a/n: written for the caesar's palace monthly challenge. a late christmas present for all you perfect people out there.
warning(s): mild mention of rape
:. shadows on the wall .:
|If you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones; cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs|
I: marionette games
A young girl, barely in school, with dark brown hair as delicate as gossamer threads sat on the carpet, threadbare in the middle from the times children had played upon it. Picking up another marionette doll, in addition to the two others in her hand, she turned around, hair bouncing and eyes smiling with the light of the sun.
"Look mommy, it's the Hunger Games!" Johanna squealed excitedly.
"That's great, honey," Her mom replied, setting a dish in the drying rack and then picking up another, while watching her daughter play with marionettes, her fifth birthday present. "Watch as District Seven kills District Two," piped Johanna, with a scary glee in her voice. The golden rays of the sun streaming in from a fragmented window cast shadows upon the wall, making the fake puppet scene seem all too real.
"Johanna dear," her mother crooned, masking away her concern. "Why don't you go outside and play? Your sister is out there, you could play with her."
"Sissy's boring," Johanna whined. "All she does is play tea party dolls with her friends." Mrs. Mason sighed.
"Well, little one, someday you're going to be my brave victor and Sissy will be at home watching you win," she said lovingly, bending down to give Johanna a feather kiss on the nose.
Johanna giggled. "Someday I'll win the Hunger Games and we'll be the famousest people in District Seven."
"Of course," her mother replied, standing up. "And dear, it's 'most famous'. You know that from school, don't you?"
Johanna gave an impish grin. The sight of that expression on a five year old girl would have cracked a smile any face.
Mrs. Mason's lips curled upwards as she watched her daughter dash out the door.
"Daddy daddy!" Johanna screamed, her voice chock full of eagerness. "Teach me how to win the Hunger Games."
"Now now," he laughed, picking her up. "Patience, little grasshopper. You'll learn eventually."
II: training days
A pretty eleven year old with a sharp, angular face, high cheekbones, and dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail stood poised in front of a handmade target.
Whoosh.
Time slowed down as Johanna watched the knife fly through the air, a silvery blur. Her eyes were unwavering, calculating the distance.
Bulls-eye, she prayed silently, please hit bull's eye.
Half a centimeter off.
Frustrated, Johanna stalked over to her handmade target, yanking the knife out of the cardboard and styrofoam. Knives were never her thing. They were far too light, far too sleek. A sword she was fine with, but what Johanna loved most of all was the axe. The weapon seemed to heat up in her hands, and with it, she was invincible. Nothing could come near her and the power that radiated from her hands transferred to the weapon.
"Johanna!" Her mother called. "Time for dinner."
"Coming, Mom," Johanna called back.
Reaching the piece of neon tape, Johanna whirled around, letting the knife fly. The streamlined weapon landed with a thud–a centimeter short of bulls-eye. Biting her lip in vexation, Johanna left the knife embedded in the handmade target she'd made of cardboard and styrofoam bound by entwined ropes and sticks. The knife never hit center.
III: the games
"Johanna Mason!"
A wail arose from the crowd.
"That's my daughter," Mrs. Mason screamed, tears streaming down her face, shoving her way through the assemblage of people. "That's my youngest daughter, you bitch!"
Johanna raised her chin up high, squaring her thin shoulders. As she made her way up to the podium, she turned around, giving her mother the slightest of imperceptible glances.
I'll win.
And then Johanna proceeded to bawl.
–
"I'm Peter." The boy extended his hand to her in an act of goodwill, his eyes kind and pitying. Johanna loathed the look of pity, the look she'd been getting from everyone everywhere.
"Johanna," she replied curtly and thin-lipped, taking his hand in a firm grip without shaking it, and immediately letting go. She, Johanna Mason, wasn't going to be a part of any alliance.
–
Johanna sat in the most obscure corner of the training room she could find, deftly tying knots. She could hear whispers filtering her way.
"That weak little bitch, nobody's going to even bother about her. She'll probably get herself killed from fear the minute we get in the arena."
"Apparently tying knots is a really hard thing," the Career from Two said, too loudly to be unintentional.
Johanna looked down at her rope, suppressing a smile that came unbidden to her lips.
–
"You're kidding, right?" Johanna muttered under her breath as District Seven's stylist dressed her up as a tree. And when the chariots went out in their glitter and glamour, Johanna stared down at her hands, not making contact with a single soul that sat on the lines in their ludicrous clothing and excessive makeup.
–
"You're never going to get any sponsors!" Blight snarled in frustration, slamming his fist onto the table. "Get your ass together and stop being a total wuss. Half the people here are scared shitless. The tributes from Eleven, Twelve, they've got no chance of winning, whatsoever. But they're not wailing like a goddamn baby and staring at their feet."
Johanna looked up, her eyes glittering hard with defiance.
"I know you're my mentor," she said, voice as sharp and cold as an icicle. It was the first show of mastery and cool control Johanna had exhibited the entire time. "But you're not the only one with plans for me. I've got ideas for myself too. I'm not a blithering idiot, you know."
"Fine," Blight managed at last, with barely-contained indignation. "But don't you dare screw up your interview tonight."
–
"Well well, Miss Johanna Mason," Caesar grinned, teeth flashing as the light bounced off his inhumanly white dentures. "You seem to be pretty darn scared. And that's typical, no worries. But do tell, everybody's got a motive. What's your motive to win the games?"
Johanna lifted her chin up high, staring straight into the cameras. Her thin frame assumed a confidence that sent a wave of murmurs through the crowd.
"Because I have a family back home, and I want to return to them."
Aww's and ooh's evaporated from the amass of Capitol citizens.
"Why," Caesar sniffed, "isn't that cute?"
It took every ounce of self control for Johanna not to kick him right then and there.
–
The hardest part about winning the Games was managing to keep enough water in Johanna's body in order to maintain the ability to cry. Every time a cannon went off she screamed, not of acting but of sheer terror. Johanna counted the cannons, and for each one, she took out her knife and made a small nick on her arm, watching as the blood pooled and then dried. Johanna thought back to her marionettes and the shadows on the wall of her home, the way they danced around. It was merry back then, a time of naïveté. Another cannon went off (nineteen) and Johanna covered her ears, squeezing her eyes shut. Another cut appeared on her arm. It would be the last time she screamed at that sound.
The four remaining Careers didn't expect her–a cowardly, stupid baby who would've gotten herself killed without anybody trying–to turn out a ferocious fighter. For the first time since the Reaping, Johanna's axe vibrated in her hands, coursing with power. Cannon (twenty) after cannon (twenty-one) went off, and each time (twenty-two) Johanna didn't scream. Her body carried out the actions as her mind fell into a nightmarish coma. (Twenty-three.)
IV: victory
"You've won the 71st annual Hunger Games."
Johanna hated those words, those dreaded words that felt like sickly honey poured down her throat that she was forced to swallow but couldn't. When she got home, the first thing she did was throw her axe in the woods. Johanna watched it fly, landing neatly in the thick bark. People tried to hand it back to her, claiming the axe to be her specialty, a métier that lead to a District Seven victory. Johanna merely turned her back and shut the door in their faces. The second thing she did was burn her marionette dolls, her treasured fifth birthday present. Johanna watched them flicker in the flames, watched the orange and yellow fingers devour her childhood, turning it into ash. The flames were the Games and the dolls were her.
Every night, Johanna woke up screaming, with the image of dancing shadow figures still clinging to inside of her eyelids.
There's no joy in being a victor.
If only Johanna had listened then. If only she'd known.
–
Johanna and her family moved in to the Victor's Village. Their new house was glamorous, far more inviting than the old half-shack they'd lived in. This house was sparkly, a 'gift' from the Capitol for victors. She hated it with a passion.
–
Johanna was curled up in the fetal position with her two cats, Dusty and Pumpkin, when a sharp knocking sound was heard. Faint murmurs drifted from the front, and a few seconds later Johanna heard footsteps approaching. Her mother opened the door, peering in. Worry was etched in every line of her face.
"Johanna, dear, somebody is here to see you."
"I don't want to talk," Johanna snapped. "I'm sorry," she immediately corrected, filling with guilt at her mother's hurt look. Ever since she'd come back from the Games, Johanna had hurt everybody she touched. It only made it worse that they were all so patient with her.
"Honey, I think you'll have to come for this one," her mother said, voice steady. However, her eyes flitted around nervously, begging for Johanna to listen.
"Fine." Johanna bit her lip, gave her cats a few scratches under the chin, and walked out.
Of all things she'd expected, President Snow in their dining room didn't even make the list.
"I'd like to give you an offer," he said. His voice swirled around in Johanna's head, making her feel dizzy. The scent of roses filled her nostrils. What happened next was a blur; all Johanna remembered was giving him the finger and screaming some insult, then stalking to her room, slamming the door behind her.
A week later, Johanna found them dead. Her mother, her father, her sister Amelia. All gone, with no signs of physical violence.
"It's a pity, isn't it?" a voice came from behind.
"What are you doing here?" Johanna snarled without turning around. Instead, her hand gripped tighter on the knife in her belt.
"I've come to offer my deepest condolences," President Snow replied. "I wouldn't recommend using that knife."
"Shut. Up." Johanna's voice was low; anybody with enough sense and not enough authority would run away in fear.
"I'd like you to know they were poisoned. Nobody attacked them. It was merely a bad choice of herb for lunch. While you were away for lunch, they ate a poisonous herb."
Johanna's grip tightened, and she bit down hard on her lip. She was rarely with her family for lunch.
"You utter dickhead," she hissed. "Get out."
"I am sorry, Johanna Mason. But I must admit, I would have much preferred you accepted the offer."
Without a word, Johanna brushed past the president of Panem and walked out, slamming the door shut. She didn't look back.
V: quarter quell
"Damn you," Johanna snarled at the image of Snow on her television, leaping up. "I hope you rot in the deepest depths of hell."
"Our female tribute is…Johanna Mason!" This time there was no screaming, no crying. Whispers fluttered through the crowd as Johanna walked up on stage with her chin held high.
This time it was different. This time there was an alliance, a plan that half the tributes were in on. The wings of revolution were almost strong enough to fly. And the Girl on Fire, the Mockingjay, she was the head of it all.
–
"They can't hurt me. I'm not like the rest of you. There's no one left I love."
Johanna clenched her fist at the sight of Katniss Everdeen's face. She wasn't corrupted by the Capitol yet, like the other tributes. Nor was Peeta Mellark. Images flashed through Johanna's mind, of the 71st Hunger Games, of President Snow and her family rotting at the dinner table.
"You're lucky, Girl on Fire," Johanna breathed, turning away so Katniss couldn't see or hear. "One day, you'll be like the rest of us too."
VI: torment
"I'm not revealing anything," Johanna hissed through gritted teeth. She winced and bit down on her lip until she tasted blood as another lash of the whip came down on her bare back. They may have stripped her of her clothes, but at least her pride was still intact.
–
Johanna laughed, a sound devoid of all emotion but bitterness.
"What can you do to hurt me?" she challenged. "What can you do to me that hasn't been done before?"
The man laughed back, a sadistic laugh that chilled the bone. "You'll see, my darling pet."
Johanna should've known what was coming when he chained her to the ground and his lips crashed onto hers.
–
You killed them. All those tributes. That was you who took up the axe and chopped their heads off, one by one.
Johanna thrashed around in her sleep, creating an entanglement of sheets that wove tighter and tighter. Her lips formed words of denial as she whispered aloud into the almost-darkness.
The death of your family is your fault. Remember your mother, and how she would hold you, caress your hair and comfort you when you cried? Remember your father, who gave you knowledge about the great outdoors and let you sit on his shoulders, even after a day of hard work at the lumber factory? Remember your sister, darling sweet Amelia, who couldn't say 'boo' to a fly? You killed them too, by not accepting the offer.
"No." Johanna's voice was louder, resonating in the empty room with a sliver of light peeking through the cracks of the door. She was wrapped up in a tight cocoon of grass-colored bedsheets, suffocating, unable to breathe.
You killed them all.
"No!" Johanna screamed. Her eyes flew open, only to see dark shadows on the wall, reenacting the Games in an all too jovial manner.
The nightmares never go away.