet another few inches of label tape trying to spell things on the label maker.  I cast it away in frustration.  “Your parents and I are going to go over a few modifications that are needed for the kitchen.  Would you care to join us?”

I try to flick off a bit of tape stuck to my thumb, aware that Harmony is talking to me but not really understanding what he’s saying because there’s this damned piece of tape stuck to me that won’t let go.  Every time I try to remove it, it reappears somewhere else.

“Alright,” Harmony sighs.  “You need an actual break.  Come on.  Get up and get walking.”

Finally I manage to get the bastard piece of tape and stick it back on the side of the label maker.  I grab up my cane and follow after the nurse.

“I want to go outside and explore the yard,” George says when he sees me on the staircase landing.

“Me too.  In my last days of freedom,” Joule says.

“Stop being so dramatic,” Henry chides her.  “Elijah, you have time to come out?”

Sure, why not?

I follow them out the front door while they talk about a dog Joule says her friend wants to give her now that she has space for one.  I don’t want a dog, but with frustration still lingering from a morning in Harmony-led purgatory exercises, I keep my mouth shut as they chatter.  Instead I focus on the sun beating down on me, warming my face and arms.

My siblings fall silent.  In this sudden silence, I know that there is only one thing—one person—that might make them question whether they should speak right now.  Because it’s a silence that has preceded her for days now.  Any time she steps into the room, silence.  Just for a heartbeat.  But it’s enough to make me know she’s here.

“How are you adjusting, Elijah?” Solar asks.  I can’t tell how far away she is, but I know she’s not in my immediate surroundings.

“Where is she?” I ask George quietly.

“On the sidewalk,” he replies, his voice just as low.  “About forty feet away.”

Forty feet.  All that separates us is a neatly-clipped lawn and the smell of freshly-watered grass.  I draw in a deep breath hoping that it’ll give me the strength to stand here and not launch myself at her.  Or, worse: run.

“I’ve gotten a kick out of watching you guys move in,” she says.  Now to my horror, her voice grows closer.  She treads across the lawn, the distance between us vanishing by the moment.

I shift my weight and root myself firmly in the grass.

“Glad we could provide you some amusement,” I respond.

“Your little siblings are adorable.  What are their names again?”

My heart thumps.  I grasp the cane firmly in my hands knowing that it will do nothing to protect me from the memory of the threats she gave in words spoken just as innocently as she says now.  Nor will it protect me from the reality that she is one of the most despicable humans I know and has the ability to follow through on those threats should she desire.

I wonder if I will be doomed to years of paying off my ‘debt’ in order to keep my brother and sister safe from her threats.

“I thought you were supposed to know that stuff.  You did watch the interviews after all,” I say.

She laughs.  “Sure, but I suppose there were more important things on my mind,” she replies.

She’s closer now, but I think she’s come to a stop.  Ten feet.  Fifteen feet.  I can’t tell how far away.  My fingers twitch.  If I had a knife in them right now, I could tell.  I know that I could tell.

“What’s your name?” she asks one of them.

“Joule,” says my sister timidly.  “And this is George.  And Henry went inside for a second but he’ll be back out.”

I know the tone Joule takes.  She tells Solar this as a warning.  Her oldest brother will be able to protect her (to protect us all) and he will be back any moment.  The situation scares me too much to be angry that she doesn’t think I can keep her safe.  Solar knows what my sister implies because I hear it in her laugh.

“Well I’m sure I’ll meet him soon then,” she says to my sister.  “Elijah, may I have a word with you?  In private?”

“No,” I say.  “We were just heading out.”

She snorts.  “For the sake of your siblings, I’ll refrain from any remarks on that,” she says.  “But I really think you should reconsider.”

I hesitate.  I know that I shouldn’t give her the time of day, but something about the way she says the last sentence draws me in, like she really is restraining herself in front of George and Joule.  Whatever I do here or say here, it’s not just about me anymore.  I am no longer in the arena and I am no longer focused solely on my survival.  Now my siblings are involved.  My family.  And I can’t tell Solar to shove it up her ass if their lives are on the line.

“I’ll be back in just a minute,” I tell my little siblings before walking closer to my former mentor.  Solar leads me further away, down towards the sidewalk.  Once I step onto the concrete, I stop, unwilling to go any further with her.

“You are such a coward,” she sighs.  “But I suppose this will have to do.”

“Yeah, I am.  Now get on with it,” I snap.

“Always so impatient,” Solar teases.  “I really should draw this out.”

I grit my teeth, fully aware that my siblings still watch me from where I left them.  I stand up straight and instruct myself to deal with Solar as professionally as I possibly can.  Unwilling to take the bait, I wait her out.

“Fine.  I just wanted to tell you that you and your family are really slow getting moved in,” she says after waiting only a brief moment.  “As your mentor, I advise you to hurry up the process a little.  They want to see your nice happy family all settled into your new place.”

She wants to ensure that my siblings can’t escape from her.  She wants George and Joule to be under her eye at all times.  I don’t know what she has planned, but my stomach twists in anticipation.  I can’t do this anymore.  I cannot face years of her threatening me by using my siblings’ reaping eligibility against me.  Ultimately, I will have to do what I must to make sure that they remain safe, but if there is a way to make her back off of, I will take it.

“You are no longer my mentor.  You haven’t been since you sent me that sponsorship gift,” I say firmly and evenly.

“Still bitter about that, are you?  You’re so stubborn, Elijah,” she says.  “Listen to me because I’m serious.  You don’t want to fuck this up.”

“No, I’m done listening to you.  See you around, Solar,” I say.  Before she has a chance to respond, I turn and trudge back across the lawn in the general direction of my siblings.  My heart still thumps, but now more loudly to the point that I can hear almost nothing besides the steady beating.  Perhaps this will work and I will never have to deal with her again.  It’s a foolish hope, but one that I cling to now as I plod across the yard.

George and Joule meet me; I must’ve walked in a slightly different direction.

“Everything okay?” George asks.

“Are we still waiting on Henry?” I don’t answer.

“I’m right here,” my older brother’s voice comes.  “What was that about?”

“Just welcoming us to the neighborhood,” I say offhandedly.  “Now are you going to show me the backyard?”

“Yeah, right this way,” Joule answers.

The four of us head into the backyard which connects seamlessly with the front.  If I remember the layout correctly from our elementary school visit, the mansions sit on their own generous portion of land with an ample front yard whose lawn wraps around the sides of the building.  We never got a tour of the backyard itself, but because there were no fences on most of the properties, one could still get a glimpse of the sprawling lands behind.  It was hard to see where the yard ended and the untamed land began.

Our victor village was set apart from the rest of the nearby town by a short car ride or a moderate walk.  Despite the population boom some years back, construction hadn’t spread out in this direction which I’m sure was no coincidence.  Whether the intention was to give victors privacy or to isolate them from the rest of the community, I don’t know.  They make so many things completely ambiguous so that those things can be spun any way they please.

The conversation with Solar leaves my mind jumbled, and none of my siblings try to pull me out of it.  They all run through things in their own heads and can’t begin to understand how to approach the situation.  Solar tried to kill me on live television.  Had this been anyone else anywhere else, she would be in jail or dead.  But she wasn’t.  Instead she was glorified for her success in her mentor position.  Although the other victors might find what she did absolutely reprehensible, the people who control this country only applaud her for a job well done.  How do the viewers at home interpret this?  How can my siblings reconcile the fact that this woman who was supposed to keep me alive attempted to poison me and very well almost succeeded—and now we are neighbors?

“Elijah?  Elijah!”  Joule grabs onto my arm and yanks me to a stop.  “You were going to run into a tree!”

“Serves me right.  I wasn’t paying attention,” I mumble.  She releases her hands on my and I shake out my sleeve to adjust the fabric back into place.  “Thanks.”

“You sure you’re alright?” Henry asks.

“Yeah.  Can you guys describe the yard?”

It takes only a second before George says, “Big.”

“Great, thanks.  Now I can picture it perfectly in my head,” I respond.

“You’re a jerk, Elijah,” George mutters.  “I guess some things never change.”

“I’d hate to disappoint you,” I reply.

Joule clears her throat.  “I can agree that it’s big, but there’s also a porch, so that’s a little more information.”

“Alright since neither of them are being of any use, I’ll give it a shot,” Henry says.  He clears his throat and pauses.  Surveying the yard, probably.  Trying to figure out how to explain it all to me.  I wait impatiently for him to begin and tap the bottom of my cane idly against the tree that I almost ran into.

“The back of the house has a porch that goes from the kitchen (there’s a door from the kitchen onto the porch, by the way) all the way across to the far end of the house.  It looks like it might wrap around, but it doesn’t,” Henry begins.  “Besides the door from the kitchen, there’s also a door from one of the sitting rooms.  That’s the main door to the porch.  The porch itself is wooden with a railing about, oh, three feet high around it.  There are two tables.  One big one with six chairs for when the entire family wants to eat, and a smaller one for just a couple of people.  There are chairs at each table, of course, but there are also a couple of chairs just for sitting.  Aside from that, there’s a built-in barbeque and a hot tub.”

“And wind chimes,” I say, the faint tinkling of metal floating in on the warm summer breeze.

“There are a couple,” Joule says.  “I put them up.  They were originally in a box inside for some reason.  Do you like them?”

“Yes,” I tell her.  “It’s a nice touch.”

“Wait, Henry, that weird wooden cover back there is a soda fountain,” George says.  “I saw it the other day.  You lift up the cover and it delivers whatever drinks you want, and then when you’re done it covers it up so that you don’t have to look at it or animals don’t drink from it or whatever.”

“A hot tub and a soda fountain,” I say.  “That’s true luxury.”

“You’re way too sarcastic,” Henry says.

“You’re right.  Really it’s the barbeque I’m going to make the most use of,” I answer.

Henry huffs, but I know he doesn’t mind my comments.  “Then there are three steps down to a gravel path.  The path kind of just wanders through the yard.  There’s more lawn, of course, but there’s also a koi pond—”

“I hope it’s gated so small children don’t fall in,” I comment.

“—and a small garden.  Then the rest of the yard is pretty much open field.  Honestly, I don’t know how much of it is yours and how much is just land.  If you go back, hmm, I really don’t know how far, but if you go on, you reach the edges of the forest.”

“Great place to go camping and relive all my fondest memories,” I add.

Before anyone can say anything to that (not that they would; what the hell sort of comment was that anyhow?), I move forward further into the yard.  This time I focus on my cane and what that and my own two feet tell me about my surroundings so that I don’t almost run into another tree.  Eventually I step off of lawn and onto the gravel path.

“Where does this go, exactly?” I ask whichever sibling has trailed right after me.

“It just wanders around, as Henry said,” George answers.  “But then it goes out into the field.”

The other two catch up, and I head off down the gravel path.  Every now and again, someone chimes in to describe the immediate surroundings: “To the left is a koi pond.  No, there’s no fence so don’t fall in.” “Those are some cool flowers!  I never thought I’d describe flowers as ‘cool.’”  “I bet in the winter this place looks awesome when the snow falls.”  “There’s a small bench.  It’s one of those concrete ones, Elijah.  And right nearby is a fountain that spits out water.”  “There are some bushes to your right.”

Finally we head out into the field.  The gravel becomes less well tended as though the years have washed away piece after piece, exposing patches of bare earth beneath.  I pause to stick out my cane and get a better sense for how high the grass is.  When that doesn’t tell me anything, I reach out a hand and feel around until the tops of the blades brush against my palm.

“Don’t go too far into the grass.  There may be ticks,” Henry warns.  “That goes for all of you.  I don’t want to have to look you all over for bugs.”

The idea of anybody having to check me over for ticks keeps me on the gravel path.

We wander around through the field until Henry tells us that we should head back in.  “They’re probably done looking at the kitchen and Harmony is probably waiting for Elijah,” he says.

So we trudge back inside.  This time, George leads us up the back porch and straight into the kitchen where we find Mom, Dad, and Harmony sitting around the table eating a late lunch.  They invite us to join them, and I do, but only to keep up appearances.  The only thing on my mind right now is what the hell Solar plans to do now that I cannot escape.

Chapter Text

The next couple days trudge by.  Harmony insists I keep as much routine as possible regardless of how tedious it is.  This includes making my bed every morning (which I never did even before the Hunger Games), putting all of my clothing away even if they belong in the ‘neither clean nor dirty’ category that usually gets thrown on the floor, and sweeping the hardwood.  He shows me things that I could not figure out on my own, such as extra nozzles in the shower I didn’t know existed pointed towards the towel rack and soaked my towel.  He teaches me to clean the bathroom and how to keep things tidy so that I don’t get too frustrated when I can’t find what I need.  Because I barely sleep at night, fatigue sets in and completing tasks that should otherwise be easy becomes monumentally challenging.

“Elijah, let’s take a break,” Harmony says in the afternoon of the fourth day.  Tomorrow is his day off, and I look forward to not being subjected to the monotony of housework.

I sit down on the bed once more, and he takes the desk chair again.

“You’re doing a good job, but I can see that this is stressing you out,” he says.  He takes a deep breath.  “I would like to talk with the doctor about getting you medication to help you sleep at night.”

“No,” I object automatically.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because I don’t want it,” I say.

“Are you familiar with these medications?” he asks.  In the absence of an answer from me, he begins to explain different options, what each one does, why it’s recommended, and what the drawbacks are.  But I don’t care about the details.  All I know is that I want to be able to wake up from my nightmares, not be stuck in them forever.  It’s terrible enough to watch Ilana die again, or to find myself back in the shack, or to see various twisted versions of these events.  Waking up is the only relief I have, if you can call it that since the nightmares linger with me for hours afterwards, never fully releasing me from their grasp.

“What do you think?” he asks when he finishes.

“Thanks, but no,” I answer.

He says nothing for a minute, and I think he’ll press the issue, but ultimately all he says is, “Alright.  If you change your mind, let me know.  I left my phone number on your desk, so call me if you need anything, alright?”

“Yeah, sure,” I say.

“In the next couple days, make sure to follow the routines,” he instructs me.  “And stay busy in between.  There are some audiobooks in the library if you’re interested, otherwise I’m sure that your brothers and sister will keep you occupied.”

“Thanks,” I reply automatically.  It occurs to me that I really don’t know how to stay busy when Harmony isn’t giving me stuff to do.

I follow Harmony out of the room, through the house, and to the mansion’s entryway.  He bids me goodbye, but before I have a chance to see him to the door, Mom asks me to come give her a hand with dinner.  Once in the kitchen, Henry thanks her for something and slips out by me.

“What do you need?” I ask her. 

“Harmony says that soon we’ll be getting you ready to start cooking in the kitchen,” she says.  “So I wanted to know if you would be interested in helping me get dinner ready.”

“He wants me to cook?  I never cooked before this,” I say.  I knew that he was making sure that the kitchen was ready for me to use, but I assumed that it was just in case I was wanted to cook at some time down the line.

Mom sighs.  “I knew I should have taught you boys how to cook when you were younger,” she says.  “Do you think I’m always going to be around to cook for you?”

“That’s dark,” I respond because what might have once been a comment about the distant future hits a little differently when you’ve been through hell and have tasted death.

“Put on this apron,” she says.  “You don’t have to do much, okay?  Not tonight at least.”

She presses fabric into my hand and I lift it up.  My fingers run across the cotton.

“This has ruffles,” I say.  But when I don’t put it on myself, she takes it back and drapes it over me, tying it behind my neck and around my midsection.

“There,” she says as she pats out the folds in the fabric.  “That looks fine on you.”

“I think I abandoned Harmony,” I say.  “He’s probably wandering lost around the house now.  I should make sure he gets out of here okay.”

“He’ll manage to get out of the house just fine,” she assures me absently as she turns away and begins doing . . . something.  I don’t know what.  Despite knowing that this is a kitchen and that the refrigerator hums on one side and there’s an island with chairs and sometimes I hear the sink from elsewhere, I don’t know it too well.  So as she cooks and pulls items out of cupboards, she tells me what she took from where, sometimes instructing me to come around and feel the cupboard for myself so I know which one she’s talking about.  She parks me at the sink for a few minutes to wash vegetables, which is an easy enough task.  Every now and then, she sends me on ridiculous quests to the fridge to find objects that she ultimately has to get herself because I’m faced with the largest fridge known to mankind; even being able to see wouldn’t help me navigate it’s depths much.

Mostly, though, I stay out of her way while she cooks.  She talks to me as I sit at the counter and fiddle around with a measuring cup or two.  She tells me that my grandparents are doing just fine and can’t wait to see me again, so she hopes it’s okay with me (I say that it is, of course) that she invited them over to dinner tomorrow night.

“Don’t make me cook for them,” I say.

“I won’t,” she says.  “Maybe you and your brothers and sister can give them a tour of the place.”

“Sure,” I agree because it’s better than being in the kitchen.  Not that I mind sitting here right now, but if I have to actually cook for anybody, I’d probably accidentally kill them.

Nightmares plague my dreams at night, and I skip from one horror to another every time I coax myself into sleep again.  They won’t stop, but exhaustion propels me to try again and again and again as though each time I fall asleep, there’s a chance that something will be different.  But that’s not the cause.  Instead I wake up wearier than I went to sleep, an aching loneliness scraping out the inside of my chest.

I shower, dress, and make my bed.  Harmony would be pleased, I think; that would make one of us.  My watch says it’s 5:15 AM, and I have several long hours of nothing before the rest of my family begins to stir.  For a few minutes, I pace my room.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.  What else am I supposed to do?  There’s nothing.  I live in this dark world of nightmares where the only thing that can break me from the monotony of hell is the company of others.  I can no longer go outdoors and run to get out my extra energy.  I can’t draw or write or paint or do anything like that to express myself (not that I ever did before, but now I certainly can’t).  I can’t jump in the car and head to town to see what can keep me busy there.  No, I am trapped in my own broken mind.

No longer able to stay in my bedroom, I head out into the hallway and wander.  My family’s rooms are on the second floor, but not all within the same wing.  My parents occupy a room similar to mine on the opposite side in the northern wing, and Joule’s and George’s rooms are somewhere there as well.  Henry’s room is a few doors down from mine on the opposite side.  I can’t remember which one.  Anyway, I keep walking until I find the staircase.  Instead of down, I go up to the third floor.

Nobody lives up here.  The second floor contains mostly bedrooms, but this floor has strange things that I don’t understand.  A couple bedrooms, of course.  But also a nursery that they decorated sparsely with a few hanging paintings and a crib; a children’s play room that George said is probably haunted so we never really looked at; a music room with a grand piano and several other things locked away in cases; and a sun room whose see-through ceiling allows light into the room from multiple angles.  The various rooms make me question the sanity of the architect who designed them.  What need would a teenager have of these places?  And, even if one could argue that a playroom would be needed years down the road, why the hell would someone put it on the third floor away from the rest of the house?

Since I have only come up here once in the original tour, I don’t know where each room is, only that they exist.  I meander around aimlessly, opening doors and wandering through them until I find the sun room.  Here is a place I can appreciate, at least.  My cane taps the floor ahead of me; this room, like most of the others, has great large patches of nothing interrupted by seemingly random furniture.  I’m sure that were I able to see, the furniture placement may make sense, but until I get used to it, I can only say that everything is random.  When I find a lounge chair, I flop into it and make myself comfortable.

Slowly the sun rises; I can tell by the way the room warms gradually.  In the peak of the summer afternoon, it’ll be unbearable up here, but for the morning, it’s pleasant.  I bask in the warmth of the sun that streams through the windows and curl up.  Focusing on nothing but that warmth, I begin to drift away into sleep.

“Shit, Elijah, you nearly had Mom calling the police,” Henry says.

I blink and rub my eyes.  “What?” I ask groggily.

“You weren’t in your room and no one could find you,” he continues.

“So you decided to wake me up?” I demand.  “I finally get to sleep and you wake me up?  You could have just told Mom that I was fine without interrupting my nap.”

“Your nap?  It’s nearly noon,” he says.

“Who cares?” I ask.

“Get up before Mom comes up here and makes you get up,” he orders.

I frown.  “What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem is that Mom’s been pissed all morning that she couldn’t locate you, and Harmony’s been telling her how you need to stay on a schedule which you’re clearly not doing, so she’s also pissed at that,” he says.

Pushing myself into a sitting position, I run my hand through my hair.  “Does no one care that I finally slept for the first time in like three weeks?” I ask grumpily.

“It’s not that I don’t care,” he says.  “But if you sleep through the day, you’re going to be awake all night.”

I don’t entirely see the problem with this.  Isn’t the fact that I’m sleeping more important than the schedule?

“Alright, I’m coming,” I tell him.  It takes me a couple moments to work up the energy to stand, but I do.  I grab my cane and head in the direction of the door.  I miss the doorway and have to feel my way along the wall until I get through and step into the hallway.  I grow use to the everyday embarrassments that are now part of my life.

Henry and I walk down the hall to the stairs where Mom finds us.

“There you are,” she says with exasperation.  “I was so worried!”

“Mom, I’m okay,” I assure her.  “Didn’t mean to freak you out.  I fell asleep in the sun room.”

“Well, come on down.  It’s already time for lunch, but Joule and George are making everyone sandwiches,” she says.

How she managed to trap those two into doing something like sandwich making, I’m not certain.  But I take my place at the table as one of them slaps a plate down in front of me.  While I eat, my brain floats back towards the delicious realm of sleep that I had so briefly touched moments ago as though it can cling to the remaining threads of fading dreams.  I find myself thinking about my girlfriend.  It’s only as I start to wake up more fully that reality overtakes the dreams, and I know that things are not as peaceful as they had seemed moments ago.  Now an edge of fear and anger inches into me and banishes anything remotely comforting.  What is going on with her?  Why hasn’t she called me yet?

Lunch ends without too much of an issue, and Joule takes my plate.

“Enjoy the service while you can,” she says to me.  “Mom and Dad say you’ll be doing more work soon.”  She dances away before I have a chance to comment.

Chores are the least of my problems now.  As I leave the room, I know that I have to do something.  I can’t just sit here and wait for Lucinda to call me.  I catch up to my older brother.

“Henry,” I say, pulling him to the side.  “Take me to see Lucinda.  Please.”

My brother doesn’t answer right away, so I add, “If you don’t, I’ll just get a cab.  I’d rather have you drive me than some stranger.”

“Fine,” he says at last.  “But Elijah, really.  You need to wait for her.  I don’t think this’ll go over too hot if she asked for more time and you ignore it.”

I bite back anger.  “I don’t care.”

I’ve waited too long.  It’s been days.  It’s been weeks.  I need to see Lucinda.  I have to be with her, to know that she is with me, if only for a few minutes.

“We’ll leave in ten minutes,” Henry finally says.

I check the time on my watch and head upstairs to change into something that doesn’t look like I’ve been sleeping in it.  When I return, I find Henry waiting for me.  His keys jingle in his fingers.  We’re used to having only one car, but a couple months ago, he managed to buy a used vehicle off a friend of a friend with his savings from work.

“Where are you going?” George asks as Henry and I head to the front door.

“To see Lucinda,” I answer.

“Can I come?” he asks.  “I’ll be ready in like two seconds.”

“Not this time,” Henry says.  “C’mon, Elijah.”

George groans and mutters something I can’t hear, but I’m already heading out the door.

Chapter Text

I don’t know what to do.  I don’t know what to say.  Is there anything to say?  How can I say anything to her when she’s seen what I’ve done?  It seems surreal that I’m finally coming to this point where Lucinda and I will get a chance to visit since I was reaped, and yet after all that time I spent thinking about her, I have no clue where to begin.

I clutch my cane as the car comes to a stop.  Henry cuts the engine.

“I’ll go inside first,” my brother says.  “Make sure that they’re okay to see you.”

“No, I’m not waiting in the car,” I answer.  I didn’t get this far just to cower here and wait for my big brother to solve all my problems.  “If she doesn’t want to see me, fine.  But she can say it to my face.”

“Elijah, really?” Henry asks.  “Can’t you be more sensitive?”

Can’t I be more sensitive?  The anger that has surged up within me over and over the past few days threatens to break free, but I press my feet against the floor and will myself to remain calm.  Why the hell do I have to be the sensitive and patient one?  I spent the last several weeks doing unspeakable things that no one should ever be forced to do, and yet I’m expected to be sensitive to the emotions of others?  Haven’t I already been sensitive?  Haven’t I already given her time when it’s been eating away at me and ripping through my brain whenever I try to sleep?

What about me?  When are my needs considered in this equation?

I just want to know that she is okay.  I can’t rely on word of mouth anymore.  This must become tangible.

I clench my jaw and don’t answer my brother.

“C’mon then,” he says as he clicks the doors unlocked.  I unbuckle, open the door, and step out of the car.

As we walk up the yard, the anger gives way to nausea.  What if I’m doing this wrong?  What if Henry is right and I should give her all the time she needs?

Everything within me teeters back and forth.  She might hate me regardless of what I do now because of the things I have already done, in which case, it doesn’t matter if I show up now or wait for her word.  Or there might be a chance for forgiveness if only I wait patiently for her to call upon me.  It doesn’t matter now; I’ve already made my decision.  When we reach the house, Henry knocks firmly on the door.

For several long seconds, nothing happens, and I’m afraid I made a mistake.  They could have been watching us walk up and then decided to bar their doors shut.  But within moments, I hear voices from the other side.  Lucinda’s parents.

The door opens.

“Henry, good to see you—” Lucinda’s dad starts.  He pauses a heartbeat.  “Oh, welcome back, Elijah.  I didn’t realize Lucinda had called you already.”

I draw in a deep breath.  I’ve committed.  I need to own this.

“Hi, Mr. Ampere,” I say.  “She hasn’t.”

“You’ve come to visit her, though,” he says.

“Yes,” I tell him.

He hesitates for a moment.  “Alright, come in,” he says.  “I’ll let her know that you’re here.”

“Thank you.”

It’s the best I can wish for at this point, I know.  But still I cling to the hope that she’ll agree to see me.  Lucinda’s dad leads us into the front room where he bids us to sit down and wait a minute.  Her mom comes in a moment later and offers us something to drink, which we both decline.  Both her parents leave, and Henry and I wait in silence for the decision.  The sounds of footsteps and voices and opening and closing doors keeps me occupied as we wait.

What do I say to her?  I keep asking myself in an attempt to come up with something that will . . . I don’t know what it will do.  What do I want to do?  I just want everything to go back the way it was, and I know that will never happen.  So what am I going to say?

My heart beats rapidly.  I struggle to remain calm in my seat.

At long last, Lucinda’s dad returns.

“Elijah,” he says as he sits down on a chair somewhere.  “Listen, she really wants to visit with you, but she’s not ready yet.  I’m sorry. I know you’ve been through a lot and this doesn’t really help you right now, but it’s better that things . . .” His voice fades out as he falters for words.

My heart constricts, and pain wraps itself around my chest.  Tightening.

I force myself to breathe.

He continues, “Her mom and I will talk with her later.  We were hoping that she would . . . well, we wanted to give her time, but she can’t keep stringing you along, either.”

“I’ll try to talk to her, if that’s okay,” Henry says suddenly.

“That’s fine.  Maybe you can change her mind,” her dad says.  “Go on ahead.  She’s in the reading room upstairs.”

Wait, what?  Henry gets to go see her, but not me?  What the hell?  If my entire family came, would she leave me sitting here by myself?

I tell myself that maybe Henry will be able to sway her, but I know that I’m getting my hopes up for nothing.  He stands up and heads out of the room, leaving me with Lucinda’s father.

“Elijah, sure you don’t want something to drink?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

He stays with me for another minute before excusing himself.  I am left alone in Lucinda’s sitting room.  How many times have I sat here with her, holding her in my arms and enjoying a few minutes of semi-privacy after her family had retired upstairs?  I grit my teeth and try not to think about it.

“Elijah?”

I start.  Someone else is here, and I hadn’t heard her come in.

“It’s me, Marie.”

“Oh.  Hey,” I say.  I sit up straight and try to pinpoint where she is exactly.  It takes a moment before she comes over and sits down on the opposite end of the couch.  Neither of us say anything.

In some ways, I have greatly overlooked Marie.  The actual sister of my girlfriend whose existence was pretty much wiped out in the Capitolized retelling of events.  The one whose own best friend went into the Hunger Games and didn’t come back alive.  The ache within my chest only deepens when I remember how much she actually lost and how much she was forgotten.

“I’d tell you that I’m sorry about Ilana (which I am) but I’m sure you’ve heard that sentiment a million times and it doesn’t make a damned difference,” I say to her.

“Th-thanks,” she manages, her voice heavy with an onslaught of tears she barely keeps at bay.  “And, um.  Thanks for staying with her.  To know that you were with her. . . . It made things bearable.”

The breath vanishes from my lungs as though someone punched me hard in the gut.  All words disappear from my tongue.­

“Yeah,” I barely whisper.  Tears wet my own cheeks and I pause to wipe them away with my sleeve.  “Being with her made things bearable for me, too.”

Just as suddenly and quietly as she came in, Marie disappears.  I only know that she is gone when I hear the garage door slam shut and she breaks into uncontrollable sobs somewhat muted by the closed door.  But she either stops or goes further into the garage where I can no longer hear her.  My chest aches.

Not much time passes before I hear voices upstairs, a door close, and then footsteps on the stairs.  I hold my breath until Henry steps into the room.

“No luck, Elijah,” he reports.  “But she said that she’ll think about it.”

I stand up and grasp my cane.  Anger floods into me.  “Alright.  Let’s go.”

“Let’s say goodbye to her parents first,” Henry says, subtly reminding me that despite being slapped in the face, I still need to be polite.

We head towards the door and wait briefly until her parents come out and wish us goodbye.  I remain as polite as I can and thank them for letting us drop in without warning.  They’re kind, but the kindness tastes heavy and tainted.  Henry and I step outside and head back to the car.

“What did she say?” I demand once we are inside the car with the door closed.  I buckle myself in and listen to Henry do the same.

The engine turns to life.  Henry says as he pulls away from the curb, “It took awhile to actually get some words out of her.  Well some words other than that she didn’t want to see you.  But I finally got her to agree to see you within the next couple days.  I think we just sprung it on her today and—”

“Shit, Henry, really?  She’s had days to call me, and much longer than that to think about it,” I interrupt.

“Elijah, listen, I know that you went through things worse than any of us, I get it,” my brother says sharply.  “But don’t think that everyone else here didn’t suffer, too.”

“I never said that no one else suffered, I—”

“Did you know that George was right?  That Mom and Dad almost broke up?  Do you know how terrible it was to watch their marriage crumble within the span of days?” Henry bursts, words pouring out of him that he held onto for too long.  “I really didn’t think that they were going to make it.  And Joule started acting out and beating people up.  Joule, who cries whenever we squish a bug, sent one girl to the hospital.  Joule, damnit!  She really broke this girl’s nose, and she might’ve done worse if the teachers hadn’t managed to pull her off the other girl.  Then George started wetting his bed like he’s suddenly eight years old or something, and he wouldn’t talk to anyone at all.  I mean at all.  He just clammed up and we were lucky to get a sentence or two out of him each day.  Meanwhile Mom and Dad were just off in their own places, trying to ignore each other and ultimately ignoring us.  And that was better than when they were together because they couldn’t stop yelling at each other over every single damned thing!”

Henry works himself up, his voice so loud that he’s nearly yelling.  He gasps as he tries to remain calm, and eventually he pulls over to the side of the road and throws the car into park.

“Do you know what it was like being around all this?” he demands.  “Watching what you went through and then trying to hold everything together because Mom and Dad couldn’t?  I had to go pick Joule up from school when she was being held in the principal’s office, and I had to take George to the doctor to make sure that the bed wetting was because of trauma and not for a medical reason that we could actually address.  Meanwhile, I had to pretend that I had all my shit together because that was the only thing keeping the entire household from exploding.

“Now you come here and demand that your girlfriend talks to you even though she was clear that she will do it on her own time because she’s too fucked up to handle it right now.  Elijah, you admitted on television for the entire country that you loved Lucinda’s sister’s friend.  You actually did that!  As if sleeping so close to her wasn’t bad enough, or hearing other tributes remark on how you groped her?  What the hell did you think would happen?!  Did you really think that after all this, Lucinda would come running back to you the moment you stepped off the train?  If Lucinda, or anyone else for that matter, needs more time, get over it.”

I grit my teeth together, the anger pulsing through me.  He saw me on television.  He saw everything that happened to me, and he knows what I went through.  I watched my friend die, was tortured until I nearly died myself, and then was forced to kill people in order to survive.  And then I was made to watch it all in front of an auditorium full of people, and then I was forced to talk through it all again and again and again for the entire nation to watch.  So while I never intended to diminish anything anyone else went through, I’d say that after all I went through, I have a right to want to talk with my girlfriend at least.  I have a right to be pissed off that she doesn’t want to see me.

“Done.  Totally over it,” I respond flatly.

“Elijah, stop it,” Henry says.

“Stop what?” I demand.

“If you weren’t blind, I’d swear I’d leave you here to find your own way back,” he mutters.

“Honestly, blind or not, at this point I wouldn’t mind,” I say.  “After all, I did just get to hear my brother, who days ago told me I could talk to him about what I went through, pretty much tell me that it was nothing.”

“I never said you went through nothing,” Henry snaps.  “I know that you went through shit.  I’m just saying that other people did, too.  Yes, it was to a lesser degree. But still.”

“And you think I don’t know that?!” I snarl, anger bursting through and getting the better of me.  “You don’t think that I wasn’t aware that each time I held Ilana at night that it was killing Lucinda?  That every comment I made in the interviews wasn’t digging that knife in deeper?  Do you think I wanted to be in that position?  Do you think that I was perfectly okay with people asking more and more and more questions until I finally snapped?!  That’s why I didn’t have the fifth interview.  Because I fell apart, and they couldn’t put me back together again in time to be on television.”

Henry exhales sharply.  “We know that you didn’t want to be there and that you had no control over everything you did.  But in some ways, it doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” I retort.

“You can’t just come back and pick up where you left off,” he says.  “You can’t expect everyone to be where you want them to be, when you want them to be there.  You’ve changed, and so has everyone else.”

No.

This isn’t right.  What the hell is happening?

I don’t want to pick up where I left off.  I mean, I do, but I know I can’t.  I just want to see my girlfriend again.  Why can’t he understand that?  I strain to keep my voice calm.

“I murdered people, Henry.  I killed people.  They might have been terrible people, but they’re dead because I killed them.  And I don’t care.  And that makes it even worse.  Do you know what it does to you to know that you have absolutely no remorse for murder?  And when Ilana died, it wasn’t on television for me.  It was there in front of me.  Live.  She was with me one second and dead the next, and there was nothing, despite everything that I wanted right then and there, that I could do.  I’m not the same person I was a few weeks ago.  I know that.  I don’t want to pretend that I am.

“But I need to talk with Lucinda.  To, I don’t know, just talk with her.  Be with her in person.  I don’t know what I want at this point, really.  I just want to know that she’s okay, for myself.”

“She’ll come around.  Just be patient with her.”

“Fuck patience.”

“Yes, you’ve made that clear,” Henry mutters.  “Anything else you want to yell at me before I start driving again?”

“Me?  You’re the one who started it,” I reply.

“Stop being immature, Elijah,” my brother groans.

“What about Marie?” I demand suddenly.

“What about her?  She’s not immature,” he says.

“No, I’m asking about how she’s doing.  You’ve told me how everyone else is suffering, but you didn’t tell me about whatever shit Marie’s going through.”

“I don’t know.  I haven’t seen her around much,” he admits.

I laugh humorlessly.  “She just lost her best friend.  Just like that, in one quick snap.  An easy way to go, all things considered.”

“What’s so funny about that?” he demands.

“Nothing.  I was just saying.”

“Well shut up,” Henry insists.  “There’s been enough morbid stuff recently.  Their parents say that Marie’s doing better than Lucinda.”

“Meaning?” I pry.

“Meaning that she’s not having a mental breakdown,” he replies with irritation.  “Really, what do you want me to say?”

“You just told me that I can’t ignore other people’s problems even though they’re less than mine, but isn’t that what you’re doing with Lucinda and Marie?  Marie’s not as bad off, so no worries.”

“You are twisting everything I say—”

“I had the chance to talk with Marie when you were trying to convince Lucinda that I’m worth thirty seconds of her time.  She’s not doing fine.  Next time you talk with their parents, tell them to pay attention to their other daughter, too.”

“Holy shit, Elijah, what is going on with you?” Henry demands.  “They are not neglecting Marie, I’m sure of it.”

What is going on with me?  That’s a great question.  Also very rhetorical and therefore does not deserve an answer.  We both know what’s going on, even if some of us don’t want to admit it.

“Are you the reason Joule’s going to summer school?” I ask.

Henry groans.  “Why the hell does it matter?  It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m just curious,” I say.

“Yeah, I am,” he says.  “Mom and Dad wouldn’t or couldn’t do anything about the situation, so I convinced them to put her in summer school.  Better than her getting into fights until she got arrested.”

“Yes, if there’s one thing our government doesn’t like, it’s kids hurting each other.”

“Elijah!  Stop!  Just stop this!” Henry pleads.

“Give them a camera to record it, however, and they’ll make millions as long as somebody dies,” I continue.

“Shut up,” Henry snaps.

“No, I will not shut up,” I snap right back.  “If I have no right to want to see my girlfriend after giving her days to figure out how to talk to me, then you have no right to tell me to shut up.  Sure, you all can have your mental breakdowns—fine.  At least someone here can.”

Henry starts fiddling with something.  I don’t know what.  Maybe he’s digging into a bag or opening up a package.  It doesn’t matter.  I can’t see it, so at this point, it doesn’t concern me.

“I’m not allowed to break down.  Because if I do, then I’m inconveniencing other people.  Could be the Capitol—wouldn’t want to ruin their interviews—or it could be my own brother.  Never would have guessed the latter.  But sure, why not?”

“Firstly, I’m sorry,” he cuts in.

“Sorry for what?” I demand, but I barely get the words out before I feel a sharp jab in my thigh.  I open my mouth to protest, only for the words to wash away in a sudden dizziness.  My shoulders slump and I feel my eyelids grow heavy.  I’m not tired, per se, but I am.

“Secondly, when we get home, you can’t let them see you all freaked out,” he says.  “They’ll all start to lose it.  This is an anxiety medication with a mild sedative.”

“Hmm?” I manage.  Definitely not mild.

“Harmony gave it to me.”

That bastard!  What the hell?!

“I can explain more when you’re a little more coherent.”

He puts the car into drive and pulls out onto the street.  I feel the rumble of the vehicle underneath me, but I’m too heavy and tired to do much else.  The anger within me grows distant, like someone has pulled me away from it, stretching out my body so that I can no longer connect with the part of me that makes me most coherent.

By the time the car pulls up into the long driveway of the victor mansion, the sedation has started to wear off enough that I could talk if I wanted.  But I don’t want to.  Instead I wait until I hear his seatbelt unclick to fumble with my own.

“Can you walk?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say even though I don’t know if it’s true.  But when he comes around and opens the door for me, I hobble out and lean against the car.  “So?  What the hell was that about?”

“I needed to calm you down,” he says.  “Harmony gave me medication in case you needed it.”

I don’t respond to this.  For some reason, I thought Harmony was on my side.  It’s not the fact that he gave my brother the medication as much as it is that this was all done behind my back.  What other things is Harmony doing without my knowledge for people to use against me?

“Listen, Elijah, we can all tell that you’re not doing well.  So I talked with Harmony to see what we could do to help you out,” Henry says.  He leans against the car next to me.  “I shouldn’t have taken you to see Lucinda.  You aren’t handling things very well, and we should have waited for Lucinda to call or something.  I didn’t know that you’d flip out like that.”

“Yeah, that was all because Lucinda wouldn’t see me, and not because you thought it would be a great idea to tell me that life sucks for everyone and I need to get over myself,” I mutter.

“That’s not what I said.  I’m sorry I got all angry on you.  I . . . I guess I just didn’t think, and I was angry too,” he says.  “The point remains: you need to give Lucinda more time.  But I shouldn’t have said it quite like that.”

“And drugging me against my will was the best thing you guys could come up with?” I ask.

“I didn’t expect to actually use it against your will,” he says heavily.  “Again, I’m sorry.”

I push myself away from the car and head up the driveway.  My lethargic movements slow me down, and it takes far longer than usual to cover the distance to the front porch.  Carefully I step up, not sure if I can fully trust my own body right now.  I grasp onto the rails.  If I fall, I don’t think a handrail matters but it makes me feel a bit more comfortable.  At least something does, I think bitterly.

Chapter Text

George hefts the box of books onto the library desk near me and lets out a huff of exhaustion.  “Geeze, that was worse than trying to carry it to the moving van,” he says.  “Don’t make me move it around anymore.”

“I’d have done it if I could,” I answer.  I still feel weak from the injection Henry gave me, but that doesn’t come up in conversation.  George doesn’t know about it, and I’m fine keeping it that way.  Besides, even if I were in top shape, carrying a heavy box in a newish environment without being able to see would be a phenomenally dumb thing to do.

“Yeah, I know,” he says.  He stabs the top of the box and I jerk at the sudden pop.  “Sorry.”

“Er, it’s good,” I answer.

My brother continues to drag his knife across the tape and the flaps give way with a couple quick snaps.

“Fortunately you don’t have many books,” he says.  “Otherwise I wouldn’t know where to put them.”

“I thought you said there were some filler areas in here,” I say.

“There are,” he says.  “But I don’t know exactly how many of them are fillers and how many aren’t.  Geeze, are some of these from school?”

“My books?  Yeah,” I answer as I come over and stand next to him.  Of course I can’t see the books, but I still reach in.  My fingers run over the covers that have been marred by ballpoint pens in sheer boredom during literature classes.  I pick out a small paperback.  This particular one has a deep groove in the shape of a small smile across the front.  “Ah, this one was a boring book.”

George takes the book from my hands.  “You managed to make this drawing even more terrifying,” he says.

“That wasn’t me.  That was Lucinda,” I answer.  Sudden memories threaten to spew forth right here and now, but I swallow them back.  “She thought the cover art was ugly and decided to make it better.”

“Well, she did a bad job,” George says.

“I’ll agree on that,” I say.

We go through the books one at a time.  A small collection mostly from school, my books hold more memories than I thought they would.  Even the most mundane of books reminds me of something: staying up too late to read before the deadline, a friend who slipped me his hand-written notes so that I wouldn’t have to deal with the book, something that Lucinda recommended that I couldn’t really appreciate despite my efforts, a scene my teacher tried to reenact for us.  Despite the fact that most of the books I’d never read again even if I could, I find it too difficult to tell George to discard them.

“I think I can get my favorites in audiobook form,” I say to George as he stacks the final book on a pile he told me not to get near for fear I’d knock it over.  “Supposedly Harmony already got me a few audiobooks to start with.”

“Yeah, they’re on a table near the door,” he says.  “Okay, these books over here are all filler, so we can take them out.”

I head over to the sound of his voice, and he leads me to a bunch of books.  He waits patiently for me to feel around until I locate the shelf he references, and then I begin to pull out the filler books.  The hollow centers make them far lighter than the other books and therefore easy to recognize.  While the majority of the books on the shelf are fake, I find a few real books that I leave alone.  Meanwhile George . . . does other things.  I don’t really know what.  Occasionally he comes and puts a book on the shelf or hauls away the stack of fake books.

“What did Lucinda say?” George asks as we work.

“She didn’t,” I say between gritted teeth.  The lingering effects of the medication keep the anger from rising back up full force.

“I thought you went to go see her,” my brother pauses whatever he’s doing.

“I did.  But she didn’t want to see me,” I answer, trying to keep the anger out of my words.

“Geeze,” he breathes.

I toss one of the fake books too hard and it bounces across the carpet.  Don’t know where it lands.  Don’t care.

“Yeah, well,” I manage.  “Did you—have you seen her?  Recently, I mean.”

“Um, yeah, every once in awhile,” my brother says.  “They were invited to parties but didn’t really go.”

“Can’t blame them.  Not with Ilana being Marie’s best friend,” I say.

“Other people didn’t see it that way and were disappointed she didn’t show up,” George replies.  “But we’d go over to their house to watch the Hunger Games with them.  Mostly the Prep Week stuff and the beginning of the Games themselves.”

“Until Ilana died,” I say.

George doesn’t answer for a second.  He fiddles around with books, opening and closing the covers.  “It was rough, Elijah.  Really.”

“What happened?” I ask, fearing that I don’t really want to know.

He sets down the book with a light thump.  I pick another one off the shelf, but hold it in my hands.  The floorboards grunt as George treads across them towards the door.  The door shuts, and George returns.

“At first everything was okay-ish.  Like it obviously wasn’t okay, but things weren’t bad,” George begins.  “And then everything started to come apart, but like one thing at a time.  Mom and Dad started arguing, only in private.  We’d have to pretend that everything was okay when we’d go over to the Amperes’ house, but they could probably see that we weren’t okay.  I mean, we could definitely see that they weren’t okay.  But none of us talked about it.  And, like, I don’t know.  Elijah.”

“Please, tell me,” I beg.

“Lucinda, well, she was really upset (sometimes with you and sometimes just at the situation in general), but she’d pretend that she wasn’t until she just stopped pretending or whatever.  And Marie would try to tell her not to be upset, and then Lucinda would go off on Marie, and it was a mess.”

“Because it was impossible that they’d both get what they wanted in the end,” I mutter.  “Either I’d live and Ilana would die, or I’d die and Ilana would live. . . .  But one or the other would be devastated.”

“Yeah,” George says.  I can hear the sorrow choke his words.  “One minute they’d be hardly speaking to each other, and the next they’d be sitting so close that you couldn’t tear them apart.  We never knew what we’d get.  But when Ilana died. . . .”

“Go on,” I say.

“We were over there.  And, like, Marie just lost it.  I . . . don’t want to think about it,” George sighs.

“Sorry.  I shouldn’t have pushed you,” I say.

“You didn’t push me.  I guess I wanted to say it for whatever reason.  So I might as well continue,” my brother says.  He takes a deep breath.  “Lucinda looked . . . almost happy.  She wasn’t happy, but, um, relieved.  I don’t know who else saw it besides me, and Marie.  Marie saw it.  She became so upset that she ran outside.  She ran into the street and almost got hit by a car.  And then she didn’t really care that she almost was hit, and said that it didn’t matter if she died.”

Hell.  I have no words for this.  His story rivets me to the spot, however, and I listen intently.

“Mom and Dad stopped going with us when we went over.  They barely spoke to each other, and after the Career stabbed out your eyes, they couldn’t even talk much to us, either.  Marie stopped watching, too.  Well, at least with everyone else.  She’d watch on a small television they had in the garage,” George continues.  “So I’d go out there and watch with her when things were too crazy and I needed a break but couldn’t take a break.  Or when Lucinda was crying too much.  Marie’s really nice.  She didn’t laugh when she found out that Joule had punched me, which is great because I didn’t like when people joked about it.  Nothing quite like getting a black eye from your little sister.”

Maybe Henry was right.  Maybe I was too forceful about this.  I hadn’t realized how much their family had been torn up.  I chew the inside of my cheek absently.

“Marie says that Lucinda’s being too selfish,” George adds.  “She says she’d give anything to have Ilana back, even if she did—”

He cuts himself short.

“Well, finish what you started,” I tell him.

“Even if Ilana had done things that made her question their friendship, Marie would want her back,” George says quietly.

“Henry said that Lucinda had a nervous breakdown,” I probe carefully, not wanting to push my little brother too much.  Already he has divulged things that clearly have caused him distress.

“Yeah, after you were blinded,” George confirms.  “I didn’t see her for a couple of days when I went over there, and then she’d come down to watch TV for a few minutes, burst into tears, and then go back upstairs.  Again, I was mostly out in the garage.  Joule might know more than me if Henry doesn’t.”

“That . . . must’ve been quite a fun place to be,” I say.  Two hysterical, traumatized teenage girls, one of whom saw her best friend die and the other of whom saw her boyfriend blinded.  “Why’d you guys keep going over there?”

“Why not?” he says.  “We were miserable at home anyhow.  Might as well go over there and be miserable with them.  Besides, Mrs. Ampere went into a baking frenzy as soon as the Hunger Games began and kept us well fed.  Mom and Dad kind of forgot we existed.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Huh?  Why?”

“I don’t know.  Because everything sucked so badly over here.  Because it’s kind of my fault that all this happened.”

“It’s not your fault that you were reaped,” he says.  “You couldn’t control that.”

Yet I still can’t think otherwise.  If I had, by some miracle, been able to avoid being reaped, then everything would go on just as normal at home.  Our parents wouldn’t have almost broken up, my siblings wouldn’t have been forced to watch this, and Lucinda wouldn’t have had her breakdown.  But Ilana . . . she would have been on her own.  It’s not that I wanted to go, and I can’t say that had I not been reaped I would have wanted to go with her, but knowing now what it was like, I can’t bear to think of her on her own.  Benjamin was a bad enough mentor, but what if Solar had been her mentor instead?

“I’m going to start reorganizing some of the books over here,” George cuts through my thoughts.  “When you’re done with that shelf, work on the one below it.  Henry has a bunch of books he can add, too.”

I turn back to my assigned task, my heart heavy and motions slow.  Pulling off one of the fake books, I turn it over in my hands and wonder what the point of all this is.  I guess, like most things the Capitol does, it’s all for show and has no purpose.  Like the Hunger Games.  There is no purpose.  It’s all to make things aesthetically pleasing.  I run my finger along the spine of the book.  A few slats of wood on the top and bottom hold the book’s cover in place so it keeps it shape on the shelf.  I’m about to set in the stack to discard when my finger brushes something inside.

“What’s this?” I ask as I try to figure it out just on touch alone.

George comes over.  “Hmm?” he asks.  I feel his breath on me as he leans in to look.  “Oh.  That’s, um, another book.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment.  Then he grabs my hand.  I almost jerk away when I feel his thumb moving on my palm.  It takes a second to realize he’s spelling something.  He pauses, and tries it again.

B-U-G

I almost repeat it back aloud but catch myself in time.  A bug.  The house is bugged.  George drops my hand away as realization dawns on me.  Even here in my own prison, they monitor me.  I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.  And they have heard that entire private conversation.  Nothing I can say or do anymore is my own.

Everything about me belongs to the Capitol.

George removes the book from my hand.  “Well, keep moving.  The books aren’t going to put away themselves,” he says, but his words are strained as he fakes normalcy.

“Yeah, of course,” I agree, equally unconvincing.  I don’t know what George does with the bug book, but I make myself continue down the line and remove the remaining hollow books.  Within moments, George shoves in to begin placing my books on the empty shelves.  It doesn’t take us long to finish our task, and in it we manage to make a few somewhat convincing bits of conversation so that whoever is listening in, if there is anyone on the other end at all, won’t be too concerned that we found their secret.

Chapter Text

Grandma and Grandpa Harper, my maternal grandparents, arrive shortly before dinner.  They immediately cling to me and kiss my cheeks and tell me how much they love me.  Grandpa Asher shows up a few minutes later and does the same.  His wife, Grandma Asher, passed away many years prior and he has lived by himself since, insisting that he’s too young for an old folks’ home.

“They’re staying overnight,” Joule tells me as the grandparents join our parents in one of the visiting rooms near the kitchen where Mom can keep an eye on dinner.

“Why?” I ask.

“Probably because they’re old and have to drive to get here,” she says.  “It’s like an hour away.  Old people can’t drive well after dark.”

Mom checked with me to make sure that they were okay to come over for dinner.  She didn’t mention that they’d be staying overnight.  Not that it bothers me, per se.  I love my grandparents.  But things are different at night.  Unpredictable.  I don’t want my grandparents witnessing this.  It’s hard enough that my siblings and parents know about the nightmares.  What happens if I wake up screaming in the middle of the night?

“Can you help me carry the bags to their rooms?” Joule asks sweetly.  “I know you’re blind, but Dad says you’re still the same ol’ you.”

“You know I’d do anything for you, Joule,” I say.  “Especially when you phrase it nicely like that.”

She pushes one of the bags towards me with a couple of hefty shoves.  I reach out and after a few seconds find the handle.  The next thing I know, a second bag hits my leg.

“Joule, I need to use my cane,” I say.

“I’ll use your cane for you,” she says.  “The bags are just way too heavy for me.”

I pick up the first one.  Bullshit.  But I pick up the second bag anyhow and follow her down the hallway praying that she’ll actually give me notice before I collide with something.  Instead she chatters about the dog her friend has.

“Did Mom and Dad actually approve the dog?” I ask her when we pause in front of a door.

“No, not yet,” she says.  “But that’s where you come in.”

“I am not taking part in this,” I tell her.  “I don’t want a dog.”

“But you want me to be happy, right?” she pouts.

“Which room do these bags go in?” I ignore her.

She sighs.  “This one right here, which you can’t see but pretend you can, is for Grandpa Asher.  And the one right over is for Grandma and Grandpa H.,” she says.

“First floor bedrooms?”

“They’re old.  They probably can’t get up and down the stairs,” Joule tells me as she flings open the door to Grandpa Asher’s room.  “The bag in your right hand is his.  Just put it someplace that makes sense, I guess.”

I set the bag on the floor.  “Joule, put the bag someplace where he won’t trip over it.”

“Fine,” she groans.  She dramatically staggers forward, picks up the bag, and hauls it into the room.  After a few seconds, she returns and we continue on into the next room where she takes the bag from me and puts it down somewhere.

“Cane?” I ask, and hold out my hand.  She slaps the cane down into my palm.

“You know with a bit of redecorating, we could make every room into a bedroom,” she says as we walk back down the hallway towards the rest of the family.  “I don’t know how many rooms there are in the house, but we could rent it out.”

“People would have to go into other people’s rooms to use the toilets,” I point out.  “Or all share the few solo bathrooms.”

“True, but they’d do it anyhow.  We could charge an arm and a leg, and they’d still put up with that.”

“I think we have enough money now with my victor earnings,” I tell her.

“Oh, it’s not for money,” she says.  “We’ll have to collect money so people will still want to come, but we can donate it or whatever.  This’ll be for our own entertainment.”

“You know, I don’t like this idea,” I say to her.

“Then let me propose my next idea, which I think you will like much better: when we get the dog, he’ll have a room on each floor,” she says to me.  She nudges me with her elbow.  “What do you think?”

“I think I’m not interested in that idea, either.  But you’re right that I prefer it to your last one.”

She mumbles something under her breath, but eventually falls quiet when we approach the sitting room.  I’m about to head in when Joule grabs onto me, and half-pulls me out of the way.  Before I can protest, she puts a finger on my lips to get me to stay quiet.  I nod and she moves her hand away.  We hover near the door.

“…says he’s adjusting much better than anticipated, but it’s still been a hard transition,” Mom is saying.  “I know that everything that he’s been through is challenging, but things are pretty slow going.”

“I can only imagine how tough it is with all these changes you dears are going through,” Grandma Harper says.

Grandpa Harper adds, “Elijah has been through so much.  I can’t imagine how hard this has been on him.  And that poor girl he was with.  How is he handling that?”

Ilana.  I freeze.

Joule slides her hand into mine and squeezes it.

“He’s really struggling with that,” Mom answers.  “I’d be surprised if he wasn’t, but . . . the nightmares seem to be getting worse.”

“What does his girlfriend say?” Grandpa Asher asks.

“She wants nothing to do with him,” comes Henry’s voice.

Nothing.  Just like that.  The years we spent together no longer mean a thing?  I feel sick.  Joule grips my hand harder.  I pray that Henry just misunderstood the situation, or Lucinda wasn’t clear on her thoughts.

“Oh, whatever happened to a woman standing by her man?” Grandma clucks.

“You’re behind the times, my dear,” Grandpa Harper tells her.

“They’re just kids,” Grandpa Asher interjects.  “They’re just kids and they don’t know what they’re doing.  They shouldn’t be going through this at all.  No one should.”

“He’s doing fine, all things considered,” Dad says.  “Just be aware he’s a bit jumpy, and since he can’t see who’s in the room with him, it’s always good to let him know you’re there.  He hit George with a bowl the other day because he got startled.”

“My fault,” George says.  “He didn’t know I was in the room.”

“I had some buddies awhile back who were peacekeepers discharged after some pretty gnarly skirmishes,” Grandpa Asher says.  “They were the jumpiest people I met.  Going through that sort of stuff messes with your mind.”

I can’t listen to this anymore.  Not as my family picks me apart like this.  I start to move away, but Joule holds me in place.  She gives me a small tug, and after a second, I know she wants me to go inside with her and face them all.  She’s right.  I can’t run and hide.  If I can take on a massive crowd of Capitolites, I can stand here in front of my family, I tell myself.  So I take a deep breath and nod.  Joule releases my hand.

If we hoped to sneak inside and sit down unnoticed, we’d be disappointed; as soon as we appear in the doorway, everyone falls silent.

“We wondered where you’d disappeared to,” Grandpa Harper says.

“Joule just roped me into some manual labor,” I tell them casually as though I weren’t just eavesdropping in their conversation about me.

“Why don’t you kids show your grandparents around the house,” Dad suggests.

“Yes, we’d love to see it,” Grandma agrees.

Mom cooked a delicious dinner.  I eat more now than I did a couple days ago, but it still pales in comparison to how much food I’d eat before.  Add to that the challenges of so many people and voices overlapping each other while also trying to keep track of what bowl of which food is where.  Eventually I tune everyone out so that I can focus on my meal.  The good news is that it keeps me from thinking too much.  I eat slowly and try not to get distracted by the conversation or I’ll drop my fork or spill something.  When at last the silverware clinks against the plates less and less, I know that it’s socially acceptable for me to stop picking at my food.

“Time for us grown-ups to talk,” Dad says, not-so-subtly kicking us all out of the dining room.  This must be a continuation of the conversation they had earlier, but since they can’t just tell me to get lost and let my siblings hang around, they shove us all out.

“What about dessert?” Joule asks.

“We won’t let you miss it, don’t worry,” he reassures her.

I stand up, set my napkin down, and tuck in my chair.  The four of us head out of the room and into the hallway.  Before I can go too far, however, George nudges me to the side.  My siblings sweep me up with them, and we quietly head in to a study two rooms over.  It’s a small, musty place, but my siblings don’t reveal why they chose it until the door closes behind us.

“We can hear from this room,” George whispers to me.  “If you come down over here, there’s a vent that connects the rooms.  But you have to get on the floor, and you can’t talk or they’ll hear us, too.”

“How do you find this stuff?” Henry asks.

I kneel down on the floor near my siblings and listen to someone unscrew some sort of metal panel.  From somewhere else (the other room, I assume) comes the muted voices of the “grown-ups.”

“By accident, mostly,” my little brother admits.  A few more twists of the screwdriver, and the panel comes loose with a little groan.  Now that it has been removed, the voices become clearer and more distinct.  I wonder what sort of ‘accident’ led him to unscrew vents in the house.

“…We just don’t know what to do,” Dad is saying.  “We’ve found him out in the yard before, and it took quite some time for us to get him back inside.”

I pour my energy into focusing on the conversation.  My siblings must’ve known that it would be something worthwhile if they went through the effort of assembling in this room.

“Out in the yard?” asks Grandma.  “What was he doing out there?”

“Just standing,” Dad says.

“He wouldn’t respond to us,” Mom adds.  “Eventually he went back inside on his own.”

My heart thumps and I strain to hear more, as though the volume alone could give me insight into the conversation.

“One time he was in a room arranging paintings on the wall,” Dad continues.  “It was the strangest thing. . . . Like he forgot that he couldn’t see.”

Everything freezes.

Me.

They’re talking about me.

When . . .

When was I doing this?

What was I doing?

And what’s he talking about me forgetting that I can’t see?  How can one forget something like that?

I open my mouth, but George’s hand covers it before I can say anything.  I’m so stunned that I can’t protest, not even when he drops his hand away.

“It was surreal,” Dad says.  “For a second, I thought that I had gone back in time, like he was perfectly normal again.  Then I realized that I had to get the hammer out of his hand before he hurt himself.”

“What does he say about it?” Grandpa Asher asks.

“That’s the crazy part, Dad,” says my father.  “He doesn’t.  He never acknowledges it.  He just wakes up the next morning like nothing ever happened.”

“I don’t even think he’s aware that he’s doing it,” Mom adds.

“What about the others?” Grandma asks.

“They all know about it because no one could sleep through a hammer against the wall at 3:00 AM,” Dad explains.  “Henry’s room is closest, so he checks on him every now and again.  The other two we keep out of the way.”

Of course.  This is why Henry has showed up in my room several nights.  He’d seen my light on.  He heard me having a nightmare.  Whatever his excuse.  But it wasn’t just coincidence. . . .  My parents wanted him to check in on me and verify that I was still okay.

There’s a bit of a pause, and then Mom says, “We . . . aren’t sure what he’s capable of.  So we don’t want George and Joule involved.”

Holy shit.  What the hell is happening right now? 

I’d never hurt my siblings.  I’d . . . But wait, didn’t I nail George with a bowl the other day?  Who’s to say that I wouldn’t do worse?  I’ve shown what I’m capable of, and if I can use a hammer in my sleep, then what’s to stop me from using that, or any other object, against my brothers or sister?

I reach out and grab onto the closest thing to stabilize myself.  My fingers twist into George’s sleeve.

“You okay?” he whispers so quietly I can barely hear him.

I shake my head.  I am the farthest thing from okay right now. 

“You . . . didn’t know that you walk in your sleep?” Henry asks, his voice just as low.  Once more I shake my head.  “Shit, Elijah.  We thought you did.  We wouldn’t have sprung this on you if we knew you weren’t aware. . . . ”

I swallow hard.  They all knew that I walked in my sleep.  Night after night.  But I didn’t.  Nobody thought to bring it to my attention.

“The kids are having so many problems as it is,” Dad adds.  “We’re trying to get George into a psychiatrist, but our requests keep getting blocked.  I have a friend whose friend will be willing to get him in informally.”

I’ve been walking in my sleep.  I’ve been acting like I can see.  And my siblings are so traumatized from everything that they need professional help.  What the hell is going on in this conversation?  What is going on in this house?

“How are Joule’s outbursts?” Grandma asks.

“She hasn’t had one in awhile,” Mom says.  “I think having Elijah back has made things better for her.  Well, it’s made things better for all of us, but especially her.”

I pick absently at the thick rug underneath me as I listen.  It’s hard to focus when my mind keeps coming back to the fact that I sleepwalk and do things.  What other things have I been doing?  Why was I nailing pictures to a wall anyhow?  Which wall?  I don’t even know where there’s a hammer or nails in this house at all, so how the hell could I find them and use them?  This conversation opens up so many more questions than answers, and I wonder if we should even be listening in.

“Is she still talking about running away?” Grandma says.  I pause my thoughts and perk up.

“No, all that seemed to have stopped,” Dad tells her.  “Really, right now we’re struggling with Elijah.”

“He’s struggling with a lot himself,” Mom says.  “He won’t tell anyone, of course, but we can see it clearly.”

“And who can blame him?” Grandma agrees sympathetically.

I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed that other people can see how much I struggle just to deal with day-to-day life, but I am.  I wrap my arms around my chest and focus on the conversation so I don’t have to think about it.  Nothing about me is private anymore.  Everybody knows everything, and I have no right to privacy.

I stand up so suddenly that my siblings startle.  Without another word, I walk towards the door, open it, and slip out of the room.  My stomach churns and saliva fills my mouth.

“Elijah?” George whispers as he hurries after me.

“I’m going to vomit,” I say, tilting my head back as though that will keep my dinner from coming back up.  “And I have no idea where there’s a bathroom.”

George grabs onto my elbow, and I let him lead me down the hallway and into another room.  “The toilet is straight ahead and to the right.”

I fumble around for a second before I find it.  I open up the toilet seat and vomit my dinner into the bowl, painfully aware that even this moment isn’t private.

Chapter Text

When everyone retires to their rooms, I follow suit.  Not a single bit of me is tired, but I don’t know what else I’ll do with myself.  I take a shower, brush my teeth, and climb into bed.  Even before my head hits the pillow, I know that it’ll be a long time until sleep visits me tonight, if at all.

And what will sleep bring me but more nightmares?

More voyages in the dark?

I curl the teddy bear up in my arms and wait in the darkness for my brain to decide to shut off, but instead it only gets going faster and faster, thoughts and ideas and memories all spewing forth at once, jumbling together into a mess.  But through it all, one thought remains: Lucinda.

The anger and sadness knot themselves together into a tattered ball of confusion.  Trying to unravel one string only pulls on the other, aggravating it and making things worse.  If she loves me, how can she do this to me?  And if I love her, how can I demand her to meet with me when she doesn’t want to?  Fine, I tell myself; I can’t exist in this torment for much longer.  It wears me thin, and I can’t afford to lose any more than I already have.  I’ll give her three days.  If by the end of three days, I have not heard from her, I’ll tell Henry to let her parents know that I no longer want anything to do with her.

But even with that decision made, I cannot get comfortable.  I turn and twist to find the best position.  I flip over my pillows to the cool side again and again until I’m not sure that any side is cool anymore.  I kick the blankets off me and then draw them back up.

Finally I stand up and start walking.  Leaving my room without a destination, I allow myself to just walk.  Minutes later, I find myself once again in the sun room, though now, of course, no sunlight warms me as I find my way to the couch.  I flop down and lay in silence.  Memory of warm sun on my skin calms me.

Creaking floorboards alert me to somebody else’s presence.  I strain my ears to listen as the shuffling footsteps creep in closer.  While I know that it has to be a family member, I wait for the moment Solar’s voice cuts through the night and pins me in place.

“Elijah?” Joule asks.  “Are you awake?”

“Yeah,” I say, hoping the relief isn’t too evident.

“Move over, I want to sit down, too,” she says.

I sit up and move my legs so she had a place.  She plops down.  I expect at any moment that she will start rambling about her new dog she’s supposedly getting or about how much she hates school.  Instead she only lets out a long, low breath.

“I can’t sleep,” she says.

“Me neither,” I tell her.

“Maybe this place is cursed,” she says.  Then she adds with heaviness beyond her twelve years, “I know it’s not this house.”

“Are you okay?” I ask after a second.  It wasn’t just my issues that were brought forth for the entire family to discuss but also hers and George’s.

“Is anyone here?” she counters.

“Touché.”

“I’d be better if I weren’t going to school, but I think you know that,” she says.

“You might’ve mentioned it once or twice,” I reply.  Or more.

She sighs.  “Yeah, sorry,” she says.  “I guess I shouldn’t be complaining.”

I draw in a deep breath and try to think about what Henry told me.  Everybody else is suffering in their own manner.  I alone don’t have a claim to the misery market.  So I try to be somewhat sensitive to Joule despite wishing to tell her that she has been rather annoying about it.

“It’s okay,” I tell her.  “Why’d you punch George anyhow?”

“Pff, because he’s annoying,” she says.

“Really, Joule?”

“You promise you won’t be mad at him?” she whispers.

“Yes, I promise,” I say.

“Good.  Because he said that he thought you should die,” she says quietly.  “He thought you should have drank the poison Solar sent you.”

I breathe evenly, doing my damnedest not to let Joule see that that comment hurts.  George only wanted me to not be in pain, I tell myself.  He’s expressed it himself that it was terrible to watch.

“Please don’t be mad!  You promised!” Joule insists.

“I’m not mad,” I tell her.

“Yes you are,” she says.

“It’s a bit hard to take in, that’s all,” I say.

“You won’t be angry with him?”

“No, of course not,” I assure her.  “Watching the Hunger Games was tough, I know.”

“Yeah,” she agrees.  “At least we got to go over to Lucinda’s house.  Her mom makes good food.  And she’d let me help if I wanted to.”

“Well . . . I’m glad she took care of you,” I tell her.  I’m at a loss for what to say.  If our own parents had done their job and actually parented, she and my brothers wouldn’t have needed to have been fed by another grieving family.  Again I have to remind myself, my parents suffered as well.  I can’t blame them for not being able to deal with what was happening and help my siblings.  Even though I want to.  Even though they should have been able to be there for them.

“’Lijah?  What Henry said today isn’t true, I don’t think,” she says to me in a quiet voice.

“What is that?” I ask.  Henry’s said many things today that probably aren’t true, but I’m not sure which one Joule heard.

“The one about Lucinda not wanting anything to do with you,” she says.  “I think she still loves you.”

“She wouldn’t come and talk to me today,” I find myself telling her.  I stop.  These sorts of things aren’t for twelve-year-olds to deal with.  She’s already gone through enough.

There were kids about her age in the arena, it occurs to me suddenly.  The District 7 boy. . . . He couldn’t have been that much older than Joule.

I see the knife going into the District 7 boy’s throat.  Blood spurts out from his neck.  The metallic smell is thick and pungent.  His body drops to the ground.  And my hand reaches out for the knife without a second thought.  My fingers wrap around the blood-slickened handle and I pull it out from the kid’s throat.  It requires more effort than I would have expected, but it only takes one tug and the blade is mine.

“Elijah,” Joule shakes my arm.  “’Lijah, are you okay?”

“Hmm?” I ask, slowly becoming aware that I’m not standing out in the open field of the Cornucopia.  The bright daylight fades, and the darkness swallows everything.  I sit on the lounge chair in the sun room of my mansion.

“You alright?” my sister asks.

“Yeah, I think so,” I say.  “Sorry about that.”

She doesn’t release her grip on me.  “What happened?”

I don’t want to tell her.  This is mine to deal with and nothing that she should concern herself with when she has her own problems.  “I think I fell asleep for a second,” I say, which isn’t the truth but is close enough.

When she doesn’t say anything, I say, “What were you telling me about Lucinda?”

“I just think she still loves you, that’s all,” she says to me simply.  Slowly she releases her hands from my arm.  “Even if she won’t talk with you.  If you want, I can go over there and talk to her.”

“Henry already tried, but thanks.”

“Maybe he didn’t try hard enough,” she says.  “I’ll do it.”

I have to smile at this.  “Joule, really.  She probably just needs more time.”

“Hmph!  Whatever,” she says.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say with more calm than I feel.  “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

Joule yawns.  “Yeah, I hope so,” she says.  “But I’m already being forced to go to summer school because of my crimes, so I’ll punch Lucinda if you want me to, okay?”

I laugh.  “Really?  No, you won’t punch her,” I say.  “If you do, I’ll make sure that you go to summer school for the rest of your life.”

“You wouldn’t!” she gasps with mock surprise.

“I would,” I tell her.  But then I say more seriously, “Joule, are you here to make sure I don’t sleepwalk?  Did Mom and Dad or Henry tell you to keep an eye on me?”

“Hm.  No, I’m here because I couldn’t sleep, and I remembered that Mom said you were in the sunroom this morning,” she says.  “So I decided to check it out for myself.  But you really didn’t know that you were sleepwalking?”

I shake my head.  “Not at all.”

“Wow,” she breathes.  “That’s totally crazy.”

“How long have I been doing it?” I ask carefully, not certain if I really want to know the answer.

“Actually, I don’t know.  I only knew because you decided to hang up some pictures and woke up everyone in the house,” she says.  “And then I’ve heard them talking about other times, so I know it’s since you’ve been home, but can’t tell you if it’s every night or just some nights.”

I hesitate.  “But I, uh, I haven’t tried to hurt you or George, right?”

“No,” she says.  “Mom and Dad are just being paranoid.”

I let out a breath.  If I had tried to hurt them, even once. . . . Then Solar certainly wouldn’t be the biggest threat to them.  Then they shouldn’t live at this house not because of my mentor’s threats but because of me, and that is even worse than anything I could imagine.

“Really, Elijah, there’s nothing to worry about.  Remember I used to sleep walk all the time?” she asks.

“That was different,” I tell her.  “What else have I done in my sleep?”

“Sometimes you just go out back and stand there,” she says.  “You’ve done that a couple times.  But you don’t look like you’re asleep because you actually go through the effort to put on shoes, and then you close the door behind you, and all that stuff.  You wouldn’t know that you were asleep if you weren’t babbling to yourself.”

“Great, I also talk in my sleep?”  I shouldn’t be surprised at this point.

“Yeah, it’s really a bunch of nonsense,” she says.  “I feel like I’m in lit class and my teacher’s reading us some poetry that no one really understands what’s going on but everybody pretends like it’s the best thing they’ve heard.”

“Maybe I’m an oracle,” I tell her with more levity than the situation calls for.  Part of me fears that whatever I’m saying is terribly inappropriate or embarrassing or private.  Things that other people shouldn’t be hearing.

“Makes just as much sense,” she says.  “Oh, they once found you in the basement.”

“I’ve never even been in the basement,” I tell her.

“Yeah, well, you were,” she says.  “In the wine cellar.”

“There’s a wine cellar?” I ask.

“Yeah, there’s a bunch of old bottles of wine that no one wants to touch because they’re probably from before the Dark Days,” she says.  “Don’t worry, you didn’t drink any.”

She yawns.

I’ve explored more of the house in sleep than when awake.  How strange.  How did I even find the door to the cellar when I was sleeping?  I know where it is, but even while awake it would take awhile for me to find it.

“You should get to sleep,” I say.  In reality, I don’t think I can talk about this anymore.  Today has been too long, and my brain edges into overload.  “You’re tired, don’t deny it.”

“And so should you,” she says.

“I would if I could,” I answer.

“Me too.  Do you mind if I stay here with you?”

“You have to find your own piece of furniture,” I tell her.  “This one’s not big enough for the both of us.”

She grumbles and stands up.  As I stretch out on this lounge, she meanders around the room and plops down somewhere else.  Honestly, there could be a dozen couches in here; this is just the first one I found.

“Goodnight, Elijah,” she says.

“Night, Joule,” I reply.

But sleep doesn’t come to me.  I lay for hours, long after my sister’s breathing evens into little snores that would have once driven me insane.  Now I’m already crazy, and there’s no way that a small sound like that could make things worse.  When my eyelids start to droop well into the night, I find myself trying to force them open.  I don’t want to walk in my sleep.  I don’t want to cry out when the nightmares claw at me.  I just want to sleep.  That’s all.

Chapter Text

Morning comes and I wake up to Joule standing over me.  At first I don’t know it’s her; all I feel is someone’s presence blocking the warmth of the sun on my face.  I almost lash out (instinct), but fortunately I register her voice before my body reacts.

“Morning, Elijah,” she says.  “The good news is, you didn’t walk in your sleep.  The better news is that you did promise me that you’d talk to Mom and Dad about the dog.  And I have witnesses, so you can’t get out of it.”

“Bullshit, Joule,” I mutter.  “Why did you wake me up?”

“It’s time for breakfast,” she tells me.  “Dad wanted me to make sure that you were joining us since Grandma and the Grandpas are here.”

I groan and stretch before I commit to standing up.  But even then it takes me a minute to get my tired body in motion.  Joule half-leads, half-follows me into the hallway, down the stairs, and to my bedroom.  I tell her to scram while I change, and she vanishes out of the room.  I brush my teeth, pull on fresh clothes, and head downstairs to the breakfast table.

“Good morning, Elijah,” Dad says.  “How did you sleep last night?”

“Fine, I guess,” I tell him as I sit down in my chair.  Various smells distract me from conversation.  Eggs, bacon, bread, spices. . . . I struggle to distinguish everything because of the sheer quantity of scents makes it difficult.

“Grandma made cinnamon rolls,” George says.  “I’m passing you the plate right now.”

I reach out and he sets the plate in my hands.

Everybody chatters back and forth, and once again, I ignore them as I focus on the food.  Although I’ve taken some of everything in the great spread of dishes that my mom and grandma laid out before us, the only thing I finish is the cinnamon roll.  Grandma used to make these for us whenever we’d spend the night with her and Grandpa, and despite everything that’s going on right now and all the changes that have happened, it brings me back to being a kid and helping her gather the ingredients for breakfast.  Back before I ever had to worry about the Hunger Games.

When breakfast ends, Mom dismisses us, and I think they’re going to have another conversation about me, but to my relief, she and Grandma and Henry work on cleaning up the table and the kitchen.  The rest of us drift away from the table.

“What’re you doing today?” George asks me as we walk down the hallway to nowhere in particular.

“Since I’m getting back into normal routine, I thought it would be a great idea to test out the car again,” I say.  “You know I still have my driver’s license?”

George groans.  “But really, what are your plans?”

“I’ll probably just wander up and down the hallway til I pass out from exhaustion,” I say.  “Why?”

“I didn’t know if you wanted to explore the house,” he says.

“Didn’t we already do that?” I ask.

“I didn’t find that secret vent by doing such a brief overview,” George tells me.

“I don’t think I’ll be very good at helping you with any detailed work,” I say.

“Fine, don’t help.  But you can still come with me,” he says.

Since I have nothing better to do, I agree.  Aren’t I supposed to be keeping busy?  It’s better than being around our parents and grandparents who are no doubt using the opportunity to talk about me behind my back.  And my little siblings . . . I can’t forget that their own issues have been regurgitated for everyone to see.

The first floor of the house contains many rooms with no real value to your average District 5 family.  Of the twelve bedrooms, only two of them are down here.  Eight more are on the second floor, and the remaining two are on the third floor.  But, of course, one must take into consideration all the remaining rooms that either serve no purpose or whose purpose remains a mystery.  From the outside, the thought of living in a mansion is alluring.  You form ideas of what it must be like, and how glorious it is to have all the space.  But when you’re actually here, it’s another deal entirely.  Everything swallows you up in sheer absurdity.  I’d think it was a punishment more than a reward, but then I remember the size of the president’s mansion and the ridiculous number of floors in the hotel.  The bigger the better for these people.

“While you were out yesterday, I found a cool little cubby in a bench,” George says as he leads me down the first-floor hallway.  “I want to see if other rooms have that.”

We spend a few minutes in one of the studies knocking on wooden boards in the wall and under the window seat to see if we can locate another hollow space.  Nothing.  Then we move on into the conservatory.

This room, like the sun room on the third floor, allows in natural light through great glass panels.  The first day we explored, I ran my hands across the glass to acquaint myself with the room.  Wooden pillars separate the panels.  My siblings told me that the pillars reached the ceiling where the met with a horizontal beam that separated the sloped glass roof from the glass wall.  Morning sunlight warms the room now, and I make my way carefully around heavy wooden tables and large plush furniture.

“Oh, Elijah, Grandpa Asher is in here, too.  Just so you know,” George says.

“I didn’t want to frighten you, Elijah,” Grandpa says.

I walk over closer to the voice and feel around for a couch near him.

“A little to your right,” my grandfather tells me.  My fingers meet the soft upholstery, and I guide myself to sit down.  “You’re getting along pretty well.”

“Thanks.  I don’t really have much of a choice,” I answer a little more rudely than I wanted to.  I have no reason to speak like this to my grandpa who went out of his way to visit.  At eighty-six years of age, he has trouble moving around but he doesn’t let it stop him from living independently and fighting the local government to keep his driver’s license. It’s only a matter of time before he can’t make drives like this.

He gives a soft laugh.  “Yes, you do,” he says.  “And you’ve made a good decision.  Keep on going, Elijah.  You can’t stop just because they try to stop you.”

“They’re doing a damned good job of it,” I mutter.

“Yes, they are.  But if you could be stopped that easily, you would not be standing here today,” Grandpa says.  “Now, once you’re settled in this house, how do you plan on spending your time?”

Something I haven’t thought much about.  Harmony gave me the audiobooks, but I can’t sit around listening to books morning and night.  Everything I did before is out of the question.  I hesitate knowing that I have no answer.

“I might have an idea or two,” Grandpa says.  “I took the liberty of buying you something. . . . But then I hid it in the house for you to find.”

“It’s not a dog, is it?” I ask.

He laughs.  “Nothing that has that short of a shelf life if you don’t find it in the near future,” he says.

“Joule already has a dog picked out,” George says.  “We just need to convince Mom and Dad that they really want it.”

“I can’t help you too much with that,” Grandpa says.  “But I do encourage you to search around.  And George, no cheating.  Don’t look for it without Elijah.”

“Yessir,” says George seriously.

“Thank you, Grandpa,” I tell him.  I’m not keen on the idea of searching the house but his kindness doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You’re very welcome, son,” he tells me.

George stands up and moves around the room.  “Any hints?” he asks.

“No, none,” Grandpa answers.  “That wouldn’t be fun.”

My brother starts to search around the room.  I don’t know where he’s looking, but he shuffles around in various places, never staying in one area for long.  I listen to his footsteps and the little knocks against wooden panels, but mixed in, I hear a strange but familiar noise coming from my grandpa’s direction.  I furrow my brow.

“Still whittling wood?” I ask.

“You bet,” he replies.  “I have to do something to keep myself busy so they don’t put me in a home.  Here.  Put your hand out.”

I do as instructed and extend my hand with my palm up.  Grandpa places a small wooden object inside it.  I draw it back closer to me and turn it over in my hands.  My fingers run over the rough marks.  The piece still needs to be smoothed out and detailed, but the general shape is there.

“A bird.  But not a duck,” I say.  He started me out on ducks when he first taught me.  I ended up with many deformed, decapitated, and disfigured birds lined up on a shelf in my room.  They’re currently packed up in a box somewhere in the spare bedroom next to mine; I haven’t given much thought to them.  But the one in my hand is different.  Despite being in the early stages, it’s still a work of art.  The wings spread out far from the body, and stubby legs that will soon be talons stick out from its base.  “An eagle?”

“A hawk,” Grandpa corrects.  “Still needs some work to go.”

I reach out and offer it back to him.  He takes it from my hand.

“I have an extra block of wood and knife if you’d like to—”

“No, I’m fine,” I cut him off before he can place a weapon in my hand.  Just thinking about the way the blade felt in my hand causes me to shake, and I tuck my hands underneath my legs to hide how badly they tremble.

“Give it some time,” he says gently.  “You’ll figure it out with some time.”

We sit quietly while he continues to work on the hawk.  I listen to the soft sounds of the knife cutting through wood.  He pauses now and again.  I’ve worked with him enough to know that he’s casting away the little slips of wood that stick to his fingers and cling to his sleeves.  George continues to hunt through the room for whatever gift Grandpa has gotten me, but I know he won’t find it.  Grandpa must’ve known how eager George and Joule would be to go on a treasure hunt, so he made sure to hide it well, perhaps in a spot they wouldn’t have thought of.  I don’t know how I’ll find it on my own, so their help will be needed regardless.

Suddenly, from somewhere deep in the house, the telephone rings and tears through the comfortable silence.  I stand up and grasp my can before I know what I’m doing.  We don’t get phone calls here.  Mom and Dad’s friends have left us well enough alone, and my own friends have vanished off the face of the planet.

“Hello?” comes Mom’s voice.  Pause.  “Yes, sure.”

She speaks so far away that I have to strain to hear.  Grandpa stops his whittling, and George creeps up beside me to listen.

My heart thumps.  I rub my hands on my jeans and listen.  Is it for me?  Is it Lucinda?  But instead Mom calls out, “Henry, it’s for you!”

Another minute passes before Henry says, “Hello?  Oh, sure.  Yes, of course.  I’ll let him know.”  The phone clicks.

Is it for me?  A message for me?

“Elijah?” my older brother calls out.  I can’t answer.  Words don’t form.  Henry walks closer now, his voice no longer so distant.  “Hey, Elijah?  That was Lucinda.  She wants to meet with you.”

Chapter Text

The car pulls up in front of Lucinda’s house.  I breathe carefully.  All hope of figuring out what I’m going to say vanished from my mind the moment I heard Henry call out for me.  I wipe my sweaty palms on my pant legs and carefully reach for the seat belt.  The buckle clicks unlocked and the seatbelt retracts to the side.

“You ready?” my older brother asks me.

“Yeah,” I say.  But I’m not.  I never was and I never will be.

My fate rests within the next few minutes.  Just like the moments before I entered the arena, I know that my world will radically change or completely fall apart within the immediate future.  I might not face death now, but trying to tell myself that does nothing to remove the sensation of my own impending demise.

I step out of the car and close the door behind me. Henry and I walk up to the front door where he knocks.  It was both a million years ago and just thirty seconds in the past that I stood on this same front step yesterday afternoon.  The door opens; this time Lucinda’s father expects to find me here.

“C’mon in, guys,” he says.  Then he leads us to his office on the first floor.  I had very rarely been in this place; it was one of those rooms completely off limits.  But I’d passed it by a hundred times; it was once, well before I met Lucinda, a small bedroom that had been converted into a workroom.

It’s strange to see Mr. Ampere around during the daytime.  Since he works for the government, he normally spends the majority of the day in his work office.  But despite this, he’s always made room for his family in his schedule.  It doesn’t surprise me that he has taken a few hours off to moderate this reunion.

He has me sit down in one of the two large leather armchairs opposite the desk.

“Lucinda will be down in a minute.  Do you want anything while you wait?” he asks.

“No, thank you,” I respond.

“Alright.  Henry, why don’t I go show you the new garden we’re planting?” he says.

“Sounds good,” my brother answers, and the two of them disappear from the room.  I listen to their retreating footsteps.

I strain to hear Lucinda’s approach, but the thumping of my own heart drowns out all sounds.  It echoes in my ears and I can’t focus on anything but the uneasiness that grows within me.  Time ceases to mean anything, and I don’t know how long I wait before I hear the office door close quietly.  Somebody sinks into the chair next to mine.

“Hi, Elijah,” Lucinda says.  Her voice is quiet.  Hesitant.  But despite that, she sounds exactly like I remember.  My heart rate increases, and I strain to remain calm.

“Hey,” I respond.

We sit in silence for a few moments, the steady rapping of my heart keeping beat.

“I missed you,” I finally say.  “And . . . I’m sorry.”

She sniffles.  “Yeah, I know you are,” she says.  “And I’m sorry I kept you waiting for so long.  I just . . . I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s okay,” I say.

“It’s not,” she responds.  “Elijah . . . I don’t think I can do this.  I don’t think I can be with you anymore.”

The words come out of her mouth, and they hurt, but they don’t hurt as much as I thought they would.  Instead the anger and pain give way to emptiness.  Had I admitted it to myself before, I would have known that this is the course life would take.  I had been fooling myself thinking that there would be a chance for redemption.

“Alright,” I manage.

“That’s it?  Just ‘alright’?” she asks uneasily, almost edging into irritation.  “I just dumped you after everything you went through, and that’s all you can say?”

I exhale.  “I guess I’m not surprised, is all,” I say.  “After what you saw with Ilana and me.”

“Elijah, it’s not—ugh, that’s not it,” she says.

I tilt my head.  “What is it then?”

“I could get over you and Ilana, I think.  It’s just, you know we dreamed of a future together and—”

“Wait, is this because I’m blind?” I interrupt.  “Because blind people can have futures, too.”

“Would you just let me talk?” she scolds.  “You’ve changed.  I could see it while you were in the arena, and also in the interviews.  You’re different; you’re not the same person.”

“Neither are you,” I point out.

“Yes, I know that, but . . . I’ve been going over and over in my head how to say this, and nothing ever really made sense,” she mumbles.  “I’m so sorry.”

“Well just say it,” I say a little more sharply than anticipated.

She takes a deep breath.  “Watching you kill those other tributes.  It was . . . I mean, it was really horrifying.  It wasn’t you,” she finally says, pain sharp in her voice.

This entire time I thought she would freak out about Ilana and me, but no, that’s not the part that concerns her.  The thing that she’s struggling with is the fact that I had to murder to get out of the arena alive.  I technically could have survived without Ilana, but you can’t escape the Hunger Games without killing.  The sheer irony of it is so stupid that I laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she demands.

“I thought you were going to be really upset about Ilana.  Like that’s what would draw the line,” I say.  “And then it’s about factors that I really couldn’t control.”

“People cheat in relationships and get over it,” Lucinda says.  “It’s not right, but it’s normal.  What happened to you. . . .”  She doesn’t finish her thought.

“Nothing about the Hunger Games is normal,” I say darkly.  “If that’s what you’re going on, you should have cut your ties to me the moment I was reaped.”

“I already feel like enough of a jerk for doing this, so can you please not be so dramatic?  It’s not helping anything,” she grumbles.

“Sorry if I’m prone to drama when I’m being told that survival is a massive turn-off,” I say.

“You being an asshole about this is a massive turn-off,” she retorts.

Whatever I had imagined for the conversation, it wasn’t this.  Lucinda and I butt heads on occasion, but this . . . I never dreamed that I’d be told that I was no longer desirable because I was alive.

“And anyway, I know you did what you had to do, and I’m glad that you did,” she says.  “It’s not that I would’ve wanted you to have died.”

“Then what is it?”

“When we talked about our future together, I know that you wanted to have kids but. . . . You know, it’s one thing being a victor who has killed, but it’s another when you’ve violently bashed someone’s head in on a rock,” she says quietly.  “I don’t want my kids having a father who has killed people like that.  What sort of childhood would that be knowing that the person who raised you is capable of that brutality?”

I sit there stunned for several seconds, not sure how to even react to that comment.  The pain those few words inflict in me stings so deeply that I can’t even begin to express what’s on my mind.  I struggle to keep myself from dissolving right here and now, promising myself that I only have to hang on for another few minutes.

“Yeah, that would really make parent-teacher conferences difficult,” I snap.  “Or are you more worried that show and tell wouldn’t go over that great?”

“Please don’t be angry,” Lucinda pleads.

“How the hell can I not be angry?” I demand.  “Your basis for not wanting to be with me is that I was forced to murder people and that means I can’t be a good parent.  Shit, Lucinda, really?  If that’s your logic, I don’t want to be with you and this breakup is mutual.”

Lucinda bursts into tears.  I sit stewing in my own silence as I listen to her whimper and hiccup and choke on her own mucous.  In this moment, I hate her.  I hate everything about her because she is doing nothing but playing into the Capitol’s plan to destroy us one Hunger Games at a time.

The worst part—the absolute worst part—is that I wonder if she’s right.  If we have children, there’s no way those kids would have a happy upbringing.  They will live knowing that I am a murderer and every year I’ll have to go back to support the murder pageant where they will watch other kids kill each other and know that I support it; no good parent would willingly raise a child in that environment.  That’s nothing to say of the nightmares or sleepwalking or any of the other unspoken aspects of victory.  The thought that I could have used that hammer in other ways besides hanging pictures on the wall sends chills throughout my entire being.  I’d be a terrible person if I exposed a kid to an unpredictable and violence-prone person like myself; it would be even worse if that were my own child.

Anxiety seizes me and threatens to overwhelm me the longer I stay in this chair.  No longer able to deal with my racing thoughts and Lucinda’s sobbing, I stand up.

“W-where are you going?” she asks.

“Home,” I tell her.

“Please, Elijah,” she places a hand on my wrist.  “I don’t want to leave on bad terms.  Please?”

I pull my hand away from her grasp and am about to step towards the door when I remember what Henry told me.  Lucinda, like everyone else, has suffered.  I hate what it did to her, but I cannot pretend that she is the same person any more than I can say that I am.  So I force myself to sit back down even though I remain poised to leave.

“You have a future with someone, I’m sure,” she says in a manner that is supposed to reassure me but does the exact opposite.  I bristle at her words and contemplate leaving again.  “I don’t want you thinking that I’m saying you don’t have a future.”

“Just not with you,” I say bitterly.

“Do you know how terrifying you were when you jumped out of a bush and killed that District 2 tribute?” she says.  “Eli, that wasn’t the person I knew and loved.”

“I was trying to live, Lucinda,” I say between gritted teeth.  Tears prickle in my eyelids and I blink to keep them back.  “I just wanted to live.”

“I know,” she says.  “And I’m happy you did.  But still, you changed.”

I don’t wipe away the tears that flow down my cheeks.  I draw in a careful, shaky breath.

“At first, I was angry about you and Ilana,” she whispers.  “You looked so comfortable together, I thought you had forgotten me.  And I knew how selfish I was being because you were in a terrible position.  That made it worse for me, and I was only angrier with you.  But then I saw how—how happy Marie was that you were with her friend. . . .

“And then you were blinded.  It wasn’t the blindness that made my decision. . . . It was how much it changed you.  Watching you suffer like that and knowing that you should die but also that I didn’t want you to die, I felt so selfish again because I wanted you to stay alive for me.  And you did live, but then you were so different afterwards that it was like you were just a different person entirely.  The Elijah I knew and loved wouldn’t have brutally killed people like that.  He would have, I don’t know, probably still killed to survive, but it wouldn’t have been like that.  I know that you couldn’t help it, and I know that I’m being dumb by saying this, but I don’t want to be with you if I don’t love you anymore.”

I wipe the tears off my chin and say nothing as I process her words.  She doesn’t love me anymore because I did what I had to do to survive.  It was too much for her; she couldn’t handle it knowing that her boyfriend was so desperate to live after he had been maimed and lay dying for days that he was willing to do anything to get out of there.  And what’s hardest about this is despite all my anger, despite all the pain, I still love her.

“I’m sorry, Elijah,” she says, her voice thick with her own sorrow.

I nod because it’s the only thing I can manage.

Her hand touches my face and she strokes my cheek gently, and for the briefest of seconds, I think that everything is okay.  It’s not, but I still reach up and hold her hand against my cheek before I have to let her go.

When I went into the Hunger Games, I thought of her.  When I escaped, I thought of her.  As I recovered, I thought of her.  It seems like everything I went through the past few weeks was bound together with thoughts of Lucinda: what she was doing, how she was handling this, how angry she’d be at me.  And now I no longer have that rope that ties all the scattered pieces of my world into one coherent package; everything falls apart and tumbles across the ground in a mess of shattered fragments.  The thing that kept me sane and focused vanishes in a breath.

After a minute, she moves her hand away, and my warmth disappears with it.

“I need to go,” she tells me.  She pauses, waiting for me to say something now that she’s been able to get her words out.  But when I don’t respond, she stands.

I want to be a better person than I am and let her go with grace.  But as she walks away, I find myself saying, “Lucinda. . . . I love you.”

She hesitates for a moment before the door opens and closes once more, leaving me alone with thoughts I so desperately want to escape.  I focus on breathing and tell myself that one way or another, everything will be okay.  But it’s a lie, a hollow set of words that serve no purpose.

Chapter Text

We ride back to the house in silence.  Henry doesn’t bother asking me what happened; that is evident enough.  When we get home, the grandparents are gone.  The house is so big that slipping away from my family requires no effort, and I retire to my room before anyone can question what happened.

I turn on the shower as hot as I can stand it and step inside, only realizing afterwards that I hadn’t taken off my clothes.  Undressing seems the most challenging of tasks, but I slowly peel off the wet items and drop them to the side of the shower.

What do I do now?

My world revolved around Lucinda, and now she is no longer there, throwing everything out of order.  I knew that it could happen.  I should have known that it would happen.  How could she love me after I went through the arena?  I am a monster for the things I’ve done.

I wonder how the other victors have managed this, and if their worlds were destroyed by the fallout at home.  Did they come back to find that the things they did caused everyone to view them in such a radically different light that the whole dynamics of their relationships switched?  Did they fall out of favor with the people they held closest?

Time passes, and eventually I have to pull myself out of the shower.  I cannot make the water hot enough to thaw the cold within me, not without burning my skin.  I turn off the water, wrap a towel around myself, and head into the bedroom to find clothes to wear.  My thoughts distract me so much that I can’t figure out a coordinating outfit at first.  Whenever I think I have a shirt that matches whatever pants I have in my hands, I forget what I’m doing and have to start over.  I almost give up entirely and crawl into bed naked, but then I fear that I’ll fall asleep and have a nightmare and some family member will walk in on me.  In my frustration, I pull down several shirts and toss them to the ground, but eventually work out something somewhat coherent.

I pull back the covers and crawl into bed.  No sooner have I squeezed my eyes shut do I hear a knock on the door.

Of course.  Nobody will let me sleep right now.  That will just throw off the sacred schedule.

I head to the door and open it.

“Hey, Elijah,” George says.  “Henry told me what happened.  I know you feel like shit, but do you want to go look for the treasure Grandpa left behind?”

“No,” I answer him and start to close the door.

He sticks his foot in the way.

“Dad says I have to distract you for awhile,” he admits.

“Do I not get any privacy anymore?” I groan.  The entire house knows what happened within ten seconds of me arriving home, it seems, and now I can’t even get a few moments by myself.

I am sick, I want to tell him.  I hurt.  I’m in pain.  Please, let me be.  But I don’t.  I can’t.

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” George says.  “I’ll do all the work if you want.”

“I don’t know where I put my cane,” I admit.  I move back and open the door a little.

George steps inside.  “It’s near the closet.  With a bunch of clothes on the ground that Mom’s going to freak out about if she finds because you’re supposed to be hanging everything up.”

“I’ll deal with that if it comes down to it,” I say to him as I walk in the direction of the closet.  He gives me a few more instructions until I manage to find my cane.  I snatch it up and head with him out of the room and into the hallway, praying that this ‘adventure’ will distract me from the fact that my life is crumbling one piece at a time.

We spend the better part of the next hour in a second-floor bedroom searching around for the gift Grandpa Asher left behind for me.  And by ‘we’ I mean that George does the majority of the work while I sit on a trunk at the foot of the bed and stare off into space thinking about Lucinda.  Occasionally my brother asks me a question, but he has to repeat it several times before he gets an answer out of me because I’m so lost that I can’t draw myself back to the present.

“I’m thinking that if we thoroughly search each room and we get through a few rooms a day, within a couple weeks we’ll know what Grandpa left behind,” George says at one point as he heaves a dresser to the side.  I doubt that our grandfather has the strength to move furniture, so it’s highly unlikely that the gift would be hidden behind anything like that, but I don’t have the energy to protest my brother’s methods.  When I say nothing, George comes over and sits next to me on the trunk.  “Was it that bad?”

“She dumped me because I didn’t kill people in a polite enough manner,” I mutter.

George exhales sharply.  “Geeze,” he says.  “That’s messed up.”

“What’s messed up?” Joule’s voice comes from the doorway.

“Nothing,” George says.  “I thought you have to get ready for school?”

“That’s tomorrow, my last day of freedom,” she says as she walks into the room.  “Can you believe that I have to wake up at 4:30 AM to make it to school on time?”

“Wait, what time does school start?” I ask.

“The normal time,” she says.  “But because we live farther away, we have to wake up ridiculously early.”

An idea comes to me now, and I cling to it tightly, all thoughts of the morning gone.  Because now I see how I can keep Joule, at least, safe from the watchful eye of my former mentor.

“Why don’t you stay at the old house?” I suggest casually.  Like I have no ulterior motive.  Like I’m not playing with her life.

“And not be here with you guys?  Um, no,” she says.

“It would mean that you’d get to sleep in over an hour more,” I tell her.

She sits down on the bed behind me, and I turn a little to face her.

“What’s in it for you?” she asks skeptically.

“Why do you think there’s anything in it for me?” I ask her.  Shit, I hope she’s just being annoying and she really doesn’t suspect that I have a reason to not want her around.  “It was a solution to your problem.  Wake up at 4:30 if you want.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want you annoying him all the time,” George says.

Joule probably sticks her tongue out at him, judging by the momentary silence.  Then she says, “He likes having me around.  Right, Elijah?”

“Yes, of course,” I say.  “But I also know how grumpy you get when you don’t get enough sleep.”

“Hmm, I suppose,” she says.  “I guess I get a teensy bit irritable.  But I get that from you, you know.”

“I’m irritable even when I have a full eight hours,” I remind her.

“Fine, well, I’ll talk to Mom and Dad about it,” she says.  “If you do me a favor.”

I sigh.  “This has something to do with a dog, doesn’t it?” I ask.

She giggles.  “How’d you know?”

I don’t want a dog.  It will be annoying.  I’ll trip over it.  It’ll bark and wake me up in the night after I finally fall asleep.  But I think of how excited Joule gets whenever the topic of the dog comes up; how alive her voice sounds when she mentions all of her plans for the animal.  With all the misery going on around this place, shouldn’t at least one of us have some happiness?

“Joule, would it really make you that happy to have a dog?” I ask her.

“Yes!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together.  “I’ve always wanted one so badly.”

“Even with all the mess and training and stuff?” I ask.

“My friend told me everything I need to know about taking care of him,” she says.  “Her aunt is moving and they can’t take the dog with them, so they need to give him a new home.  He’s already housebroken and he has his shots and he’s been neutered and he knows at least seven tricks.  I say ‘at least’ because that’s all I’ve seen, but supposedly he knows even more.  He’s just the best dog.”

I tap my finger against the trunk beneath me and think for a moment.  This will be a mess.  Likely a disaster.  But I suppose our lives are disasters enough that what does one more complication matter?

“Alright,” I say at last.  “I’ll tell Mom and Dad what a great addition this dog will be for the household.”

“Deal,” she squeaks, barely restraining the excitement.

“No,” I tell her.  “I’m doing it because it’ll make you happy, not as part of a bargain.”

She throws her arms around me and squeezes.  “Thank you, Elijah!” she says.

“You’re welcome,” I say, hugging her back.  “But remember that Mom and Dad haven’t approved him yet.”

Joule lets go and sits back.  She’s quiet for a moment.  Then she says, “Elijah?”

“Yeah?”

“You know that this is your house, right?” she says.  “You’re the one who won the Hunger Games, not Mom and Dad.”

Now it’s my turn to be quiet.  I had never thought of it quite like that.  I know that it’s my place and some day or another Mom and Dad will move out on their own, maybe after George and Joule grow up a bit and find their own places, but I hadn’t considered it in much detail.  I suppose since Lucinda won’t be part of my future, I don’t have to wonder about how the logistics would work if we got married in the next year or two like we had planned.

Suddenly a foreign noise reverberates through the house, a bong! coming from deep within the building’s core.  I jump to my feet and grab the cane defensively as though that will somehow protect us.

“It’s just the doorbell,” George says to me.

“A rather menacing noise,” I mutter.

“It’s good if you don’t want the guests to come, then it’s more of a warning,” Joule says lightly as she stands up and heads towards the door.

I follow after her, with George right behind me.  The three of us walk towards the top of the stairs and pause.  I hold my breath as I listen, wondering whether this is friend or foe.  From down below, I hear my mother’s voice as she pleasantly greets the person at the door.

“Hi there, Marie.  Yes, he’s right here,” she says.  “Elijah?”

“Yeah?” I say.

“Marie’s here to see you,” she says.

What would Marie want with me?

“Say hi for me,” George whispers.

I descend the stairs carefully, one hand on the rail so that I won’t trip and fall in my confusion.  When at last I reach the entryway, I hear Marie say, “Hey, Elijah.  Can I bother you for a second?”

“Sure,” I say.

She clears her throat, and I realize that she wants a bit of privacy from the rest of the family.  I excuse myself and step outside onto the front porch with her.

“Do you want to come in?” I ask before I close the door.

“No,” she says.  “I’ve only come to return your sweatshirt for my sister.”

I feel the prying eyes of my family members, so I close the door.

“I’m sorry about Lucinda,” she says.  “She obviously has not been doing well.”

“Yeah, sounds like you guys had quite the household,” I say to her.  “Thank you for taking care of my brothers and sister, by the way.  Probably wasn’t easy adding more to the chaos.”

“No, they were just fine,” she says.  “It was nice having them around.”

“I think George likes you,” I say.  “But don’t tell him I said that.”

She laughs.  “Yeah, I think so,” she says.  “That’s okay.  He’s a good kid.”

“How are you holding up?” I ask, turning the conversation onto a more serious track.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” she says.

I shrug.  “You weren’t doing so well yesterday.  I was just worried. . . .”

“Some days are better than others,” she admits.  “It’s . . . hard.  Yeah, it’s hard.  Don’t get me wrong, Elijah, I like you.  But I miss Ilana.”

“I miss her, too,” I say.  “I get it.”

Neither of us speaks for a second.  I’m sure that Marie, like me, now returns to thoughts of her best friend.  Of Ilana in the arena.  Of Ilana’s final moments.  No matter how hard I try to imagine her whole and happy again as I had known her for years, my mind always returns to her death.  Images of her broken neck.  Thoughts of her final few seconds.

“So, um, I wanted to return your sweatshirt,” Marie says, her voice heavier.  “It was in Lucinda and my room, and I didn’t think you’d be seeing her in the near future, but I figured you’d want it back anyhow.”

“I didn’t realize I’d left anything over there,” I say.  I reach out and she places the folded sweatshirt in my hand.  My fingers close around the fabric.  Lucinda’s parents have a strict ‘no boys in the room with closed doors’ policy in place, though sometimes we fudged it a bit if Marie was our ‘chaperone’ so to speak.  Her parents weren’t psycho strict, but I never wanted to cause any problems with them.  Leaving behind articles of clothing, even one as innocuous as a sweatshirt, would only draw attention I didn’t want.  Maybe Lucinda had stolen it from my closet at some point.  My parents were a little less uptight, and they never minded much if Lucinda was in my room.  Then again, I also shared a room with George, so I could pretty much never be guaranteed any privacy.

“I’ll see you around,” Marie says.

“You sure you don’t want to come in?” I ask.  “At least have something to drink, or take a tour, or whatever?”

“No, thank you,” she says kindly.  “Maybe next time.”

“Alright.  Well, thanks for the sweatshirt,” I say.

She bids me goodbye and heads across the porch and down the steps.  I turn and open the door.  Once inside with the door closed, I pause and run my fingers over the sweatshirt.

That was nice of her to return it to me.  I don’t suppose it really matters whether I have a sweatshirt whose design I cannot see, but the thought was nice.

“What did she want?” George asks.

“To return this,” I say.  I run my fingers over the front in an effort to figure out which one it is.  “Though I don’t remember ever leaving it over there.”

“Oh, that’s because it’s Henry’s,” says my little brother.

Chapter Text

“I’ll give it back to him when he gets home,” I say as I follow George and Joule back up the stairs.  “Hang on while I go put this in my room so I won’t forget where I set it down and never find it again.”

I absently knead the fabric in my hand as I walk.  My siblings spent more time over at Lucinda’s house than I thought they did; they must’ve made themselves quite comfortable.  I wonder if Lucinda took this sweatshirt thinking it was mine, or if she had picked it up after Henry had left and Marie mistook it as something I’d left behind.

“Is Marie doing okay?” George asks me as we head down the hallway.

“I think all things considered, she is,” I answer.

“I miss her, and their mom’s cooking,” my brother says.  “I don’t miss having to watch the Hunger Games or the interviews or whatever, but I miss spending time at their house.”

“It’s nice to have Mom and Dad functional again,” Joule says.  “Though that food was pretty tasty.”

“You guys spent a lot of time over there, huh?” I ask.

We reach my bedroom, and I open the door and walk over towards the bed.  No, if I set it on the bed itself, I’ll probably accidentally bury it with blankets when I go to sleep.  (Admittedly, I never made the bed this morning since I had left it in the middle of the night to sleep in the sun room.)  So I find the dresser on the opposite side of the room, re-fold the sweatshirt, and set it down.

“Yeah,” George says.  “It was weird going over there at first, but now it’s weird not being there at all.”

“Mrs. Ampere taught me some cool recipes that I’ll have to make at some point in time when I feel like it,” Joule says.

“Geeze, you were over there that much that she really taught you how to bake?” I ask as I turn back around to face them.

“Well, sometimes we’d be watching the Hunger Games, but I hated when everybody left me alone in front of the television,” she sighs.  “So I’d go find Mrs. Ampere in the kitchen and watch her, and then she started teaching me things.”

I frown.  “Why did everybody leave you?”

“I dunno, I guess nobody wanted to watch it anymore, at least on the main TV,” she says.  “Anyway, she makes a mean cake, so I hope you guys like dessert.”

Something isn’t right about this.  Leaning back against the dresser, I focus hard on what they’re saying, trying to weed out their words from my thoughts.

“I didn’t mean to ditch you, Joule,” George says.  “I was in the garage watching on the little TV they have there.  I didn’t realize you were alone.”

“Where was Henry?” I ask.  “I thought he was watching it with you?”

“Yeah, sometimes.  Then sometimes he’d go watch it upstairs with Lucinda on her TV,” she says as she plops down in the desk chair.  The wheels squeak as she pushes off and begins to shuffle around.  “You know, when Lucinda couldn’t watch with the rest of us because she was so upset.”

Hence the sweatshirt.  So it was his, and he had left it in her bedroom.  I don’t know why, but the thought irritates me more than I want to admit.

“Was that often?” I ask, carefully probing for more information so I can understand whether the uneasiness within me is warranted.

“I don’t know,” George says.  “I was in the garage.”

“Kind of.  Like not often at first, but then a little more when Lucinda was going crazy,” Joule says.

Why does this not make sense?  Why does my throat tighten with dread?  Certainly people can spend time together without it meaning anything more serious.

“Oh.  Well, I’m glad that Mrs. Ampere let you help her in the kitchen,” I manage.  “I’ll make sure to give Henry his sweatshirt back whenever he gets back from . . . wherever he is.”

“He’s probably working on the vegetable garden with their dad,” George says.  “Mr. Ampere, I mean.  That’s where he’s been the past week or so.”

I stop.  The vegetable garden?  The one that their dad just showed Henry today?  Everything starts clicking together.  Falling into place.  But the pieces are disjointed and chaotic, and none of them really make sense, like a puzzle that’s being put together all wrong.  The little pieces all fit, but the image is nonsensical.

“Henry has been helping with their garden for the past week?” I ask cautiously.

“Yeah,” he says.  “It’s a lot of work.”

“He told us not to tell you because he didn’t want you to be upset that he was going over there without you,” Joule adds.

Anger flashes through me, a sudden and unrelenting surge.  I know I’m getting ahead of myself; I know that I can’t assume something about my older brother who has always looked out for me throughout the years.  But the numbness I’ve felt since leaving their house this morning is eaten away by an anger I barely control.

“My head is starting to hurt,” I say hoarsely.  “I think I need to hang out in here for a bit.  I’ll be back to help you hunt around as soon as I feel better.”

“Aww, man,” says Joule.  “We were just getting started.”

“Do you need anything?” George asks.

“Nah, I’ll be fine.  I’ll just lay down for a few minutes,” I tell him.  I walk them to the door to make sure that they leave promptly before I can’t contain myself anymore.  They get the hint and scurry into the hallway.

Once the door is closed, I pace back and forth across my bedroom.  I kick aside the clothes from this morning which now lie on the ground in my path.

Henry spent time watching the Hunger Games with Lucinda.  By themselves.  In a room away from the rest of the family, something that was always forbidden.  But, given the circumstances, nobody cared.  It was his sweatshirt in Lucinda’s room, not mine.

Surely there’s an explanation.  Surely he just went up there to keep her company.  I’m being unreasonable.

Then why does he keep going back?  And what’s with the garden?

As uncertain as I am about everything, I know one thing without doubt: Henry has not been working on the garden for a week.  He has not been working on the garden at all.  Mr. Ampere only showed it to him today.

Why has he been lying?

There’s a logical explanation to this all.  When Henry comes home, I’ll give him back his sweatshirt and figure out what’s up.

For the next several minutes, I pace the room, thinking about nothing except the sweatshirt.  Then, from down the hallway, I hear my older brother.  I strain to listen to his words, but can’t make them out.  Grabbing the sweatshirt off the desk, I head into the hallway just in time to hear his bedroom door close.

It takes a minute to locate his door.  I knock firmly.  “Hey, Henry?  Can I come in?”

The door opens.  “Yeah.  What’s up?”

I step inside, nearly walking right into him.  He moves aside just in time.  I’d apologize, but my mind is in an entirely different place.  I stand with my back against the wall and his dresser to my side, not wanting to go further into unknown territory.

“Here’s your sweatshirt,” I say, holding out the offensive item.

“Oh, great!  I’ve been looking for this,” he says as he takes it from me.  “Thanks.”

I can’t answer him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Marie came by and dropped it off,” I say.  “She thought it was mine.”

“I must’ve left it over there when we went over yesterday,” he says.

He wore a sweatshirt in the middle of a summer day?  No way.  The nights can get a little chilly every now and again, but not the middle of the day.  I clench my teeth and control myself just barely.

“She found it in her bedroom,” I add.

“Hmm,” Henry acknowledges.

I tap my finger against my cane as I think.  How can I get information out of him?  How can I tell if this was an honest error or if it was something more insidious?  Henry’s my older brother; we don’t always agree on things, but I have always assumed that he’d never want to hurt me.  I can’t go about accusing him of things that likely aren’t true no matter what conclusions I jump to.

“How’s the vegetable garden going?” I ask him.

“What’s this about, Elijah?” he asks cautiously.  The atmosphere between us changes; suddenly he’s on edge.  Guarded.  Yes, there is more to this; I am not being paranoid.

“George and Joule told me that you’ve been working on it for the past week,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says.  “And?”

“And I’m also pretty sure that Mr. Ampere just showed it to you today,” I tell him.  “When I was talking with Lucinda?”

Henry doesn’t say anything for a moment.  I hear him draw in a breath.  “Well, he wanted to show me the progress.”

“He wanted to show you the progress on a garden that you had been working on over the past week?” I ask skeptically.  “Did the vegetables magically grow overnight?”

“What do you want me to say, Elijah?” he asks with irritation.

I lick my lips and try to phrase this carefully.  If I lose my temper, he’ll never tell me anything.  But instead of a tactful question, I say, “I want to know how much time you’re spending over there, and how much of it is with Lucinda.”

Henry doesn’t answer which is enough to tell me that I’m on the right track, so I continue, “You’ve been hanging out with my girlfriend without telling me?”

She is my ex-girlfriend, I remind myself.  She dumped me.  But she wasn’t my ex until a couple hours ago; before that, we were still together.  When Henry left this sweatshirt over there, Lucinda was still my girlfriend.

“I thought it would upset you,” he says.

“Yeah, no shit it upsets me,” I snap.  I adjust my stance and stand up straighter.

“We’d go over to their house to watch the Hunger Games,” he tells me in what I think it supposed to be a reassuring tone but edges into uncertainty.  “What’s the problem with that?”

“You’d just watch the Hunger Games?  That’s all?” I prod.

“Yes, of course,” Henry says.

“Did you leave the door open, or were her parents not enforcing that rule?” I dare him.

“Elijah,” he says warningly.

“How close did you get to her exactly while you watched?  Her television isn’t that big,” I continue.  “We normally didn’t bother with it because it was too small to see much unless you sat really close to it . . . and close to each other.  But even then the picture is grainy.  The bigger television downstairs was better.”

My brother doesn’t answer.

“Or were you not even watching?” I taunt.  “Was there something else more important?”

“Get out of my room,” says my brother coldly.  “Go back to your own room and take a few minutes.  We can talk about this when you’re calmer.”

“You have been watching out for Lucinda this entire time, haven’t you?  You don’t care about me; you’ve been putting her needs before mine,” I say.  “Making me feel like shit because you had to protect her.  That’s why I had to give her an infinite amount time to contact me, while I wallowed in misery.”

My brother comes into my space now.  I feel his breath on me, and I know he’s going to try to shove me out of his room.  That worked before, when things were different.  He’s taller than me and stronger, but after what I’ve experienced, I know that it doesn’t always matter.  I hold my ground.

“You knew she was going to break up with me,” I continue.  “You knew that she didn’t want to be with me.  Of course she wanted ‘nothing’ to do with me—not when she had you.  You didn’t change like I did.  You didn’t murder people like I did.  You have a better future ahead of you than I do.”

He grabs onto my arm.  “You need to calm down,” he says.

“Why do you want me to be calm?” I ask as I shake his hand off my arm.  “The calm is what you should fear.”

He doesn’t respond to this.  There is no response.  Nothing he can say will make things any different than they are, and he cannot go back and change the past no matter how much he wants to.  If he wants to, that is.

“Tell me what you’re hiding, Henry,” I say.  “Then I’ll leave.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” he says, but the lie is palpable.

“Stop telling me bullshit,” I order.  I allow the anger to fill up inside me, to drive me forward.  “I’ll find out one way or another.”

“Elijah, this is not appropriate,” he tries.

“What I’m saying is not appropriate?  You left Joule by herself to watch the Hunger Games.  You left our twelve-year-old sister to suffer through that by herself!  That’s not appropriate!” I snap.  “Why did you leave her on her own?  You were supposed to take care of her!”

“Alright, fine!  I was watching the Hunger Games with Lucinda,” he yells.  “I couldn’t take it anymore.  I couldn’t stand watching it with everyone else.  I didn’t mean to abandon Joule, but I couldn’t handle her.  I couldn’t handle George.  I could barely handle myself, and I was expected to watch out for them, too.  I couldn’t be the perfect big brother, okay?”

“So you went to Lucinda?”

“Yes, I went to her,” he admits.  “She wasn’t begging me to tell her that you would live like the others were.  She wasn’t clinging to me and asking a million questions, like the others.  She was upset, but she didn’t expect anything from me.  And . . . I’m sorry, Elijah.”

“I don’t suppose you were casually watching the Hunger Games with her,” I say quietly.

“No, I wasn’t,” he admits.  “At first yes.  But then. . . .  Things became more stressful and. . . .”

I brace myself for whatever comes next.  Can I really judge when I was so close with Ilana?  I sought comfort in my district partner well beyond what was normal for two tributes.  Granted, what I was going through was a touch more traumatic than whatever the viewers at home experienced, no matter what Henry tries to get me to believe.  But, for the sake of my brother, I will hear him out.

“Both of us were miserable, and . . . she understood.  We became closer than we expected, I guess.  I swear to you, though, I only had sex with her once,” Henry says.

I blink.  “Um, what?” I demand, all possible sympathy gone.  “You ‘only’ had sex with her once?  She was my girlfriend!  You’re not supposed to have sex with her at all!”

“I know.  I’m sorry!” he hisses.  “I told you, things were stressful and—”

“Things were so stressful that you had sex with my girlfriend?!  I haven’t even had sex with her!”

“I’m sorry, Elijah!” he yells.  “It was a mistake, I know, but—”

“You fucked her, you knew it was a mistake, and then you kept going back to her house while lying about it?!  That was no mistake!” I snarl.  “Did you at least wait until I was nearly dead, or did you make your moves as soon as my train left the station?”

“Shit, Elijah, really!  I’m sorry,” he pleads.  And he does sound sorry.  But I don’t care.  Henry took from me what I loved most; he destroyed me just as much as the Hunger Games destroyed me.

“Answer me!” I yell, slamming my fist against the dresser next to me.

“It was after you won,” he answers quietly.

I fall silent.  They knew that I was coming home and they didn’t care.  This wasn’t when they thought there was no hope for my survival and they had to make their futures without me.  Was it while I was in the hospital being pieced back together?  Or maybe during one of the interviews struggling to keep from falling apart?  Maybe it was when I was being forced to have sex with a woman nearly twenty years my senior.  What part of my misery did they decide to take advantage of?  No, I don’t want to know.  I don’t want to think about this anymore.  I focus on breathing, on keeping my heartbeat even.

But in the stillness of the moment, I break.

Without warning, I tackle Henry and pin him to the floor.  The anger and pain and hatred course through me, and I will take it out on him.  He kicks me off, and my back catches the edge of the dresser, but it doesn’t slow me down.  Once more I am on my brother, but this time my hands press against his throat and my fingers squeeze.  He gasps for breath, gagging something that may possibly be words.

Suddenly the bedroom door flies open.

“What the hell is going on here?  Get off him!” Dad yells out.  He grabs onto me and pulls me off of Henry.

I hear voices, breathing, footsteps.  My entire family ran to the sound of shouting and chaos.

Dad holds me back, his arms wrapped around me and his stance steady.  I thrash against him knowing that I can overthrow him if I want to.  But I don’t.  I can’t.  I pant heavily and strain against his hold, but as much as I want the squeeze the life out of my brother, I can’t make myself do it.

“Is he okay?” Joule asks, tears in her voice.  “Henry?  Henry!”

“He’s still alive,” comes Mom’s voice.  “George?  Call an ambulance.  Watt, get him out of here.”

Dad drags me away into the hall.  I hear my mom pleading with Henry to make sure that he stays conscious, but all I can focus on is the anger that still pulses through me.  It diminished somewhat, but it’s still raw and fresh as I think about what happened in District 5 while I was being ripped apart in the Capitol.

“Let me go!” I shout, twisting around in his grasp.

“What the hell were you doing?!” Dad demands.  He tightens his grip on me, holding me against him so I can’t get leverage and push him away.  “You almost killed your brother!”

“He fucked my girlfriend,” I seethe still putting up a half-hearted struggle.  “He knew that I was going to come home but he fucked her anyway.”

Still holding onto me to make sure that I don’t change my mind and try to finish the job, Dad hauls me towards my room.

“I don’t care what he did,” he says.  “You NEVER do that again.”

I finally wrench away from him, but he grabs my arm.  His fingers burn through my sleeve.

“Stay in your room,” he orders me.  He gives me a final push, and then the door closes firmly behind him.  I stand there for a moment trying to regain control of myself.  From somewhere on the other side of the door, I hear my father say, “No, George, you stay away from there.  He needs to cool off.  Go call the ambulance.”

I feel my chest constrict and my lungs shrivel.  Once more, I cannot get air into my lungs.  I gasp for breath and stagger towards the bathroom where I collapse onto the tiles.  I try to tell myself I can breathe, just as Pitch had tried to tell me, but it feels for all the world that I am suffocating and will never again fill my lungs with air.

I press my palm into the tile.  The cold seeps from the floor into my hand.

I lean against the wall and encourage myself to take deeper breaths.  My breathing begins to even out when bits of conversation with Lucinda flash through my mind, and then suddenly I become lightheaded.  I gasp for breath and again coax myself to inhale deeper and steadier.

When I finally have control over my breathing, I sit there trembling for several more minutes.  Then, at last, I hoist myself up and wash my face in the sink.

I retreat to my bed where I throw myself onto the mattress and pull the blankets up around me.  The weight doesn’t give me any additional comfort, and the cool cotton doesn’t relieve the burning within me.

Chapter Text

Nobody comes to get me for dinner which that doesn’t surprise me.  When the ambulance took Henry away, one of our cars went with him.  I don’t know who it was, nor do I know how many people were in it.  For all I know, I’m alone in the mansion.  I won’t take that risk for fear that one of my parents are strolling around, waiting for me to show my face.

I’m not hungry anyhow.

Eventually I fall into a fitful sleep, only to wake hours later groggy and disoriented.  For a few seconds, I don’t know where I am, and then the memory of what happened floods back into me.

I tried to kill my brother.  My older brother.

If Dad hadn’t intervened. . . .

Or maybe I did kill him, but he didn’t die until the ambulance took him away.

I push myself out of bed and stagger towards the door.  But when I twist the handle, the door doesn’t open.  I hesitate for a second, then try again.

Somebody locked me in my room.  What the hell is going on?  I rattle the doorknob just in case I’m grossly mistaken, but nothing happens.  I feel around for a lock because this is a bedroom and I should be able to lock it from the inside, not the outside; yet turning the lock does nothing.

I try the window on the other side of the bedroom.  It creaks open, and a cool summer breeze floats in.  But despite this, I’m still just as trapped as I was moments ago.  No amount of open windows will free me when I don’t even know what’s beneath me.

“Elijah?” comes a hushed voice from the other side of the door.  I turn around and head back across the room.

“George?  Is that you?” I ask.  I press myself against the door to hear him better as he lowers his voice.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says.  “There’s some dinner on your desk.”

“Can you unlock the door?” I ask him.

“Dad has the key,” he replies.

“Can you get it from him?” I ask knowing that he can’t.  Because if he could have, he would have done it already.

“Sorry,” he answers.

“What’s going on?” I ask.  “Is Henry okay?”

I hear him slump against the door.  “Yeah, he’s fine.  They took him to the hospital just to monitor him,” George says.  “Mom and Joule are with him now.”

He’s alive.  I didn’t kill him.  I tried to kill him, but I wasn’t successful.  I let out a breath.  My legs shake, and I lower myself to the ground before they give out from underneath me.  Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean my shoulder against the door.

“Alright,” I manage.

“Um, just so you know, but Mom and Dad don’t want Joule and me here.  They’re talking about sending us away to Grandma and Grandpa Harper’s,” he says quietly.  “I think Dad would ground me for a million years if he knew I was up here right now.”

My stomach aches.  I’d never want to hurt George and Joule.  Never.  The thought that our parents would want to separate us because they feared me only makes me feel more wretched.  Maybe Lucinda was right; maybe I am some sort of otherworldly beast.

“Are you guys okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” George replies.  “Is it true what you said?  About Henry and Lucinda?”

“Unfortunately,” I answer.

He’s quiet a moment.  Then he says, “I’m sorry, Elijah.  I probably should have been paying more attention.  If I had known, I could have—”

“Hey, it’s not your fault.  I didn’t expect it either,” I reassure him.  It was the responsibility of my older brother to watch George, not the other way around.  The fact that George thinks that he should have done something about it shoots anger through me, but it quickly dies away before it can take root.

“Shoot, I think I hear Dad,” George says hurriedly.  “Next to the plate with your food are a couple of sleeping pills.  Harmony gave them to me; I think you need them now.”

“Sure, thanks,” I say, but instead of an answer, I only hear his retreating footsteps.

This is real.  My parents see me as a threat, and they have locked me away to make sure that I can’t do any more harm.  And my little siblings, too, are being punished for what I’ve done.  I slowly make my way over to the desk and feel around until my fingers touch the edge of the plate.

As George said, there are three pills next to the plate of food.  I don’t bother to check what they gave me for dinner, but I pick up the pills in my hand.  I turn the little oblong capsules over in my fingers.  I am at the mercy of others to tell me what these pills in my palm are.  How many I should take at once, I don’t know.  But, I figure, the worst it can do is kill me.  I swallow them back and crawl back into bed.

If I wondered what all of the rooms in the house were for, I know now.  They make great places to interrogate your child when he almost kills his brother for sleeping with his girlfriend.  Mom and Dad insist I make myself comfortable on the couch of this second-floor sitting room, but I only perch there on the edge of the cushion waiting for whatever lecture they have in store.  I’m sure it’s something they’re going to have to wing; it’s not like they ever expected to have this sort of discussion with any of their kids.

Dad clears his throat.

“Henry has been discharged from the hospital and will be staying with a friend for the next day,” he begins.

“You mean with Lucinda,” I interrupt, venom already bubbling in my words.

He sighs.  “It doesn’t matter which friend; I wanted you to know that he’s doing okay,” he says.  “I know you’re angry at him, but I’m sure you’re concerned for his wellbeing.”

Maybe.  Maybe not.  I keep my mouth shut because I know that I’m in enough trouble as it is.

“We don’t think that what your brother did was right,” Mom picks up.  “But we understand that this has been a stressful time for all of us and we all made decisions that we regret.”

Such a cop-out answer.  But what can I expect from people who abandoned their kids in the worst part of their lives?

“He doesn’t regret it,” I say.

“That’s for your brother to decide,” she tells me.  No, if he regretted it, he wouldn’t keep returning to her.

“We know that what you’ve been through is something that none of us can fully understand, no matter how much we want to,” Dad intervenes before I can protest my mother’s logic.  “And I think we didn’t take certain things into consideration when we moved here.  This house was re-done to accommodate your blindness, but none of us were prepared for . . . other aspects of your return.”

“Elijah, George and Joule are staying with my parents right now,” Mom continues.  “We think that it’s in their best interest until things get sorted out.”

“You don’t trust me around them,” I say.  I swallow hard.

Mom hesitates.  “We are concerned that between the sleepwalking and the sudden emotional outbursts you may need a little more space,” she says.

“Did you consider that my ‘emotional outburst’ was for a damned good reason?” I challenge.  I press my palm against the armrest and try to control myself.

“The reason doesn’t matter,” Dad tells me.  “You can be mad at your brother, but trying to kill him is another thing entirely.  Both Joule and George are, well, they’re scared of you right now.  We don’t want them to be, as I’m sure you don’t, so we need to handle things differently.”

“We are getting them both in to see a psychiatrist within the next few days,” Mom says.  “Joule was telling me that you talked with her about moving back into the other house, and I think that, given the circumstances, it would be the best thing for her.  Dad or I are going to stay with her and George at the old house starting tomorrow night to get them situated; one of us will be spending the night there and the other will be spending it here.”

I’m tearing apart the family.  Stretching them out and placing pressure on them that they can’t handle.  Soon the entire family dynamics will rip to shreds.  Because of me.  My parents almost got divorced once, so who knows what will come of this?  This time, it’s my fault.

“And what about Henry?” I ask cautiously.  “Is he still going to be spending time with his ‘friend’?”

“No, Henry will come back here tomorrow night,” he says.  “He will stay here with whichever of us isn’t at the other house.”

I swallow back my initial reaction to baulk at this.  Henry can go to the other house; in fact, I’d prefer it.  Send the other two back here, but keep Henry away.  But I remember that keeping George and Joule safe from Solar takes precedence over anything else, and I accept that this is how it must be.

“You also haven’t been staying on your routine, which Harmony says is critical to your recovery,” Mom says.  “So we will have a stricter schedule for you around here.”

Great.  I’ll be monitored every moment of the day.  She’ll treat me like a damned child, telling me to pick up my clothes and brush my teeth and whatever else she thinks is ‘best’ for me, even when I’m capable of initiating these tasks myself.

“So what’s happening to Henry?  I’m being monitored every waking second, so what’s his punishment?” I ask.

“Son, Henry didn’t try to kill anyone,” Dad says.

“Didn’t try to kill anyone?  I already have killed people,” I spit.  “Are you going to punish me for the three I already killed?!  Or, no, that was ‘entertainment’ and murder doesn’t matter.”

“Elijah, take a deep breath,” Dad says.  “You need to calm down.”

Would people stop telling me to calm down?!

“That’s it then?” I demand.  “He gets to go free, and I’m punished?  What the fuck?”

“That’s enough,” Dad raises his voice.  “Don’t you dare use that tone or that language with your mother or me again.”

“Fine,” I snap.  “What tone would be better to use when I’m getting such a bullshit lecture?”

“Elijah, if you don’t calm down, we will send you back to your room,” he warns.

Such crap.  There’s no way he can get me back to my room, not when I can overpower him.  But still, I don’t want to deal with that mess.  I’m angry, but I’m not belligerent.  I sit there and seethe for a couple minute as Mom and Dad wait until I ‘calm down.’

“Now, we’re going to go listen to some audiobooks until lunch,” he says after he thinks I’ve gotten control of myself.  “Anything else you’d like to discuss before we do that?”

Now or never.  I sit up straight.

“Yes.  I want a dog,” I say.

“It’s not a really good time to introduce a pet into the situation,” Mom says reluctantly.  She doesn’t want to tell me no (is she afraid of what I might do?) but she does not want to add more to the problem.

“This is my house, and I want a dog,” I say firmly.  “The one Joule’s friend has.”

Mom and Dad are stunned into silence.  Because, as I know now, I am technically correct.  But they also know that I do not normally talk to them like this.  Part of me wants to apologize immediately after the words leave my mouth, but I won’t.  Not after they just gave me a lecture like that, took away my younger siblings, and decided that they will control every waking minute of my life while my brother faces no reprimands.  I clench my jaw and wait for one of them to protest.

But neither of them do.

“Are you sure?” Dad asks.  “A dog is a lot of work.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” I tell him even though I dread the prospect of having to deal with an animal when I can’t even deal with myself.  But I don’t back down.

“Okay, we’ll have Joule get in touch with her friend,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say.

Nobody moves for several long seconds, and I can hear that they want to say something else.  But neither of them speak.  Instead Dad stands up.

“I’ll go get the audiobooks,” he tells me.  He leaves the room.

“Elijah, honey,” Mom starts in when his footsteps fade down the hallway.

“I don’t want to hear it,” I say to her.

“Elijah, you’re still my child.  I don’t care what house we’re in or how mad you are at us,” she says sternly.  She inhales, then continues more gently, “Can you please try to forgive your brother?  If not for his sake, then at least for your own?”

That wouldn’t be forgiveness, I want to tell her.  I don’t say it, though.  I’m too tired to argue with her or with Dad.  Instead the only promise I can give is, “I’ll think about it.”

Dad comes back with an audiobook of some classic I had to read a couple years ago in literature class.  It’s boring, but it’s ‘safe.’  Harmony must have shied away from books that would remind me too much of the arena, and thus nixed everything remotely interesting.  ‘Ah, shit,’ he must’ve said to himself as he went through the audiobook library.  ‘This book mentions trees.  No way this’ll be good for him.’

I lay down on the couch and pretend to listen, but my mind drifts off to other things when I can no longer focus on the plot.  I know I have to contain my anger.  I can’t make it go away, but I need to be able to contain it so that I don’t try to kill people, no matter how deserving they are.  Controlling myself despite the hatred must be a skill one has to learn.

We take a break briefly for lunch, and then it’s back to the audiobook until they decide that it would be nice to take a drive.  So I climb in the back seat of the car and let them drive me around town for a couple hours until we need to return for dinner.

Chapter Text

They lock me in at night again.  This is how it’s going to be, I realize as I test the handle after my shower.  They do not trust me, and they don’t know how to deal with me, so they lock me away like a beast.  With nothing to keep me occupied, I open the bedroom window and sit quietly in a chair to feel the cool evening breeze on my face.  It soothes the pain within me, if only just a little.

When at last exhaustion weighs down my eyelids, I climb into bed and pull the blanket over my head.  The longer I lay in this silence, the more awake I become.  I contemplate getting up and banging on the bedroom door until somebody comes and lets me out, but before I can seriously consider it, I hear a noise at my window.  My body tenses, and I wait for whatever it is to leave.  But once I hear the sound of footsteps, I know that no matter how bad things seem, they’re about to get worse.

The bed sinks slightly as Solar lowers herself onto the mattress.  She pulls away the blanket covering my head.

“Having trouble sleeping?” she asks as she lays down, her head on the pillow next to mine.

“If my parents find you here. . . .” I start.

She laughs.  “Yeah, I’ll be in trouble,” she says.  “You’re so spineless.  Did you teach your little sister that she needs to go to her big brother whenever she’s scared?  Is that what you do?”

The only thing that keeps me from lashing at her is the fact that if I seriously hurt her, I don’t want to explain to anyone what she was doing in my bed of all places.  I clench the blanket in my fists and don’t answer her no matter how much I’d like to send her to the hospital with Henry.  Or better yet, to the morgue.

“I’m upsetting you,” she notices.  “I shouldn’t be surprised; you get upset very easily.”

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

“I saw the ambulance yesterday,” she says.  “I was worried it might have been you who was taken away, but then I saw you in your window.  Curiosity got the better of me.  Who was it?”

“My brother, Henry,” I answer.

“Hmm,” she says.  She contemplates the situation.  “What did you do to him?”

“Why do you think that I did anything?” I growl.

“It’s hard being a new victor,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.  I suppress the urge to move away from her because I know it’ll only give her satisfaction.  “Though you’ll find some way or another to deal with your pain.  What will it be?  Drugs?  Alcohol?”

“Pushing my former mentor out the window because she refuses to leave me alone?” I suggest.

She grins as she says, “Would that make you happy?”

“Absolutely,” I reply.

“Of course it would.  But you never told me what you did to your brother,” she says.  “Don’t deny it: you must’ve done something to cause your parents to pack up your little brother and sister like that.  And they looked dreadfully upset. . . .”

“Fuck you, Solar,” I say.

“You can, if you want,” she says.  “But I’d rather we just talk tonight if that’s okay with you.”

My stomach lurches.  Wretched woman.

“Do you want to know how I handled the situation?” she asks.

“No, actually, I don’t,” I tell her.  I want her to leave.  It was bad enough when she’d come into my room at the hotel, but this is my bedroom.  It’s supposed to be a place where I’m comfortable.  But no, even that has been taken from me.

She moves in close to me so that her lips are mere inches from my ear.  “I had to pay off my own debts with so many different people,” she says.  “Some of them are still collecting to this day.  Of course, I incur new debt all the time.  That’s the way this all works.”

My heart thumps.  If she holds me accountable for the cyanide for the rest of my life, I won’t be able to take it.  Not if she dangles George and Joule’s lives above my head the entire time.  I clench my jaw and try not to let her see how much she upsets me, but she only sighs and puts a finger against my jugular, feeling how it pulses with anger and fear.

“Whatever you do, don’t get in over your head,” she says to me.  “Whatever vice you choose, make sure that you don’t buy it on credit.  It’s not a life you want to lead.”

“Thanks for sharing that uplifting bit of wisdom with me,” I reply evenly.

“Hmm.  What sort of mentor would I be if I didn’t try to guide you?” she asks.

“Guide me?  Yeah, only if you’re guiding me straight to the fires of hell,” I mutter.

She snorts and withdraws her finger from my neck.

“Ahh, yes, I remember what I wanted to tell you,” she says suddenly switching the topic.  “You remember our conversation the other day?  About how you’re supposed to get your family into the house faster?  You seem to have thrown out that advice.  You ought to reconsider.”

“Solar, why the hell would I do anything you want me to do when historically all of your advice has been self-centered at best?” I ask.

“Because I’m not the one making it,” she replies cryptically.

“Sure, whatever,” I say.

“You’re a fool, Elijah,” she says.

“Only if I listen to you,” I retort.

She sighs and sits up.  “This is a nice bed,” she says as she presses down on the mattress.  “Maybe I’ll have to come over here more often.”

My body tenses.  Solar must see it because she says, “I’ll tell you what.  I won’t come through your window; I’ll use the front door next time, but only if you agree to see me.  If you don’t, then you can expect more visits like this.”  She doesn’t wait for my response before she stands up and walks over towards the window.  I hear her swing herself over the sill, and then she’s gone, taking with her whatever bit of sleep I’d hope to have tonight.

Instead I lay in bed, no longer able to escape my own brain.  Other people will now know that I had hurt Henry because there’s no way Solar will keep that to herself, just as I’m sure she will not keep her ‘promise’ to not come in through my bedroom window again.

In the matter of 48 hours, my entire world has been destroyed.  I’ve lost Lucinda, I’ve lost my siblings, I’ve damaged the relationship with my parents, and Solar has made it clear that I cannot escape her.  My body shakes, and I tighten the blankets around me hoping to make myself stop quivering.  How do I get through it, I wonder.  How do I deal with everything that has happened within the past couple days?  I ache thinking about Lucinda knowing that she will no longer be part of my life.  I’ve never been much of a talker or someone to share my feelings, but she always knew how to coax the truth out of me.  She always knew how to comfort me.  Now I have nothing but a gaping emptiness that expands with every passing hour.

Harmony arrives in the morning to begin a new day of training, and I’m sure that the moment he walks in the front door he notices that things have changed drastically.  My mom doesn’t answer the door, my little siblings don’t scurry over to greet him, my dad doesn’t ask what skills we are working on today.  I sit at the top of the stairs as Dad invites him in and closes the door behind him.

“There have been some changes around here,” Dad says quietly.  I strain to hear his words.  Whether my father knows that I’m up here or not, I’m not certain, but he’s not taking any chances with me overhearing what he says.  Still, he’s not careful enough, or perhaps my hearing grows better with each passing day.  “Elijah tried to kill his older brother and sent him to the hospital.  We’ve taken the younger ones out of the house, and Henry stayed with his friend last night.”

“And Elijah?” my nurse asks.

“He’s . . . struggling,” my father tells him.  I hear the sadness in his voice, and my stomach clenches knowing that the sadness is because of something I did.  “His girlfriend broke up with him the other day, and that’s what started this all.”

No, that’s not what started this all, I want to say.  What started this was that my brother—ugh, it doesn’t matter.  I clench my jaw and force myself to push aside all thoughts so I can listen to the conversation.

“We’ve had to lock him in his room at night,” Dad continues.  “Between the sleepwalking and the unpredictable behavior, we can’t take any chances that he could hurt someone else.”

“I see,” Harmony responds.  “Do you mind if I go talk with him?”

“Not at all,” Dad says.  “I think he’s up in his room.  He’s already had some breakfast, which he didn’t finish before he went back upstairs.”

“Thank you,” the nurse says.  I hear his footsteps approach, and there’s no time to pretend that I haven’t been sitting up here listening to them.  But instead of saying anything on that, Harmony only walks up the stairs and pauses next to me.  “Let’s go talk.”

I hoist myself up with the help of the rail and we walk down the hallway.  I brace myself for another lecture.

“You can have your own room to yell at me, if you want,” I say.  “Plenty of rooms in this house.”

“You know I’m not going to yell at you,” he says.  “Your room will be fine.”

I’ve spent so much time in my room over the past few days that I don’t want to go back in there, but the thought of having someone who is actually willing to listen to me is so alluring that I don’t argue.  He follows me into the bedroom and closes the door.  I sink down at the foot of my bed.

“What happened?” he asks.

“My dad told you,” I say.

“I have a feeling he was leaving out the details,” Harmony says.

“Why should I trust you when you gave my brother drugs to use against me?” I challenge him before I dare mention anything about what occurred.  As much as I want him to listen, I need to know that he’s not going to turn everything against me and label Henry as the victim like everyone else has.  “You know he thought it would be a great idea to stab me with some sedative drug?”

Harmony thinks carefully before he says, “Henry asked me for help the other day before I left.  He explained that you were not doing well but wouldn’t admit it, and he wanted to know what I could do to help.  I gave him medication to be used as a last resort, and I did not instruct him to use it against your will.”

“But you had to have known that that’s what he was going to do with it,” I say.

“How could I have known that?” he asks.  “He was genuinely concerned.  I explained how it was administered and told him to talk with you about it.”

“Sure, he talked with me, but only after the fact,” I shoot back.

Harmony sighs.  “I’m sorry, Elijah,” he says.  “I had your best interests in mind, but perhaps I didn’t go about it in the greatest manner.”

Yeah, that’s for certain.

“Will you tell me about what happened the last few days?” he asks.

I hesitate.  Annoyed as I am at him, I realize I can’t hold everything in anymore.  Being locked in a room by myself, being denied access to my little siblings, not having the company of my girlfriend, having unwanted nocturnal visitors. . . . My chest aches with loneliness of the things unspoken and misunderstood.

So I tell him about visiting Lucinda the first day and Henry’s insistence that I give everyone more time and patience.  I tell him about finding out about the sleepwalking and how my entire family kept it a secret from me.  I tell him about my conversation with Lucinda and why she decided I was no longer good enough for her.  I tell him about confronting Henry and how I almost killed him.  And I tell him that I have been locked up, only allowed out during the day when I’m following my parents’ schedule, and that my siblings have been taken away from me as punishment.  Harmony listens patiently, only asking questions every now and again for clarification.  He says nothing to tell me how wrong I was, or that I should’ve been more understanding, or that my crimes were worse than my brother’s and I deserve what happens to me now.

When I finish, a silence lingers between us, but it’s not heavy or laden with unspoken questions.  Rather, I know that the nurse is contemplating my story and deciding now how to approach it.  The silence seems almost . . . respectful.

“Elijah, have you been getting exercise?” he asks.

I furrow my brow at the random turn of conversation.  “No,” I answer honestly.  “I can’t exactly go out and play soccer, can I?”

“No, not at this point, at least,” he tells me.  “How about getting fresh air?”

“Only when I’m sleepwalking,” I say.  “But that’s been rather limited unless I feel like breaking down the door.”

“If it’s okay with you, I am going to put in a work order to have one of the rooms in this house converted to an exercise room,” Harmony says.  “And you need to go outside.  You have a lovely backyard, and you should take advantage of it.”

“Only if you get it cleared with my jailors,” I tell him.

“I will talk with them,” he says.  “You cannot stay isolated.  Have any of your friends been by to visit?”

“No, they seem to have forgotten about me,” I say bitterly.  “Or perhaps I just scare them too much.  Doesn’t matter either way.”

Harmony thinks for a moment.  “As you may know, part of my job here is to assemble a team to help you get situated so that you have a support network even after I go back to the Capitol,” he says.  “In that team, I’ve located an activities specialist who will be able to help you identify new hobbies or to adapt old hobbies.”

I’d make a snarky comment about feeling like a preschooler or old person if I weren’t so desperate for something to keep me occupied.

“Elijah, I’m sorry about what happened with your girlfriend,” he says sincerely.  “With everything that’s going on recently, you’ve had so many changes; it’s normal to want things to remain the same.  I would imagine that Lucinda felt the same way, though her response to the situation wasn’t one that was in your best interest.  It’s normal to feel upset when people you trust betray you.”

“But?”

“’But’ what?” he asks.

“Aren’t you going to tell me that I shouldn’t try to kill people when I get angry?” I ask.

“You know that already,” he says.  “What you need now is an opportunity to build your life in a way that’s meaningful to you.  There will always be challenges that you will face, that’s a guarantee in life for us all, but if you have the structure and support that you need, then you will have the resources and ability to respond more constructively to adversity.

“Elijah, you are going to set your own schedule, not your parents,” Harmony continues.  “But you also must hold yourself accountable for it.  If you miss a meal or don’t complete a task, then that is your responsibility, and you must work to make sure that it gets done.  Because of your blindness, you will need to rely on people more than I think you’d like, but you must remember that you are your own person.  You are responsible for your words and actions, but you also set your own goals and make your own plans for the future.”

He’s not blaming me.  He doesn’t try to tell me that my pain doesn’t matter because I overreacted and made things worse.  He doesn’t try to control me, or tell me what to do, or make me feel powerless.

“You also need to learn to ask for help,” he says.

“Who am I supposed to ask for help?” I furrow my brow.  There aren’t many options at this point.

“Your parents, your siblings, myself,” Harmony says.  “I don’t just mean asking for help locating items, either.  You need to have the ability to open up and let others know that you can’t do something on your own.  If you’re struggling, please at least come talk with me if you are not comfortable approaching your family yet.”

I grunt.  “Yeah, well, a little hard when the walls have ears.”

The silence that follows makes me wonder if I said something wrong.  But then Harmony answers with carefully selected words, “When we were cleaning this room, I made sure to eliminate any pests that I found.  I am reasonably sure that I have taken care of them all, but there are some that remain in other rooms, no doubt.”

The bugs.  He removed the bugs.  I nod to show that I understand.  ‘Reasonably sure’ isn’t as good as ‘absolutely certain’ but it’s better than nothing.  And really ‘better than nothing’ should be my life motto now.

“I think, Elijah, that your main source of struggle is that you can’t identify when you need help,” Harmony continues.  “And even then, you need to be able to articulate what you need.  I don’t think you have the skills to understand how to do this yet, but with time, you will develop them.

“But now I must ask, did you want to kill your brother?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” I answer.  I wanted him to pay for what he’d done, but whether I actually wanted him dead?

“I think if you did, he’d be dead right now,” Harmony says.  I start at the boldness of this statement, but he continues, “You’re not a bad person, Elijah, not even after everything that’s happened over the past few weeks.  You’ve done remarkably well keeping yourself alive, but now it’s less about physical preservation and more about finding your role in life.  It’s a different role than you filled before you were reaped, but it’s no better or worse.  You will find happiness again, though it may look different from what you experienced before.  You can guarantee that you will get through this and you will live a good life despite everything you’ve faced.”

Words catch in my throat, and I have no way to answer him.  The jumble of thoughts in my brain make no sense.  Thinking about life without Lucinda makes my chest ache, but she had no hope in me.  For her, I had no future.  I had changed too much for her to accept.

Everybody wants me to be normal.  They know that I’ve changed, but they expect me to more-or-less fit right back into the same role I had before I went to the Capitol.  They focused on adapting to my blindness, but they never thought that they’d have to radically adapt to who I have become.  Nobody knows how to handle the sleepwalking or outbursts; rather than trying to figure out how to help me adjust, they lock me away.  They punish me.  But Harmony is suggesting the exact opposite.  Unlike everyone else, he doesn’t expect me to survive from one day to the next with the hope that I’ll somehow find my niche in the routine.  No, for him it’s not about survival.  He wants me to live.

“Thank you,” I finally manage.

“I am going to give you medication to help you sleep at night,” he says.  “You will take it as prescribed at the same time every night whether you think you need it or not.  It is not unusual for someone who is blind to not sleep at the ‘right’ time because the sun’s light gives us more cues for when it’s time to wake and sleep than we realize.  Once your sleeping patterns become more normalized, we can discuss decreasing the medication or removing it entirely.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Good.  I’ll submit that work order at lunch today, and I imagine that tomorrow they’ll send somebody out for measurements,” he continues.  “So after lunch, let’s discuss which room you’d like to be turned into an exercise room and what equipment you’d like to have.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Tomorrow you will also be meeting with the activities specialist,” he says.  “You need to start building hobbies right away.  Within the next few days, your tutor will come to begin working on braille with you.”

“I have a tutor?” I ask.

“One of the best,” he confirms.  “You cannot isolate yourself from knowledge any more than you can isolate yourself from other people.”

“Alright,” I say.  Harmony speaks as though he means what he said.  He has lined up somebody to help with hobbies, a tutor to teach me how to read again, and soon I’ll have my own exercise room: concrete plans for a future that a few minutes ago I didn’t even know I had.

“Now, let’s get this place cleaned up, and then we’ll begin building your schedule,” he says.

For the next couple minutes, he has me go around the room picking up the clothes strewn about and putting them away.  Then I make my bed, sweep the floors, and clean up the bathroom.  When I’m finished, he sits me down and we discuss what I’d like to see in my schedule.  Right now it’s sparse, but he says once the activities specialist gets me situated, the schedule will fill right out.  When the schedule is finished, he uses raised paints to create a chart with the times and tasks I am to complete.  After it dries, he has me run my fingers over it so that I know what it says.  Then he gives me little buttons with velcro that I adhere to each task to indicate that I have completed it.

“This is to get you started,” he says as he hangs it up on the wall.  Once more he has me feel where it is and identify the location of the little buttons.  “Once things get going and you figure out your schedule, you can stop using this.  In the meantime, I expect to find buttons on here every day.”

“Do you give me a sticker if I collect enough buttons?” I ask.

“Funny, Elijah,” he says.  “Your reward is that you start to build your life.”

Chapter Text

The doorbell rings after dinner.  Harmony has long since left for the day, promising me that he’ll be back early in order to continue our work.  Henry hasn’t returned yet, and my parents have already called Grandma and Grandpa to make sure it is okay for George and Joule to stay another night since they wouldn’t be back to pick them up before bed.

“Elijah?” Mom comes into the sitting room where I’m pretty much doing nothing.  “It’s Marie.”

Once again, Marie declines coming inside, so I go out onto the porch with her.  The furniture creaks as she sits down in a lounge chair, and I feel my way over and take the chair on the other side of the small table.

“Thanks for the sweatshirt,” I say to her after I get settled in.

“I noticed that you the chance to return it to its proper owner,” she replies casually.

“Henry’s at your house, then?”

“Yes, he is,” she says.

“And that’s why you’re here?”

“Yes,” she answers.

I absently tap my fingers against the wooden armrest as I wonder what sort of chaos her house has plunged into.  She and Lucinda never minded sharing a room together; they had done so since they were little kids.  Despite a few squabbles and skirmishes, they were never discontent with the set-up.  They had their own sets of friends, I suppose, and that was enough to give them distance.  Now, though, the dynamics of their household have shifted dramatically.

“Your parents don’t care?” I ask.  What a switch from the way her parents were just weeks ago as they carefully watched Lucinda and I head to her room to make sure we kept the door open as per their rules.

She sighs.  “They care.  They’re just afraid that she’ll lose it if they reprimand her.”

“Is she really doing that poorly?” I’m ashamed of the concern for her I feel.  I should hate her, I know, but the sudden worry that comes upon me won’t allow itself to be ignored.

“Elijah, I just think that after what you and Ilana went through. . . . This is not what should be happening,” she says.  “I can’t believe that Lucinda is treating you this way.  She should be happy that you’re back, not cheating on you with your brother.  It’s so damned selfish of her.”

“You seem to be the only person who shares that sentiment,” I mutter.

“If Ilana had lived, and if she had a boyfriend who had cheated on her, I’d punch the shit out of him,” she continues like she didn’t hear me.  “Instead I have to deal with Lucinda who everyone just fawns over because of what you went through, and then I get kicked out of my own bedroom so she can nurse Henry back to health or whatever, and then I can’t even go into the room when I forgot my socks because suddenly they’re stripping off clothes three feet from my bed!”  She hesitates for a moment, then adds, “I’m sorry, Elijah.  I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” I say.  The thought of Lucinda and Henry together makes me nauseous, but it’s clear that he has no intentions of breaking it off any time soon, which means I’m going to have to come to terms with this sooner or later.  I pick at the paint on the armrest and try not to think of them on Lucinda’s bed.

“I shouldn’t be ranting to you.  Not after all you’ve gone through.  You don’t need my crap, too,” she mumbles apologetically.

“Shit, just tell me all about it.  Nobody else wants to,” I say.  “Everyone thinks I’m too broken to talk to.”

“Are you?” she asks.

“I don’t want to be,” I answer.

I focus on the warm breeze that drifts across the porch and close my eyes.  “You’re the first person who’s come to check on me,” I find myself saying.

“None of your friends have come?” she asks.

I shake my head.  “They must’ve decided I wasn’t worth it,” I say.

“Hmm,” Marie thinks.  “Did you invite them over?”

“Er, no,” I say.  When no one contacted me, I thought that they needed space.  Like Lucinda.  One day turned into another, and in my misery I didn’t have the strength to initiate interaction.  I figured that if they really wanted to see me, they’d call me or show up on the front porch; otherwise, I’d be imposing on them.  Because what if they, like Lucinda, now saw me as something else?

“Um, Elijah, your telephone number isn’t listed,” she says.  “And it’s kind of intimidating driving into victor village, of all places.  Maybe you should call them?”

When she says this, it makes me realize how stupid I am for not even trying to reach them.  I know she doesn’t mean it that way, but I am unable to answer for a moment.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I say.  “But you did it.”

“This is different,” she says.  “You guys are like an extension of my family now, and anyway, my bedroom is inaccessible.”

“You know, if Henry’s going to be staying over there, you can stay here.  Not like that, I mean,” I clarify quickly.  “But we do have twelve bedrooms.”

“Thanks, that’s nice of you to offer, but I don’t want people to think. . . .” She clears her throat.  “It’s better if I just stay at my own place.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say.

“By the way, your neighbor has been watching us the entire time,” she comments casually.

“Which one?  Solar or Benjamin?” But I know who she’s referring to.  Benjamin doesn’t give a shit.  Solar, on the other hand, pays far too much attention.

“Solar,” she says.

“Figures,” I mutter.  Why the hell can’t she leave me alone?

“Does she watch you frequently?” she asks.  “I mean, she’s not like standing on the sidewalk staring at us, but she’s jogged by here several times, taking her sweet time whenever she passed by.”

“She is a delightful person to be around, and I highly recommend staying away from her,” I tell her.

“It must’ve been weird . . . being around so many people we’ve only heard about television and in our history books. . . .” Marie comments absently.

Yeah, these people were real treasures to be around, I think.  I don’t have the heart to break it to Marie that while some of them were tolerable, others were outright disturbing, especially when it came to how they handled Ilana.  Our own mentors thought she was useless, and they were the people who were supposed to help us.  These were the people who were placed on pedestals as the pinnacle of District 5 citizens, and they wanted to ignore her, at best, or kill her off, at worst.  And here I am, living among them, another terrible individual who will go down in records as someone who did something worthwhile with his life because he killed a few kids when he was a teenager.

“It was okay,” I answer.

Marie takes a deep breath.  The chair creaks underneath her.  “Elijah, can I ask you a question?” she asks tentatively.

“Sure,” I answer, but I know that whatever she’s about to say is something I’m not going to like.

“What was it like in the training center?  For Ilana, I mean?” she asks.

I draw in a breath.  What can I say to her?  I could tell her what she wants to hear, that everything was comfortable and exciting.  That Ilana lived her last few days knowing that she was well-loved by people at home and that she had a chance to win.  But it’s not the truth, and I’ve never been one to so boldly lie to anyone, least of all someone like Marie who deserves to know what her friend’s final days were like.  If she doesn’t hear it from me, then she will hear it from no one, and it will only be glossed over like those stories in the history books that praise the successes of previous victors.

“Are you asking for an honest answer?”

“It was bad, wasn’t it?” Her voice trembles.

I can’t answer her knowing that Solar is out there prowling around the streets, watching us carefully.  So instead I say, “Can I convince you to take a walk with me to the backyard?  There’s a neat little garden.”

“Alright,” she answers carefully.  I stand up, and she follows me as I head off the porch and around the side of the house.  As we walk, I contemplate what to say to her.  Certainly there must be an eloquent way to tell her what it was like for Ilana without disturbing her too much.  I tread carefully between honoring the truth and protecting Marie from the harsher aspects of reality.

In the distance, the clinking of the wind chimes greet us, and I pay careful attention to navigate towards the gravel path.  Once there, I know that it’ll be hard to get lost, no matter how distracted I become.

“The training center is not really meant for training,” I explain when I am as comfortable as possible with the distance between us and Solar.  “They just use it to show us off and pit us together and try to make the Hunger Games as exciting as they can be.  And then they use all of this to rank us and bet on us.  Nobody cares about the training itself because that’s only secondary.  It doesn’t matter if your mentor sucks because who would you even complain to?  No, it’s all just part of the show, and you maintain appearances as best as you can.

“Ilana . . . had a hard time in the training center,” I admit to Marie as we slowly walk, the gravel crunching underneath our shoes.  “Her mentor didn’t care about her; he gave up before we even left the districts.  The only time Benjamin thought twice about her was when the training scores were released, and then it was too late to pretend that he gave a shit about helping her.  She struggled in the training. . . . The other tributes, the Careers I mean, did their damnedest to intimidate her.  And my mentor . . . well, she wanted me to intentionally mislead and abandon Ilana in the bloodbath so that she’d be killed and I’d get sympathy sponsors.”

Marie gasps.  I’ve gone too far.  I focus on the sound of our footsteps on the gravel to pull myself together.  But when I don’t continue, she says, “Please, go ahead.”

“I told my mentor to shove it up her ass which is why the one gift I received wasn’t something that was very useful in terms of helping me win.”

“So what Solar said at the interview was a lie. . . .”  Marie’s voice trails off thoughtfully.

“Yeah.  She’s very good at lying,” I say.

“What a piece of shit.  Oh!  Sorry!”

“It’s okay.  I’ve heard worse,” I say.

Now she laughs.  “Right, okay.”  The humor drops out of her voice as she says, “How did she handle this all?”

“As shitty as it was, as much as it seemed things were against her, Ilana rose up to meet the challenges with fortitude,” I continue.  “Here she was being ignored by the people who were supposed to be helping her and targeted by the Careers when she was supposed to be training, and yet she handled it with more dignity and courage than anyone realized she had.

“I loved her.  I don’t know in what way, or why, or really anything, but there was no way I was going to abandon her in the bloodbath or anywhere else.  Somehow, through everything that was happening, she found incredible strength to keep on going.  When I was terrified and could barely move, she was there to push me forward.  Nothing about the Hunger Games can be described as fun, but knowing that she was with me made everything more tolerable.  I . . . I don’t know what I would have done without her.  She’s the only thing that kept me sane. . . .

“I’m sorry that she isn’t the one standing here today.  But Marie . . . I’m glad she died.  Because if we had walked to that shack together. . . .”  I choke up and can’t finish my sentence.

“Elijah?  It’s okay,” she says in barely more than a whisper.  “I’ve known Ilana my entire life and I don’t think I could bear it if she went through what you did.  She never would have made it.  She was strong, but she wasn’t strong like that. . . . Ha!  Some friend I am if I am happy my best friend died.”

I can’t say anything to jar her from these thoughts because the same thing has torn me apart night after night.  How one could reconcile the yearning for her to live and the relief that she died?

“Thank you for telling me about her,” Marie says.

“I miss her, Marie,” I admit.  The words come out haltingly.

“Me too,” she tells me.  “Everything’s so different without her.  When I think about doing anything I’m reminded of her and sometimes I just start crying while doing stupid things like brushing my teeth or going to the mailbox because some random memory appears in my head, and I know that I will never, ever get to share anything with her ever again.”

Like a great gust knocks the wind from me, I have the sensation that I cannot breathe.  But unlike when I’ve had the panic attacks, it’s less that my lungs cease to function and more that they cease to exist at all.  I sit down on the ground abruptly, put my head in my arms, and begin to sob.  Everything that Marie just said is painfully true.  We will never see her again.  She will never show up at Lucinda and Marie’s place and taunt us with stupid jokes.  She won’t steal Marie’s parents’ car and go on a joy ride.  Ilana is dead, and the only thing that remains of her are ghosts. . . . Memories of the things she did and dreams of the things she could do.  My chest aches from the great heaving sobs, but it’s nothing compared to the hole that her senseless death left within me.  Marie lowers herself to the ground and sits next to me in silence.

When I calm down some, she sighs heavily.  “The hardest part is knowing that this happens year after year,” she says.  “I’ve never really thought about it until it’s happened to me.  I mean, I knew that families were hurt by this, but I’m not even her family, you know?  And-and I know that some of her other friends are almost as upset as I am.  Tania Applebee, you remember her?  She told me that there was a memorial on campus, unofficial memorial that is, for Ilana, and there were nearly three hundred students and their families there.”

Ilana was never someone I’d consider ‘popular’ but she was very well-liked.  She could have had her pick of guys at school, if she wanted, but she preferred to goof off with Marie and some of their other friends.  While it’s nice to know that so many people supported her and liked her, it leaves an ache in me to think that that many people were damaged by this one single Hunger Games. . . . And that’s only within one district.

“Year after year,” I repeat as I wipe my eyes.  “I keep trying to figure out why.  Why do we have to go through this?”

“Paying for the so-called crimes of our great-great-great grandparents,” Marie mutters.  She falls silent at this; continuing discussion in this line of thought will only edge into the realm of treason.  I don’t know if Marie understands that my world is under constant supervision by the Capitol, but she has the common sense to not venture too far into this territory.

“I’ve never known someone who was reaped, have you?” I ask her.  “Aside from eighth grade when it was someone from our high school, but she was from another community.  My brother didn’t even know who she was, and they went to the same school.”

“No,” Marie answers.  “I guess there are so many people in the District that who knows how many eligible kids there are?”

“Thousands.  Tens of thousands, maybe,” I say.  I pick up a piece of gravel and roll it back and forth between my thumb and index finger.  Back in the day before the population boom, there were far fewer and the chances that you’d know a tribute were significantly greater.

Marie must be on the same line of thought as me because she then says, “Imagine knowing tributes every year, or almost every year.  Sometimes it’s your best friend, and sometimes it’s somebody from your Chemistry class, and sometimes it’s that one random guy you saw walk down the hall.  But every year, you know or kind of know the people who are reaped. . . .”

“I will . . .” I say suddenly.  I brace myself for the fear and anger that rush in moments later.  “Every year for the rest of my life, I’ll know the tributes who die.”

“Oh, shit, Elijah!” Marie exclaims.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” I cut her off.  “You were talking about something different.  But then I remembered that I have to mentor.”  I toss the piece of gravel to the ground and listen to it hit the earth.

Again and again and again.  I will watch these kids die.  There will be nothing I can do, and yet I will be forced to participate and pretend that I have the ability to save them.

“They’re going to make you mentor?” she asks hesitantly.  “How will you be able if you can’t see?”

“I don’t know,” I admit.  “But they’ll find a way, I’m sure of it.”

“They don’t give you a break, do they?” she says, but it’s not really a question that’s worth answering when the evidence is clear enough.

“At least I have a nice house,” I reply.

She snorts.  “You’ll have to show it to me some time.  But right now, I really should be going before it gets too dark.  Mom and Dad will be pissed that I’m gone to begin with, and then to be out so late. . . .”

“They’ll be angry at you for leaving, but not at Lucinda for having Henry is her room?” I ask carefully.

She doesn’t answer right away.  When she does, bitterness touches her words, if only mildly.  “Lucinda’s the fragile one.  She’s the one who’s still dealing with her tribute,” she says.  “My tribute’s already dead, so no use wasting more energy on me than necessary.”

“Marie, really. . . . ?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she concedes.  “Everything’s just so different at home that I don’t know what is what anymore.  Sometimes they get angry at me, and other times they just let things slide.  It’s like they suddenly remember that they need to parent, and they do it all at once (for me, not for Lucinda because, as I mentioned, she might break), and then they go back to forgetting that parenting is even a thing, or maybe they just feel bad that they yelled at me or something.”

We stand up, dust the gravel off our clothes, and begin to walk back through the garden and across the lawn towards the front of the house.  This time she knows the way and I don’t worry so much that I might get lost.

“How did you get here?” I ask.  “Aren’t you grounded from driving until you’re thirty-five?”

“I took Lucinda’s keys,” she says.  “I figured she wasn’t going to need them right this moment.”

Not when she was playing nurse to my brother.  Ugh.  Pain stabs through me despite the repulsion.  I might have to get used to the idea of the two of them together, but it’ll be a long time before I can accept it.

We walk to the front porch and pause at the step.

“I’ll see you around,” she says to me.

“Thanks for checking in, Marie,” I tell her.  “Feel free to come by any time you want.”

I hear the smile in her voice as she tells me goodbye.

Chapter Text

In the morning, I meet the activities specialist.  Her laughter fills the entire mansion, and at first it makes me uneasy, but the more the morning goes on, the more I become accustomed to her noise.  She introduces herself as Ada Dalton, and she takes a complete history of all of the activities I used to do, from organized sports to seemingly meaningless time wasters, and then she discusses with Harmony and I what I am currently capable of.

“Now, Elijah, some of these activities will seem really elementary to you,” she tells me as her pencil scratches across a pad of paper.  “And that’s okay.  Some of these are designed to help you develop skills you might not have used much since you lost your vision.  You might struggle with these even if they seem basic, but don’t worry because you’ll catch up right away.”

She starts with board games.  She brought three with her—chess, a memory game, and a more complicated one where you have to move your pieces around the board—and she has me feel each of the pieces and the various boards.  They are set up so that I can use my fingers to identify different places to set the tokens, most often with velcro so that I don’t accidentally knock pieces off the board when I reach over to move something.  The memory game has raised pictures on thick cards such as simple embossed stars, hearts, circles, and squares.

“Just about any board game you used to play can be adapted,” she tells me.  “I know that board games aren’t exactly what kids these days are raving about, but it’s a good way to spend time with someone when you want something more engaging than a movie or TV show.  And that’s not just for blind people, either.”

Then we go to the kitchen for the first of many cooking lessons.  Since I have absolutely no idea how to navigate the kitchen, today’s lesson involves making myself acquainted with locating the major appliances and cupboards.  Ada has me learn the location of the dishwasher, stove, sink, microwave, and blender.  When I open the door to the refrigerator, however, she gasps and Harmony chuckles at her reaction.

“What?” I demand.

“This is such a catastrophe.  How will you ever find anything in that place?” Ada nearly wails.  The next thing I know, she’s by my side, bottles clinking and packages rustling, saying, “No, no, this is all in the wrong place!  Who puts the mayonnaise right there?  Not one single thing is even labeled.”

When she finally steps back and closes the refrigerator door, she says, “Elijah, how do you find anything to eat in here?”

“My mom or my siblings get me food,” I admit awkwardly.  Or I just don’t eat.  It’s not a matter about forgoing food when I’m hungry as much as it is that I’m not hungry.  Finding food in the kitchen has never been something I needed to do when I have to be reminded to eat most of the time.

“Okay, no, that’s going to change,” she says more to the refrigerator than to me.  “Goodness, this is nuts.”

The next thing I know, she has the refrigerator door open again, but this time she pulls out what must be every single item and sets them all on the island behind us.  I listen to bottles and bags and packages thump on the counter as she mumbles to herself.

“They just left this jar right at the front.  Do you see this, Harmony?” Ada asks the nurse.

“They’re learning to adjust to this all, too,” Harmony responds kindly.  Ada only ha-rumphs at him and goes back to her project.

Then it’s a matter of putting everything back in place, which is where I come in.  She goes over basic rules: put glass jars in drawers, if possible, or at least on the back of shelves; do not leave open containers in the refrigerator because I may knock them over; label everything clearly as possible, preferably with abbreviations so I don’t spend copious amounts of time trying to figure out which bottle is what beverage; keep everything in the same place; and group by type of food.  She has me place each item back in the fridge (and label if necessary), though half the time she corrects me and tells me why I’m putting it in the wrong place.  When all is said and done, we’ve held the refrigerator door open for so long that I’m certain that the electricity bill for the month is going to be quadruple what it should be, but the arrangement satisfies Ada.

“Your family needs to follow the rules here,” she tells me.  “If they don’t, you make sure to tell them that they don’t have a choice.”

Right, I don’t think I’m keen on telling my parents that.  Then again, I did pretty much order them to get me a dog.

“Yeah, okay,” I respond because it seems like the right thing to say.  But if she hears me, she doesn’t say because she’s already opening up cupboards and clucking her tongue.

“You don’t know where anything in the kitchen is, do you?” she asks.  It’s not a question I’m meant to answer because she continues without hesitation, “Nothing in this makes sense for someone who can’t see.  I’m not sure it even makes sense for someone who is sighted.  Harmony, add this to tomorrow’s agenda.  We don’t have time to tackle this today.”

“I’ll make sure his parents know that we plan on rearranging the kitchen.  Or, better yet—Elijah will let his parents know,” Harmony says.  I clench my jaw at the idea of confronting my parents again when they think that the best way to handle me is to shut me up somewhere.  “We’ll talk with them when we finish up today, okay, Elijah?”

I nod to show that I’ve heard.

“Alright, let’s go into the backyard next,” Ada says, and I follow her out of the kitchen onto the back porch.  Harmony comes right after me.

“You have such a beautiful yard,” she sighs.  “Oh, wind chimes!”

“That was my sister’s idea,” I tell her.

“What a great idea.  I’m sure that you won’t get lost in your yard (not when Harmony and I are done with you), but on the off chance you do, you’ll always be able to find your way back,” she comments.

I hadn’t thought of it that way.  Getting lost in one’s own place is unsettling.

Ada leads us off the porch and down into the green lawn.  She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“This place is perfect,” she says.  I hear her shuffling through something, and then she says, “Elijah, hold out your hands.”

I do as instructed, and she sets a strangely familiar round object in my hands.  I run my fingers over the leather exterior and feel the pattern of the seams where each polygon is stitched to the next.

“A soccer ball?” I ask uncertainly.  I thought it was already established that I couldn’t play soccer.  Regardless, having the ball in my hands provides surprising comfort, and I turn it over as easily as I did before I was blinded like nothing has changed.

“Yes, that’s right.  Give the ball a shake, okay?” she instructs.

I shake the ball, and suddenly it starts chirping like a mechanical bird.  The noise startles me, and I drop it on the ground where it continues to chirrup at my feet.

Ada laughs.  “Go ahead.  Give it a kick.  Harmony and I will move behind you.”

I hear them step away, and I tap the ball with the toe of my shoe just to make sure that it’s really there.  The sound it makes isn’t bird-like enough that I’ll confuse it with actual birds, nor is it so machine-like that it is out of place in the great expanse of lawn.  I move the ball back and forth with the bottom of my foot before finding the right placement.  Then I draw back and give it a kick.  The ball whistles through the air and lands a good ways off.

“You have five minutes to find it before it shuts itself off,” Ada tells me.

I huff.  I should have known that I’d have to retrieve it.  The noise travels clearly through the summer air, and I manage to find it within a few minutes before it falls silent.  I don’t have the confidence to dribble, so I snatch it up and carry it back.  One arm cradles the ball against my chest, and in the other hand I use my cane to monitor my path.  Returning to Ada and Harmony proves more challenging than finding the ball.  I lock onto the sound of the wind chimes and begin to make my way back.

“Good job,” Harmony says when I return in roughly the same place I left.  I follow his voice until I’m reasonably sure I’m within an acceptable distance from them.

“We are going to use this space to make you a small soccer field,” Ada explains to me.  “It won’t be the size of the field you are used to, but it’ll have siding around it to keep you from going out of bounds, and there will be backing behind the goals to make sure that the ball doesn’t go too far.”

“All fun and games until I run into a goal post,” I say.

“The goal post will make noise, too,” she says.  “You can control the sound and the volume.”

This is . . . surreal.  When I realized that I would not be able to see again, I thought it meant that all activities that I loved to do, most notably soccer, were gone with my vision.  It won’t be the same as what it once was, but to have the soccer ball in my possession again means more to me than I thought it would.  I roll the ball in my hands.

“Thank you,” I tell her.  “I thought I’d be stuck playing chess and matching games for the rest of my life.”

She laughs.  “Don’t worry.  You will at some point be able to do almost everything a sighted person can do.  It just requires some modification and creativity.”

“And patience,” Harmony adds.

Thanks Harmony, I want to say.  But after this, the sarcasm won’t come forth easily.  Finding out that my favorite pastime is now available to me again when I thought it was lost forever keeps the sarcasm at bay.

After lunch, a man comes to measure the study that will be converted into an exercise room.  He babbles about various things I don’t understand as he goes through the measurements, and once he has what he needs, he tells me that construction will start tomorrow but should be finished within the next couple days.

“It’s going to be a real work of art,” he assures me.  “You have some of the finest equipment available on the market going to be installed here.”

“What needs to be done?” I ask Harmony after the man leaves.  “I thought they’d just remove the furniture and put in exercise equipment.”

“They need to re-do the floors and ventilation, among other things,” he explains.  “And the lighting needs to be changed which, I know, means nothing to you, but it might if one of your family members wants to use the room.”

“Speaking of remodeling,” Ada interjects.  “I have a few propositions for you, Elijah.”

She leads us into a sitting room right off the entryway, and the three of us sit down in chairs around a coffee table.

“What rooms in the house are your favorites?” she asks me.  “Besides your bedroom, bathroom, or kitchen.”

The most time I’ve spent in a room has been in the sunroom, I think.  It was the only place I was consistently able to sleep before Harmony gave me medication.  And then there’s also the conservatory where I talked with Grandpa Asher the other day.  Maybe it’s all the natural light which I obviously can’t see, but it felt different than most of the other rooms.  It wasn’t as oppressive as many of the other rooms, so perhaps it had better airflow, I don’t know.

“The sunroom on the third floor, and the conservatory,” I tell her.

“Good choices.  I have seen the conservatory, but I haven’t seen the sunroom yet,” she says.  “Now, what makes those rooms better than the others?”

I shrug.  Hard to put it into words.

“Alright, well, I’m thinking that you need a couple more rooms that are tailored to what you want,” she says to me.  “Those rooms are good, the exercise room will be gorgeous when it’s all finished, but those are only three rooms in this massive house.”

“What else did you have in mind?” I venture.

“Harmony tells me that you’re going to start learning braille with a tutor soon,” she says.  “I’d like to turn one of these rooms into a classroom.  Sure, there are studies and there’s the library, but I want something that caters to what you want.  Oh, and here’s something that would be perfect in your classroom. . . . Come over here.”

Even the prospect of going back to school interests me now.  If you had told me that I’d be excited about school, I’d think you were insane.  I stand up and walk over to Ada.  She taps on something hard, and I reach out towards the noise.  My hands collide with a strange plastic box.  I take a minute to run my fingers across the surfaces, taking in the raised buttons and invisible screens.

“A printer?” I ask with confusion.

“Almost,” she says.  “Feel that part at the top.  Yeah, that.  You put a paper in there that you want to read, and then you feed it through.  The computer inside will translate the written text into speech.”

“That’s crazy,” I admit.  “Where the hell did this even come from?”

“Straight from District 3,” Ada says.  “There are a few of them around, though normally people use them when they have large documents they want to read.  Not something you’re going to see in most district households.”

“So the paper goes in, and then it reads me what’s on it,” I confirm.

“That’s exactly it,” she says.  “Of course you won’t need it for the braille, but there may be other things you want to read that aren’t written in a braille.  I unfortunately don’t have any paper on me, but I encourage you to try it out when you get a chance.”

“Thanks,” I say, though for the life of me I don’t know what I’ll want to read at this point.  It’s not like I am going to start ripping apart books to feed into the machine, especially not when I have audiobooks.  But Ada seems so happy about it that I don’t mention that I doubt I’ll have much use for this sort of fancy technology.

For another few minutes, Ada goes over other modifications and suggestions she has, but it’s almost all lost on me.  Already so many things within my world have changed over the course of the past few hours that I can’t absorb it all.  She must see this because she finally stands up and says,

“Thank you, Elijah.  It’s a pleasure to have met you in person.  I know that we’re going to work well together.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I say to her, but it sounds weak compared to all that she has given me today.

Chapter Text

Harmony and I head back upstairs to my room after Ada leaves.

“Let’s go ahead and sit down and have another discussion,” Harmony says.  I settle down in my usual place at the foot of the bed and wait for him to lead us in whatever topic he would like to venture into today.  Knowing that there are no bugs in this room (or at lease most likely aren’t any bugs here) makes conversation easier.  Still, talking about myself is surprisingly hard.  This isn’t like explaining my favorite hobbies or how I did at school; this actually means something, and I don’t always know how to say what I need to.

“Has your brother Henry been back?” the nurse asks.

I nod.  “Yes, but he came after I was already in my room for the night and left before I woke up,” I tell him.

“Now that you’ve had a few days to think about it, what are your thoughts on the situation?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I admit.  “Still as uncertain as yesterday, I guess.”

The betrayal angers me, but the more time passes, the clearer it becomes that trying to kill him was a dumb idea.  Yet in the moment, there seemed to be no other option.  Harmony tries to wheedle out more information, but my half-answers only give evidence for my confusion on the topic.  He attempts to get me to see that it’s okay to be confused; this only makes me more irritable.  When it becomes clear that this line of discussion gets us nowhere, he switches topics.

“Before I leave today, I want us to have a conversation with your parents,” he says to me.

I pick absently at the hem of my shirt.  Ever since I attacked Henry, talking to my parents has been daunting and nearly downright impossible.  They’d handled me so carefully upon my return to District 5 that I assumed they were afraid that I was too fragile, but now their behavior makes their incompetency clear.  They have no idea what they’re doing anymore.  I constantly swing between being angry at them for not caring about me and being angry at myself for putting them in this position because I know that they love me regardless of how they handle the situation.

“They think that they’re doing what’s best,” Harmony assures me in my silence at his statement.  “There’s no manual when you’re a parent, though you can get advice from many different sources when you’re not certain what to do.  However, when your kid has been through something as . . . traumatic as what you’ve been through, it’s hard to solicit real advice.  Everyone has their opinions, of course, but very few have the experience to back it up.”

“So it’s okay for my parents to lock me up at night?” I ask sharply.

“That’s not what I said, Elijah,” he responds.  “Your parents think it’s the most appropriate thing they can do.  Like you, they need to have the tools to make good decisions.  The times have changed, and the tools that worked before don’t work now, so they need to acquire the right type for the different setting.

“If you were truly out of control and you would not stay in your room, then it would be appropriate to lock the doors and promptly get you medical help.  That’s not the case in this situation.  They need to be educated why certain methods won’t work, and what they can do differently.  There will be trial and error, and we will make mistakes (all of us, including you), but eventually there will be a way to get through this so that everyone benefits in some way.”

“What’s talking with them going to do?” I ask with a bit too much lingering irritation.  I run my hand across the bed’s comforter that’s bunched up around me.  “They don’t even care about what Henry did.  All they see is what I did.  How the hell am I supposed to reason with that?”

“Calmly and politely,” he answers.  “I am certain your parents will be more willing to see from your perspective if you have the ability to engage them in rational conversation.”

“I’m not rational?”

“You are when you can get your head clear enough,” Harmony says.  “But if you go into the conversation already thinking that everybody is against you, then you’re not going to think clearly.  Remember that people are not against you—they are for themselves.  They will be more willing to make concessions or see things from your point of view if you do not treat them like they’re the enemy.”

“Funny thing to say to someone who went through the Hunger Games where everyone literally was the enemy,” I mutter as I pick at the comforter’s embroidery.

“Were they?” Harmony asks.  “I know you can make arguments for Grant, but I don’t think that the others were against you.  They all wanted to win just as badly as you did, and in order for that to happen, the rest had to lose.”

I don’t like being compared to the other tributes.  The Careers.  They were terrible people, and if they had redeeming qualities, they certainly didn’t show it.  Despite this, I know that there’s truth in Harmony’s words: we all wanted to win, but only one person would walk away alive.  No one would sacrifice him- or herself in order to allow somebody else to win.  That’s just not how the Hunger Games work.

“Your parents don’t want to treat you like this,” Harmony continues.  “They don’t know what else to do.  This has been a confusing time for everyone.  They’ve made mistakes, your siblings have made mistakes, you’ve made mistakes.  Everyone’s struggling for normalcy, and that’s going to take a long time before you figure out what ‘normal’ means for you now.  It’s important that we work on our relationships immediately so that our new ‘normal’ is productive and meaningful.  Elijah, no matter how hard things get, know that they wanted you to come home alive, and that’s the most important thing no matter how frustrating dealing with your family can be.”

They wanted me to come home alive.  They watched me get ripped apart on television knowing that they couldn’t do anything to help me.  And when I came home. . . . Everything changed.  Are they still happy that I was declared victor?  Or are they wishing that I had died so that they could have an uncomplicated grief that isn’t riddled with thoughts of how happy they should be?  Would it have been if I had died so that they wouldn’t have to see the ‘new’ me?  I swallow these unanswered questions and tell Harmony that I’ll speak with my parents if he thinks its appropriate.

We sit down with Mom and Dad in the sitting room near the kitchen.  The only thing that makes this tolerable for me is knowing that the conversation can’t last for too long since Mom needs to drive back to the old house to spend the night with George and Joule.

“How are things going?” Dad asks with forced casualness.  I wonder if things were this strained at meetings at school when we were kids, or if recent events have led to more uneasiness in these sorts of discussions.  This is, after all, a high-stakes parent-teacher conference.

“They’re going very well,” Harmony responds, which lifts the tension in the room ever-so-slightly.  I hear it in the breath that Mom lets out and the way the couch grunts as Dad sits back in the seat.  “We met with the activities coordinator, Ada Dalton, today.  She and Elijah worked out plans for several updates to the house and property.”

Harmony wants me to be the one to tell them what’s happening.  He thinks they’ll treat me with more respect if they hear it come from my mouth.  But for some reason, this proves more challenging than I anticipated, even with Harmony’s pep talk.  I try not to think that these are the same people who punished me and let Henry get away without a second thought.

“They’re adding a soccer field,” I say evenly.

“A soccer field?” Mom doesn’t try to hide her confusion.

“Yeah, the ball chirps and the goal posts make noises,” I tell her.

“That’s great,” she says, and she seems to genuinely mean it.  The words appear to perk her up, as though she thinks that maybe, just maybe, there is a way to get the ‘old Elijah’ back.  I swallow the irritation.

Dad clears his throat.  “Is that safe?” he asks.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Mom tells him.  “Harmony wouldn’t allow something that wasn’t safe.”

“We can’t guarantee that anything will be completely safe,” the nurse tells them.  “But Elijah has an opportunity to participate in some of his old hobbies, and that’s more important than ensuring one hundred percent safety.”

“I could have gotten hurt in regular soccer anyhow,” I point out.  “Remember Thomas?  He broke his ankle after he was slide tackled.”

Mom and Dad have to concede.  This is the best news I’ve had since I’ve returned, and they’re not dumb enough to reject it.

“We also took a tour of the kitchen,” Harmony leads in.

“Ada rearranged the fridge.  Er, well, we did,” I tell them.  “So that I can access the food more easily and know where everything is and not knock stuff to the ground.  Tomorrow we’ll be going through the rest of the kitchen.”

“Since you cook, Leda, do you think you’ll be available to go through it with us?” Harmony asks my mother.  “I know you’re spending the night with the kids, so maybe we can wait until a little later in the morning.  I don’t think Ada will have a problem with that.”

Mom hesitates.  “Well, Joule will be in class, so I don’t want to leave George alone. . . .”

“Bring him with you,” Harmony says, and I sit up straight at the thought of seeing my brother again.  “Elijah misses him, and it would be good to catch up with him and see how he’s doing.”

Neither of my parents answer right away.  They must be debating whether it’s worth the risk, and I grit my teeth together so that I don’t say something I’ll regret.  After all, they need no more reason to think me dangerous or unstable.

“Okay, I will see what George says,” Mom finally agrees.

The idea of seeing my little brother again brings unexpected relief.  It’s so damned lonely in this house.  To go from a small, four-bedroom place (whose floorplan could easily fit into the room we’re sitting in right now) to this massive mansion and be virtually abandoned. . . .  Anyway, George will be interested to hear about the new plans for the place.  And he’ll be totally blown away by the soccer field.  Hell, he’d probably want to play the moment they finish the field.

“I can stay with George,” Dad says, cutting through my thoughts.  “Otherwise you have to bring that dog.”

Ah, the dreaded dog.  I forgot to tell Harmony.  I can hear the confusion when he says, “I’m sure a dog will be okay.  Is it housebroken?”

“Elijah didn’t tell you about the dog he really wanted?” Dad asks with sudden irritation.  The conversation has started to slide backwards.  One misstep, and suddenly it’s less about my successes and more about whatever I’ve done wrong.  I brace myself for the inevitable decline of this discussion.

“Not yet,” Harmony says.  He pauses, and I know he’s waiting for me to fill him in, so I clear my throat.

“Joule’s friend had an extra dog.  This house has way too many rooms,” I explain, leaving off the part that I don’t actually want the dog which is why it hadn’t been a priority to bring it up.  “Yeah, it’s housebroken.  And has had some training.”

“Oh, sure, then go ahead,” Harmony says.  “It would be nice to meet this dog.”

“I don’t know,” Mom hesitates.  I can practically hear the look she’s giving Dad in her tone.  “And Joule would be really upset if she knows that she’s been left behind. . . .”

“How about I’ll go stay with the kids tonight, and you stay here?” Dad suggests quietly to Mom.  “That way you can be here when Ms. Dalton comes.  If you’re okay with that.”

If you’re okay with staying with your insane child, he means.  Suddenly it occurs to me that Dad has been here every night while Mom has always been with George and Joule.  It’s only been a few nights and I know I’m foolish to make assumptions, but I have an unsettling feeling that Mom doesn’t want to be left here with me.

“Oh, I don’t want to inconvenience you. . . .” Mom starts.

Yeah, that’s it: this is all a big inconvenience.  Dad’s been working from home since I returned, which he can do at any place he stays.  That’s not the issue.  The issue is that nobody wants to deal with me, and no matter how you cut it, one of them is going to be inconvenienced because somebody has to have babysitting duties.  Anger flares within me, and I cut in sharply and directly: “I want to see George and the dog.”

Mom and Dad say nothing.  Like the other night when I had told them that I wanted the dog, they don’t know how to react to my direct order.  I wonder if they’re realizing that the old Elijah, the one who never spoke like this to them, will never return and all dreams they had for a magical recovery have now vanished in a puff of smoke.  I hate it.  I hate them, and I hate myself.

“Elijah, honey. . . .” Mom starts.  She sighs heavily and continues, “George’s psychiatrist has recommended—”

“I don’t care,” I snap.

“Elijah, don’t talk to your mother like that,” Dad warns.

“Both George and Joule are scared to come back here,” Mom tells me softly.  Perhaps she’s trying to break it to me gently, but I only shift uneasily in my seat and glare in the general direction of the floor.  There’s no way to politely let someone down when you’re explaining that his siblings are too terrified of him to return.  “The psychiatrist wants us to give them time before—”

“I want to hear it from George,” I tell her.  “If I get him on the phone now, is he going to tell me exactly that?”

“Damnit, Elijah, you can’t talk like this,” Dad says.  “This is not how we’ve raised you.”

Harmony adjusts himself in his seat.  Maybe he makes a gesture to calm my parents, I don’t know, but my dad mumbles something and doesn’t follow up on his complaint.

“The psychiatrist said that George is having trouble expressing himself,” Mom explains, her voice careful and level.  “I don’t know how much he’ll say on the phone.  He’s not . . . he’s not talking again.”

My breath catches and I don’t reply to this.  I really am causing them distress.  I really am driving my family insane and tearing them apart.  My stomach shrinks, and I dig my fingers into the couch.

But then I find myself laughing.  It’s a dry laugh, bitter in my mouth and equally foul once expelled from my body.

“Right, so George and Joule stay in the old house, but Henry lives here?” I ask.  “What sort of batshit logic is this?”

“Elijah.”  This time it’s Harmony, not my parents.  But I don’t have time for him right now.  Why the hell did he think this conversation would go any better than the last five I’ve had with these people?  We live on a precarious slope; one wrong sentence causes us all to fall down.  And I’m done with it.  If they’re not willing to listen to me, then I’m not willing to listen to them.

I stand up, snatch up my cane, and leave the room before anyone has a chance to say something else.

Chapter Text

My parents and Harmony spend another few minutes talking about me.  I sit quietly on the floor of the study and listen through the vent, though I don’t bother to unscrew it and thus have to strain to hear bits and piece of their words float in to me.  From what I can understand, Harmony assures them that things will get better, and he coaches them on a few ways to approach conversation with me.  I eventually give up listening and only tune back in when I hear them begin to shuffle around.  To my surprise, nobody bothers to come looking for me.  Not Harmony to go over today’s events.  Not my parents to scold me for my behavior.  It’s strangely unsettling to have been virtually abandoned here.

Harmony leaves, and soon after the front door closes again as Mom heads out for the evening.  So she didn’t take my dad up on staying here with me.  I shouldn’t find this upsetting but I do.  My mom used to bend over backwards to do everything she could for myself and my siblings: herded us to school even when we were tired and quarrelsome, made sure that we got to all of our practices on time, arranged for our friends to come over when we were younger, came to every event at school and every soccer game she could manage.  And now she doesn’t want to be around me.  The ache in my chest won’t go away, even when I try to tell myself that things will eventually change.  Because I’m not sure that they will, and that’s the most terrifying thought of all.

Once I am reasonably sure that Dad has no intention of looking for me, I feel around the study until I find the telephone.  The house doesn’t have many phones considering the crazy number of rooms, but it sure is more than we had back in the old house.  I pick up the handset and allow my fingers to familiarize themselves with the number pad as I listen to the dial tone.  When I am reasonably confident that I know what I’m doing, I enter in my old phone number.

The phone rings several times before I hear a click.

“Hello?” Joule asks politely.  Just the way Dad taught her to answer the phone when she was younger.

“Hey, Joule, it’s me Elijah,” I say to her.

Silence greets me on the other end for a second.  Then, the politeness drained from her words, “What do you want?”

“I wanted to check in on you and George,” I tell her, pretending that the harshness in her tone doesn’t hurt.

“We’re doing fine,” she says abruptly.

She really doesn’t want to talk with me.  I grip the phone tighter and press it against my ear.  Can I blame her?  The ache that was present before now only grows stronger.  One at a time, I am alienating my family members; they no longer want to be around me, not after what I have become.  I close my eyes and try again:

“What about the dog.  Mom and Dad say you’ve got the dog?”

“Yeah, he’s really cool,” she says, her tone lightening the slightest.  I think I’m making progress until she says, “We’re not supposed to be talking with you right now.”

“Right, well, neither Mom nor Dad knows that I’m—”

“It’s not them,” she says.  “It’s the head doctor we see.  So I’ll be hanging up now.”

“Wait, hang on.  Can I speak with George at least?” I interrupt before she can hang up the phone.

She sighs.  “As if,” she mumbles.  “He doesn’t exactly speak with anyone, no thanks to you.”

“Joule, really?” I say.  “I’m sorry I scared you and George.  I—”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll get over it,” she says.  “One second.  GEORGE!!!”

I cringe as she shouts for our brother without distancing herself from her mouthpiece, but say nothing that would piss her off.  Then comes shuffling sounds, and a few mumbles, and finally I hear somebody’s breathing on the other end.  For a heartbeat, I wonder if George will be just as cold and distant toward me as Joule.

“George?” I ask carefully.

“Yeah?” he says.

“I just . . . I just wanted to talk to you and make sure that you guys are okay,” I tell him.

He’s quiet for a moment.  “Thanks for calling,” he says.  “I thought they had tied you up somewhere.”

“They tried,” I tell him.  “Or at least tried to lock me up until Harmony told them that they can’t do that because it’s a fire hazard.  Now I only get locked up at night.  Listen, George, I’m really sorry.  I didn’t mean to scare you and Joule. . . .  I was stupid.  And I promise you, I’d never hurt either of you two.”

“I know,” he replies.  “You didn’t scare me.  Well, I mean a little, but not really.  Joule, on the other hand. . . .”  His voice fades away.  No further words are needed; I heard it well enough for myself.  Joule blames me for almost killing Henry, and I can’t fault her.

“How is the dog?” I ask.  “Everything going okay with it?”

“Oh, yeah.  His name is Marty and he is really awesome,” George says.  “Joule’s trying to get a pass at school that would allow her to take him to class with her.  If the doctor writes her the pass, then Marty will go with her to school even during the school year.”

At least there’s that.  Between the dog and being the sister of a victor, she’ll be the coolest kid in school.

“What about you?  What’ve you been up to?” I ask.

“Oh, well, I’ve been taking Marty for a lot of walks.  Mom’s given me a massive list of chores so that I don’t get bored during the day,” he says tiredly.  “When she isn’t over at the new place, she’ll drag me along shopping with her.”

“Oh, Mom’s on her way over there, just so you know,” I tell him.

“Right, thanks for the head’s up,” he says.  “I really haven’t touched that list of chores, so I should probably go pretend to get some done.  I’ll see you later, Elijah.”

I say goodbye to my brother and hang up the phone.  For several minutes, I sit quietly in the desk chair.  Then I reach out to push the phone back into place, only to accidentally knock over a stack of papers.  I mutter a curse, lean over, and begin to feel around the floor.  My hands touch not a paper, but an envelope.  And then another.  And another.  I furrow my brow and paw at the ground until I’m reasonably sure I grabbed them all.  A brief search of the desk tells me that someone had placed quite a number of envelopes here.  I feel stamps on the front, and some of them have been sealed on the back with tape or stickers, but most are just licked shut.  They come in all sorts of shapes and sizes, with many of them appearing to be cards or notes.  Some are fat and packed to the brim, and others are thin with only a page or two.  A couple are in legal envelopes.  I’d consider asking my dad about them if I weren’t so pissed off.  There’s no way for me to tell who these envelopes belong to, and I’m overwhelmed with how dependent I am for even the most basic of tasks.  Frustration nearly causes me to cast them back to the floor again but something holds me back.  One of the envelopes feels different.  I hesitate for a moment, but then I open it and pull out a sheet of paper.  My fingers run across the hundreds of tiny dots.  Braille.  I have absolutely no idea what this says, but it solidifies one thing in my mind: this is my mail.  Dozens of envelopes of my mail.  And for some reason, no one bothered to give it to me.

Grabbing a stack of mail in my hands, I head out of the study and into the sitting room where Ada had introduced me to the reading machine.  With the door firmly closed, I open the first envelope and hold the paper in my hands for a moment.  It takes several seconds to find the input slot, and then I carefully guide the piece of paper towards it and feed it in.  The machine beeps to life and starts to read in a mechanical voice.

Dear Elijah,

My name is Tiffany and I am in fourth grade.  I go to school in District 5.  For my project, my teacher wants us to write to somebody in our district that we don’t know and I chose to write to you.  I hope you are doing good.  Thank you for your time.  Please respond if you want.

Sincirely,
Tiffany Jones

Alright.  Weird, but I’m not sure what I expected.  I carefully tuck the letter into the envelope and set it to the side where it won’t get mixed up with the others.  Then I work on the second letter.

Dear Mr. Asher,

Thank you for representing District 5.  You did a good job in the Hunger Games.  My name is Kevin Kelvin and I want you to know that if I ever have to go to the Hunger Games that I don’t have to go through what you did.  I am ten, so I still have two years before I have to worry.

Yours truly,
Kevin Kelvin

Looks like Tiffany Jones wasn’t the only kid who had to write to somebody.  I try not to take his comments personally.

Dear Elijah,

I believed in you from the very beginning.  I don’t think you should have won, but I think that it doesn’t matter because you really made District 5, and myself, proud.

I don’t bother reading the rest of this letter and stuff it into the envelope.  There must be nearly ten pages to this letter anyhow.  What sort of asshole thinks that saying that sort of shit is appropriate?

The next envelope feels like something that’s not a lengthy personal note, and I am relieved when the machine immediately begins to read an official letterhead from the government.  The relief lasts only moments before I realize that this is something serious and not merely a ‘welcome to your new house’ sort of letter.  The date is from only a couple days ago.

Elijah Asher,

It has come to our attention that you have opted to keep your family in the previous residence on Mulberry Street.  Your victory in the 133^rd Hunger Games has guaranteed you and your family tax-exempt property in the ‘Victory Village’ of District 5.  Residence within ‘Victory Village’ is considered one of the highest honors a district resident can hold.

Please heed this as official notice that your family should plan to fully move into the new accommodations at 8291 Victory Rd, Victory Village, District 5 52819 by the start of next week.

Sincerely,
Louis R. Templeton

I struggle to control the bolt of fear that jolts through me.  My heart thumps and for a few brief seconds, I return to the hotel room as Solar taunts me with the suffering and deaths of my siblings.  I feel her hands on me.  I clench the envelope in my grasp and try to tell myself that I am no longer in that cursed room but here within my home, yet the sickening sensation in my stomach lingers. 

Their ‘honor’ can be damned.  My priority, I remind myself, is to keep my siblings safe.  It’s not a foolproof plan, but at least it’s something and I don’t have to constantly fear that she’ll sink her claws into them the moment she sees them outdoors.  I grab up the next letter, tear off the envelope and cast it aside, then feed the letter through the machine.

Dear Elijah,

We know that you’re going through a terrible time right now, and we hope that hearing this letter offers you some comfort, as it has given us some in writing it.  If now is the wrong time, then please come back to this when you feel that you are able to, if ever at all.

The Hunger Games are an aspect of life that we often ignore but always fear, no matter how old we are.   Every time we gather for the reaping, we feel the same fear that we felt when we were teenagers.  A few weeks ago, we had to endure what every parent dreads but few will ever have to go through when we heard our daughter’s name called out.  Our Ilana was the light of our lives and the reason we woke up every morning; she had the ability to turn our darkest days into the brightest moments.  Despite our great love for her, we knew that she would never return.  Ilana was too kind and too gentle to have a chance to win, and the thought of her facing the arena brought such despair.

It’s a parent’s worst nightmare to know that they can’t be there for their child in the moment of her greatest struggle, but when we heard your name called, we knew that even though she would face the most horrible challenges of her young life, she at least wouldn’t be alone.  You took care of our darling Ilana, and we like to think that you made her last days as comfortable as they could possibly be.

As much as we would have loved to have our daughter with us again, we know that it is impossible.  You are our victor.  We are proud of you for winning the Hunger Games despite the challenges you faced.  If it brings you any comfort at all, know that we feel nothing but gratitude for all you have done for Ilana.

We are forever grateful for your friendship with our daughter.  Please let us know if we can ever do anything for you.

With love,
Llorenc and Gloria Garcia

The machine doesn’t have a chance to finish reading before I fall back into the closest chair and burst into tears.  I sit in the silence that follows, aware only of my own sniffling and the pain within my chest.

This is too much.  Everything.  Everything piling on, one after another after another.  I don’t think I can handle it much longer.  The happiness I felt as Ada rekindled my old hobbies cannot withstand the onslaught of emotions I cannot fully express.

I almost don’t hear Dad calling me for dinner, and the frustration is evident in his voice by the time his words register in my ears.  He can’t see this letter.  This message was for me, and me alone.  I snatch the paper out of the machine, grab the previous note, and shove them both into my pocket.  Without time to clean up, I wipe my face on my sleeve and stagger into the hallway for dinner knowing that no matter how hard they try, my family will never understand how much my new day-to-day life tears me apart.

Chapter Text

The moment I enter the dining room, I know that Dad isn’t alone.  Somebody else is here . . . little movements tip me off that there is a third person in this room.  I stop and listen for a second before Dad says, “Go ahead and sit down, Elijah.”

I take my seat at the table and listen carefully as I try to sort out the sounds of two people.  It’s subtle: fabric brushing against the table, maybe from a sleeve; gentle ‘thumps’ as the water glass moves; the slurp of somebody drinking.  I can’t narrow down who it is until I hear a fork click absently against the edge of the table.  Henry.  He has done that since we were little kids and my mom would always tell him to stop.

“We are going to have a calm, respectful dinner,” Dad says, not bothering to comment on the fact that it’s clear I’ve been crying and I keep wiping my nose on my sleeve.  “I think we all want to resolve our differences and live together again, so why don’t we start here at the dinner table.”

Already my emotions are frayed, and I don’t have energy for this bullshit, which works out well enough because in keeping to myself, I more or less comply with my father’s instructions.  We pass the dishes around with minimal talking, including minimal (if any) description of what is being passed to me.  Mom must have cooked before she left, because although there are only a few dishes, it’s more than what I’ve ever seen my dad make.  I manage to eat without too much mess, I think, though it helps that my hand is so heavy that I can barely lift the fork to my lips at all.

“Henry, what did you do today?” Dad asks once we’ve slowed down on our eating.

More like ‘who did you do today?’ but despite the perfect opportunity for snark, I can’t bring myself to say anything.  The pain is too fresh, and I am too exhausted.

Henry clears his throat.  “We worked on the garden,” he says.

“Oh, how is that coming along?” Dad asks.

As the two of them talk about how wonderful the Ampere family vegetable garden is turning out thanks to Henry’s welcomed presence, I can’t help but wonder just how dumb my parents really are.  When I was a kid, they were the smartest people alive, and as I grew older, I still had respect for them even when I found their logic flawed and their methods inconsistent.  But now I can’t fathom how they think it’s appropriate to sit down their mentally unstable kid at the table across from his brother he almost tried to kill mere days before and then talk in depth about the subject that pushed him over the edge.  Does Dad just not care anymore, or does he really believe that this is a great way to reunite myself and my brother?  Which one would even be the better option?  Harmony says that parenting doesn’t come with a manual, but you’d think that after everything we’ve been through that they’d have at least a small drop of common sense.

Henry deliberately skirts around the fact that he and Lucinda were working together in the garden by trying to make it sound like a whole family affair.  I don’t know why he bothers.

“Elijah, are you finished eating?” Dad asks, breaking me from my thoughts.

“Yeah,” I reply.

“You didn’t eat very much,” he says.

I snort.  “Yeah, I think I lost my appetite somewhere around the part where we just started casually pretending that what’s going on in the Ampere household is completely normal and something I should just get over,” I say.

My dad sighs heavily and sets down his fork.  “Elijah, this isn’t going to work if you can’t be willing to—”

“Willing to accept the fact that he slept with my girlfriend and just ‘happens’ to continue to go over there?” I offer.  “Silly me.”

“We are just trying to have a normal family dinner—” he tries again, but once more I cut him off.

“There is nothing normal about our family anymore,” I say sharply, slamming my fork down hard enough that it causes everything on the table to rattle.  “Stop trying to pretend that things will one day be the same as they were before because they never will be.  I’m not going to get back my eyesight, or bring back those people I killed, or magically forget what I went through.  And Henry is not going to un-fuck my girlfriend (er, ex-girlfriend), nor are you and Mom going to erase the fact that you up and abandoned everyone.”

“C’mon, Elijah,” Henry starts in, setting his own fork down.  “You’re being crass.”

“Maybe I need to be crass for you guys to actually hear what I’m saying,” I shoot back.  “You can’t just shove me in a room and lock the door, nor can you pretend that having normal family dinners will make me normal again.  I’m fucked up.  I mean, I’m really fucked up.  And honestly, I don’t care what you guys went through, not right now, not when I’ve been funneled into this position and can’t see a way out, so don’t try to tell me that everybody had it rough.  You might’ve been through shit, but I’ve had it far worse than you . . . far worse than what you saw on television. . . .

“There’s no way to undo what I’ve gone through, and forcing me to play the role of a ‘normal’ person isn’t going to make me normal any more than somebody playing a tree in a stage play will make them grow leaves.  This is me.  I can’t just cast aside the things that have happened to me.  I can’t pretend that they don’t exist, not when every time I go to bed I’m haunted by nightmares worse than anything you can ever imagine.  They don’t just go away.  They don’t get better with time, nor do they vanish with the sleeping medicine.  They linger with me throughout the day, and lurk in the edges of my mind.  I can’t escape them any more than I can escape any other part of me.  This is my normal now, where I’m constantly reminded of the things I’ve done and the things I couldn’t do.  This is what I have to live with.  And I can’t be shoved into a mold I don’t fit into anymore.”

Dad and Henry sit in the silence that follows.  Their game of make believe has been shattered, and the heaviness in the air makes it clear that they can’t go back.  They can’t pretend that Henry’s doing good deeds in the Ampere garden, and they can’t pretend that I haven’t been sitting in a room sobbing hysterically.

“Alright, Elijah,” Dad says.  He takes a deep breath.  “What would you like to talk about?”

I falter.  I don’t really want to talk about anything.  It’s not even what I don’t want to talk about.  I just want them to acknowledge that things will never be the same again.  I want them to treat me differently, not just tailor conversations around whatever I want to discuss.

“I don’t know,” I admit hesitantly.

“Did you tell Harmony this?” he asks.

“Does it matter?  I’m telling you this right now, and I want you to listen, not Harmony,” I say bluntly.  “Just . . . stop pretending.  Stop ignoring me.  It won’t make things better.”

“Okay,” he says carefully.  “I’ll talk with your Mom and see what we can do.”

And that’s it.  Conversation ended.  Neither Dad nor Henry want to continue talking about this, so with those few words, my dad has effectively shut down the discussion.  I’m not sure what I expected him to say, really.  It’s not like talking will just resolve all my problems.  Since no one else appears to be willing to say anything, I grab my plate and head to the kitchen.  As I rinse it off in the sink, I tell myself that it didn’t go as poorly as it could have gone, but even still, I’m not certain it made a difference at all.

A knock on the bedroom door startles me from my thoughts.  I had forgotten that other people were in the house and might be willing to interact with me outside of regular business hours, and I take a second to pull on a shirt and a pair of pants before I say, “Come in.”

“Hey, Elijah, can I bother you for a second?” Henry asks.

I know that I won’t like whatever follows, but I’m a captive audience as it is, so I say, “Yeah, sure.”  I sit down on the bed cross-legged.

He steps inside and moves around the room somewhere near my desk.

“I’m sorry.  I really am,” he tells me.  Something clinks around, and I know he’s fiddling with the few items I have on the desk.  “About Lucinda.  It wasn’t meant to happen.”

“Yet it did.  And it still continues to happen,” I say between gritted teeth as I try to restrain myself.  I twist the light summer sheet between my fingers and focus on the fabric.

“Yeah,” he says.  “And I’m sorry that it does because I know that it upsets you, and you don’t need this sort of shit right now.”

He’s sorry, but he’s not sorry.  Such a lame apology.  It means nothing.  He sets down whatever he’s holding with a small ‘clunk’ and draws in a deep breath before he says, “I’m not leaving Lucinda.”

I flinch with the blow, even though it doesn’t surprise me.  He has shown no remorse for what he did, even when I had been waiting for Lucinda to talk with me and he knew how much it was destroying me.  Instead he focused on Lucinda and helping with her situation; he didn’t care about me.  He still doesn’t.  Yet to hear these words aloud make me ache.

“I know,” I say.  “But stop pretending that it’s okay.”

“What do you want me to do instead?  Pretend like I’m not going over to her house?” he asks.

“How about not sitting around the dinner table acting like it’s completely cool,” I suggest tensely.

“You were angry when I didn’t say anything, and now you’re angry when I do talking about it,” Henry says.  “Doesn’t seem like I can do anything right.”

“That’s because you didn’t do anything right,” I say bitterly.  “You had sex with Lucinda and you don’t care enough to realize how fucked up that is.  You just act like it’s totally okay.  It’s not.”

“I know it’s not, but I’m not going to break up with her just because you’re unhappy with how this all played out,” he says.  “You know, I’m unhappy with it all, too.  But I enjoy being with her, and if that brings me some happiness in all this misery, I don’t care.  I’m sorry that I hurt you, but I don’t see how me ending it would make things better, not when the damage has already been done to you.”

I grit my teeth.  “I don’t want her,” I say.  “I’m not going to break you up to get back together with her.”

“I’m sorry, Elijah.  I know it’s selfish of me,” he says.  But merely acknowledging that he knows what he’s doing is wrong doesn’t forgive him of his crimes, not when he keeps repeating it over and over and over.

“Fine.  You’ve said your bit.  Get out of here,” I snap.

He hesitates, and I’m tempted to forcefully remove him from the room, but I know that I need to keep my distance and stay where I am if I don’t want a repeat of the other night.  Killing Henry isn’t right no matter how angry I am, I remind myself, and I don’t want to find myself in that position where I am not rational enough to make that distinction.

“I also wanted to say that I forgive you for the other night.  For trying to kill me,” my brother says.  “I know that you didn’t mean it, and the situation was . . . not good.  I can’t blame you.  I’m sorry.”

“What makes you think I want to be forgiven?” I ask him carefully.

“Elijah. . . .” my brother says uncertainly.  “You honestly aren’t sorry about that?”

I don’t answer because I myself am uncertain if I am sorry or not now that I’m in the same room as him.  It wasn’t right, I can agree with that.  And yet he has the audacity to tell me that he’s sorry for what he did but has no intention of changing.  How does that deserve forgiveness?

My silence must irritate him because then he says suddenly, “Do you know why Mom and Dad make me come back here every night?”

“I’m sure it’s not for your flawless morals,” I mutter.

“It’s because they’re afraid of you and don’t want to be by themselves with you here,” Henry tells me, his voice sharp with anger.  “Even Dad doesn’t know what he’ll do if you get too crazy, so he has me here to help subdue you in case it’s needed.  You want us to treat you like you should be treated and not like we want to treat you?  Then, fine, here’s the truth: Elijah, you belong in a mental institution, not our home.”

Shit.  I know I’m not stable, but to have somebody I love say that to me blows me away, leaving me hollow and barely able to hold myself up.  I twist the fabric beneath me between my fingers and focus on it to tie me together.

“If it were their decision, they’d have shipped you off already.  They’ve talked about it, you know.  Dad’s been trying to get in contact with some friends of his or whatever, but his requests keep getting blocked.  That doesn’t stop him because he’s still trying,” he continues.  “Your nurse disagrees and insists you can be taken care of here.  But none of us want to be here with you until you get your shit together.”

“Fine then.  Leave,” I say.  “You guys will be in no danger if you’re not here.”

“You really think Mom and Dad would outright leave you?  After losing you once?  If so, then you’re an idiot,” Henry says.  “They won’t.  They’ll bend over backwards to make sure that they do their parental duties, even if it means the rest of us have to suffer.”

This is victory.  This is what it means to live: your family suffers because of who you have become and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, that you can do about it because you can’t go backwards and erase the past.  For the first time, I seriously wonder if I ever should have come back at all.  They would not have to go through any of this torture if I had died.  Sure, they’d be sad, but they already were sad.  Now this just makes everything they’re dealing with more complicated.  Hatred winds its way up through me, but it’s not hatred for them; no, it’s a seething, angry tendril that wraps itself around me and whispers to me that life would have been better for them all if I had died as I should have.

“I’m sorry I inconvenienced you by living,” I say despite the nausea that causes my stomach to lurch as that vine squeezes my abdomen.

“Elijah, you’re my brother and I love you, but I don’t want to be around you anymore,” Henry says.  “I will stay here because Mom and Dad want me here, but if I had a chance, I’d leave in a heartbeat.  You might not be able to help that you’ve changed, but I don’t like what you’ve turned into.”

I grit my teeth and take a breath, forcing myself to remain calm, but I don’t think I’ll be able to hold myself together for too long.

“You know, it’s great that we could have this enlightening talk, but I really need to be drugging myself into oblivion now, so I’ll see you later,” I say as I stand up and walk over towards the door.  Henry had closed it when he came in, which I didn’t realize, and it takes me a second to find the doorknob and open it back up.  “Don’t forget to lock the door behind you so I when I turn into a werewolf, I don’t kill you all.”

Henry mutters something under his breath, but I feel him walk by me and I close the door firmly behind him.  Whether he actually locks the door from the other side, I neither know nor care because I am already heading into the bathroom to find my sleeping pills.

The unfortunate thing about the sleeping medication is that it doesn’t work right away; it takes fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour, before my eyelids grow heavy.  And it’s in that intermittent time that I must face myself knowing that there is no way to escape.  I’ve made the decision to take the medication, and now I can think only of the nightmares that will soon be upon me.

I curl onto my side and tighten the blankets underneath my chin.  I used to find the time before falling asleep somewhat peaceful, but now it’s terrifying.  Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if the pills knocked me out right away and I didn’t have to anticipate the nightmares.

Tonight, however, I find myself so mentally exhausted that I realize I’ll willingly take the nightmares because they’re not real.  They bring terror while I sleep and for some time after I wake, but I know that they are nothing that can hurt me.  Unlike reality.  Unlike this new world I cannot escape no matter how much I wish to wake up.

Chapter Text

When Mom arrives in the morning, she has George and a dog in tow.  The moment that he gets through the door, George rushes over to my side and tells me that he’s here, and then he wants to show off the newly-acquired animal.  He barely gets the words out before a high-pitched yip follows.

“I thought it was a dog, not a . . . what is it?  A rat?” I ask skeptically.

George laughs.  “He’s small, but he’s a dog!  And he’s super friendly.  Marty, sit!”

The tags on the collar jingle.  Reluctantly, I crouch down on the floor and reach out a hand hoping that the animal doesn’t decide that now’s a great time to taste human flesh.  Instead I feel a wet slurp of tongue across my fingers.  Something thumps against the ground, and I realize that it’s the dog’s tail as he wags it happily.

“What does he look like?” I ask.

“Um, he’s white and brown with wiry hair,” George says as he crouches down next to me.  “His eyes are brown and he has these funny little ears that are half-down and half-up.  And he has a beard.  He’s about twenty pounds and they think he’s only two or three years old.  I don’t know how they can tell because it’s not like he can talk, but there must be a way.  Marty, say hi to Elijah.”

The dog’s warm nose presses against my hand, and I feel him snuffling my palm as he becomes better acquainted with me.  The tags clink together as he comes closer, and moments later I feel his front paws against my leg as he props himself up against me.  I take that as an invitation to pet him, so I move my hand until it touches tufts of coarse hair.  Sure enough, the dog has a beard around his snout.

I’ll be completely honest that I did not expect a small dog; I had anticipated something bigger and stronger.  Something that I wouldn’t be afraid that I’d step on.  A shepherd, a hunting type of dog, something of that line.  Now, of course, it’s too late.  Kicking out this dog would break Joule’s heart, and I couldn’t do that to her.  Or to George.  It’s clear that he’s attached to it already.

The next thing I know, the dog crawls up onto my leg, knocking me off balance.  I fall onto my butt only to have the dog make himself comfortable on my lap as though it were his intention the entire time.  So much for being trained.

“This is ridiculous,” I say.

“He likes you,” George laughs.

I stroke the animal’s neck and back, trying to form a better picture of what he looks like.  He doesn’t mind being petted, and he allows me to touch his front legs and the small paws on which is fat body balances.

“He needs to lose weight,” I comment.

“I think he gets a lot of treats for doing tricks,” my brother confirms.

“And this is what a well-trained dog looks like, huh?” I ask as I nudge the dog off my lap.  Either Joule’s friend has no idea what she’s doing or Joule was really exaggerating things to make sure I agreed to her proposal.  I heave myself to my feet before the dog has another chance to crawl back onto my lap.

“He’s pretty cool, you have to admit it,” George says.  “Marty, sit!”

Whether the dog sits or not, I have no idea.  But Harmony interrupts the meet-and-greet when he calls out, “C’mon, guys, time to get to work!”

The kitchen is fortunately big enough for Ada, Harmony, my mom, George, the dog, and myself to move around relatively easily (me less so since I can’t see who I’m about to walk into).  George and the dog are instructed to stay out of the way, and I hang back with them until Ada tells me that I have to have a more active part in deciding where everything belongs.  They consult Mom frequently and make sure that things are located in places that are reasonable for her for when she’s cooking.  Navigating the kitchen only brings to light how little I know about cooking, the various tools and utensils needed to make a meal, and even basic kitchen safety.

Afterwards George and I go outside to kick around the soccer ball.  News of the soccer field blows my brother away, and he chatters about how he might be able to assemble a team and wonders if it would be fairer for everyone to wear blindfolds so that we’re all on the same page.  As he talks, the dog runs around and yaps at the ball every time it’s kicked, and I hear the jingling collar and chirping ball travel together in the distance between us.

George falls silent when Ada comes out to get us.

“Somebody’s going to be here to measure the lawn soon, so why don’t you boys come inside?” she calls out from the front porch.  I lean down and pick up the ball (well covered in dog slobber where the animal tried to snatch it up in his mouth) and walk back to the house with my brother.  “We’ll have to be cautious where we go inside because the workmen are here to fix up the exercise room.”

“So are you just allowed to have whatever room you want here?” George asks me as we step onto the porch.  “You don’t like one room so you can make it into anything else?”

“Sure, I guess,” I answer.

“Within reason,” Ada clarifies as she leads us inside through the living room entrance.  “You can’t decide that you don’t like the kitchen and turn it into a swimming pool, for example.”

“But you could make a slide to take you from one floor to the other so you don’t have to walk down the stairs?” he asks.  “I mean, just purely as an example.”

I snort.  Yeah, just what this house needs: more confusion.

“We could at least install a dog door,” George continues.  “There’s not one at the old house, so Joule just leaves a window open.  But don’t tell Mom that, okay?”

“Your secret is safe with me,” I tell him.  “But I don’t want a dog door.  If he has to pee in the middle of the night, you have to get up and take him out.”

“Aww,” George says.

“Yeah, but something could come in through the dog door and we’d never find it,” I say.  “The house would be full of squirrels and skunks and we’d never know until they lodged a mutiny.”  Squirrels, skunks, and unwanted victors.

Ada comes to a stop and fortunately I notice before I either run into her or smack her with the cane.  The dog starts yapping, and George hoists him into his arms and starts to shush him until the animal makes a sad whine and gives up entirely.

“One second, please,” the activities specialist tells us before she steps away.  Her footsteps change slightly, and it confuses me until I reach out with my cane and tap onto plastic that covers the hardwood floor of the hallway.

“They laid down sheets of plastic for the workers, I think,” George says.  “So that they don’t track mud in or whatever.”

That makes sense.  It strikes me how much I miss now that I can’t see.  So many things I’d take for granted, even small things like this that I don’t really care about one way or another.  George and I step back and I lean against the wall as we wait for Ada to return.

The telephone rings, and despite knowing what the sound is, I jump.  George snickers, and I smack him in the ankle with my cane out of sheer irritation.  He grumbles but apologizes for laughing at me.

“Elijah?” comes my mom’s voice.  “It’s for you!”

“Alright,” I call out.  “I’ll get it in . . . whatever room has a telephone near here.”

“The study,” George reminds me.  “Third door down on your right.”

I thank him and head off down the hallway hoping I don’t miss it completely despite my brother’s directions.  I enter the room after a bit of fumbling and walk towards where the desk should be.  It’s not until I reach for the phone that it occurs to me that people don’t normally call me.  The only phone call I’ve received was from Lucinda (technically to Henry).  Marie mentioned my phone number is unlisted.   As I pick up the phone and press the handpiece to my ear, I wonder if somehow that’s changed.

“Hello?” I ask.

I hear the phone click as Mom hangs up on the other line.

“Mr. Asher?” comes the voice of a man.  From only those two words, I can hear the formality.  Nobody calls me ‘Mr. Asher’ without a damned good reason.

“This is he,” I respond carefully knowing that this isn’t a call for casual conversation.

“Mr. Asher, I believe you may be familiar with me.  My name is Louis Templeton, and I sent you a letter several days ago,” says the man.

It takes me a moment to remember that he did send me a letter.  The one about moving my family into the mansion.  My body tenses and I absently wrap the cord around my fingers.

“Yes,” I confirm.  “How can I help you?”

“I wanted to let you know that it would be very wise to heed my letter,” he says.  “Your mansion is plenty big enough for your entire family.  If you require assistance moving in, we can provide people.”

“Oh.  Um, thanks,” I say, not sure why it’s so imperative that my family moves into the house.  “But we’re okay.  My sister goes to school, and the other house is closer.”

“We can arrange alternate transportation for her so that it doesn’t inconvenience your family,” Mr. Templeton says.  “You have a very lovely family, and it is quite the honor to have such a house.  It would be in your best interest to make sure that you are not offending the title of victor by choosing to not live in victor village.  You earned the right to be there, after all.”

Why?  Why the hell does he care?  Why does he want my family to be near Solar?  I know that it’s possible (very likely) that he doesn’t know about Solar’s ulterior motives, but his insistence doesn’t make sense anyhow.  If I’m victor and if that’s the highest title a citizen can take, doesn’t that apply to me and not my entire family?

“Thank you,” I respond.  I take care to not let my irritation creep into my tone and remain polite.  “I’ll take that into consideration.”

“It’s best you do,” the man says.  “The beginning of the week is nearly upon us, so I can easily arrange for moving vans to—”

“We’re okay,” I tell him.

The man doesn’t say anything for several seconds, but at last he concludes, “It was a pleasure talking with you today, Mr. Asher.  Please call me if you need further assistance.”

“Thank you,” I say, but I feel no appreciation for his offer at all.  Instead I am only grateful when I hang up the phone and rub my ear as though it’ll brush away the words I heard.  Do all victors get badgered like this if they don’t move their families in quickly enough, or is this something that’s unique to me?  If they want my family to move here for whatever reason, they don’t need to be so weird about it.

I head back into the hallway and locate George.  The dog yips when I approach, which helps guide me back to my brother.

“What was that about?” George asks.

“Just somebody wanting to help with the move,” I mutter.  “Where’s Ada?”

“Still looking at things,” George responds.  Curiosity lingers in his voice, but he doesn’t pry about the phone call.  Just as well because there really isn’t much to say.

Ada doesn’t return after a moment, so I turn to my brother and ask, “What do you want, George?”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, I got Joule a dog, so what do you want?” I clarify when I realize my question couldn’t have been more vague.  I tap my cane against the floor, exploring the border between hardwood and plastic.

He thinks about it for a moment before saying, “I want an aquarium!”

“An aquarium?  I didn’t even know that you liked fish,” I say.

“It’s a new thing,” he says.  “I used to like lizards, but I think that they’d get lost in a place this big.”

“I wouldn’t be able to help much with the upkeep,” I tell him.

“I know.  I’ll take care of it,” he assures me.  “I’ve been doing research while Mom’s out of the house, and I think I’ll be able to manage on my own.”

At least an aquarium wouldn’t be loud, and if it’s messy, I don’t have to deal with it.  Plus there are plenty of rooms in the house, or maybe George wants it in his bedroom.  I mull over the different possibilities of where we could put a large fish tank only to realize that I don’t really care where it goes as long as it’s out of my way and I won’t knock into it.

“Alright,” I say at last.  “I’ll talk with Ada.”

“Thanks,” George says happily.

Ada returns a moment later and leads us down the hallway and into the conservatory.  We spend the rest of the morning going over construction plans, discussing what other modifications should be done to rooms, and learning about various activities that can be adapted for blindness.

In the afternoon, Harmony calls me away from the others to talk over my feelings and work on ways to better communicate with my family.  It all seems pointless, honestly; yet I find myself going along with it because there’s no other option.  If I want things to change, I can’t rely on my parents or my older brother.

After Mom, George, and the dog leave for the evening, I call up Anthony to see if he would like to come over after dinner.  Hearing his voice again seems surreal.  So normal.  For a few seconds, I think I’ve travelled back into time, but that lasts only until I start giving him directions to the new place.

When Anthony arrives, I abandon dinner with Dad and Henry to meet my friend on the front porch.

“Hey, Eli,” he says with a grin.  “Nice place you have here.”

Strange to think that this person from my old world will soon collide with the new one.  While I got along with most of my classmates and teammates, Anthony and I have been friends since we were kids and over the years adding new friends into our lives hasn’t made much of a difference.  Going through the Hunger Games, on the other hand, had changed so many things that the prospect of losing Anthony as a friend chews the back of my mind as a very real possibility.

I open the door wider and motion him inside.  “Want a tour?”

“Hell yes,” Anthony says as he steps in through the front door.  He barely gets in before he gives a low whistle.  “Yikes.  This is massive.”

“Did the exterior not give it away?” I ask in jest.  I begin to lead him further into the house where I start the tour on the first floor.  It’s funny, but I’ve only been here a few days and giving tours already seems second nature.  Navigating the building had been daunting when I first stepped foot in the mansion, but now I’m slowly growing accustomed to having so many rooms and so much stuff I don’t really give a crap about.  Anthony asks questions as we go through, and he’s really impressed with the progress of the exercise room.

When I take him to the backyard and explain about the soccer field, I think he’s going to lose his mind entirely.

“I hope I don’t sound like an ass when I say this, but I didn’t know blind people could play soccer,” he says.

“Me neither.  Not until yesterday,” I tell him.  “Obviously it’s not the same, but. . . .”

“Yeah, I get it,” Anthony says.  “By the way, the team misses you, and everyone says hi.  Practice isn’t the same without you there.”

“I’m sure you guys will be fine.  Danny can fill my position,” I say for lack of anything else.  The idea of ‘my position’ being given to someone else isn’t one I like, but they can’t stop their lives just because of me.  Danny’s not a bad person anyway; he’d do the same for any of us.

“Yeah, but Danny sucks,” my friend says.  “He’s definitely a goalie and not meant to be on the field.”

“That’s because you guys always stuck him in the goalbox whenever he wanted to be in another position,” I point out.

Anthony snickers.  “Yeah, well, he’s better than our other option for goalie,” he says.  “If we take Danny out, that means that Mil has to be goalie, and, no offense, you’d be a better goalie right now than him.”

“Harsh,” I say.

“Hopefully not too harsh,” he adds.

“No, it’s cool,” I say.

“Great.  Because, honestly, I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to say to you, you know?” he says.

“Join the club.  I’m not even sure of that myself,” I mutter.

“Can I ask about the Hunger Games?” he inquires hesitantly.  “Or is that like something you don’t ever want to talk about again?”

I inhale and think about it for a second before saying, “Yeah, sure, you can ask.  It’s fine.”  At least he asked, I tell myself.  I lean against the railing of the porch and wait for him to assemble his questions.  It occurs to me now that for the rest of my life, people will want to know the details of the Hunger Games.  Maybe mine, maybe ones I mentor.  Even the people here at home have a morbid curiosity of what I went through.

“What was it like being in the arena?” he asks quietly.  “I mean, I know it wasn’t good because who the hell would ever think it was really an honor to go to the Hunger Games?  But I’ve known you for years and have never seen you use a knife like that.”

It takes a bit before I am able to put it into words.  “Imagine that you have been awake for a week straight and then have to take a test in a class you’ve never been in, and if you don’t get the top score, you get killed,” I explain.  “It’s exhausting, and then you still have to do well because if you don’t, you die.  And at that point, after you’ve been awake so long, you no longer think clearly and only want to get out of there.”

“So you turn your wood whittling skills into something that will help you pass the test,” Anthony muses.

“Meanwhile, everybody’s watching you and you know that they’re watching you.  They’re placing bets as to how well you do on that test and how quickly you’ll fail,” I add.

“I think I’ve had dreams like this,” my friend remarks.  “When you show up for a test in a class you’ve never even heard of.”

“Yes, but now it’s a dream you can never wake up from,” I tell him.  And I’ll never be able to wake up again.

“Shit.  It’s so insane, really,” he says.  “None of us think we could have done it.  And no one knows how you were able to pull it off, no offense.”

“None taken.”  I’m not sure how I survived, either.  My fingers pick at the wood on the porch railing, but it must be a fresh coat since nothing flecks away.

“At least you only had to kill Careers,” he tries to reassure me.

I bristle, and he must see because he quickly adds, “Not that it’s great to kill anyone, but it would have sucked to have to kill, like, twelve year olds or something.”

“Yes, well, none of it is anything I’d ever want to repeat,” I say sharply.  Killing is killing.  I’m not happy about what I did, and I don’t want to think if the choices I made would be different if I had been faced with a trio of younger tributes because I’m not sure it would have been.

“Sorry, Eli,” he says.  “I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

“You didn’t piss me off,” I say, even though he did.  But I’m coming to understand that pretty much everything pisses me off these days, so I might as well just get over it.  Besides, he asked if he could ask questions, and I told him he could; discussion of the Hunger Games can only be so polite.  “C’mon, let me show you the rest of the house.”

Chapter Text

Ada and I discuss how to organize the ‘activities room’ where she says we’ll keep all the board games and other such things.  She describes different methods to store everything so that I’ll have options for however I want to approach organization.  At one point, she mentions arts and crafts, and she laughs at the face I make.

“Humor me, Elijah,” she says.  “Because you’ll like what I have to say next.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Fresh out of District 3: a new videogame that relies on sound rather than sight,” she tells me.  This piques my interest and I listen carefully as she continues, “It was developed a few months ago, so the fact that it’s available now is merely a coincidence—but a happy one, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“You have my attention,” I say as I sit up straighter in my chair.  “But I don’t have a game console.”

“That’s not a problem,” she says.  “We can get you hooked up with that pretty easily.  All you need to do is just bear with me on some of these other activities.”

I let out a small groan.  “Yeah, sure, whatever,” I say, immediately losing interest.  I never did any art besides the occasional scribbles in the margins of my notes when I wasn’t paying attention in class and whatever I was forced to do for a letter grade.  I’m not artistically gifted, and this doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

She laughs again.  “One day you might find that knowing how to paint is something important to you,” she says.

“Right.  If anyone buys that artwork, they have problems,” I mutter as I slouch back down.

“You don’t have to be good at it to enjoy it,” she says.  “And you don’t have to enjoy it to know how to manage the supplies so you don’t make a mess.”

From somewhere down the hallway I hear voices followed by a familiar yap.  I look up and listen carefully until I can hear the jingling collar.  It slowly grows closer.  A distraction from the monotony of paints and paintbrushes.

“Looks like we’re going to have some help today,” Ada smiles.

Sure enough, George asks if he can come in.  When Ada says that he can, he comes straight over to the table, pulls out a chair, and plops down.  Moments later, I hear a small whine and feel something pawing at my calf.

“Your well-trained dog wants his own chair,” I grumble to my brother.

“Nope.  He wants your chair,” George replies.  I don’t have much chance to object before the dog begins to clamber up onto my lap, scratching my legs and using the fabric of my pants to pull himself along.  Part of me wants to stand up and just let him fall, but he manages to hoist his heavy frame onto my lap within moments.

“He’s such a sweet dog,” Ada remarks kindly.  “He wants to be involved in everything!”

“’Sweet,’ I don’t know, but I’ll agree with that last part,” I mumble.

Yet despite my reservations, as Ada continues on with explaining the different activities she’s going to teach me from painting to ceramics, I find myself absently petting the wiry tuffs of hair on the dog’s head as I listen.

We take a break for lunch.  As George and I approach the kitchen to set our dishes down after we’ve eaten, we hear Mom and Dad talking in hushed voices.  Their quiet, tense words draw me in, and I strain to hear them without moving into what I assume to be their line of sight.

“I don’t want to leave you here tonight, Leda,” Dad says to Mom.  The weariness weighs heavily in his voice.  “I know you’re not comfortable with it.  I’ll be fine; I’ll just get up a bit earlier than normal.”

“Watt, you’ll have to wake up far too early.  And I know you haven’t been sleeping well,” Mom comforts him.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says.  “I’ll be just fine.  And it’s only for tomorrow.  I’m fortunate my boss lets me work from home as frequently as he does.”

Problem A: Dad wants to stay at the other house because it’s closer to his work.  This is complicated by

Problem B: Somebody has to stay here to babysit me.  Mom would be the most reasonable candidate since she is not constrained by a work schedule, but

Problem C: She’s scared of me.

Anger rises within me, and I start to move forward.  George grabs onto my arm to hold me back.  I wrench away from him and stalk into the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, doing my best to keep my voice level.  As Harmony says, they will be more likely to listen to me if I am reasonable.

“Nothing.  Don’t worry about it,” Dad says.

I snort.  Right, okay.  This again.  Protect Elijah because he’s fragile and dangerous, but also inconvenience literally every single person in the house which makes them resent him.

“How about you stop talking behind my back and let me help you figure this out?” I demand.  Harmony’s advice vanishes from my mind as the words come out of my mouth.  To hell with reason, not when the people you’re speaking with seemed to have abandoned it long ago.  “What’s the issue?”

My parents hesitate, to which I say, “Listen, you involve Henry in your discussions.  Sometimes you involve George and Joule, too.  But you never want to talk to me.”

“Elijah. . . .” Dad starts, but I stand there and wait for an actual answer.  A real answer.  I won’t take any more bullshit.

“I have a meeting at work early tomorrow morning,” he says reluctantly.  “We’re just trying to figure out the logistics of the situation.”

“Wow, that sounds like something that’s really important to keep from me,” I snap.  “Why don’t you guys both just stay over at the other house?  Then Dad doesn’t have to get up early and Mom doesn’t have to deal with me.”

“Elijah,” Mom protests.  “You know that that’s not why—”

“Sure,” I say before she can get the words out.

“Son, your mother needs to be there for Joule and George,” Dad tries to explain but I don’t believe it for a second.  They can concoct whatever excuse they want in order to make themselves feel better about the decisions they make, but it doesn’t change reality.  “Thank you for your suggestion, but we don’t want to leave you here by yourself, either.”

“I won’t be by myself.  I’ll have Henry here,” I point out.  “He can just lock me in at the designated time, I’ll take my sleeping pills, and no one will be the wiser.”

“I don’t want to leave you two here by yourself,” he says.  Bold.  Not even hiding the fact that he doesn’t trust me around my older brother.

“I’ll stay here,” George offers, momentarily decreasing the tension that has built between my father and me.  “I have most of my stuff here anyhow.”

“I don’t know, George,” Mom starts.

“No,” said Dad.  “You’ll go back to the other house with your mother.”

“Aww, but please?” my little brother tries again.

“It’s been at least three days since I’ve last tried to kill anyone.  I think I’m good to be around my little brother,” I say.

“Elijah, your sense of humor isn’t appreciated now,” Dad warns.

My sense of humor isn’t appreciated ever anymore.  That, like reason and logic, doesn’t matter to the Asher household.

“It would give you extra time to get ready for work,” George says.  “Like Joule.  She gets to sleep in so much longer than she would if she stayed here.  And Henry can lock us all into our rooms if you think it’ll be better.”

“You’re not getting locked into your room, sweetie,” Mom assures him.

Right because locking kids in their bedrooms is saved only for the ones that are really mentally unstable.  George is just a touch unbalanced, not totally off his rocker like me.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Dad says.  “Maybe some other night, George.”

“Or he can go back to the other house and forget how to talk entirely,” I point out.  My brother mutters “stop it, Elijah,” but I ignore him as I wait for our parents to react to this.  They can deny the truth, but they can’t make it go away.  George magically finds his voice again whenever he is here, only to lose it when he has to return home.

“We’ll talk with Harmony,” Mom says after a pause.

“But no guarantees,” Dad adds after a few seconds’ hesitation.  “We need to do what’s best for all of you, and I don’t mind waking up early if that’s what’s needed.  Now get back to Ada and Harmony; I’m sure they’re missing you.”

George and I turn to leave.  Before I can get far, I hear my mother say, “Elijah?”  Irritation at my parents’ incompetence still swells up within me, but upon hearing her tone, the anger begins to seep out.  Dad leads George out of the kitchen, and I linger behind.

“Hmm?” I ask her.

She walks over towards me and stops. 

“Elijah, you know I love you, right?”

My heart aches that she even has to say those words.  What sort of son am I that I put her in this position, over and over and over again?

“Yeah.  I’m sorry,” I say.  “I love you, too.”

She leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek.  “Go ahead and get to work,” she says.

I nod and head out of the kitchen, both embarrassed and frustrated by the situation.  Of course my parents love me.  They always have and always will, and I don’t know why this bothers me so much.  Maybe because I expect them to treat me as I want to be treated and not as they think I should be.  I’m not a kid anymore.  I’ve rapidly shot through adolescence and well into adulthood over the past few weeks, and it’s difficult to demand the respect that this entails from people who have no clue what they’re doing.

“Be good and listen to your brother,” Mom tells George and me as she and Dad leave for the evening.  I grit my teeth at the fact that she’s telling me to heed Henry, but I say nothing.  It was already a bit of an ordeal to get Dad to agree to go to the other house and leave George behind even after Harmony had assured him that it was safe for my little brother to be around me unsupervised.

The dog yips, and Dad leads him off the porch and into the yard.  I don’t think the animal realizes that he’s going to go home to the person who loves him the most and really isn’t missing out on much here.   Anyway, Joule would be beside herself if Marty stayed with us.

Henry herds George and me back inside and says that it’s time for dinner.  As per my part of the agreement, I sit quietly at the dinner table and don’t interrupt or make “derisive comments,” as my father calls them, while we eat.  Henry says he’ll clean up the dishes, so George and I head to the ‘activities room’ to check out the board games.

“You keep checking the time,” George says after our third hour of Monopoly which is even more torturous blind than it is normally.  I don’t even know how many properties I own or if I’m going to land on George’s properties without feeling up the board each time I need to move.

My fingers leave the face of the watch.  “I have to go to bed soon,” I tell him.

“Mom and Dad aren’t here to tell you what to do,” George says.  “Are you trying to get out of playing board games with me?”

“As enjoyable as Monopoly is after the umpteenth hour, I promised Harmony that I’d take my sleeping medication at the same time every night,” I tell him.  “I’m already pushing it as it is.”

George sighs.  “Alright,” he says.  “I guess I might as well go upstairs, too.”

We trudge up the stairs together and I say goodnight to him at the top of the staircase.  He goes down one hall, and I go down the other towards my bedroom.  Once inside, I close the door and head to the bathroom where I take my medications.  I slide off my pants and am about to climb into bed when I feel something in the pocket of the jeans.  My fingers pluck out two folded pieces of paper, and immediately uneasiness washes over me.  One paper holds a message from the parents of a dead girl; the other, a reminder of the people who killed her.  I take a deep breath and set the papers on my nightstand.  Then I take off my shirt, put on a t-shirt and shorts, and climb under the blankets.

Chapter Text

Someone cries outside my bedroom door.

I blink away the last remnants of dreams to make the sound go away, but it doesn’t.  Strange, I think.  I push the blankets off me and sit up.  Sweat drenches the collar of my shirt, and I rub my forehead gently, trying to make the whisper of nightmares vanish.

“Elijah.”

There is somebody outside my room.  I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stumble towards my door, nearly colliding with the wall because I am too tired to think straight.  Inching my way along the wall, I reach out and feel for the doorknob.  My fingers finally connect with metal and I twist the knob.  It doesn’t turn.

“Hey,” I say.  It must be George on the other side.  I don’t know who else it would be.  Henry has the key and if he wanted to say something, he wouldn’t have kept the door locked.

I receive no answer.

From further down the hallway, I hear Henry’s voice, “Get away from the door.”

To which George replies (now a little distant as though he complies with Henry’s order and has started to move away), “But we have to tell him.”

Tell me what?  And why was somebody crying?  Was it George?

Henry says something, but they’re too far away and the voices are too low for me to hear.  I knock on the door and call out, but no one responds.  Frustrated, I head into the bathroom and splash water on my face to help myself think clearly.  I shiver with the sudden cold against my skin and grab a towel to wipe my face dry.  There’s nothing I can really do, I tell myself.  Not when I’m locked in my room and banished from family conversations.  The confusion and irritation intertwine and I grab up my toothbrush and toothpaste; might as well get shit done.

I barely finish brushing my teeth when somebody knocks on the door.  Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I trot across my room, for the first time grateful that Harmony makes me pick up all my crap from the floor so I don’t trip over anything.  It isn’t until I press myself against the door that I realize I left my cane behind somewhere.

“Hello?” I ask carefully.

“Hey, it’s me.  Is it okay if I come in?” George asks.  He sounds . . . different.  Older?  No, heavier?

“Sure,” I respond.  No sooner have the words come out of my mouth than I hear the lock click.  A second later, the door creaks open.  “What’s wro—”

George throws himself towards me and wraps his arms around me.  It takes a second to realize that he’s hugging me, of all things.  In confusion, I don’t hug back.  My confusion only amplifies when I hear Henry behind him sniffle.  He’s . . . crying.  Dread tightens across my chest.

“What’s going on?” I manage despite the sudden dryness of my mouth.  My heart thumps heavily in anticipation.  Fear.

My little brother lets me go ever so slightly.

Henry clears his throat.  “It’s . . . shit, I don’t know how to say this,” he says with trembling words.  “There was an accident.  At the old house.”  My brother chokes up.

“Joule . . . ?” I start.  My brain races through a thousand scenarios at once, and I struggle to focus on my brothers.  However, all thoughts vanish when Henry speaks again.

“Mom and Joule are . . . they’re dead.  Dad is in a coma.  They . . . they don’t know if he’ll make it.”

George starts sobbing.  He releases me and staggers away.  Henry continues to sniffle.  I stand there, completely stunned not certain if I heard things right.  How . . . how was that possible?  What sort of accident?

Dead.

Mom and Joule.

No.  Death happens in the arena.  It doesn’t happen here at home.  Where it’s safe.  Where we are supposed to live.

I manage to find my way back to my bed and sit down before my legs give out underneath me.  This isn’t supposed to happen.  When I left the arena, I was supposed to be safe.  I was guaranteed a house, money, a life. . . .  They took away so much from me.  I, we, were supposed to be safe since we had made it through the Hunger Games.  Not just me.  My entire family.

“W-what happened?” I manage.

“Carbon monoxide,” Henry says.  He comes over and sits down on the bed near me, the mattress sinking slightly under the additional weight.  “They’re investigating the cause.  Mom and Joule . . . they died in their sleep.  Didn’t even know what was happening.”

That doesn’t make it better.  They shouldn’t have died to begin with.  This has to be some sort of elaborate joke. . . .  Yet as angry as I am with Henry, I know that he’s not cruel.  He would never make a joke like this.

“Marty told the neighbors,” George says suddenly, barely able to hold his words together.  “Th-they think the window that Joule left open for him was accidentally closed, and M-marty ran barking to the neighbors when he couldn’t get Joule’s attention.”

The dog.  The damned dog.

“Dad?” I ask, unable to form a coherent sentence myself.

“He’s in the hospital.  The only reason that he is still alive is because the neighbor called the police when nobody answered the door,” Henry explains.

“Marty saved him,” George sniffles.

“Dad’s in bad shape,” Henry cautions our little brother.  “Marty tried, but we don’t know what will happen.”

“I know,” George whispers.

“Where’s the dog?” I ask.  Because suddenly knowing the dog’s fate becomes vitally important, as though I cannot continue with this conversation until I know what became of him.  Somebody here has to have survived. 

“Mrs. Donahue took him to the vet,” Henry says.  “He ran into the house as soon as they got the door open, so they want to monitor him and make sure that he’s okay.”

“He ran right to Joule,” George mutters, and then he starts crying again.

None of us speaks for several minutes, each absorbed in our own thoughts.  This isn’t real.  None of this exists.  I can’t wrap my head around what they’re saying, and numbness creeps through me and coats my body.  I open and close my palm as though that will move feeling through me again, but it does nothing.

Because I know, deep down within me, that this is my fault.

A letter sits on my nightstand.  A letter written for me that I ignored.  A letter that I thought was nothing of great consequence and that I deliberately cast aside because my priority was to keep my family safe.  And then the subsequent phone call. . . .  I was just trying to keep my family safe.

I have done the opposite, and now my little sister is dead because of me.  My mom is dead.  My dad might be dead soon, too.

“I want to see Dad,” I say suddenly, breaking us all from our silence.

“Elijah, I don’t think—” Henry starts.

I clear my throat.  “Let me get some clothes on, and then we’ll go to the hospital.”

Neither of them protest.  I grab clothes out of my closet, head into the bathroom, and change while I try not to think too much about what’s happening.  But it’s hard to ignore the nagging voice that tells me that this is my fault.  I’m the reason that they’re dead.  When I come out of the bathroom, George hands me my cane, and I barely manage to mumble a thank you.

We don’t talk as we head out the front door and climb into the car.  George doesn’t protest when I take the passenger’s seat.  There are no jokes, no comments, no conversation.  The car moves in eerie silence, the fate of our future unknown and chaotic.  I tug at the seat belt, as though the way it presses against my chest is the reason for my discomfort.  The drive to the hospital takes far longer than it should, and I contemplate asking Henry if he’s lost, but then I remember that we’re farther away from the town center out in victor village.

At last the car comes to a stop, and Henry turns off the engine.  The three of us slowly climb out, no one willing to make the first move but no one wanting to be the last.  The car doors slam shut, and I follow my brothers onto the sidewalk, up the walkway, and into the hospital.

A sterile, familiar scent hits me the moment we step in, and it takes strength to not turn around and leave.  While I was hospitalized, I had grown use to the odors of the world around me, but now they are foreign enough that there’s a sharp contrast between the hospital and the rest of the world.  I manage to hold myself together and trail after my brothers.  Henry asks for directions from somebody, and a woman’s voice asks us for ID.  She reconsiders a second later, and gives us the room number and brief directions.

“You are walking identification,” George says quietly to me as we step away.  “Oh, here, I’m going to put a sticker on you.”

“A sticker?” I ask.  George slaps something on my chest.

“It’s so that people know that you’ve been approved to come in.  We all have one,” my little brother says.

I flatten the sticker in place with one hand as I follow Henry through the hallways and to an elevator.  This hospital, like the last one, consists of confusing corridors, beeping machines, and an endless sense of impending doom.  At last we slow down, and George grabs onto my arm.

“I’ll go in first,” Henry says.  “Make sure he’s okay for visitors.”

I don’t protest, and after a moment George releases his grip.  He creeps forward and returns to me a second later.

“Grandpa Asher is there already,” George says.

Somehow that makes it worse.  Grandpa Asher is an old man.  He should be dying well before his son.

And Dad shouldn’t be dying at all.

“Okay,” comes Henry’s voice amongst all the beeping machines.  “You guys can come in.”

George and I slink into the hospital room.  It could be the largest hospital room in the world, but it doesn’t matter.  The swollen, bloated walls bulge outward, pressing all of the oxygen out of the room and shoving us towards the door.  I step forward and follow the sound of the beeping only to collide with a chair.

“Almost there, Elijah,” my grandfather says kindly.  His hand touches my elbow and he gives me a nudge in the right direction.  I reach out my hand and after another step, my fingers touch the thin sheets of the hospital bed.

I can hear my father breathing, but it’s thin and mechanical.  The machines keep track of his heart, beeping with each beat.

I reach out towards the bed until my hand touches my dad’s arm.

Somehow standing here with my father, everything becomes real.  This isn’t a joke or a story or something my own twisted mind concocted in my ever-present nightmare reality.  This is real.  My father is here in this hospital bed and he may never wake up again.

And it’s my fault.

“I’m sorry, boys,” Grandpa says as he stands up and walks over towards my side.

None of us have words for this.  His hand touches my arm ever-so-gently, and then he releases moments later.

“I have to step out to make some phone calls,” he says.  “I’ll give you a couple minutes.”

“Thanks, Grandpa,” Henry manages despite the sorrow that clogs his throat.  Grandpa’s footsteps head towards the door and into the hallway.

I withdraw my hand and return to the chair behind me which Grandpa had been in moments before.  Sitting down, I adjust my cane so that it’s out of the way and let out a heavy breath.

My brothers and I linger by our father’s bedside in silence as we listen to the beeping machines and clicking tubes.  I can almost feel the way the IV fluids move into my arm just by listening to the ticking of the pump.  George starts sniffling again at one point, and Henry digs up a tissue from somewhere and assures him that it’s clean.

“Henry Asher?” comes a voice from the doorway.  I turn and look, but of course I see nothing.

“It’s a nurse,” my older brother tells me.  “I need to go with her for a few minutes.  I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?” I demand.

Henry exhales and takes a moment to respond.  “I need to identify Mom and Joule,” he says quietly.

“Identify them?  Don’t they already know who they are?” I ask.  My heart beats so loudly, so heavily, that my ribcage shakes.

“They have to be certain about it,” he says.  He’s doing it again, I realize: the same thing he did while I was in the arena.  He holds everything together so that we all don’t fall apart.  He puts on a brave face so none of us will see him crack.  And now he has to go stare at the dead bodies of our sister and mother.  Because of me.  Once again, because of me.

He steps out of the room with the nurse, and I barely hear their retreating footsteps over the machines keeping my father alive.

Time passes.  I push myself out of the chair and step back towards the bed.  My hand explores the bed until I touch my father’s arm.  Here he lay on the brink of death because of all the shit I put him through.  Because I went to the Hunger Games.  Because I lived.  Because I ignored a carefully worded warning I was too stupid to understand.  Suddenly all the reasons I was angry with him vanish.  I’ll let him lock me in my bedroom every night for the rest of my life if it means that he pulls through this.  I’ll never argue with him again.  I’ll do whatever I need to do. . . .

But that isn’t my decision anymore.  I made my choices.  And now we all pay the price.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I say quietly.  “I’m so sorry.”

Chapter Text

Grandpa Asher sees to it that we’re not alone.  By the time evening comes and we’ve left the hospital, a whole gaggle of family congregate at the mansion with promises of more who live further away in the district arriving by tomorrow.  Grandpa has ordered them all to find their own accommodations and to not rely on my brothers and me to provide it for them, and then he wrangled Aunt Eureka and Uncle Newton to organize meals.

I can’t tell how many people have walked through the front door.  Ten?  Twenty?  Their voices mingle together in nonsensical waves of chaos that threaten to knock me to the ground.  I sit on the couch and try to tune out the rising and falling of voices.  A few relatives try to engage me, but I can’t focus well enough to understand their words.  They say things, and maybe pat my hand, and then they vanish to go talk with more responsive people.

With all the cacophony, I expect Joule to rush in at any moment.  My chest tightens and I take a shaky breath.

The couch cushion next to me sinks.

“Hey.”  Marie.

“Hey.”

We sit together in silence.  She doesn’t ask me questions, or tell me that she’s sorry, or want to know who the various family members are.  We just exist.

Time passes.  Aunt Eureka comes over to tell us that it’s time for dinner.  We won’t all fit at the dining room table, so she explains that she and Uncle Newton have laid out food for everyone to eat when they’re ready.  She hesitates before she leaves, and I wonder if she’s trying to decide if she should get food for me or let me fend for myself.

“C’mon.  Let’s go eat,” Marie says.

“I’m not hungry,” I mumble.

“Me neither,” she admits, but she stands up regardless.

I push myself to my feet.  It’s too hard to move towards the dining room, however, and I struggle with taking the first step.  I inhale through my mouth trying to get enough oxygen to my body to move.  Marie touches my arm and she gives me a gentle squeeze.  In that gesture, I realize that she has lost someone this morning, too.  What had she said only days ago, but that our family had become her family?  She might not have been close to my parents, but she had grown fond of Joule.  And now my sister is gone from both of us.

We meander to the dining room where we hang back until the others have had their turn to gather food.  I am slow.  Because I am blind, because I am frozen, because I am empty.  It takes far too long to serve myself, even with Marie’s guidance.  We finally retreat to the couch, and George joins us moments later.  We eat in silence.

I don’t know whether I’m supposed to or not, but I give George some of my sleeping pills, and he falls asleep curled up in a mound of blankets on my bedroom floor.  Throughout the night, the nightmares jolt me awake and the medication pulls me back to sleep.  Over and over again.  In and out.  When I wake up in the morning, I am more exhausted than I have ever been in my life.

Harmony meets us at breakfast and expresses his condolences.  He talks about where we go from here.  I barely hear him, and what little I hear I don’t understand.  I just ask him for more sleeping pills.

Henry spent all night in the hospital with Grandpa Asher, so Grandma and Grandpa Harper drive George and me there once we’re presentable enough to be seen by the public eye.  We spend hours in the hospital sitting near Dad’s bedside listening to his raspy breathing and the constant machinery.  People come and go.  Sometimes they try to talk with me.  Sometimes they talk with George or our grandparents.  I don’t care.

There’s talk of arranging the funeral once the doctors finish the autopsies.  But no definitive date is set.  Not when we don’t know whether to plan the funeral for two people or three.

George stops talking with anyone except for me.  So it’s me he begs to help him get to the vet to pick up Marty.  Henry and Grandpa Asher are at home for a much-needed rest, and Grandma and Grandpa Harper barely leave Dad’s bedside.  I can’t keep track of the other relatives.  I call Marie and ask her to pick us up from the hospital.

Marty receives a clean bill of health.  Pets aren’t allowed in the hospital, so I pretend that he’s my guide dog so that George will have his company as we sit in the room and listen to Dad die.

All I can think is, Why did I ignore the warnings?

Chapter Text

One day turns to another.  Three days after the accident, Harmony tries to talk to me, and this time I listen.  I don’t know why; nothing’s changed.  Dad’s still wasting away, neither truly alive nor dead, and everybody still mills about and tries to be helpful but ends up in the way more often than not.

“Your tutor arrives tomorrow,” the nurse tells me.  We sit in my bedroom in our usual places.  “He will be teaching you braille.  You and George.”

I lay down on the bed and focus my attention above me.  For the first time, I wonder what my ceiling looks like.  Is it smooth polished wood?  Is it a flat white expanse of nothing?  Is it that nasty stucco stuff that hangs down like a thousand drops of water?  How strange not to know what lies above you, threatening to crush you if you breathe too deeply.

“You don’t think that it’s a bit soon?” I try.  In another life, it would have been delivered with sarcasm, a bit of a bite.  But now it’s only an empty plea to buy me more time.

More time for what?  I don’t know.  But having somebody else shoved into my life right now sounds like the worst possible idea.

“Do you remember when you came home from the Capitol and we set you a schedule?” he asks.  “We’re going to do the same thing now.  It won’t be as rigorous . . . I understand you need time to mourn.  But you must also have something to focus on during this time.”

“This is my fault,” I say suddenly.  My chest hurts, and I can’t take a deep breath for fear my ribs will shatter.

“Elijah, this is not your fault,” Harmony says.  “It was an accident.  There was a build-up of gases that shouldn’t have happened, but it was not your fault.”

“No, but I should have told them—”

“Did you know that there was a carbon monoxide leak?”

“No.”

“Did you go over there and mess with the heater or stove knowing that it would cause a problem?”

“No.”

“You did not cause this accident,” my nurse says firmly but gently.  “There was no way for you to have known that this would happen, so there was no way for you to have warned them.”

But there was.  I should have known.  I was warned.  I didn’t understand it at the time, but now it’s so clear.  What a fool I am!

Harmony doesn’t know, I realize.  He thinks this was an accident.  He doesn’t know that it was my fault.  For some reason this makes things worse, and guilt barrels its way through my body without hesitation.  There will be others who, like Harmony, will think I’m innocent.  They’ll pity me, or feel sorry for me, or wish that things were different for me.  But they won’t know that if I weren’t such an asshole, my family would be alive and whole.

I roll over on my side away from the nurse and run my hand across the soft sheet.  Three feet away from me is the letter. . . .  The incriminating notice that if anybody read they’d realize how much of an idiot I am.

“Elijah, let’s go downstairs.  I think it would be a good idea if you got a breath of fresh air,” Harmony says.

“I’m fine,” I respond but I know it’s useless.  One way or another, Harmony will pry me from this bed, whether he uses his words or physical means.

“Your dog needs exercise.  Let’s go,” he says.  I push myself up and follow after him out the door and down the hallway.

I don’t want to face the people in my house.  Aunts and Uncles.  Cousins.  A few extended relatives who drop in and out.  Nobody stays for long as they flit around between here and the hospital and wherever else they go; they don’t want to impose on us any more than they do despite the hungry questions they ask about the house and life after victory.  I’m sure that any of them would be thrilled to be invited to stay the night here rather than return to their dreary hotels or the spare room and couch at one of the grandparents’ houses.  Aunt Eureka and Uncle Newton and their daughter Vouletti stay with us, but they try to keep out of our way and only remain in the bedrooms on the first floor.  They make sure to kick everyone out every night and open the door only after an appropriate hour in the morning.  I’ve spent very little time with them despite this, and I don’t care if anyone interprets it as being rude.

The dog yips and runs over to me the moment he sees me, and Harmony tells me that there is a basket of tennis balls on the table on the back porch.  I say nothing but head out back where I stumble around until I find the aforementioned table and the basket of dog toys.  My hand grabs a tennis ball from the top and I turn it over between my fingers.  Marty jumps up and places his front paws on my leg.  I heave the ball out into the backyard, and he vanishes with a yap.

The door opens behind me, and tentative footsteps tread across the wooden porch.

“Hey,” George says quietly.  “They want us to come to the hospital tonight.”

Frantic panting and scrambling of claws against wood bring news of the dog’s return.  Marty places his front paws on my leg again.  I reach down and feel around until my fingers touch the wet, slimy tennis ball clenched between his teeth.  It takes a moment for me to wrestle it away from him, and I heave it back into the yard.

“He’s dying then,” I say to my brother.

“Nobody will say anything, but I think so,” George responds.  He sounds defeated.  Exhausted.  Like he’s been awake for an entire month or aged a hundred years.

Marty returns with the ball, and George and I take turns throwing it for him.  The dog slows down, but he never stops chasing the ball whenever we toss it across the yard.

Eventually the back door opens again.  Now comes Aunt Eureka’s voice: “Elijah?  There’s someone here to see you.”

I wipe my fingers on my jeans and turn around.

“Who is it?” I ask because the only person who has been to see me the past couple of days has been Marie, and at this point the gatekeepers allow her in without a second thought.

Aunt Eureka clears her throat.  “Um, well, it’s Ms. Solar Graham,” she says.  Being in the presence of one of District 5’s glorious victors makes her nervous.  Does she not realize that now I am on the list of deplorable human beings to be honored?

“Tell her that I don’t have time,” I say to my aunt before crouching down and feeling around for the dog.  My fingers collide with his paw, and from there I’m able to work my way up to his panting mouth where he relinquishes the ball as soon as I touch it.

“Is that . . . okay?” Aunt Eureka asks.

Okay?  What a strange question.  But then it occurs to me that none of them are familiar with Solar aside from what they’ve seen on television; they don’t realize that I’ve been around her off-and-on since I left the arena.  Aunt Eureka does not know whether telling Solar ‘no’ will bring about another round of cyanide.

“Yeah, she can deal with it,” I say.  I throw the ball into the yard and the dog trots after it, no longer with the same enthusiastic energy he had when we first started.

“Alright,” my aunt says.  She closes the door.

As I listen for Marty’s approach, I wonder why Solar decided that now’s a good time to show up.  Likely she just wants to gloat that my sister is dead, or maybe send her condolences that Joule wasn’t able to live long enough to make it to the arena.  She must have some sort of connection to the events; there’s no way she doesn’t.  Not when she kept telling me to move my family in.  Could she have known. . . . ?  Is that why she told me to move them in, because she knew that I’d do the opposite of what she wanted?  My fingers clench the tennis ball and I wrench it away from Marty with too much force.  George protests, but I just heave the tennis ball as far as I possibly can, my throw aided with a burst of anger.

“Who’s taking us to the hospital?” I ask my brother once I manage to get myself under control.

“I don’t know.  Probably Grandma and Grandpa H.,” he says.  When Marty returns, he leans over and pries the ball from the dog’s mouth.  “You know, I’ll be fifteen soon.  I can get my permit.”

He chucks the ball out into the lawn and Marty disappears after it.

“I can’t teach you to drive,” I say.

“No, but Henry can,” he says.  “And then once I know how to drive, I just have to have a licensed driver in the car with me until I can get my own license.”

I listen to the sound of the dog running through the yard.  It’s faint, and yet I can pick it out easily from all the other noises in the world around me.

“I might still have my license, but things wouldn’t go over well if we got into a car accident and it turned out that your ‘licensed driver’ is blind,” I point out.  “It would be better for you to ask Henry.”

But with that thought, I don’t know what’s going on with Henry.  He’s spend most of the past few days at the hospital, often instructing George and me to go home and get rest, but not doing the same for himself.  Instead he and Grandpa Asher stay with Dad, sometimes accompanied by Grandma and Grandpa Harper.  Once Dad dies and things start settling down, I don’t know how things will unfold.  Henry will get his freedom from me as he desires, but surely he didn’t want it to be for this reason.  Whether he will pursue his independence or stick around to babysit his little brothers, I have no idea, but I can’t rely his presence as a guarantee.  George and I will have to figure things out on our own.

“I guess I could always ask Marie,” George says.

I laugh.  “Yeah, she’s not eighteen yet, so I don’t think that would go over very well,” I say.  “That and I don’t know if she even has a license.”

“Well, shoot, I don’t have a solution,” my brother mumbles.

“We will figure it out.  If Henry can’t teach you how to drive, I’m sure we can wrangle somebody else,” I say.

Marty plops down somewhere near us and starts chewing on the tennis ball which makes a disgusting squelching noise each time his jaws clasp on the softened exterior.

Our family is either dead or dying, and my fourteen-year-old brother already contemplates how to handle the future without them.  What have I done so far?  Wandered around and wallowed in my own misery knowing that it was my fault that they died?

“We need to figure out how to cook,” I say suddenly.  I reach out and feel around until I find a chair near the table.  Carefully I lower myself down.  “Once Aunt and Uncle aren’t here to make sure we eat, we need to figure out how to feed ourselves.”

“I guess you’re talking more than opening a can of soup,” George says disappointedly.  “Too bad Joule never taught us how to bake.”

Too bad Joule will never do a great many things.

“I’ll talk with Harmony and see what I can arrange,” I say.

We arrive at the hospital a little before 5:00 PM and find Henry and Grandpa Asher with Dad.  They wrangle enough chairs so we all can sit down, and the four of us sit scattered about the room.  Occasionally Henry or Grandpa say something, but conversation never sticks around long before falling flat onto the polished tiles.

“Henry Asher?” comes a voice from the doorway.

My brother stands up heavily and walks with lead footsteps towards the door.  Grandpa stands up, too, and follows him out of the room.  Nobody gives a reason, and George and I are left without an explanation in the heavy silence punctuated with mechanical beeps.

A minute passes, and George says, “I’m going to go to the vending machine.  Do you have a dollar?”

I dig around in my pockets before pulling out a wad of cash.  “No idea what this is,” I say.

George takes the cash from my hands and sorts through it.  The bills crinkle as he flips from one to another.

“Seventy-three dollars,” he says finally.  “You’re loaded.  Here.  I took thirteen.”

“I see that you’re taking advantage of my blindness,” I tell him as I hold out my hand.

He presses the remaining money into my palm.  “Maybe I’m just really hungry,” he says.  “Thanks, Elijah.  I’ll pay you back.”  His footsteps disappear, and I’m left alone with Dad.

I should talk to him.  One of the nurses told us that it’s possible that he can still hear us or at least recognize our presence by our voices, so we should be talking with him, but I’ve had nothing to say.  I still don’t, but I find myself dragging my chair closer to him anyhow.

“Hey Dad?” I start.  I’m answered by clicking and beeping.  A steady rhythm I’ve grown used to over the past several days.  I lick my lips and hesitate before I can find coherent words.

“I was angry at you because I didn’t think you knew what you were doing.  And you probably didn’t, but then again, neither did I.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry for the way I treated you, and for getting you and Mom and Joule into this mess.  I’m, um, I’m going to take care of George.  He’ll be okay.  And I’ll make up with Henry.  I don’t know when, but I will.  I promise.  I just need to get some things sorted out.”

I feel around on the bed until my fingers touch his arm.  They keep him warm, at least.  Comfortable, or as comfortable as one could be with a tube down his throat.  The nurses have always been attentive, checking on him regularly and making sure to let us know what’s going on.  They never have any real news; there’s nothing to ever indicate that he slowly improves.

Time passes; I don’t know how much.  I left my watch at home.  Eventually George returns and shoves a bag of candy into my hand before I can turn around.

“You keep it.  I’m not hungry,” I say.

“Yeah, I bought several of them, though,” he says.  “Hang onto it in case you get hungry later I guess.”

Henry and Grandpa return a few minutes later, and George offers them candy which they thank him for but don’t eat.  George nudges me, but it takes a couple times before I realize that he wants me to stand up.

“We are going to step out for a second, I guess,” I say as I push myself out of the chair.  I follow George out into the hallway, but it isn’t until we’re far enough away from the door that he begins talking.

“I followed them, you know,” he says.

“I figured,” I respond.

“The nurse was telling them about Dad,” George continues in a quiet rush.  “She was trying to, like, prep them and stuff. . . .  They don’t think he’ll last much longer.  Elijah, I’m glad you can’t see him.  He . . . he doesn’t look like himself.”

George sniffles.

“Thanks for spying,” I say.  “We won’t let them kick us out tonight.”

But they don’t try.  George and I fall asleep in a bed that, during the day, folds up into the couch beneath a window.  But neither of us sleep very well, and Grandpa and Henry refuse to take a turn on the bed, instead sitting in their chairs or pacing back and forth across the room.  Words grow fewer and fewer between us.  Hours roll by, but none of us complain about how uncomfortable the room is, or how much time we’ve spent cramped into this one small corner of the world.  Despite the discomfort, we could stay in this moment forever, suspended somewhere between life and death.  But the unkempt silence reminds us that things cannot remain the same.  Change is inevitable.

It comes as no surprise to any of us when Dad passes away in the early hours of the morning.

Chapter Text

Harmony insists I go to the funeral.  “It will help with the healing process,” he advises.  And, when it’s clear that I don’t buy that as a good enough answer because my heart has been torn out and will never be healed again, he says, “If you don’t go, you may regret that decision some day in the future.”

So I go.  I sit between Henry and George and listen to the pastor talk about how lovely my family was, how much we’ll miss them, and how the world is a better place because they were here.  I stare straight ahead and try not to think that they would be alive if it weren’t for me, and all these weeping, sniffling people would have no need to mourn.  Then Henry and Grandpa Asher and Grandma Harper give brief eulogies, and I don’t want to think about any of this anymore.

Aunt Eureka and Uncle Newton arrange a lunch back at victor village that I barely eat, and what little I eat, I barely taste.

“Is he going to be okay?” I hear Aunt Eureka ask Henry when they think I’m not listening.  “I worry about all three of you, but Elijah’s been through so much. . . . Newton and I can stay here longer if that will help.”

“It’s okay, Aunt Eureka,” my brother assures her with more confidence than I know he has right now.  “We’ll be fine.  Elijah has a therapist, and there are plenty of projects around the house to keep everybody busy.”

“Henry, promise me that when you are allowed back in your old house that you call Newton and me to help you,” she insists.  “I know you’re perfectly capable handling things, but you really shouldn’t need to do this by yourself.”

“Thank you.  I’ll call you,” Henry agrees.

Anthony sits down on the couch adjacent from mine, and moments later Marie sits down next to me.  I listen to them talk with each other and silently applaud their noble efforts to engage me in conversation, but my ability to function has vanished, and I focus on the hollowness of my own body and listen to the sickened ticking of my own heart.  Marie tells Anthony about how great of company Joule was when I was in the Hunger Games, and how her mom had said that Joule was a faster learner in the kitchen than either Marie or her sister.  Anthony recalls when Joule used to come to soccer practice and insist in being included in the scrimmages.  Everybody would make a big deal about including her, and nobody would dare do anything that might get her hurt.

Everybody begins to trickle away at some point, and I find enough words in my brain to thank Anthony for coming.  Finally there are just a few people left, and Marie stands up to leave.

“Marie,” I say.  I reach out and after a second my fingers brush her wrist.

She sits down again.  “What’s wrong?”

“Stay here.  Please?” I ask her.  “Don’t leave.”

She thinks about it for a few moments and then says, “Sure.”

When everybody else leaves except for my aunt, uncle, and cousin who retire to their bedrooms, George gathers blankets and pillows and drags them into the sitting room.  Marie and I each take a couch, and George sleeps on the floor next to the coffee table.  Marty curls up next to George but when I wake up in the morning, the dog is sleeping on my legs.

After breakfast, Marie waits for Lucinda to come pick her up.  My ex-girlfriend had been here yesterday, but to her major credit, she did not stay with Henry overnight and instead returned home without Marie.  She doesn’t come inside but waits for Marie to go out to her.

“Thanks, Marie,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” she replies.  “Please call me if you need anything.”

“And same to you,” I tell her.

No sooner has she left than my tutor arrives.  Harmony postponed his first day given the circumstances, but now my nurse won’t let us escape from the dreariness of learning.  He says it’ll give me something to focus on, but I don’t know how I can even begin to concentrate.  As Ada and Harmony direct the construction teams putting together the last touches on the exercise room and beginning on the field in the backyard, George and I meet the tutor in the study that will soon be turned into a classroom.

“My name is Otto Wright, and I will be working with you to learn braille,” the man says.  “I have no doubt that you two will progress rapidly through our studies and will excel in both reading and writing.”

Despite the pleasant introduction, he has a carefully clipped and somewhat demanding voice.  It would be a foolish to think he won’t be strict.

“Now,” he adds.  “What are your names?”

“I’m Elijah, and this is George,” I say, motioning to my brother who sits in the chair next to mine.  Must be a formality of some sort since everyone on the planet knows who I am and, by extension, who George is.  Marty’s tags jingle, and I know that he has settled in on George’s lap, and George now pets him.  “And that’s Marty.”

“Hmm. . . .” the tutor says.  “If the dog gets in the way, he’ll have to leave.”

The tags jingle again, and I know that George has pulled the animal closer to him.

“Alright, let’s get started,” Wright says.

The tutor sits on one side of the large desk in the study, and George and I are in chairs shoved behind a smaller table brought in just for this purpose.  Now that I sit in these cramped conditions, I understand why Ada wanted to create a classroom setting.  Wright stands up with a huff and walks over to us.  He sets something down on the table before us.

“I have placed a piece of paper in front of each of you,” he says.  “Go ahead and review it.”

‘Review’ is the sort of terminology a teacher uses when they want you to look at an important paper that they’ll later test you on.  I furrow my brow and reach forward.  My fingers touch the paper and I pick it up.

“Leave it on the table and use both hands,” the tutor instructs.

Alright.  I set the paper down and bring my other hand forward to help explore whatever this thing is.  I feel raised bumps beneath the tips of my fingers, and I follow it across the page.  My experience with braille thusfar has been minimal, but I know that the dots must represent letters.  However, instead of a series of letters forming words or sentences, it appears to be just one letter repeated over and over, the same set of raised dots again and again.  In the middle, however, is a slightly different set.  I pause and run my fingers over it again.

“I don’t get it,” I say.

“What is there not to get?” the tutor asks.

“It’s just the same thing repeating, except for this.  A typo?” I suggest.

“That is a different letter altogether,” Wright responds with interest.  “Can you feel the difference, too, George?  Where do you notice it?”

I hear George tapping the paper.

“Do you not speak?” the tutor asks.

“Not right now,” I answer for my brother.  “He will eventually.”

Wright huffs but only goes back to the lesson: “When reading braille, you need to be able to tell subtle differences between letters,” he tells us as he removes the sheets in front of us and puts down another sheet.  “Use a very light touch.  You’re not trying to push the dots back into the paper.”

The tutor spends nearly two hours with us, and we don’t even begin on the alphabet.  Instead he emphasizes the importance of proper positioning of hand and body, and urges us to assume the correct posture and the lightest of touches.  He shows us a series of papers, each one more and more challenging to find the differences.  Some have only one letter out of place in a series of uniform dots, others have more complicated patterns in which we need to find the outlier.  To my relief, Wright finally collects the pages from us and doesn’t distribute another one.

“When you were children, you were able to read even before you could read,” he says.  “You didn’t know it, but the world around you was filled with letters and words that you took in every day.  Advertisements, billboards, posters, newspapers, magazines, books.  You might not have understood what they said, but it didn’t matter because you were still absorbing them.  When you are blind, you don’t receive the same information on a continual basis.  You have to go out of your way to read.  That, however, will change.

“Everything in this house will be labelled using braille,” he continues.  “You are learning a new language, and you must be immersed in it, even if you don’t understand yet what it all says.”

He excuses us without further explanation, and George and I head down the hall, the dog trotting between us.

“Wow, that’s intense,” my brother mutters.  “I didn’t think it would be so hard.”

We meet up with Harmony and Ada in the dining room where they go over plans for the next couple days.  I lean against the doorframe and listen to Marty rush over to them for the constant stream of attention he believes he deserves.

“Finished already?” Harmony says.  “What did you think?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Well, if you aren’t too overwhelmed, I was thinking we could talk about what other sorts of activities you’d like to explore,” Ada says.

I barely have to think about it.  “I need to learn how to cook,” I say.

Harmony and Ada are quiet for a moment.  They realize now what a predicament I’m in and that my brothers and I have no idea how to even feed ourselves.  They surely imagined that the process to teach me to cook would take time, and that they had plenty of time to use.  But now we don’t.  We won’t starve, but we also won’t be self-sufficient, either.

“That won’t be a problem,” Ada says at last.  “George, would you like to join us? . . . Okay then, why don’t we go to the kitchen and get started.”

The four of us and the dog head into the kitchen where Ada begins the first of what I’m sure to be many lessons.  She patiently leads us through a few basics: boiling water, opening cans and storing the unused portions, using a kettle.  George must be bored out of his mind, but he, of course, says nothing and only does as the activities specialist directs.

Chapter Text

I climb out of the shower, dry off, and wrap the towel around myself before I head into my bedroom.  But the moment that I open the door to my room, I realize something is amiss.  I can’t place it, exactly.  I freeze and listen carefully.  The hairs on my arms stand up as an unsettling feeling creeps into me.

I’m not alone.

“George?” I venture, though I know for certain it’s not him.  Harmony won’t let me give him any more of my sleeping pills, but George’s psychiatrist prescribed him some of his own; my little brother popped them about an hour ago.  And Henry hasn’t paid me much heed the past couple days when he was too busy organizing the funeral with Grandpa and Aunt Eureka.  There is only one person who could be in my room right now, and she’s probably the one person I’d also least like to be here.

“You didn’t come to the door when I came over the other day,” Solar says.  Her voice is even with a touch of disinterest.  I can’t place where she currently stands in my room.  Fifteen feet away, maybe.  Somewhere between me and the door.

I grit my teeth.  “Probably because I was mourning my dead parents and sister,” I say.  “But I suppose you didn’t care, did you?”

“Don’t think I’m that heartless, Elijah,” she says to me, her words void of any mockery.  “Your clothes are at the edge of the bed.”

I don’t move.  Solar doesn’t make offers that don’t have some sort of benefit to her, and I am not certain why she would go out of her way to help me even the smallest bit.

“You’re pathetic,” she mumbles, but she comes closer to me.  My heart pounds as she draws near, but rather than taunting me or running her fingers across my body, she shoves a wad of fabric against my chest.  I reach up and grab onto it.  It takes me a second to realize that it’s my clothing I had laid out before I showered.  Furrowing my brow, I turn it over in my hands, still confused what’s going on.  She groans.  “Go.  Put on your clothes.”

I step back into the bathroom and close the door tightly.  Before I concede that maybe, just maybe, Solar did something helpful for me, I shake out my clothes to make sure she didn’t mess with them.  What she might have hidden in the folds of fabric I don’t know, but I’m not taking chances.  Then I remove the towel and quickly throw on the clothing so I don’t leave my former mentor alone in my room for too long.  Heaven only knows what she’s doing in there.

When I open the bathroom door and step back into my bedroom, I don’t know where she is.  Uneasiness slips through me as I dread the possibility that she left the room entirely and now wanders somewhere in the house.  She lets me stand there stupidly for a few seconds before she taps her fingernails against my desk and draws my attention to the other side of the room.

“You’re a heavy sleeper,” she comments.  “That’s different.  I assume you’re drugging yourself for bed?”

“And you’re a total creep,” I say.  I suppress a shudder as I think of her climbing into my bedroom window and watching me sleep, waiting for my eyes to open so she can pounce on me.  Or maybe she doesn’t wait.  Who’s to say that she hasn’t done anything while I slept?  From now on, I will find a way to jam the windows shut, no matter how stuffy it gets on these warm summer nights.

“I told you: I wouldn’t have to resort to such unconventional methods if you actually agreed to see me like we discussed last time,” she replies.

“Okay, fine.  You’re here.  What do you want?” I demand.  I’ve learned that she’ll leave when she wants to leave, and not a moment sooner.  No point wasting words telling her to leave until she has said whatever vomit she has decided to grace me with.

I hear her lower herself onto the bed, the springs groaning slightly.  She pats the blankets.  “Perhaps you want to come over here so that we might not be so . . . easily overheard?”

“No, actually, I don’t,” I say, fear taking over as I already feel her hands on my skin.  I struggle to remain calm.  “Shout for all I care.  At this point, I don’t give a rat’s ass what people would think if they found you in my bedroom.”

“Perhaps not,” she says.  “But maybe you don’t want them to hear the nature of our conversation.”

She has me there.  Nothing that Solar has to say would be appropriate for my brothers to hear.  After all, haven’t I been doing everything I possibly could in order to keep them away from my mentor?  Would all of the pain be for nothing if I threw my caution away right now?  I grit my teeth and step tentatively towards the bed where I slowly take a seat as far as I can from where I think Solar sits.

“You must think me a monster,” Solar comments when I choose my perch carefully.

“That’s the understatement of the year,” I mutter.

She doesn’t respond for a second.  When she does, she speaks with more caution and (dare I say it?) concern: “I came over here to express my condolences for your family, but I know you won’t accept it no matter how sincere I am.”

She studies me for a moment.  I feel her dead eyes wandering across me as she takes me in.  As much as I want to flinch away from her cold gaze, I sit up straighter.  It takes considerable concentration to keep myself from shaking under her icy stare.

She’s right about one thing: I will not accept her ‘condolences’ towards my family members’ deaths.

“So how were you involved in it?  Did you pay someone to kill my family?” I demand.  “George was supposed to be over there, but I’m sure you knew that.  You could have taken out both my little siblings at once.”

“You’re an idiot if you think I would have done that,” she scoffs.  “No, that wasn’t me.”

“Then it was mere coincidence that you just happened to want me to move them into this house?  After you had threatened to send George and Joule to the Hunger Games?” I ask.  “Seems like some sort of reverse psychology bullshit.”

“I was trying to warn you.”

“Warn me?  By threatening me?  Did it not occur to you that I might have wanted to keep them as far away from you as possible?” I counter.  “You can give whatever excuses you want and they’ll please the audience at home, but it won’t make a damned bit of difference with me.  My parents and sister are dead.”

“I know that,” she states.  “And I’m sorry that they are.  Your sister seemed like a good kid, albeit a little too much like you.  But you’re a victor now.  You should have listened the warnings.”

“You’re mad,” I say.

“Fine, don’t listen to me,” she says.  “But you should have listened to the other warnings you received.”

The other warnings all aligned with what Solar wanted.  So I had ignored them.  I hadn’t taken them seriously at all.  I force myself to swallow back the saliva that gathers in my mouth and pray that the nausea goes away.

In the absence of a reply, Solar continues, “You’re too proud, Elijah.  You think you don’t have to listen to people if it doesn’t come from who you want it to come from, or if it doesn’t have the message you want to hear.  But you’re wrong.”

“Why are you doing this?” I ask quietly, suddenly defeated.  “They’re dead and they’re not returning.  What more do you want from me?”

“I don’t want you to lose the rest,” she says.

I exhale sharply.  “Right, after you threatened to have my little siblings sent to the arena. . . .”

“Ah, Elijah, you are so young and dumb,” she says.

I furrow my brows.  “What does that mean?”

“Do you think I wanted to have sex with you?  With somebody nearly twenty years younger than me?” she asks.  I freeze, the sudden shift in topic throwing me on edge.  “I watch tributes die every year.  There’s nothing I can do to save them.  And here I finally get one who lives, but it’s been so many years since my own victory that you’re little more than a child compared to me, really.”

“What are you trying to say?” I ask.  My stomach clenches with apprehension.

“I had my orders,” she answers.

“Your orders?” Irritation creeps into my words.

“I told you: I have my debts to pay, too,” she says.  “And unfortunately they only grow greater and greater every year.  Because there’s interest, you know, and sometimes it’s quite high.”

For the first time, I wonder what she did to incur such ‘debts’ that she’s paying them off in these ways.

“And to pay off your debt, you made me pay off my debt?” I ask uncertainly, still not quite grasping what’s going on.

“Mmm.  It wasn’t my idea.  I enjoy taunting you, but I know where to draw the line,” she says.  “Unfortunately others have different ideas on where that point is.”

“You’re sick,” I mutter.  Anger seeps in me, and I welcome it; it pushes back the nausea and spreads through the cavity that sorrow left behind.  “You could have told them that you did what they wanted you to do.  But you didn’t.  You’re a freak.”

“I’m a puppet,” she says.  “Call me a freak if you’d like.  I’ve heard the names all before, but really I am nothing more than somebody else’s means to an end.  But know this, Elijah: I can’t default on my payments.  I have my own family to protect.”

Her family.  Of her seven siblings, two are left.  She had told me that, and I had thought she was using her own tragedies to taunt me.  But instead she had been warning me. . . .

Everything within me grows cold.  I struggle to hang onto the anger, but it ebbs under the realization that freezes my insides.

“This is the life of a victor,” she says.  “You made it this far.  You’ve won.  And as your reward, you will live your life leading others to death.  Your tributes, your family, your friends.  They will take away everyone you love and everything you have to live for in order to keep you under control.  If they tell you to fuck your new victor to keep him in his place, you do it . . . because you value your family over him.  You value your family over your own sanity.  You just do it.”

“So why are you still around if there’s nothing left to live for?”

“Because I’m human.  Survival is a basic instinct.  And we victors, we’re very good at surviving.  And you, Elijah, you may be the best of us all—an absolutely terrible quality.  I tried to warn you, but you didn’t listen.  I tried to give you an out, but you didn’t take it.”

“That’s how you warn people?  Threats?  Vague language?” I ask.  “You have absolutely shit communication skills.”

“And you are terrible at following directions,” she skirts around the comment, thus proving my point.  “It was supposed to be a Career victory.  But you see, you’re so bad at following directions that you couldn’t even die like you were supposed to.”

“Well I’m sorry I inconvenienced everybody by wanting to live,” I mutter.

She laughs.  “Yes, they really do see it as an inconvenience.  Their Careers needed to win so that people would have faith in the system.  But no, you threw a wrench in it, and you will pay.  They will make your life hell for defying them.  They will string you along, let your brothers live a bit because if they don’t, then they have no way to control you.  And the moment you step out of line, they’ll die.”

“You’re sick,” I mumble weakly.  But no matter how much I want what she says to be garbage, I know it’s not.  Had Ferrer not tried to warn me to keep myself under control and watch my mouth?  I hadn’t heeded him; I didn’t do what I was supposed to do.  And now my family is dead.

“They make it seem like an accident.  I lost two sisters in a car accident.  A brother and his wife died from food poisoning,” she says.  “But you know it’s not an accident because of how they time it.  They threaten you, you ignore it or try to bend the rules or tell them to kiss your ass, and then the next thing you know, you’re receiving news that somebody has died.

“Many of us are like this, you know.  Your friends, they’re the same way.  Ferrer’s wife is gone.  Hero’s lost a sister or two.  That new girl, Lady, they killed a cousin she was close with.  And Pitch, well, I’ve already told you about him.  But they all have learned their lessons, and now they’ll do whatever the Capitol wants them to.  And the Capitol comes up with some very creative tasks for us victors.”

My stomach tightens at the thought that this is my future now; I know that no matter how much I hate Solar, she’s probably telling the truth about this.  No one here in the districts buys the crap about victory being the ultimate goal in life, but we also didn’t expect this, either.  I thought that the house being bugged meant that the Capitol owned me, but now I see that it was just the beginning.  It’s more than them controlling my speech; they control me, who I am, down to the very core.

“So you want me to, what, feel bad for you for having to have sex with me?” I ask, brusquely throwing out the question to mask the bile that rises within my throat.

She laughs coldly.  “If I thought you were that stupid, I wouldn’t be wasting my time on you,” she says.  “Whether you like it or not, we will be allies in the future.  It doesn’t matter what I’ve done to you; the only thing that matters is doing our due diligence as mentors, and that means that, at minimum, we will need to tolerate each other enough to work together.”

No.  Absolutely not.  She can’t put me through that shit and then expect me to be accepting of it because it was something she ‘had’ to do.  In this moment, I understand more sharply than ever just how different my former mentor and I are.  She will do anything to preserve herself no matter who she has to hurt.  She’s nothing more than a mindless machine programmed to do the bidding of the people she claims ‘own’ her, and that somehow absolves her of her cruelty.  Anger wells up, and I bite onto it.  I won’t be a puppet like her.  I will not inflict cruelty on my tributes.  No matter what the Capitol does, no matter what it threatens, I will not be like this disaster of a human sitting across the bed from me.  If the Capitol wants me to do something, I’ll do it because I know that I must keep my brothers alive more than anything; but I will do it on my own terms.  I will not forfeit my humanity.

“Solar, you are an absolute piece of garbage,” I say suddenly, the anger taking hold once more.  I embrace it and hold tightly to the way it surges through me.  “I honestly don’t care what the Capitol did to you.  You have no excuse for the fucked up way you treated Ilana and me before we went into the arena.  You’re cruel and you’re sadistic.  If you cared about half the shit you say you do, you wouldn’t have treated tributes like that.  So you can cry about your troubled past all you want, but you really are just Capitolized refuse.”

I hear her draw in a sharp breath.  “I have told you before: never compare me to them,” she growls.

“Give me a reason not to,” I say.  “You enjoyed watching me squirm for your entertainment.  You laughed when I was upset because you wanted me to leave Ilana to die.  You’re no better than them.  Tributes are nothing but your own personal playthings to throw around until they die.”

Solar crosses the bed and slams me down into the mattress.  Her hands press into my chest as she pins me in place, but I don’t bother trying to move away from her.

I look up into the darkness above me and laugh humorlessly.  “You don’t scare me,” I say.  “Do whatever you want.  I don’t care.”

Her fingers dig into my skin.  She breathes heavily as she contemplates her next move.

“We need to work together,” she says.  “You’ll never make it if we don’t.”

“How many times have you watched your tributes cry because you pushed them too far?” I ask, ignoring her attempt to placate me.  “How many times did they doubt themselves because you wanted to feel superior to them?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she hisses.  But I think I do.  I was, after all, one of her tributes.  “The things they make me do.”

“Play the part of the martyr, but you just said that you enjoy messing with me.  If you cared about anyone other than yourself, you would have actually mentored me and not thrown me around like one of them would do,” I say.  “Would that have gotten your family killed?  To actually do your job?”

“You were dead when you reaped,” she says.  For the first time, I hear something akin to sadness.  Her grip on me loosens.  “There was no hope for you, or for your district partner.  There was no reason to pretend like there was.  It would have been worse to sugarcoat it, wouldn’t it?”

“You knew that we’d die, and yet you decided to not bother showing us any basic human kindness?” I spit.  “And here you claim to be human.”

“You’ll see.  After years of this, you’ll see,” she answers.  She releases her hold on me and sits back.  “Your ‘basic human kindness’ is wasted on most tributes.  It does nothing but give false hope to tributes who will never make it through the arena alive.”

I laugh sharply.  “Ilana was right about you,” I say more in musing than anything.  “She was far more sympathetic to you, and yet you were wanting to kill her right away.”

“In order to keep you alive. . . .”

“Which you just said was pointless because I was supposed to die.”

Solar doesn’t have a response to this.  Not even something hateful or cruel.  She just sits there in silence.

“I’ll work with you because I have to, but other than that, I don’t ever want to be near you again,” I tell her.  “Don’t expect me to forgive you for what you’ve done, or to pretend that we’re friends.  We’re not.  We never will be.”

“You really are—”

“Shut up.  Get out of my room, and never set foot in the house again,” I state.  My heart pounds in my chest, but I deliver the words firmly.

“They hate you, Elijah,” she warns.  “You’ll never survive on your own.  You might not like me, but we’re allies now, and that’s the only thing that will get us through this.”

“It sounds like they hate all victors,” I say.  “I’m nothing special, not if they do this to everyone.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.  “You openly defied them.  Even after they refused to correct your vision, you still didn’t follow their orders.  You didn’t care that it was your first warning.  You’re just stepping into this world, and you’re going to need somebody to help you out or you’re never going to make it.”

“Yes, and it won’t be you,” I respond evenly.

We sit in silence for several long seconds, our separate worlds colliding for the briefest period of time.  At last she stands up and walks towards the window.  I listen to her swing herself over the windowsill and drop down onto whatever lies beneath my window.  After another few moments, all sounds of my former mentor disappear.

I swallow hard and force myself to breathe evenly.  I will not be like her, I tell myself.  No matter what the Capitol does to me, I will never be like Solar.

Chapter Text

The days drag by.  Nothing seems as it should be.  During the day, I find myself straining to hear my sister’s voice reverberating in the hallways.  Every evening, I wait on edge for Mom and Dad to bring Joule home with them, like they all went out on an errand and they will return at any moment.  My family surrounds me, but they are nowhere to be found.  They linger in my mind, and they burst into my thoughts at any moment.

Cooking lessons are just shy of abysmal.  Ada patiently instructs George and me on the very basics, but I struggle to concentrate which leads to disaster in the kitchen setting.  Braille tutoring doesn’t fare much better, but at least I can focus on the small dots underneath my fingers for a few seconds longer than I can on a boiling kettle.

Henry tries to be involved without actually getting involved.  I can guess where he spends the majority of his day but he always returns home around the time we’re wrapping up our lessons.  He and George make dinner, or sometimes we order out, and then we sit at the table and Henry tries to play the role of the parent and ask us how our lessons went.

“I don’t want to go back to school,” George says one day about a week after the funeral.  The school year doesn’t start for quite some time yet, so I don’t know why he’s thinking about it so far in advance.  “Can I stay here and be homeschooled?”

“No, you need to go back to school,” Henry says.  “Your therapist says that it’s the best thing for you and your psychiatrist agrees.”

As much as I’d hate to not have George’s company during the day, I agree with Henry.  The transition to high school will be rough, especially given the events of this summer, but there he’ll have some normalcy.  He’ll make friends and can be on teams and do whatever else he needs to do to get back on track.  Maybe he can build a future for himself that doesn’t focus solely on this damned house and everything it stands for.  And he won’t feel the need to protect me all the time.

“Elijah?” George tries, as though I really have any leverage here.

“Nope,” I shake my head.  “Sorry, George.  You need to go to school.”

“But we could get a tutor and then I don’t have to go anywhere,” he gives it one last shot.

“No, George.  You’re going to high school at the start of the term, just like every other fourteen-year-old out there,” Henry says firmly.

George sighs heavily.  He mutters something to Marty, and the dog’s tail thumps against the rug in response.

“What’re you going to do, Elijah?  Are you going back to school?” George asks.

Ha.  Me trying to go back to school would be a damned sight to behold, that’s for certain.  A couple months ago, the idea of never going to school again would have intrigued me, yet now I find myself yearning to be in the classroom with my friends again.  With Ilana.  But that, of course, is impossible.

“They wouldn’t be able to accommodate me in the classroom,” I explain to him.  “I’d have to find a school that could, and there are none in the region.  So, unfortunately, no.”

“What about you, Henry?” George presses.  “Lucinda has to go back to school, so.”

I try to keep my breaths even.  I haven’t forgiven Henry yet because I know it will take time, but I am trying to make good on my promise to Dad.  To start: no more snide comments on Henry and Lucinda.  This is how our lives will be, and I don’t like it, but I will do my best to deal with it.

Henry clears his throat.  “Um, yeah, well, I’m going to get a job,” he says.  “I already have a couple offers.”

His last job, the one he worked at for a couple of years, fell through around the time he was struggling to keep the family from disintegrating.  It turned out that not everyone was sympathetic of a family dealing with a tribute in the arena.  Although he’s better off not working for people who are that cold and callous, it was an unnecessary blow.  Yet he never complained.

“Why do you need a job?” my little brother asks.  “Elijah has plenty of money now.”

“I don’t want to live off of Elijah’s money,” he answers.  “No offense, Elijah.”

“None taken,” I say.  I’d support them all, but were I in Henry’s position, I wouldn’t want to be living off my blood money.  Most of the time, I don’t even want it.  But rejecting it, of course, would be a slap in the face to the Capitol, and I’ve experienced firsthand what happens when you go against their ‘honor.’

We continue our meal in relative silence.  With each passing day, I grow more confident in my ability to eat; Harmony says I need to be happy in my progress, no matter how ‘stupid’ and ‘insignificant’ I think it is.  At this point, I can follow most conversations while I eat, as long as they’re not too involved or technical, and the food itself isn’t too sloppy.  Still, more often than not, I have nothing to say at the dinner table.  George and Henry often converse, and I speak up as little as possible.

“I miss Joule,” George says suddenly.  “I mean, I miss them all, but . . . I . . .”

Unable to get any more words out, George sniffles and clears his throat.

My chest aches.  I force myself to take a shaky breath.  I miss our sister, too.  I miss her even though she was so damned annoying.  I miss her jokes, her teasing, her laughter.  I miss the fact that she knew how to get whatever she wanted from me because she was my baby sister and I’d ultimately do anything for her.  But I failed her.  I failed her in so many ways, and she knew it.

“She blamed me. . . . She hated me for trying to kill Henry,” I find myself saying aloud.  I stop, immediately ashamed by what I have just said because I know it’s no use.  But after a brief pause, I can’t help but continue, “I should have tried to make up with her.”

“Elijah. . . .” Henry says.  “She didn’t mean it.  She was just upset and confused.  And you know Joule; she could be really damned dramatic.”

“You didn’t hear her, Henry,” I say, struggling to keep my voice even.  “The way she spoke with me when I called her and George.  She wanted nothing to do with me.  I tried to apologize, but we never really made up. . . .”

Neither of my brothers say anything.  Marty snuffles at something under the table, the sound of his snorting and the jingling of his tags interrupting the silence.

“She was really scared,” George says.  “She thought you were nuts at first, but I don’t think she actually hated you.”

“I should have listened,” I mumble.

“You did listen?” Henry tries, but at the same time, George says, “Listened to who?”

“I’m such an idiot,” I continue.  My hands shake, and I pull them under the table so my brothers don’t see.  “And now they’re dead.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Henry demands.  “Are you okay?”

“They’re dead because of me,” I mutter.

“Elijah, you’re not making sense,” my older brother says.  “What are you going on about?”

I open my mouth, but no words come out.  It takes several seconds for my tongue and my brain to coordinate themselves so that I can speak coherent sentences.  “They shouldn’t have been at the old house,” I say.  “They should have been here, in this place.  Then they wouldn’t have died.”

“You couldn’t have known that,” Henry says.  Then, after a hesitation: “You didn’t know that, right?”

“They told me that I needed to move them to this house.  I told them that Joule had school and the old place was closer and—”

“Wait, what?!?” my brother asks.  “Who told you this?”

“The Capitol, I don’t know.  I didn’t know what they meant.  I thought they just wanted us all in the same area.  I didn’t know that they would then—”

“The Capitol told you to move everybody into this house, and you ignored them?!” Henry demands.  He slams his palms against the table, and I jump from the sudden noise, immediately aware that I should have kept my mouth shut.  I really shouldn’t have said anything.  “What the fuck are you talking about?!”

“I didn’t know that they’d kill them,” I stammer.  My heart slams against my ribcage.  “Really, I thought that they were just being—”

“These are people who kill kids every year, and you let Mom and Dad and Joule go against their orders?!” My brother stands up, knocking the chair back to the floor with a crack!.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t know.”  I stare blankly at the table in front of me.  But instead of seeing the place settings and bowls of half-eaten food, my mind’s eye only conjures images of death.  My family’s dead, decaying bodies strewn around the room.

“Holy shit, Elijah!  Holy fuck!” Henry paces back and forth.  His voice edges into hysteria.  “It didn’t even occur to you to actually TELL anyone about this?”

“No, I couldn’t.  I thought that because Solar wanted me to—”

My brother cuts me off by grabbing onto the collar of my shirt and twisting until the fabric cuts into my throat.  I gasp, but don’t try to pull away.

“Our family is dead, Elijah,” he hisses, spittle flying out at me.  He tightens his grip.

“No, I didn’t know—”

“But you did know!” Henry releases his grasp on my shirt and pushes himself away from me.  “You just said it yourself!  You were told to get them out of that house, but instead you kept it to yourself, and now they’re dead.  If you had any common sense, you would have said something to us about it.  But no, you kept it to yourself.”

There’s no excuse.  Henry is right.  This is my fault.  They’re dead because I thought I knew what I was doing.  No amount of trying to justify my position or explain that I didn’t understand the complexity of the situation will ever make anything about my decision right.  My body begins to shake, and I can’t stop the rapid trembling.  Everything feels so cold. . . .

“You have the balls to sit here at this dinner table and just . . . pretend like you’re innocent,” Henry says.  “After you complained that we were the ones in the wrong.  Were you just going to let us live our lives without knowing this bit of information if it hadn’t slipped out in this conversation?”

“I’m sorry.”  I grasp onto the seat of the chair with both hands.

“Mom and Dad and Joule . . . they’re dead because of you,” Henry says.  Tears clog his words, and he struggles to hold himself together.  “After all this. . . . After everything we went through. . . . I’m sorry, Elijah, but it would have been better if you had died in the arena.”

“I know,” I whisper.

Henry paces back and forth.  The thick silence is only interrupted by his heavy footsteps and shallow breathing.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says, moving away from me towards the edge of the dining room.  “I can’t.  This is nuts.  You are going to drive us all insane.  Tomorrow I am speaking with Harmony. . . .  You’re going to have to go somewhere else.  I don’t care what institution they ship you off to, but you can’t be here around George and me.  And since we can’t leave apparently, that’s going to have to be the only solution.”

I have no words to counter this.  The only thing worse than being sent away would be to stay here with people who despise me for things that I can never make better.  I clench my teeth together to keep them from chattering.

“C’mon, George,” Henry says sharply.  “Let’s go wash the dishes.  Elijah, get out of here.”

“But—” George starts.

Henry cuts him off, “We’ll give the scraps to Marty.”

I stand up, my body trembling so badly that I cling to the back of my chair to keep from falling.  The thick air chokes me, and I gasp for breath as soon as I am in the hallway.  But I can’t linger too much longer than I need to grab a few lungfuls of air.  Staggering towards the stairs, I will myself to hold together just for a little longer.  Just until I’m in my room away from my brothers.  My hand stays on the wall of the upstairs hallway because I’m so disoriented that I fear I may get turned around and lost if I dare step away from the wall.  I pass by door after door after door, and then I stop in front of one that I’m reasonably confident is my room.  At this point, I don’t care.  I open the door and throw myself inside before slamming the door shut and slumping against it.

My family is dead because of me.

I killed my parents.

I killed my little sister.

There are no excuses.

And it will only happen again.

And again.

If I ever step out of line, Henry and George will die.

Or will they choose someone else?  An aunt or uncle?  A cousin?  A grandparent?  There are so many options, I realize.

I stumble towards the bathroom.

Maybe they’ll wait til I’m older and kill my wife, like they did Ferrer.

Maybe they’ll go for my friends.

I grasp onto the bathroom sink.  The cold of the porcelain basin seeps into my flesh.

This is my life now.  I will live day by day wondering who I will kill and who I will destroy in the process.  How many relationships will I obliterate?  How many people will I watch die knowing that although I didn’t personally kill them, it is my fault regardless?  I clench onto the counter more tightly.  The blindness is the least of my problems; I don’t have to see to be a danger to the people I love.

I reach up and open the medicine cabinet.  The pill vial with the sleeping medication feels familiar in my hand, yet I roll it in my palm and listen to the sound of the pills jumbling around inside.  The raised label brushes against my skin.

Joule . . . all her labels. . . .  When had she even sneaked in and made the label anyhow?  It couldn’t have been that long ago. . . .

She should be alive.  I should be dead.

How many times will I kill?

I could swallow all these sleeping pills, I realize.  How many would be a lethal dose?  To be certain I’d never wake up, I could take all the pills from all the vials in the medicine cabinet.  My stomach lurches at the thought of killing myself, but I know that it would be the only true way to keep my family safe.  And isn’t that what I want more than anything else?  I grit my teeth knowing that no matter how much I don’t want to die, this is the only choice to ensure that my goal is met.

What would it be like to die?  I should have found out for myself just a few weeks ago, and yet I managed to escape it.  Has death now come for me to claim what I had stolen from it?

I unscrew the lid with shaking fingers.  For a few seconds, I stand there balancing between life and death before I tip out two pills into my palm.  I swallow them and recap the bottle.

Solar is right: we are victors, and the one thing we are good at is survival.  Our futures might be bleak, but they are our futures.  This is my future.  I fought for it in the arena, and I fought for it afterwards.  I cannot ignore that I made that decision to spit in the face of the Hunger Games and keep on living despite the odds.  Could I really kill myself after everything I fought for?

I set the bottle back into the medicine cabinet and slam the cupboard door shut.

The Capitol is not getting rid of me that easily.  This is what they’ve made me, and they won’t be able to ignore the monster I’ve become.

Chapter Text

Harmony comes to my room when I don’t go down to breakfast the next morning.  The sleeping pills wore off before dawn since I took them so early last night, but I keep to my room anyhow, even after I hear Henry unlock the door.  I try to pretend that it doesn’t bother me that my older brother has started locking me in my room at night again, but it does.

“Your brother told me about what happened last night,” Harmony says as I absently toss a tennis ball into the air from where I lie on the bed.

“Yep,” I respond.  I catch the ball and throw it back into the air again.

“He highly recommends that you be taken to a psychiatric hospital,” the nurse probes.

“So he told me.”

“What are your thoughts on this?”

This time I don’t throw the ball into the air again.  I roll it around in my palm and think for a second about my nurse’s question.

“Would it make me better?”

Harmony hesitates.  “They may help you come to terms with your blindness, but as far as what has happened more recently and the potential connection to your status. . . .” He sighs and shifts in his chair by the desk.  “There are a good many hospitals in this country, but few are equipped to deal with the unique challenges of victors.  The ones that are may not be places that you would benefit from.”

“What does that mean?”

“They have . . . unconventional methods to help victors.”  Harmony treads carefully even in this room that may very well have no bugs at all.  “They are last-resort stops, if you understand.”

“So I’m stuck here with my brothers?” I ask.  Disappointment settles in me.  I didn’t realize until now just how desperate I am to get away from this all.  How much I want to change things.

“Do you think you need to be away from here?” he probes.

“I think I’m going to go insane just by being here,” I answer.

“I may be able to arrange something,” the nurse says.  “I’ll need to make a couple phone calls before I can promise anything.”

“I’ll take whatever you give me,” I tell him.

“Alright,” he says.  “Give me a couple minutes, and I’ll be back.”

Ferrer arrives the next day.

Fortunately Henry remembered to unlock the bedroom door before he took George and Marty out of the house early in the morning so that none of them would have to deal with seeing me off.  (There’s something overwhelmingly disgusting about having to say goodbye to your little brother from the other side of a locked door as he hurries through his goodbyes before he’s found out.)

“You ready?” the District 2 victor asks me.  We stand in the entryway of the hall.

I adjust my duffle bag on my shoulder.  There’s nothing here for me now.  Maybe there will be in the future, but in the present, it’s nothing but a tomb.  “Yeah,” I answer.

Harmony bids me goodbye and assures me that I can call him whenever I need anything.  He’ll check in on me regularly by phone, and he will make scheduled visits.

Ferrer herds me out of the house, onto the porch, and across the yard to where a cab waits to take us to the train station.  I climb inside the waiting vehicle and shove my bag onto the floor near my feet.

As the car starts down the road, I try to settle in to my seat, but I can’t get comfortable.  Maybe it’s the heavy bag pressed against my ankle that confines my movement.  Or maybe it’s the fact that my cane takes up way too much space and I’m too on edge to worry about collapsing it.  But, I know, it’s neither of those things.  Heaviness lingers within me as I think of what I’m leaving behind.

“You can say ‘I told you so,’” I tell Ferrer.

The older victor lets out a sigh.  “I’m not going to say that,” he says.

I wish he would.  I wish someone would.  Nobody but Henry sees what happened for what it is, and I don’t understand why everyone thinks that sparing my feelings will help.

We pass the remainder of the drive to the train station in silence.  Trains travel through the districts continuously, mostly for the sake of commerce and trade, but many have cars for passengers.  I doubt they are as luxurious as the cars on the tribute trains.  The Capitol limits travel between the districts, but sometimes people find riding the train more efficient than using other forms of transportation for travel within District 5, especially because the railroads are better maintained than the highways.  It is for this reason that Peacekeepers heavily monitor the train stations to ensure that those riding the train have the proper authority to do so, and they do not stay on the train for longer than allowed.  After all, you wouldn’t want a regular District 5 citizen to think he had the freedom to visit another district as he pleased.

Ferrer and I, however, are victors.  Far from the sort of everyday people whose ID cards the Peacekeepers eye carefully and spend too long turning over in their hands as they watch the card owner shake in fear as though they might have done something wrong.  They leave us alone as we wait for our train to arrive, and when it does, we are the first people on board.  Our car has a small sitting room and two small bedrooms, all joined with a narrow hallway that, weirdly enough, anyone can use if they need to get from one car to another.  But I can’t complain about the accommodations, so I settle in the lounge in a plush chair that faces one of the windows where I can feel the warmth of the morning sun.

“I was able to get an express train on the way in,” Ferrer says as he sits down in the chair across from me.  “But this one will take longer, so make yourself comfortable.  We can, er, catch up when we’re in District 2.”

In other words, don’t say anything here because anybody could overhear us.

As much as I try to make the most out of this train ride, I can’t help but think of my trip to the Capitol.  I’d be in a constant state of misery were it not for the fact that minute differences make it clear that this train won’t be taking me back to the Training Center.  For one thing, it’s not nearly as smooth of a ride; I can feel the swaying more prominently, especially when it starts and stops at the many stations.  The layout is also much simpler, and Ferrer and I stay mostly in this one car.  He offers to walk to the dining car, but I prefer to order our meals here in the relative privacy of our lounge.  We watch a few movies, and I listen to an audiobook while he reads.  At night, we go to our respective rooms, and I take my sleeping pills and collapse on the bed.

Morning comes, and shortly after breakfast we arrive at the train station.  We must have crossed into District 2 during the night.  For the first time since I found out where Harmony had arranged for me to go, I find myself nervous; visiting Ferrer is one thing, but being in District 2 is another.  We in District 5 never had a fondness of Career districts, but after what I went through with the District 2 tributes, it should be the last place on this planet I’d be willing to set foot.  I appreciate the irony that I’d rather be here than in my own home, and that gives me a little more confidence that I can handle the immediate future.

Ferrer herds me out of the train and onto the platform.  I refuse to let him carry my duffle bag and insist that I can get it on my own, but between the heavy bag and not having any idea where I’m going, I drag behind the older victor.

“This way,” he says as we leave the station.  “My car is in the lot out here.”

His car?  Well, I think, I suppose it makes sense.  Most people don’t just spontaneously lose their ability to drive in the arena.  Considering that I’ve only ever spent time with him in the Capitol where we just took a cab everywhere, I just assumed that we’d also be using taxis here, too.  Maybe they don’t exist in District 2.

When we arrive at his car, I feel around awkwardly on the door until my fingers touch the handle.  I open it up, toss my bag on the floor, and climb into the seat.

“It’s about half an hour to my house,” Ferrer explains as he pulls out of the parking lot.  “Victor Village is a little more situated in the city here in District 2; it’s not quite pushed to the outskirts like it is in District 5.  Or, should I say, the city here has incorporated it into its boundaries, though it’s still relatively rural.”

As we drive, Ferrer gives a history of the District 2 victor living situation, starting with the initial building of the village to its growth decades later when they realized that Career districts were a thing and District 2 would be one of them.  Here in the Hunger Games-loving district, people saw the victors not as some otherworldly gods to both respect and fear but as something more of celebrities and idols.  Local regulations prohibit building within three miles of the village, he explains, but there are always developers willing to push that if they can.  The situation is compounded by the fact that because there are so many victors from District 2 (Ferrer is the twenty-first victor from District 2, and there are others still who came after him), they had to add on houses after the initial construction, so their village is significantly larger than ours in District 5.

At last we reach his place, and after his spiel about architecture and construction zoning, I’m a bit grateful I don’t have to stare at this catastrophe of a village.

“I have one of the original mansions,” he explains as we get out of the car.  “I don’t know how they decided who got what, but I’m sure you’ve figured that out.”

I grab my bag and close the car door.

“Vulcan lives across the street.  Freya, who you haven’t met yet I don’t think, is next door to him,” Ferrer says as he walks over towards me.  “Butch is next door to my place to the west, and Alexis is a couple houses down.  There are a few more, but those are the ones in the immediate vicinity.”

“Nice neighborhood,” I say as I follow him up the driveway.

“You’ll get used to living in victor village eventually,” he tells me.  “Once you make it your own place.”

The moment we step onto the porch, I immediately know that the mansions of District 2 are far different than those in District 5.  I always pictured ours interior as a dark, ancient sort of place, but here as I step onto the stone platform that serves as a small porch, I know that they have taken an entirely different approach to design.  Ferrer unlocks the door and leads me inside.  It’s colder, more spacious, and not nearly as home-like as what I have, which is saying something.

I pause and tap my cane against the stone floor.

“Marble,” Ferrer explains.  “The mansions are made out of local material, so there’s a lot of stonework in these places.”

No sooner does he say this than I hear something in the distance.  I strain to understand the noise; the echoing entryway does little to help the situation.  Finally I realize that there are footsteps and voices rushing towards us.

“Dad!” squeals a small child.  Then come the questions and comments of other children.  I can’t tell how many there are; I’m too surprised at the sudden surge of kids to even try to untangle what they’re saying.

“Hang on, hang on,” Ferrer says.

Somebody grabs onto my cane.  Before I can pull it away, the cane is released, and Ferrer says, “Calm down, little one.”  I can tell from the movement of the small voice that he’s picked up the kid.

“Let’s do some introductions,” Ferrer says to me.  And with that, I meet his wife, Hildred, who has followed the kids to the front door, and their children, Flint, Sid, and Matty.  What surprises me more than the children is the fact that he has a wife; didn’t Solar tell me that she had been killed?  I don’t dwell on it as I am overwhelmed by the rush of sounds.  The kids barely let Ferrer get a word in edgewise, and the introductions take much longer than they should.

The moment that they end, however, the children approach me.  I can only hear the vague shuffling of footsteps, barely heavy enough for me to even pick them up, and Hildred asks the kids to come help her with lunch and apologizes to me for them bothering me.

“It’s okay,” I say.  “They’re fine.”

“They’re fine now until they won’t leave you alone,” Ferrer says to me as he leads me out of the entryway.  “Come on, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”

We head down a hallway towards a first-floor bedroom.  If he had hoped to escape the children while they were momentarily distracted by their mother, he was wrong; no sooner have I set my bag down than I hear the small footsteps again.

“You can’t see?” asks one of the kids.  (Boy?  Girl?  They all sound the same at this age.)

“No, I can’t,” I answer.

“Why?” it asks.

“Because I can’t,” I say.

“Why?” asks a second one.  This one sounds slightly more like a boy.

“Somebody stole my eyes from me,” I tell them when it’s clear that this is about to be an endless loop.

“Wowwww,” says one.  “I’d punch them.”

“Sounds reasonable,” I reply.  “You’re going to have to tell me your names again.”

“I’m Sid,” says one.

“How old are you, Sid?” I ask.

“I’m five,” Sid answers.

“And I’m Flint, and I’m six,” says the other one.  “I’ll be in first grade this term.  Sid doesn’t start for another year.  And Matty won’t start for another . . . I don’t know.”

“Alright, why don’t you guys go see what Mom’s doing,” Ferrer suggests.  “Give Elijah a couple minutes to get settled in.”

“Awww, alright,” Sid replies.  Footsteps head towards the door.  I make a note that these children can move almost imperceptibly . . . best not to get startled by any of them.

“Sorry about that,” Ferrer apologizes.  “They’re inquisitive.”

“I noticed.  But that’s okay, really,” I say.  “I’d say that they’re cute, but, well, I have no idea.  I can’t even tell if Sid is a boy or girl.”

“Sid’s my daughter,” Ferrer says.  “Flint and Matty are my sons.  And Hildred is due in a couple of months.  A girl.”

Oh, geeze.  That’s a lot of children in a short period of time.  How the hell does Ferrer mentor and find time for so many offspring?

“When you’re ready, I’d like to give you a brief tour,” the older victor says, and when I tell him that I’m good to go, he leads me out of the bedroom and down the hallway.

To balance out the mass quantities of marble and stone, Ferrer makes ample use of thick rugs and, he explains as we walk, plenty of tapestries.

“Otherwise things echo a bit too much,” he says.  “An architectural design flaw.  The newer mansions are better about this.”

The tour ends very quickly when he leads me into a study and closes the door.

“There’s a chair about three feet to your left,” he tells me, and I feel around until my hand touches the back of a thick leather armchair.

I sit down and listen to Ferrer make himself comfortable in another chair a few feet away.

“Harmony explained the situation, which I’m sure you probably guessed he did,” Ferrer says.  “And, for the record, this room is clean so you don’t have to worry about being overheard.”

“Clean?” I ask.

“Every mansion comes with bugs,” he says.  “So you just go through and systematically search a room or two to clean them out.  You can use a scrambler to make it sound like nobody is in the room rather than removing them altogether, though its always a good idea to take them out if they’re attached to any of the more easily transportable objects.”

“So it’s a thing?  Like some sort of built-in feature?” I ask skeptically.

“Yep,” he says.  “There are none in this room.  We’ve cleared out a few other rooms, and we picked apart the children’s bedrooms to make sure no one was listening in on them.”

Now that is a creepy thought.

“It’s always a good idea to assume rooms are bugged, and even better idea to re-check your rooms after you’ve had any sort of workmen or repairs,” he says.

“Alright,” I say.  “I’m learning new things about being a victor every day.”

“Not all that it seemed like it would be, is it?” he asks.

“We in District 5 don’t really have great expectations for what it means to be a victor,” I say dryly.  “Probably a bit different in a Career district.”

“That is a good point.  Here, well . . . it’s something we all admire.  Best to leave it at that,” Ferrer responds.  “Anyway, how are you holding up, Elijah?”

“Well, I managed to get my parents and my little sister killed within the first couple weeks of being back,” I say.  “My older brother slept with my girlfriend while I was gone, but it’s okay because he forgave me for almost killing him when I found out.  Until he decided to disown me for the triple murder fiasco, and now he won’t let our little brother anywhere near me.  Plus my former mentor sometimes likes to sneak in my bedroom window because I won’t answer the front door.  So, all in all, I’d say that things are going pretty good.”

Ferrer doesn’t respond for a moment.

“What happened to your parents and sister?” he asks.

“Carbon monoxide poisoning,” I say.  “In the old house.”

“What was the reason?”

“I was supposed to move them into the new place a little faster than I did,” I respond.  “I, um, I ignored the requests to have them move into the new place.  I figured that it was more practical that they stayed there since, well, I guess it doesn’t matter why anymore.”

“They killed your family for not moving them to victor village?” Ferrer says with surprise.  “That’s . . . a new one.”

“Are we keeping track of who gets offed for what reason?” I ask darkly.

“No,” he says.  “But normally it requires something a little more offensive for them to kill three family members.”

“Apparently I turned down the highest honor that any district resident could receive, or whatever they told me,” I mumble.  My stomach hurts.  It’s bad enough that my parents and sister died but to know that my ‘punishment’ was completely disproportional to the offense makes everything worse.

“I’m sorry, Elijah.  I truly am,” Ferrer says heavily.  “You should have had somebody more reliable with you; somebody besides Solar.”

“She tried to warn me, she said,” I tell him.  “But I thought she was just being obnoxious, especially since she previously threatened to have George and Joule reaped, so I thought . . . oh, well, again reasons don’t matter, I suppose.  Joule’s dead regardless.”

“Fuck,” Ferrer says.  “Damn that woman.”

He shifts in his chair and doesn’t say anything to me, though he mutters something under his breath that I don’t quite hear.  We sit there in silence for a moment.  I try not to think of my sister.  Of my parents.  I try to pretend that they’re safe and comfortable at home while I’m away on a pleasant trip.

“They killed my wife,” Ferrer says suddenly.  “My first wife, Aella.  Flint and Sid’s mother.  Because I refused to train potential tributes.”

So Solar was telling the truth about this.  I dig my nails into the arm of the chair.  Somehow knowing that she finally spoke something truthful doesn’t make this situation any better.

“I thought training wasn’t allowed,” I say.  We all know that the Careers train, but I’d never heard of the Capitol outright promoting it.

“It’s not, at least not officially,” the District 2 victor says.  “But the Capitol wants a good show and the Career tributes have been, er, lacking lately.  So a few years back, they pushed us victors to start training kids under the table.  I wouldn’t.  I’ve seen what the Hunger Games do even outside the arena, and I couldn’t condone it.  Aella had to go in for surgery, nothing big, but something went wrong during the procedure.  She never woke up.”

As Solar said. . . .  They make it seem like a complete accident.  Nothing that will draw people’s attention away.  You only know because you defied the Capitol.

“What happened after that?  What did you do?” I ask.

“I started training potential tributes,” he sighs.  “Five days a week, four hours a day.  I still do it, and I won’t stop until they tell me I can.”

Perhaps I’m a bit heartless, or maybe I’m naïve, but it seems strange that somebody would know that his wife was killed as a punishment, and then go and remarry also knowing that it could happen again.  What’s the point of putting yourself through all that pain again?  Of knowing that you’re putting somebody else in danger just by having them be associated with you?  It seems to me that it would be better to limit the number of people you’re in contact with and embrace the life of a hermit.

“I’m lucky,” he continues after a minute.  “They haven’t pushed me to do too many things.  Some victors get badgered and bullied a lot more than me.  It’s probably because I was a Career, I don’t know.  But if training would-be tributes for the Hunger Games is what’s going to keep my children alive, then that’s what I’ll do.”

“Are you going to train your kids?  When they’re older, I mean?” I ask.  How could he not?  If he doesn’t, then he will only risk the Capitol’s wrath yet again.

“They will be trained when they’re old enough,” he says.  “Kids here start when they’re seven or eight, depending on the family.  Some start when they’re toddlers, but most people don’t expect them to do it until a year or two into school when they can better understand what they’re doing.  My kids will train, but I don’t ever expect them to volunteer.  It would not look good if I had them sit out entirely, so we have to go along with it.  And, frankly, it would be wise for any victor to train his children for the arena.”

“Wait, what?” I ask.

“It happens,” Ferrer says somewhat apologetically.  “Sometimes a victor has to mentor his own kids.  And I’m not just referring to volunteers from Career districts.”

My tongue is suddenly heavy in my mouth.  The implication that any family I have could be reaped, even without Solar’s help, leaves me silent.  What future is that to know that your kids could be murdered in front of your eyes, and you will be somewhat responsible?

“You can’t live your life in fear of what they might do,” he sighs.  “Follow what they tell you, and you will be okay.”

“So you’re totally fine with seeing your own kids off to the arena?” I ask.

“No, not at all,” he replies.  “I fear it more than anything.  But our lives are miserable enough, so I’ll take what happiness I can get.”

“Even if it means your kids could die?” I probe.

“Yes, Elijah,” he says carefully.  “I have made my decision, and I will accept the consequences if it comes to that.”

I can’t even manage a snarky comment.  He wants normalcy so badly that he will bring kids into this world knowing that they could just as easily be taken out in the manner that will hurt him the most.  For the first time, I truly doubt his sanity.

And yet I find myself wondering if he’s wrong.  How many more years will I live?  Fifty?  Sixty?  Can I spend all of that time alone?

“My wife knows, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he says.  It wasn’t, but now that he said it, I am.  “After I lost Aella, it wasn’t fair to marry again knowing that the same thing could happen to her.  She understands the risks.”

“Solar told me that all the victors are like this?” I venture.

“I don’t know about all, but most of us have lost at least someone,” he says.  “Solar is . . . a rare case.  To lose so many.  It’s hard to be popular in the eyes of the Capitol.”

“Solar’s popular?” I ask with surprise.  “Like people can actually stand being around her?”

Ferrer laughs dryly.  “Yeah, she wasn’t always quite as bizarre as she is now,” he says.  “The attention wears on you, and when it’s the wrong kind of attention, it can be that much harder to hold up.  Everyone has their own way to handle the stress of victory, some better than others.”

“But they leave you Careers alone?” I ask.

“No, not necessarily,” he says.  “It depends on the person.  They tend to leave me alone, but they love Freya and Butch.  Butch seems to enjoy the spotlight, but Freya has a little more trouble handling it.”

“How do they decide who will be popular?”

“The same way any sort of popularity is decided, I suppose,” he answers.  “Sometimes it’s how people present themselves, and other times it’s for the things they do in the arena, and other times there doesn’t appear to be rhyme or reason.  Many of us Careers strive to be popular before we even set foot into the arena without realizing what it means after victory.  For the non-Careers, more often than not it’s something they do in the arena that draws attention.”

“I guess the same goes for being unpopular,” I add.

“You’re unpopular, but not with the general public,” he says.  “The public loves you.”

“Because I’m blind,” I say.

“Because you did something absolutely mind-blowing,” Ferrer corrects.  “Every year, they see the same thing over and over again, and you gave them something completely different.”

“And yet apparently the people in power hate me.”

“They’ll probably lose interest in you as soon as they get their Career victor,” he tells me.  “Once they’re able to secure victory from Districts 1, 2, or 4, they won’t have as much of a reason to dislike you.  And in some ways, it’s better to be disliked than it is to be liked.”

“They killed my family because they disliked me,” I say.

“Doesn’t stop them from killing family from people they like,” Ferrer points out.  “Again, it’s not about whether they like or dislike you as much as it is how well you follow their rules.  If they like you, however, there will be a lot more eyes on you.”

Suddenly there’s a small knock at the door, followed by “Da-ad!  It’s time for lunch!” and a moment later, “You’re not supposed to bother him!”

“They aren’t usually this clingy,” Ferrer says as he stands up.  “They’re quite curious about you.  Come on.”

I stand up and follow Ferrer into the hallway and towards the dining room where the three children all chatter at the same time for the entirety of the meal.  I tune them out and don’t bother following the conversation because my mind works through all that Ferrer just told me.  His wives, his children. . . He’ll build his life up and then have it pulled out from under him, and then just build it right back up.  Is it worth it?

Chapter Text

After lunch, I sit on the back porch and listen to the older two kids say, “Elijah!  Watch this!” and do cartwheels or something while intermittently asking me if I’m really paying attention.  “Yeah, I’m watching,” I tell them, while wondering if all kids are dumb at this age or if Ferrer shouldn’t bother setting money aside for university fees.

Ferrer comes out with Matty, the kid babbling some nonsense or other.

“Sorry about that,” the older victor tells me as he sits down on the porch steps not far from where I sit.  “We’re trying to get him out of diapers but it’s a slow, messy process that sometimes ends in extra baths.”

I remember Mom and Dad toilet training Joule, but I can’t recall if it involved her wildly shitting herself and requiring frequent bathing.  It occurs to me now that even though I always figured I’d have kids, I know next to nothing about them besides what little I know about myself, my siblings, and a few cousins.  It doesn’t matter now, anyhow; I doubt I’ll be in a great rush to have kids for the Capitol to kill at their whim, even if I could find somebody who would be willing to overlook the fact that I bashed some guy’s head in on a rock.

The little one, Matty, plops down next to me and grabs my cane.  I release it and let him fiddle with it.  He hits me in the leg a couple of times as he tries to maneuver the stick in his small hands.  Then once he figures it out, he starts hitting me intentionally.

“Matty, please stop hitting Elijah,” Ferrer says, which just earns him a giggle and my leg another thwap.  When Ferrer repeats the sentiment, this time a little more firmly, the kid apologizes, but doesn’t give me back the cane.

Whatever.  It’s not like I’m going anywhere right now.

I listen to the older kids run around yelling at each other as they play.  It sounds like they’ve made up their own game that nobody but the two of them understands.  Good for them.  If what Ferrer says is true, they’re going to be learning how to murder people in another year or two, so they might as well enjoy their innocence while they can.

Then there are new voices.  I pause and listen as they grow closer.

“Oh, shit, they’re early,” Ferrer mumbles.  He hoists up Matty as he stands and takes a few steps away.  Then he says to somebody else, “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”

“We wanted to work with the swords.  I hope that’s okay,” says a girl.  I furrow my brow as I try to pick apart her voice.  It’s bizarre how a stranger can sound so familiar.

“That’s fine,” Ferrer answers.  “I need to go get the keys.”

“I’ve been working on my lockpick skills,” says a boy.  Cocky, confident.  He’s trying to impress somebody, though I don’t know if it’s Ferrer or the girl he’s with.  Sounds like typical Career material.

“Don’t let him try to pick the lock,” the girl says.  “He’s only going to break it.  Like that one time when—”

Suddenly she falls silent.  I don’t know what’s distracted her, but I try to listen for any changes in the environment.  None of the other speak for a few seconds as they hone in on whatever the girl has noticed.

Then Ferrer says somewhat reluctantly, “Artemis, Slate.  This is Elijah from District 5.  Elijah, these are Artemis and Slate.  They train under me.”

Oh.  I’m the reason that they stopped talking.  Great.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, acutely aware that these two gremlins will one day go to the arena and mow down their competition without a second thought.  No doubt having the newest non-Career victor hanging around here pisses them off.  After all, it was supposed to be a Career victory.

But all I get in return is, “Same” from the guy and no answer from the girl.  Ferrer sighs heavily and excuses himself.

The three of us wait in awkward silence that’s interrupted only by Flint and Sid’s voices somewhere off in the distance.  I keep my attention on the sound of leaves rustling in a nearby tree so that I don’t have to listen to the boy and girl shuffle back and forth and make small talk with each other.  Neither of them tries to ask me questions or exchange useless pleasantries, which is fine because I have no words to give them.  A minute or two later, Ferrer returns.  Matty, presumably still in his arms, plays with a set of keys and explains to his father in his babyish voice what each one unlocks.  Ferrer asks Matty to give Artemis the keys, and then the girl politely thanks the little boy.

“You guys go get set up.  I’ll be out there in a couple minutes,” Ferrer says to the Careers.

They thank Ferrer again and head off.  Ferrer sits back down on the step.

“I’m sorry.  They arrived much earlier than expected,” he says.  “I was hoping to not make the meeting so spontaneous and unexplained.”

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that Artemis is Athena’s sister,” I reply.

“Yes,” he says.

“You trained Athena?”

“She was one of the best,” he answers.  “Good kid.  Great with weapons, but also just a nice girl.”

“Her parents didn’t quite understand that one of their daughters died?  So they’re sending out another one?” I ask.  I absently drum my fingers against my knee.

“It will be another couple of years before she’s ready to volunteer so she will be plenty prepared as far as Careers go.  She’s good, too—she has a shot,” Ferrer says.  “It’s not unusual to see a family who lost one kid in the Hunger Games to prepare their next kid.  I don’t know how it works in Districts 1 and 4, but here if you have one child go to the arena and die, you have a better chance of getting another one of your children into the Hunger Games to make up for it.”

Careers are mad.  Absolutely insane.  To treat their own kids as disposable quantities rather than actual living children is just disgusting.

“That probably sounds pretty alien to someone from a non-Career district,” Ferrer comments.

“’Alien’ is probably the nicest of terms I could use,” I answer.

“There is a big push in schools to encourage kids to train for the Hunger Games without actually telling them to train,” Ferrer tells me as Matty finds my cane and starts playing with it again (which I only know because it hits me in the leg once or twice).  “I expect that this combined with the fact that many parents have an older mindset and were raised Careers themselves, we’ll find a resurgence in Career mentality in the district.”

I’m still hung up on the fact that Athena’s sister trains with Ferrer for the very event that killed Athena.  Nobody in District 5 would volunteer to go to the Hunger Games in the first place, but certainly not after they saw a sibling get murdered.  Do people here just not understand death, or are they so brainwashed that it doesn’t matter?

Flint and Sid run up to us, panting and excited.  Sid starts rambling about a frog they found in the yard and how they tried to catch it but it was too slippery for them, and that if they did catch it, they’d have the perfect place to put it.  Ferrer lets them talk for a couple minutes, and then he asks them to keep me company while he works with the Career students.

“Is that okay?” he asks me.

“Yeah, sure,” I say because I’m just glad I don’t have to be involved with the training.  Ferrer excuses himself and takes Matty off somewhere, leaving me with the two older children.

“We can play tag,” Sid says.

“He can’t see,” Flint corrects his sister.  Then, to me, “Wait, you can’t play tag, can you?”

“Oh, only if you guys scream loudly wherever you run,” I say.

“We could do that!” Sid cries out.  I hear her gathering up a big breath.

“No, wait, nevermind, I can’t play tag,” I interrupt before she can release a high-pitched wail upon us all.

After a bit of deliberation, they finally decide on chutes and ladders, which they bring out onto the back porch.  Sid patiently tells me how the game is played and I don’t tell her that I’ve played it a million times when I was a kid myself.  They move the pieces around the board, and all I have to do is roll the dice whenever it’s my turn and pretend that I’m fully engaged in the game.  I have no idea who is winning or where my piece even is.  Sometimes they skip my turn completely.

As we play, they sometimes tell me about their neighbors.  Neither of them really understand what the Hunger Games is; this doesn’t surprise me because the sheer violence associated with it isn’t something that any child would be able to grasp.  Their understanding of their neighbors is similar to how kids raised outside of victor village would be, in that they don’t sit there and think of the terrible things these people have done or slap on a label such as “victor of the n^th Hunger Games.”  Instead they talk about ‘Uncle Butch’ bringing them candy, or how Ms. Freya has a lot of visitors so she must have a lot of parties, or that Alexis must be twice as old as their dad but she sometimes invites them over for dinner and she cooks ‘okay enough’ and lets them call her by her first name.

“Sounds like you have a nice bunch of neighbors,” I say.

“Yeah, I just wish there were more kids our age,” Sid says.  “It’s boring playing with Flint all day, and Matty’s too much of a baby.”

“All my friends have kids in their neighborhoods,” Flint adds.  “And then they’re like, ‘Someone new is moving in.  I hope they have kids.’  But if somebody new moves in here, Dad says they probably won’t have kids our age.”

Probably not, thank heavens.  Of course, they might have younger siblings.  Wouldn’t Joule have loved to play with these two kids like she plays with some of our younger cousins?  I clear my throat and try to think of something else, anything else.

“You don’t have kids, do you?” Sid asks.

“Um, no, I’m a bit too young for that,” I reply.

“That’s too bad,” she mumbles.

“My friend Rex said that we were supposed to get a new neighbor but he died,” Flint says.  “Which is too bad because he might have had kids.”

I raise my eyebrows.  Holy shit, these children and the strange half-understanding of their situation.  Do they grasp what exactly is going on right now?  That their ‘new neighbor’ was an absolute lunatic and they’re better off without him?  No, of course not.  They just see that they’ve lost an opportunity to have friends.

They continue on with the game completely unperturbed by this discussion as though it never happened at all.  I roll the dice when they tell me to and listen to them argue over how many squares they’re actually supposed to move the pieces.  I can’t say I’m surprised when I lose the game.

The days continue on.  I spend most of my time being trailed by Flint and Sid who seem to think that I can’t function without their ever-chattering presence.  They like to tell me how to do things like I’m dumb and not blind, which works well enough because sometimes I actually am dumb in addition to being blind.  They show me how to do their chores which I know is just part of a master plan to train me until they can abandon me to wash the dishes on my own, but I go along with it anyhow because Ferrer and his wife are nice enough to have me here and I might as well attempt to pull my own weight.

Ferrer takes me on walks through the property behind the neighborhood which has its own nature trails.  These trails are well-used by victor and citizen alike, and we have to move out of the way for bicyclists or herds of would-be Careers doing distance training.  Sometimes his kids come with us, but most of the time his wife volunteers to keep them distracted while we slip out the door.

“It doesn’t bother you that there are random people on the trails behind your house?” I ask as he has me step out of the way for the third bicyclist in five minutes.

“No, not really,” he says.

“They don’t intrude on you, or try to sneak onto your property?”

“It’s easy to become a recluse in the mansions if you try to avoid everyone who might see you,” Ferrer says as we move back onto the trail.  “Always a good idea to get out and do things like you normally would.  Hildred and I avoid grocery stores and have somebody else go to the market for us, but we’ll still go to the store when the kids need something.  We go on walks, watching sporting events, visit family out of the area.”

“And everybody stares at you wherever you go,” I say.

“You get used to it,” he replies.  “Sometimes people come up and talk with us, but most of the time they leave us alone now.  You might have a more challenging time both because of your blindness and because there are so few living victors from District 5, but make sure you find something that takes you out of your house.”

“There aren’t a lot of opportunities at this point,” I admit.  “The whole being blind thing really limits sightseeing.”

“I would say that because you’re blind, it’s especially important to get out of the house as often as you can,” Ferrer says.  “You can’t hole up in there for the rest of your life.”

“And what would I go do?  Watch a soccer game?” I ask with a touch of sarcasm.

“Yes!  Do that,” he says, either completely missing the sarcasm or ignoring it entirely (knowing Ferrer, likely option B).  “Go watch your friends play soccer.  Don’t alienate yourself from them.  I still have friends from before.  We’ve grown a bit apart since we were younger, but that’s to be expected to some degree.”

“I’ll probably just be a drag on them,” I say, focusing unnecessarily heavily on the way my cane sweeps the ground to alert me of any larger rocks in the path.  “And I don’t want to involve them in the whole everybody-I-knows-dies-because-I-don’t-follow-instructions-well thing.”

“I told you: you can’t live your life in fear,” Ferrer says.  “If you don’t want to follow their rules, then do it by showing them that despite the challenges you face, you can still live a good life.”

“Wow, did you and Harmony work on this speech together?” I ask.

“Elijah, you’ve been dealt a bad hand between being blinded and having a shitty mentor,” the other victor says.  “Returning home from victory is never an easy thing, even for us Careers.  I’ve seen it in myself, and I’ve seen it in the ones who have come after me.  Your story is no different.  Our families fall apart, our lives are twisted into confusion, and everything that we thought we had going in is ripped out from underneath us.  But we still go on, and we make lives for ourselves, and we try to come to terms with the things we’ve experienced and continue to experience.”

“And you get married and procreate like rabbits,” I add.

“Well that part is optional,” Ferrer says flatly.

“I like your kids, by the way,” I say.  “This afternoon they’re going to teach me how to make pancakes.”

He huffs.  “Make sure that they use the stove and not the microwave,” he says.

“You can microwave pancakes?” If I had known that was an option, I would be eating pancakes daily.

“They tried to put the metal pan into the microwave,” he responds.  “Fortunately it didn’t fit.”

The dirt trail gives way to an asphalt path, and I know we grow nearer to Ferrer’s mansion.  My cane taps evenly on the ground as we walk, more of a formality than anything else since the asphalt is well-maintained and doesn’t have the uneven surface of the unpaved trail.

“You don’t have to do a lot,” Ferrer says, and it takes me a second to realize that he’s not talking about pancakes.  “Just do one thing each week, if that’s all you can manage.  It’ll get easier, and you’ll find that it’s not as daunting.”

Fine.  But only because I don’t know what else my life holds for me besides eternal darkness, and I want to have some light despite it all.  But already the thought of stepping out of my house and doing something normal overwhelms me.

“Harmony is going to swing by next week,” he adds.  “He wants to talk with you about adjusting back to your home.”

“Sure,” I say.  It’s inevitable.  I have no desire to stay here forever with Ferrer, though I want less to go back to my cursed mansion.  The only thing that draws me back home is George.

Chapter Text

Every weekday afternoon, Ferrer fulfills his obligation to the Capitol and trains Careers.  Artemis and Slate are always there.  Ferrer explains that because they’re older and with good connections that increase their chances of being chosen as volunteer, their training is more rigorous.  But other kids come by less frequently, maybe three days a week for just a couple hours.  Some as young as eight and others closer to fifteen or sixteen.

Flint, Sid, and I sit on the back steps as they try to teach me another board game, this one slightly more tedious than chutes and ladders.

“Next year I’m going to start training,” Flint says proudly.  I grow cold at the thought of this little kid preparing for the arena.

“No.  Dad says you have to wait until you’re eight,” Sid corrects him.  Then she says to me, “We get to start training when we’re eight.”

“Nuh-uh.  Dad says that I can start when I’m seven because the other guys in my class are going to start then, too,” Flint says.  They bicker for a bit about who is right, and then it turns into an argument about who will be better at what weapons.  I don’t interfere no matter how sick their conversation is.  Ferrer told me that some of the room inside are ‘clean,’ but he mentioned nothing about the outside.  Besides, how Ferrer decides to raise his kids is none of my business.

“I can fight, you know,” Sid says.  She bounces up off the step, the board game completely forgotten.  After a few seconds, she continues, “See this?  It’s my sword.  I’ll fight you.”

“You’re on,” Flint responds as he jumps to his feet.

“Wait, like real swords?” I ask, suddenly worried that maybe Ferrer expects me to keep his kids alive and I might actually fail to do that if they’re going to start hacking away at each other.

Sid laughs.  “No, silly.  They’re just sticks,” she says.

“Okay then, carry on,” I tell them.  Even normal non-Career kids beat each other with sticks, I tell myself.  It’s what my siblings and I used to do.

They bound off, laughing and shouting as they smack at each other with their sticks.  Either they don’t know how to fight or they’re actually pretty good at it; I’m not sure which way it is, but I only hear the clattering of sticks and no one screaming to indicate that they actually make contact with skin.

I begin to zone out, only to be brought back to reality by the sound of footsteps on the paved path that leads to the porch.  At first I think that it’s Ferrer, but it doesn’t sound like it.  Probably not Hildred since she’s inside the house with Matty.

“Hey,” comes the voice of the Career girl, Artemis.

Oh boy.  I can only imagine this conversation will go well.  I brace myself for whatever new hell will be unleashed on my life and wonder why I can’t get through a few weeks without any sort of issues.

“Hey,” I respond.

“I’m Artemis.  We met last week,” she says to me.  I can tell that she sits down on the step with me, even if the cold stone doesn’t creak and groan the same way a wooden step would.

“You are Athena’s sister,” I say.

“Good guess,” she laughs.  “Ferrer tell you?”

“You sound like her,” I say.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she says.

“You should,” I answer.  At first I meant it as something of a joke, but when it’s out of my mouth I realize that I was serious.  For some weird reason, I actually mean it.  “Are you following in her footsteps?”

“Yes,” the girl says.  “Except for the ending part.”

“Ah, yes, dying kind of wasn’t the actual goal, was it?” I comment for lack of anything better to say to somebody who saw her sister die and wants to repeat it for herself.

She laughs again.  “Yeah, well, I’ll be victor, just wait,” she promises me.

“Or you could, you know, not bother and then actually live to see adulthood,” I say.

With all the death I’ve seen over the past few months, it’s sickening to think that somebody would willingly embrace that lifestyle.  Why promote suffering and anguish?  Why seek out death?

“You other districts really don’t have any interest in the Hunger Games, huh?” she asks curiously.

“Does that surprise you?  We frequently get mowed down in great numbers,” I answer her.  “Most of us aren’t keen on dying.”

“You care nothing for the glory?” she asks.  “There’s great honor in winning.  Certainly your district must be proud of you, right?”

“Sure, they’re proud.  But we tend to value life above honor and glory,” I say.  (Except in the cases in which you deny your honor and end up destroying life in the process.  But that, I note, doesn’t happen to the average person.)

“I know that you probably get this question all the time, but I have to know: what’s it like being in the arena?” she asks.

“Terrifying,” I answer.  “And anybody who tells you otherwise is full of shit.”

“Right,” she says with a smile, like I’m holding out on her with some big secret.  “You had a lot of fans here in District 2, even if you thought it was ‘terrifying.’  You completely blew people away with your ability to handle a knife like that.  Made a lot of Careers jealous, myself included.”

“Guess you’ll need to find your own style,” I say.  “I don’t really recommend the whole ‘blinded and having to throw knives around at people’ sort of method.  Really overdone.”

“You’re funny,” she says to me.

“So are you,” I say, but definitely not in the same way.  “You really have no problem just sitting here talking with me knowing that I’m alive because your sister is dead?”

“Obviously I don’t like the fact that Athena died, but we know that risk when we volunteer,” she says.  “She represented our district well (much better than that asshole Grant), and she brought honor to our family.  Of course, she would have brought more honor if she had won.  But I won’t make that mistake, you’ll see.  I’ll be a victor in another couple of years.”

“And if you die?” I ask.

“I won’t know it,” she says.  “The dead don’t mourn how short or long their lives have been.”

“I guess that’s one way to view it,” I say, but something within me suddenly hurts with the callous nature of her outlook on death.  Maybe part of me wants to cling to the hope that there’s life after death, and Ilana, Joule, and my parents are comfortable and happy, not mere corpses rotting in graves, all personality and soul gone for eternity.

“I can see that you’re not liking it,” she says.

“No, I guess I put a little more value on my life than what other people think of it,” I answer.

“Hmm,” she says noncommittally.  “I guess we all have our own outlook.”

“I guess so,” I respond.

We sit there in silence.  In the distance, I hear the kids still running around, though it sounds as though they’ve abandoned their sticks.  Further away comes the clang of weaponry.  Steel on steel.  This is this girl’s life, I realize.  The sounds of fighting, of weapons, or fatigue.  This is how she has lived her entire life, and she will die knowing nothing but the desire to succeed in one of the most miserable and senseless events of our country.  I wonder if Ferrer was the same way when he was younger, and if it is something they outgrow if they’re lucky enough to live to see their nineteenth birthdays.

“I can’t thank your sister, for obvious reasons,” I find myself saying.  “But I appreciate what she did for me in the arena.”

“I will accept your thanks in her absence,” Artemis says.  “She would not have been able to live with herself if she had done nothing to help you.  There’s nothing honorable in what Grant or the other Careers did, and if she had pretended otherwise, she would have been just as bad as them.”

“As much as I think your sense of honor and duty is over-the-top, I won’t deny that I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for her,” I say.  “So I can’t give you too much crap for it.  That said, I do wonder why she didn’t kill me when she found me in by the river.  It wasn’t like Grant wouldn’t know if I hadn’t died from my wounds.”

“I don’t know, either,” Artemis replies.  “But I’m glad that she didn’t.  I’d much rather have you as victor than Grant which, in case you weren’t aware, is a sentiment echoed throughout District 2.”

Odd, I think.  I would have expected that people who were so fiercely devoted to honor would have found more pride in their own district winning.  Then again, maybe it’s only Artemis and Athena who hold this sentiment given that Grant was one of the most disgusting tributes anyone’s ever had the pleasure of seeing and honor didn’t seem to be a great value to him.  We in District 5 haven’t really been in the position where we had such a violent and demented tribute representing us.  Normally when our tributes die, our investment in the Hunger Games peter away, and we don’t start rooting for other tributes unless there’s a damned good reason.

“I didn’t think people would be so quick to cross district lines,” I comment casually as I try to figure this girl out a little more. 

“Our choices were between my sister and Grant, and it was pretty evenly split until the Hunger Games started and people saw how they acted,” she says, equally as casually.  “When Athena helped you, though.  Wow, her ratings went through the roof.”

“Do you think that’s why she did it?” I ask.

“No, definitely not,” Artemis replies firmly.  “That was just the person she was.”

After a moment, she sighs.  “I miss her.  She always made training so much fun.  Things just aren’t the same.”

“How did you and your sister get to train with Ferrer?” I ask.  “It seems like it would be a pretty big deal.”

“My dad has connections,” she says.  “He’s a peacekeeper.  High ranking.  Plus we’ve been training since we were kids and we’re really good at what we do, so it’s not like we only got this because of our dad.  Anyway, when I win, I plan on doing the same for other kids, you know?  Giving them a hand so that they can have a shot at victory, too.”