I do not own Hunger Games.
And this character is fascinating to me.
Johanna
Hate.
Hate was the key.
Rage, really.
That was something a gentle, big hearted, breadboy like Peeta could never understand.
Someone like him hoped to endure.
Survive.
Live on.
To love on.
Or die for love.
Romantic, idealistic, noble crap.
And people like him, the ones with something or someone left to lose, they were always beaten in the end.
Every. Single. Time.
But Johanna, she just hated.
All the time.
Every second of her waking and sleeping life, she hated.
Fully and completely and without consideration or apology.
Because she knew the real secret.
Hate.
She hated everyone and everything around her.
Despised. Loathed. Abhorred. Resented.
Detested.
Hated.
All her family, her friends were dead.
Murdered indirectly or directly by the Capitol.
And she had murdered.
In the Games.
Over and over again.
And continued to murder.
In her thoughts.
In her dreams.
In her heart.
And in her mind.
She had no love or concern or care or positivity or anything other than hate and disdain left inside her.
For anyone or anything around her.
So when they starved her, she hated them.
When they dehydrated her, she hated them.
She raged. She mocked them. Ridiculed them.
Was that really the best they could do?
Oh dear, I'm sooooo hungry.
When they filled her veins with Tracker Jacker venom, sending her into spiraling, terrifying hallucinations, she hated them.
Spat at them.
Fought them.
Embraced the madness fully and completely, letting it fill her up.
And flung it at them.
Until they fled.
When they filled her body with poisons and toxins, making her heave and spew and excrete hideous fluids and secretions, she laughed.
She raged.
She painted the walls with it. Painted herself with it. As warpaint.
As armour.
As repellent.
As punishment.
Against them.
When they shaved her head to shame her, she snarled at them.
Flung her arms over head and offered up that smelly, deodorant-less mess to them.
Her eyebrows. Eyelashes. Lip hair. Whaddya want next?
Spread her legs wide and offered up that hair as well. Why not, hey, I'm not using it.
Rip it out if you want, one at a time, I love a good wax.
Smooth as a baby's behind, isn't that the fashion?
She repulsed them. Reviled them. Made them sick to their stomachs.
While others eventually cried and begged and pleaded for reprieve, Johanna Mason laughed and snarled and fought like a beast.
And when they electrocuted her, cut her, beat her, she cursed them.
And their mothers.
Their fathers.
Their gods.
Their dogs.
Anything. Everything. All things.
And because she had nothing and no one they could take from her, they eventually were at a loss.
They left bruised, scratched, bitten, excremented and urinated on.
They left grimacing, retching, and sickened.
Because she threw everything they did back at them.
Without hesitation or concern for her own safety.
Because her unrelenting, uncompromising, unyielding hate was the key.
They almost killed her nevertheless.
But she did not care.
Could not care.
Would not care.
Because she was Johanna.
Her life, her existence, meant nothing. Was nothing.
Except to make them pay, suffer.
And she would not be broken.
Not then.
Not now.
Not ever again.
Johanna.
Hello!
Yes, dark and gruesome, I know. But true to character? I hope so.
Well, now that that's out of my head, maybe I can sleep easily again. Yay.
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