The metal door clangs shut, and the entire room is plunged into darkness. I am left chained to the wall, my naked back pressed into the icy cold concrete behind me. I gotta give it to my captors for not just building prison cells like this, but for pouring pure hatred into the design. The concrete box I'm sat in is more like a coffin with headroom and the only light for me to take in my surroundings seeps in from the crack under the door that just trapped me in here. The only sound, other than the heavy tread of retreating boots and my own painfully loud breathing is the audio they pipe in through a speaker on my right from the other torture rooms, of which there are many.
I've been in here so long I can't even tell whether it's day or night, or whether I've been in here for days, or for weeks. All I know is that there is not way out, and that if I'm destined to die in this hell hole, then it is bound to be slow and agonisingly painful as my tormentors try and force information from me that I do not possess.
My breathing is still heavy, so I focus on slowing that down so I can at least try and calm myself down. The only pro of round the clock torture is that you can't get more extreme than that, and soon, they must reach a point when they can't get any worse. Where it can't get any painful than the last round.
Feedback suddenly echoes from the speaker above my head and I moan at the throbbing it creates in my battered skull.
"Someone help me!" The voice that sounds makes me flinch, and a whine escapes my throat. Portia.
Oh, please no.
"Shut up. I'll give you one last chance to talk, or you and your boyfriend die." I harsh male voice silences Portia's pleas and sends a chill down my own spine.
"Kill us then. We don't-" Cinna's voice is calm, but condescending before the gunshot sounds that silences him and causes a pained wail from Portia's own mouth. I screw my own eyes tight shut and all I want to do is help her, seeing as I've already failed to help him. "Portia!" I scream, throwing myself towards the door and feeling the chains dig in tighter still around my wrists. But that won't stop me; I continue to cry and scream until my whole body is shaking with emotion, and pure hatred and fear is pumping through my veins. "Portia!" I try again, my voice louder and more close to a growl as I ignore the fact that my voice feels like it's about to give out, and that it's physically impossible to get through a six inch steel door and the unbearable weight of the chains around me.
"Effie? Oh, my God, you're in here? Where are you?" Portia's voice breaks, and she sobs softly.
"It's okay, I'm okay! I'm gonna get you out, I'm just down the corridor!" I shriek as loud as I can, but she must know that I'm as much as a prisoner here as she is. Only Portia has a way out that I fear they won't be willing to give me just yet.
"Baby girl, just please, be careful. They'll come for you, I promise. I love you." Her own voice breaks and my hearing is just good enough to hear the click of the gun cocking. My breath catches, and I cry out, wishing I could put my hands over my ears and block out the sound that I know will torture me for months after this. That is, if I ever get out of here.
A single shot rings out and an animalistic sound erupts from my throat. I feel like it's me that's been shot, but even above the grief that is blocking out almost everything else I can hear the dull thump of my best friend's lifeless body dropping to the ground.
I whine and the speaker cuts off, leaving me to cry in as much privacy I can get in this place.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry.." I groan, my voice distorted and unfamiliar even to my own ears as all the pain I've been feeling ever since I was kidnapped leaks down my face and falls onto the scars and wounds on my thighs.
My lips tremble and the tears remain unchecked as they mingle with the dirt and blood. It's now that it occurs to me that I won't see light again, that I won't be able to laugh or even smile after the atrocities I've witnessed in this prison. I placed my trust in Haymitch's hands and for a while I was safe in the knowledge that he would come, but that was silly. Childish, even. This isn't a fucking fairytale. And the idea of him being my prince is absurd, if mildly amusing.
I don't need a prince to come for me, I have to be my own hero. I see that now.
So by the time the morning shift starts ten minutes later and I've given myself time to grieve, I'm formulating a plan of my own. And the screams and cries around me act only to spur my lust for freedom on more.