I wake screaming, the constant nightmare of Prim's death haunting me even after my eyes have opened. I'm trembling and starting to make those awful choking sounds that happen when I sob. I clap my hand over my mouth and will all thoughts of Prim out of my mind until all I feel is the familiar dull throbbing that hasn't left me since she died. I close my eyes and put my head in my hands.
My name is Katniss Everdeen.
I am seventeen years old.
President Snow is dead.
The rebellion is over.
The districts have won, so why do I feel so empty?
I open my eyes as Peeta enters the room. The dark shadows under his eyes tell me he hasn't been sleeping. The paint on his hands tell me that maybe he never tried. We just watch each other for a moment, me sitting on the floor, Peeta standing in a beam of light filtering in from the hallway, his hand still on the door knob. Finally, he speaks his voice barely above a whisper.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.
I just shake my head. It's bad enough re-living it once. I push off the floor and pull on a robe, hugging it tight to my body as if it is Prim. But she is dead, murdered by someone when the rebels had already won. I still don't know who. I can't even begin to sort out the truth. There is so much I don't remember. But I do remember today.
Today is the reaping of the Seventy Sixth Hunger Games.
There was a lot of dispute on how to do this year's hunger games, because for once, the Capitol isn't in charge. Peeta, Haymitch, Annie Cresta, Enobaria, Johanna, Beetee, and I are the only ones left, the only people still alive who know how it feels to go into the arena. With Plutarch as our mentor, we have been working on this final Hunger Games.
We considered assigning the children to a district to vie for the crown, but Beetee said it would set the districts against each other, and right now we need all the help we can get to bind them back together. Besides, despite how much they abhor the games, none of the districts want their final victor to come from the Capitol.
So instead, having been the ones to vote on the games' return, we victors were assigned the task of choosing the tributes, though I'm almost positive that Plutarch may decide to keep that minor detail hidden from the viewers. After all, we wouldn't want to negate the splendor of these final games, which he is sure will be spoken of for years to come. At the reaping, Effie will pretend to reap their names, and the tributes will draw their own teams. They will be numbered one through twelve because we couldn't think of anything else that would make Plutarch happy.
For the success of Plutarch's games, I am to remain the Mockingjay, a symbol of the games instead of the rebellion, only now I'm more someone for the Capitol citizens to blame than a victor of their treasured Hunger Games. Either way, my presence is mandatory, despite my protests, even though I'm officially mad now, just like Annie Cresta. I'm sure nobody wants me back. If anything, my presence will cause a riot because the last time anyone from the Capitol saw me was when I assassinated the wrong president.
That's why Peeta, Haymitch, and I are on the train. I haven't been to the Capitol since my assassination of Coin and then my solitary confinement, and frankly I'm not thrilled to be going back. I have a feeling that my companions are in the same boat as I am. Though they have both gone back to oversee the creation of the games, the visits have been brief. I haven't been invited because I'm still the least stable, the worst case scenario. That's why most of our meeting are over the phone. I'm sure if I sifted through the pile of mail lying on the counter, I would find a very long and expensive phone bill. Haymitch probably has one on his counter too, but he's too drunk to care. Peeta has probably paid for all three of us by now. He's the only one who actually reads his mail.
Peeta shrugs and closes the door behind him as he leaves, taking the light with him. Because he is gone and seems to have left my despair behind, I pull out the book of everyone we know who has died and flip through the pages until the sun is so high in the sky that I can't go on pretending I'm still asleep. I leave my compartment and stumble into the dining room. Haymitch is slumped in a chair and Peeta sags against the back of the couch, exhausted and covered in paint. I think I was right about his lack of effort to lie down because he seems to be fighting sleep.
"Well you're up bright and early." says Haymitch, but I ignore him. I'm in no mood to banter with him.
I can't decide who I'd rather sit farthest from; Haymitch, because he seems drunk, or Peeta, who I still haven't sorted out my feelings for yet, so I take a chair from the table Haymitch sits at and settle in the corner of the room, far enough from both of them. The attendant glances at our arrangement as he offers us toast, but doesn't say anything. He and the rest of the crew are far too used to our eccentricities. Besides, without us, they would likely be digging bodies out of the rubble in eight.
After the war, most Capitol jobs were revoked, because most of them weren't necessary to the rebuilding of the nation. It's another change Paylor implemented. That everyone, not only district people but Capitol ones too, have to help rebuild the nation. She's done well under the conditions. Organizing troops, calming citizens, demolishing Arenas. All except the first, which we will use for this year's games. Besides removing the memorials, resetting all the traps, and restoring the gamemaker's headquarters, the arena is ready for use.
It was largely unchanged and well kept by the Capitol's caretaker, because everyone, it seems, wanted to see the place where the hunger games began. The arena, at least, is something we haven't had much to worry about.
Peeta says something, but I don't catch what it is.
"What?" I ask, but it comes out a little harsher than I meant it.
"I… never mind." Peeta glances at Haymitch and I get the feeling that I've been the talk of the bulk of their conversations recently. Suddenly the distance between myself and the others feels too great to ignore, so I slip out the door without a word. I'm walking quickly, but I can just make out Haymitch tell Peeta that he doesn't think coming to the Capitol was a good idea for me.
This confuses me. I don't know why they are sill protecting me, because the games are over and we've all got much better things to worry about besides how well I'm taking this trip. The only solution I have is that maybe the Mockingjay is more important than Plutarch let on.
I'm too tired to think of anything else and the hallway is beginning to swim before my eyes, but even the idea of sleep is daunting. For the first time in awhile, I wish for Gale and our trips to the woods. Even the ones in thirteen would be better than nothing. But then I remember, things aren't so great between us either.
A small twinge of pain blossoms in my chest and I feel the pain of everything I'm trying to ignore come rushing at me like a wave of ocean water. Prim and her death. The animosity between me and Gale. The impending hunger games. Every death that was, ultimately, my fault. I have the sudden desire to run screaming, anywhere, to get rid of my pain. But I can't do that, so I shut down, just like I always do when my emotions threaten to make an appearance.
The next thing I'm aware of is the ticking of a clock, which reminds me of the arena. This time I really am screaming. But then I stop. The sound cuts off with a choke as the train grinds to a halt. I stand up off the floor and recognize the part of the train where the luggage for our extended stay is kept. Brushing past a rack of what must be Cinna's dresses, I find the source of the ticking.
It's not actually a clock, but some loose clasp on a trunk that must have been swinging against something. The metal fastener, maybe. But now that I've regained my senses, I realize that the sound is nothing like the ticking of a clock. I'm so paranoid now that it takes so little to send me over the edge, which scares me. How am I supposed to get back to normal, or at least somewhere close, if every little thing pulls me back into the insanity?
I have to get out of here, because the darkness is threatening to suffocate me and besides, Haymitch is calling my name, telling me to get out of the train because we are finally here. I clamor off the train, stumble into Peeta, who steadies me, and then we are on our way into the President's Mansion to be made over for the reaping ceremony.
My preps bathe me and remake me, dress me in my Mockingjay suit and before I can blink, I'm on the stage in front of thousands of Capitol citizens. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the other victors. Beetee is standing, but with a cane, and Johanna looks much healthier since I last saw her. Annie is heavy with child, while Enobaria appears particularly bloodthirsty. And of course Peeta and Haymitch, who for once is dressed nicely and looks somewhat sober. It's a big improvement over what I saw an hour ago when it appeared to be taking all of his concentration to walk in a generally straight line to the doors of the mansion.
But what I notice most is the glare of the usually bubbly Capitol crowd. Unlike the enthusiasm they showered me with during my games, all I can feel is bubbling anger. It seems to me that they don't like the games as much when it is their own children going in. But most of them have nothing to worry about anyway, not that they appear to know. Only the important Capitol children are going in, and most of them probably expect it anyway.
Effie Trinket snaps my attention away from the crowd when she clicks out on stage and pronounces, "Happy Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor."
Most of the escorts, like the designers and prep teams, were publicly executed, but since they were closer to the districts, some of them knew when the rebellion began. Some were smart enough to keep their heads down and get out of the Capitol before the collection teams came to take them away. Somehow though, Effie was the only one working for the rebel cause. Plutarch let her announce the tributes this year as a reward, though I doubt she had any role in the events of the actual rebellion whatsoever.
She announces the president and Paylor steps forward. I hadn't noticed her standing there. Paylor makes a speech about what the war has cost, in terms of lives, then proceeds to insist that this is a new era for Panem and that this games signifies a cycle of animosity between the Capitol and the districts coming to a close.
She generally sounds sincere, but I think I can hear a hint of apology in her voice. She doesn't want another Games, no matter who is playing.
Paylor thanks the nation for what is sure to be accomplished, then takes her spot next to Beetee on the end.
The reaping ball is moved onto the stage and Effie trills, "Ladies first!" I realize that's my cue and step forward to take my place next to her. Behind me, I can hear the other victors sitting down.
A miniature reaping ball is placed in my hand. It has only 12 slips of paper in it. I stand stiffly and uncomfortably under the eyes of the crowd, trying to ignore the people pointing and whispering. I'm beginning to think that my insanity was played up during my trial a lot more than was necessary. Or maybe I am that insane and I'm the only person who doesn't realize it yet.
The announcing of the first tribute jerks me out of my reverie then sends me flying back to my first games and the reaping where Prim was chosen and I volunteered to take her place. But then I remember, these kids probably know that they will be chosen. Then I'm back at the reaping of my second game where I stood alone in my pen.
Suddenly, I'm not so sure I made the right decision in reinstating the games. I remember the hopeless feeling I got when Prim was chosen, and the resignation when I was chosen… but then I think of Prim's death and I can't bear to let it go unpunished.
The girl who is chosen mounts the stage. She's small, like Rue, but it's her eyes, exact replicas of her grandfathers, that leave an impression. I immediately know who she is, of course, having been the first to vote her in, but even so, she's not what I expected.
Except for her hair, which is the color of melted honey, she looks like she could have been born in the Seam. Her skin is almost the exact color of mine, and her features match those of nearly everyone I know. She stares at me blankly as she pulls her team from the ball in my hand.
Team eight.
It's ironic that she should be on this team when the corresponding district was the first to rebel, and also the one where the survivors of the first bombs were hit with more. She is one of the surviving children of the war in the Capitol, and here she is, entered into the Hunger Games.
Slowly, the rest of the girls are chosen. They put 12 more slips of paper into the ball in my hand, and then the boys are chosen. Two of them are eighteen, which is older than I am. I distantly hear hysterical crying as a girl is dragged off of the second one. All I can think is that the Hunger Games are destroying lives again.
The reaping ends and I am taken back to the Mansion. I stand in the shower, letting the water run over me for hours, but nobody comes to escort me anywhere. Or maybe they do, but I just never heard them knocking. Against my will, I find myself curled up on the bed. My last thought before I am taken by sleep is that maybe Haymitch and Peeta were right; coming to the Capitol wasn't a very good idea for me after all.