GHOST OF THE GAMES Chapter 1: MESSAGE, a hunger games fanfic

GHOST OF THE GAMES

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: In the first part of this chapter, the text in plain italics represents the thoughts of one of the main characters. Text in bold italics represents television announcements from the 63rd Games.)

CHAPTER ONE: MESSAGE

~ Vera Scheveningen, Age Sixteen, Victor of the Sixty-Fourth Annual Hunger Games ~

A chessboard has sixty-four squares: thirty-two light, and thirty-two dark.

"It's down to the final three, Districts Two, Four and Seven - a huge upset! Don't move a muscle."

Sixteen pieces are positioned on each side of the board: eight pawns, two bishops, two knights, two rooks, one king, and one queen. As with the squares, one side is light, and the other dark - White and Black.

"Statistical odds favor the be-YOO-ti-ful Astrid Burya, with her deadly aim and merciless harpoon. However, don't count Leah Alder's trusty axe out, either, or Enobaria Verus' bare hands!"

The object of the game is to capture one's opponent's king.

"Here comes Leah, sprinting up behind Astrid near the Cornucopia. Enobaria gives a signal."

However, every piece should be considered vitally important during the course of play. Even a lowly pawn, worth one point, can mean the difference between winning and losing.

"Oh, NO! Leah didn't see it, and got caught off guard! Astrid, Burya, scores, another KILL point!"

Pause. 58:57. Perfect.

Ever so slowly, I inch the digital replay of the Sixty-Third Annual Hunger Games forward. I want to try and find the exact moment when last year's winner made her fateful decision. Had she planned it all along? Had she gone into the arena with her method of victory in mind? Perhaps, but such an unprecedented act of violence was just that, even for a Career tribute. Carefully, now. Five more seconds. Four. Three.

"ENN-OOO-BARR-IA…"

Two.

"MO-O-OVES U-UU-UUP…"

One.

"A-A-AND…"

I brace myself for the specified moment: 59:02. I brace myself to watch Enobaria's teeth and Astrid's throat. However, before I can, I freeze. Immobile, I listen as a long, drawn-out scream paralyzes me with fear. The remote tumbles from my hand and falls to the plush carpet floor of my house in the Victors' Village. I'm not able to breathe. My pulse seems to have stopped. Even if I want to scream as well, I simply can't.

When I finally regain my composure - yes, Vera, you can move, you can speak, you can act - I pick up the remote and stare at the screen, stunned. No one had screamed. In the very second before Enobaria gave Astrid a full tracheotomy with her mouth, no one had said anything, not even that idiot Caesar Flickerman. There had only been silence, that of an audience waiting with bated breath to see what would happen.

As true as that is, however, it's also true that I've just heard a shriek. My attacks are getting worse.

"Did I miss a dosage?" Only the still and empty air answers me. "No, it's time." Blinking to make sure I'm truly back in the real world, I head for the bathroom (luxuriously equipped) and my medicine cabinet (far less so). There are only five items in it: cotton swabs, painkillers, sleeping pills, tiny syringes, and serum. I fill one of the syringes with the cool, clear liquid and plunge it into one of the veins in my right arm. Ahhh…

After I do that, there is no screaming. After I do that, for at least eight hours, I don't hallucinate at all.

Do you believe in ghosts?

I do, or at least I'm starting to. The specters that haunt me are mere illusions; so I've heard from every doctor I've visited. Terms like schizophrenia and manic psychosis have been whispered in my presence, and more often, post-traumatic stress disorder. None of these potential diagnoses, however, comforts me. A medical label can't disguise what I'm going through, or even pinpoint it completely. Before the Hunger Games, I was a normal sixteen-year-old girl from District Five. Now I'm a victor, and a freak to boot.

That's why I have this house, these fine fixtures, this carpet. Also, this message I'm trying not to re-read:

64,

PLEASE MEET ME AT 0000 HOURS, MY HOUSE.

MAKE SURE YOU'RE NOT FOLLOWED.

BEFORE THEN, WATCH MY GAMES, ESP. 59:02.

CAN YOU HEAR IT?

62.

Why the secrecy and coded numbers? I am 64, of course, being that particular winner of the Hunger Games, and that means Enobaria's 62. "Make sure you're not followed?" Why not? We victors can visit one another freely, as long as we don't cause any trouble amongst ourselves or in the Village. Something else is going on. Maybe she's afraid I'm being monitored by the physicians on my case, and if I'm seen with her, they're going to think she's crazy, too. It's possible. They haven't certified me yet, but they might.

P.S. YOU'RE NOT INSANE.

That's a relief, especially to have someone like Enobaria say so, but I'm still worried. If it hadn't been for my exit interview with Caesar F*ckerman, no one would have been the wiser - at least, no one who didn't need to know what was going on with me. As it was, I'd started hearing the screams and voices of all the tributes who'd lost my Games, clamoring for escape and release, while only one would have sufficed. On all the cameras in Panem, I'd slapped my hands over my ears and crumpled to the floor, damning myself. That was my first psychotic break, or so they said, before handing me over to a competent psychiatrist.

What does Enobaria want from me?

Is she experiencing the same thing?

Sighing, I leave the bathroom and turn off the TV. I've seen enough of the Hunger Games for one day.

It's time for a nap, but even when I dream, I can't get the images of chess and 59:02 out of my head.