Title: Scream
Summary: They do it where nobody can hear your last screams. They break you down before you can even stand again. But that will never stop you from being who you are - a rebel. Pre-Mockingjay (no spoilers), oneshot.
Notes: Well, this is my first Hunger Games fic. I'm still waiting on Mockingjay (it SHOULD be delivered tomorrow). This fic is about one of my two favorite characters in the series and was a sort of experiment. Second person, present tense. Quite easy to tell who it is. The whole Avox angle always drew me in, in a morbid way. But I don't know enough about redheaded Avox girl or Darius to write anything convincing. So, I hope this worked out well. Enjoy?
Warnings: Blood, torture, and mutilation on a tongue. Takes place after CF, but before Mockingjay (since I haven't read it yet). Is a oneshot (I don't see how it's a warning, but hey, why not include it?)
Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. If I did, I would already have a copy of Mockingjay (Can you tell that I want Mockingjay? Apparently, I will really enjoy page 12. According to my source, I will love it. I am going crazy about what could be on page 12. But no spoilers, please!)
Edit: I made a few mistakes/formatting problems I had to fix. That's all. A few missed letters here and there.
They do it in the most torturous way possible.
They wait until you're awake. Your head is throbbing and you feel like you've been run over by a train, but you are awake. Laying in a cold, dank cell with nothing but your own tormented thoughts to keep you company.
Will they kill me? you wonder. Oh, of course they'll kill me, you figure. After all, you just publicly defied the President on national TV. But how? Whips? A firing squad? Maybe they'll hang me. Maybe they'll just chop my head off.
The best part of the torture is that they don't make you wonder too long. Because that, that wondering with no way of knowing, is really the worst.
You have a sense of relief when several heavily armed Peacekeepers open the solid metal door and drag you to your feet. The wait won't be so long. They've come to a decision.
Your legs are weak, and you're not sure that they'll support you for long. That's not a problem, though, because after they put heavy chains around your wrists and ankles, you are thrown over one of the Peacekeeper's shoulders.
His bony shoulder digs into your long empty stomach as he walks you towards your ever impending doom. It hurts, not so much physically, but mentally. You feel like a rag doll being thrown around, like a piece of trash. You're just another almost corpse of another rebel.
A rebel. That's what you are. The idea sparks in your mind and clings tighter than the flashes of your death ever could. And that's why, when you reach the stairs and your stomach is jabbed with every step, you struggle.
At first, you only squirm and try to get out of the Peacekeeper's grip. You don't care that you might be dropped and break your neck. You are a rebel and you are going to fight until the end.
When this fails, when the Peacekeepers are unfazed, you scream. You yell and shout and simply shriek until your throat is raw and throbbing just as much as your head. That doesn't stop you. You clank your chains and scream obscenities towards the Capitol, the President, the Games, every little thing you can thing of. You will let yourself be heard one last time.
The journey through a twisted maze is almost finished. The Peacekeepers are getting annoyed now, shooting glares and telling you to shut the hell up, because you're only making it worse. You continue anyway. This is your swansong to the world, even if nobody but these cruel, guarded men can hear it.
You hope your struggle gets back to the President.
You hope Katniss and Peeta are alright.
You hope the plan succeeds and they make it to District 13.
You hope your friends and family will be safe and not mourn too long.
You don't hope for your own survival. That's a waste of hope.
A door is thrown open and you are carried into a room too bright and white for your eyes. You need to squint to adjust, but keep on shouting.
You are slammed roughly onto a metal counter and your head bounces against it with a loud thud. The chains are undone and you are free for scarcely a second, kicking and flailing to get out of their harsh grip. Then they hold you down and fasten you to the table. A thick strap goes over your forehead, but not over your eyes, and then several others are holding down your body.
You can no longer move.
The door opens again and the smell of blood and roses wafts towards you. The President, you know instantly, with shivers up your back accompanying the realization. You had met with Snow a few times in the past, mainly with him giving appreciation for your work with the flaming costumes.
So he's come to see you to your death.
You pause in your incessant stream of insults to spit when he leans over, smirking.
He wipes his cheek as if only a bug had landed on him, laughing. "Drug him," he orders to a clan of white coated men and women in the corner. "But not all the way. I want him awake."
You've already accepted the fact that you will be conscious for your last few moments of life. This is a good thing, you think. You don't want to miss anything, even if all that's left is agony.
You feel numb. Your mind is ever alert, but your body isn't responding the way it should. The prodding of the doctors is barely felt. In fact, you doubt you'd even notice if you couldn't see their gloved fingers poking you and closing your eyes and opening them again.
Your mouth isn't cooperating anymore and your words, still unstopped, are becoming slurred. It's too hard to go on, too soon. Your tongue is dry and you're lacking oxygen, so you feel lightheaded. Tubes are shoved into your nose and air is forced into your body.
Your shouts give way to utter silence, only broken by your quick gasps.
"Is he properly numbed?" the President asks.
Several doctors are bent over you now, but you feel nothing. They all nod.
The President grins sadistically at you before stepping back. "Proceed, then."
By the time it's happening, it's too late. Your jaw is being forced open and a metal bar is carefully placed to keep it ajar. You try to do something, anything, but you're paralyzed.
The President notices your panic and laughs again. "It's a shame," he says mock sympathetically, "That your impressive projection skills won't be heard again."
And then you see the weapons coming towards you.
Sure, they're only scissors and scalpels and gauze to most, but to you, they're worse than guns and whips and clubs.
You can't cry out when the first incision is made. Something's been done to you, so your gag reflex won't even let you puke on these torturers. You choke on the blood that quickly fills this gaping spot in your mouth and wish you could shut your eyes. That way, you don't have to see this mutilated strip of red that is laid on the table beside.
The gauze is pressed to the back of your throat to stop the blood flow. You're helpless, completely at their mercy. Tied down and sedated, without even the ability to beg for forgiveness. Not that you'd want to, if you could.
They're monsters.
President Snow is satisfied now that you've given up and let the tears flow. He orders them to put you to sleep and you've never been more thankful for his presence.
It's a once in a lifetime experience, and you can't even let him know.
Once you wake, you expect it's time to work. You are, after all, an Avox now. You've prepared yourself mentally for the abuse. Orders being flung your way, being treated like no better than dirt on the bottom of someone's shoe – it's to be expected. You know. You once treated them like that, back when you were a spoiled Capitol brat.
You're wrong. There are steps before getting to work.
The first is the true torture, though you can't imagine what's worse than this. They use it to break you down, and force your resolve to hide and cower in fear. The government isn't stupid. Even without a tongue, rebels don't automatically give up. The officials are more likely to find poison in their food.
That was the speech you are given before your first session.
You are strapped to a chair, your palms face up. You don't know how many days you've been doing this. You don't know the days, because you don't ever see the sun. You only know how many times you've been tied down, and you've begun to lose track.
You are forced to look straight at the wall, where a television plays the Games over and over again. Occasionally, your designs pop up in the clips. You can't even bring yourself to smile at the spectacular mockingjay dress that ultimately brought this to you.
You know that it was worth it.
After you start to feel like your eyeballs will fall out from watching the bloodshed, the Peacekeepers come in. Sometimes they are accompanied by the President, and an Avox is always following with the torture instruments.
The Avox changes. You usually recognize them. They worked for you for so long. Your favorite to see is the redheaded Avox that waited on Katniss. She has a special way of communication, a way that you can understand what she wants or needs just by a few facial expressions, and you are itching to learn. Right now, you are mute and dumb.
The Avox stands in the corner behind you after they turn off the screen. You can't see him or her, and the quiet reassurance that one day, hopefully, you will be released from this torment is gone.
You know how it goes from here. The match is lit. The flame held to your already scarred and raw fingers and palms. You've given up on trying to scream. You keep your mouth shut and let the hot saltwater stream down your face until the icy liquid is thrown over your entire body.
The Peacekeepers leave, then. If present, Snow lingers for a few minutes to taunt you with words. And finally, only the Avox is left.
Today, it is the redhead girl. You don't even realize that she's approached until the strap loosens and falls away. You let her free you before standing. She wipes your face for you. Your hands are too burned to do it yourself.
She takes a towel and helps you dry off, but no amount of drying will warm your chilled skin. Before letting you change, she coats your burns with a thick paste and wraps them with bandages.
She holds your wrist and you find it in yourself to look into her eyes. You know she wants to tell you something.
It gets better, she seems to be trying to convey. You will heal.
You try to tell her that she's wrong, you will never be better. Your hands are useless now. They'll be good enough to carry trays and make beds, yes. But you're not stupid. You'll never hold a pencil again. A needle and thread will never be the same to these hands.
She only looks confused.
Somehow, the loss of your hands is worse than the loss of your voice.
You're a working Avox now. It's official. Your white tunic is stained daily, since you haven't quite mastered the use of your fingers yet. Spills are common, and the beatings come along with them. You don't think your scarred hands will ever stop smelling like bleach, considering the amount of times you need to wash your clothes in it.
You look slightly different from the rest. Most Avoxes aren't from the Capitol, and if they are, they were too young to get their surgeries. They look ordinary with no alterations. You're lucky you're not obsessed with those surgeries like so many of your former friends. Otherwise, you suspect the humiliation would be even worse.
Your hair is simple, as usual, but your eyes stick out almost as much as the two redheads. Green with gold flecks. A few months ago, you didn't mind them. The dare from your stupid high school friends hadn't turned out badly, and actually looked pretty cool. Now you loathed it. Because of those eyes, you couldn't look at your reflection without remembering who you were, what your past was like.
You wish you could.
You have friends now. The redhead girl leads you around the Avox quarters, teaching you how things are done. Communication is difficult, but you manage to get your messages through. It's often a game of charades, but you're not bad at that.
You're part of the Avox resistance. There is a plan set in place.
A plan that may or may not be settled completely on your shoulders.
You don't mind, though. You have little left to lose. Nobody recognizes you anymore, which is a mystery in itself. You wonder if they truly don't know, or if they're pretending. Because, as Effie told Katniss, how could you possibly know an Avox? It was a disgrace to know one.
You hide your eyes when you serve your old friends at a party. They gossip and laugh and take drinks from your platter as if you'd never been alive. It doesn't hurt so much anymore, even if you're dying to reach out and shake Flavius's arm, or hug Octavia tightly, or playfully tug on Venia's hair (though the last time you tried that, when you were still you, she slapped you, so it might not be wise).
The best part of being an Avox is that people speak freely in front of you. It doesn't take long to find out that the Games have been ruined, that the victims have escaped. Nobody knows which ones or where they fled, but you pray that as many as possible got away.
Portia has disappeared. You think that she maybe got away with the rest of the rebellion, because she hasn't shown up in the Avox quarters. And if she were dead, you're certain that the prep team would have burst into tears in the middle of the party instead of discussing her possible vacation to District Four.
You finally get to set down the drinks and take the salads to serve. It's a first – you haven't gotten anything on your uniform. But the night is young still, and there's still a good chance that you won't escape the Peacekeepers' wraths.
The perfect dish is set in front of President Snow. He smiles at your misfortune, making a pointed look at your red fingers.
They may be forever scarred, but they're good enough to wash the President's lettuce with poison.
You smile back defiantly.
If this plan doesn't work, if the President is somehow saved, you know that you're dead. There's no chance that you'll escape to District 13, let alone to streets of the Capitol.
There will be outrage over the Avox that tried to assassinate the President. Your death will be very public, probably televised. You wonder if they'll use your name and make an example out of you or just make you totally unrecognizable. You doubt anyone will mourn, except maybe the Avoxes.
You retreat to the kitchen, dreading the long night of waiting and wondering. It's always the worst part.
And this time, you can't even scream.
Notes: Ah, yes. Openended and not likely to be closed. I apologize, but if I were to be honest, I don't see this plan working. And I can't bring myself to kill Cinna. Anyhow, feedback is really appreciated, especially since this is my first HG fic. I'm going crazy over my characterization of Cinna - I feel like it fell flat. What do you think? I've been morbidly obsessed over his fate, lately. And I'm praying he's not actually an Avox. But at the same time, I'd rather him be an Avox than dead. *Sigh* I should stop rambling now about my insane obsession with this fictional man. Anyhow, what did you think? Questions, comments, and feedback, please!