…one, two, three, four, five, six, seven…
I pause from my game to squeeze my eyes shut as the floor is shaken yet again by what can only be a minute reflection of the explosions going on far above us. That makes seven Capitol bombs tonight: at least, I think so. No one else has stirred or even acknowledged the fact that the earth is shaking, but I'm having a pretty hard time convincing myself that it's all in my head. So I don't try: I just count the tiles on the ceiling one by one, over and over, and try to keep my head from exploding with the effort of not thinking.
The shaking stops. I open my eyes and realise I've lost count. I sigh, and begin again.
One, two, three, four…
I would not be doing this, I know, had I not given my rope to Katniss. My hands feel empty and useless resting on my chest as I lie flat on my back. They're itching to be active, to make the knots that have become my only salvation. The only feeling of ease I get is when I'm staring at that little piece of rope, twisting it into all the knots I can name and more. The only time I smile is when I look at it and remember that they've given me my own little rope but made sure to cut it too short to make a noose.
As if I'm worth anything alive. Not like Katniss.
Katniss. The reason for my unoccupied hands suddenly springs to minds and I am filled with guilt for having forgotten, for being annoyed, for – even for a second – considering slipping out of my room, finding hers and wresting the rope from her hands. Maybe even using force.
I squeeze my eyes shut once again in a foolhardy effort to protect myself from the blast. Not from the bombs, imagined though they may be, but from the paralysing wave of emotion that seeps through me as I remember why she needs my little toy so much. Because it is this that makes me remember why I need it so much.
Annie.
Annie, Peeta.
Annie, Peeta, Mags, Johanna. Wiress.
I don't even realise I'm saying the names aloud until an attendant – one of the medical staff – comes to hush me. I'm disturbing the other patients. I obediently hush but as soon as she's gone it becomes another little game. Annie. Peeta. Mags. Johanna. Wiress. As loud as I can without waking her. It's funny, really, because these are the names that nobody says and yet they're the most important ones. Isn't it funny? All the important people, all ignored. If only someone would do that to President Snow, he'd probably go mad like me. Soon, I don't know how, I'm screaming their names, adding mine and Katniss's to the list of the dead – or those who might as well be. The next thing I'm aware of is being dragged away, laughing maniacally. Don't they see how funny it is? My humour is wasted on them, I notice, as their only response is to jab me in the arm with a needle and tie me to a bed in another room. These people who watch over me are, it turns out, allowed pieces of rope long enough to hang themselves. This seems so funny it sends me into another little gail of girlish laughter.
My hands, tied to the bed, feel more useless and pathetic than ever as I drift into drug-induced unconsciousness.
I wake at dawn and, since no one has come to get me, resume my little game.
By the end of the night I am certain of two things: one, I will never be sane again. Two, there are two hundred and twenty nine tiles on the ceiling.