Disclaimer: It's not mine. It all belongs to Suzanne Collins.
Water. That's the first thing I'm aware of. It surrounds my naked body, cool and refreshing, easing the pain. My eyelids feel as if they have heavy lead balls attached to them, they're so heavy. I know I wouldn't be able to open my eyes, even if I tried. I don't want to, anyway. The water seems to leach the pain out of my body, just like it drew the poison out of Katniss, Peeta and Finnick's skin in the …
… arena …
BAM! Memories come flooding back like a river breaking its banks. The arena. The arena. Images flash in front of my eyes and I swear to the ends of the earth they're not memories, this is actually happening, right here, right now, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
I'm back in District Seven, up on the stage in a roped-off area. I'm staring at the sky and Doris Profette, the tiny woman from the Capital in her tiny magenta dress and sky-high heels is exclaiming how exciting this year's Games ought to be. She totters over to the huge glass ball; the one I know has my name in it, and has to step up onto a little box, because even with the heels she's far too short. Her short pudgy arm can barely reach the top of the tiny pile of slips. Finger extended and standing on tip-toe, she just manages to grab on of the slips, the one on the very top. I hear a collective intake of breath in anticipation from the crowd and I can hear myself doing it too.
Doris Profette totters over to the podium and gathers a deep breath to announce the tribute.
"And," she says, flashing the crowd what's meant to be an encouraging smile, "The girl tribute from District Seven, this very lucky lady who gets the pleasure to participate in another Games, no less a Quarter Quell issssss," she drags the word out and I can tell how much she likes the sound of her own voice, "Johanna Mason!"
I know the next thing that happened was me brushing my sweaty palms on my pants, and then cautiously venturing over to Doris's side, but my flashback doesn't show this. The next thing I relive is stepping out of the chariot after the ride around the City Circle. I'm wearing a tree. Ugh. Our stylist is so unoriginal.
Somehow the flashback fast-forwards, and I'm in the lift, talking to Peeta about his paintings, stark naked. Katniss is looking at the floor, the ceiling, Peeta, my face, everything but my naked body. I feel suddenly wicked, the way I'm making her uncomfortable.
We stop at my floor but I don't get out. President Snow steps in, and the lift keeps going up. Wait, that's not right. Katniss and Peeta are gone, and President Snow and I aren't the lift anymore, we're back in my house in the Victor's Village. My memories are quickly transferring into a very real nightmare. Except it actually happened.
"Johanna," he says, examining my body critically like a scientist might examine a new specimen, "There are some people in … the Capital who are … very rich," he puts particular emphasis onto the word. "If you did them a … small favour, they would give you enough money to secure your family a bountiful life when you die." When, not if.
"I don't have any family left," I say, my voice ringing through the room. "They all died. From starvation."
"I see," said the president, his eyes shining dangerously. "Well, then , perhaps … a friend?"
"What's the favour?" I ask, not wanting to tell him I have no friends in my district.
The president, I could see, was getting irritated at my lack of co-operation. Time to back pedal. But I don't want to back pedal. I go on.
"You see, sir, I have no friends or family to give the money to. And I don't need more money, do I? So thanks, but no thanks."
"Is there anyone you care about, Johanna?" I flinch when he uses my first name.
"Nobody," I say, looking right into his snake eyes and knowing that I speak the truth.
Open your eyes. Open your eyes.
Yes, open my eyes. I have to get out of this dream-like world of memories and fantasy.
Open your eyes.
Suddenly I come to. I'm in a vessel of water, not at the reaping, not at my house, not in the Capital –
Or am I?
I open my eyes and see for the first time what I look like. Bruised, scarred, cuts decorating my arms and legs. After a moment I look up from my entrancing inspection of my own body. I see a gloved, masked man arming what looks like a control unit outside my glass pool of water, I see him for a second before he sees me and quickly presses a button. I'm confused for a second longer.
Then the pain hits.
"I'm not like the rest of you. There's no one left I love." Johanna Mason, Catching Fire, pg. 347
Well, so that's what it's like being tortured in the Capital. Johanna didn't at this point realise that this was only the first of many attempts to wring information out of her.
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