It's been five years, and still Johanna's entire body tenses up at even the slightest darkening of the skies overhead, her skin growing cold and clammy at the first hint of thunder rumbling overhead. Five years and she still finds excuses to remain inside, supposedly too busy or too disgusted by the weather to wish to go out in it for any reason other than absolute necessity. Five years, and she still shivers at the thought of her body becoming fully submerged in water, or even more than slightly damp, one body part at one time. Five years and she cannot take more than a quick sponge bath, only when absolutely certain she is alone and there is nothing electric anywhere within reach. Five years, and even a drop of unexpected liquid on her skin still causes her to pivot sharply on her heels, ready to strike out with great violence against whatever it was she perceived to be near causing her harm.
Johanna Mason had made a name for herself, both in the arena and as a victor over time, as tough and uncaring, unaffected by emotions other than triumph and rage. She might be among the youngest and the smallest of the female victors, with the exception, of course, of Katniss Everdeen, but she was no target, no fluke, and certainly no coward, and although she may have presented herself as such at the start, this had been no more than a calculated and necessary façade, in order to secure her own victory. She could take down a person twice her weight and over a foot taller than her stature without flinching or feeling anything but a rush of adrenaline, without having any regret after or any guilt or hesitation during. She was no Career by district or birth, but she was a victor by sheer effort and will, and she made this known to any who for one second doubted it by her appearance alone.
Why then did she allow days of sweat and grime to collect on her skin before she would even relent in wetting a cloth to cleanse herself? Why did she keep her hair closely shaven rather than keep it long enough where frequent washing might be expected? And why did she lie awake, on those nights when rain did come, and shudder under her sheets, eyes open wide as memories of white hot pain, the smell of her own burning skin, flared through her body like visual scars, searing her brain rather than her flesh?
Johanna was not sure, after all these years, which were preferable to her- the nights of waking memories, in which even a modicum of rest could not be possible, or the nights where vivid nightmares interrupted her dreams until she could no longer be certain of her present reality upon awakening. What she was sure of was that no matter how many years might pass, or how true it seemed that the Hunger Games were over, never to resume anywhere outside her own memories, she would never be able to genuinely be happy, to even fully believe that her safety and her survival could be remotely guaranteed.
She could not call herself alone, truly, to the extent she once had. In the years before she had been the sole female at the district 7 victor's village, and she had kept to herself as much as possible. Johanna had thought it not only wise for the sake of preventing herself from forming emotional ties, but also to protect herself from any unwanted attentions of proven to be brutal and now lonely and unstable men. The last thing she needed was to have to bite off some half crazy man's dick to keep herself from pregnancy, a horror she would rather die in the arena than undergo in her lifetime. So she had kept the other victors at bay with snarling words and watchful gaze, never letting them physically or emotionally close. Even had she been certain they would never harm her, it would nevertheless have been a risk she could not take, harmful potentially to them even more so than to her.
It was best to have no one and nothing that could be used against you by the Capital, to live a life without ties to any people of any kind. The death of both parents, three brothers, and her childhood best friend, one after another, in a series of trumped up charges and brutal executions in the wake of her victory, had taught Johanna that much. One could not live as one of the Capital's citizens, however distantly and reluctantly this might be, and expect to escape its brutal outlook of vengeance.
And yet five years later, as much as she might dislike to admit it even to herself, Johanna cannot deny that she is not quite the overly watchful and aggressive loner she had made herself, before. For one thing, she does not remain within the victor's village of her own district; at any given time that she is restless, she travels to any district that she feels like visiting and generally is accepted without comment or questioning, and is in fact sometimes greeted with a friendly word and a smile. Johanna does not have family, and she would not classify those she knows and more regularly associates with to be friends, but she cannot deny that in some regard, she has ties.
She tolerates Haymitch; in fact, he sometimes makes her laugh, whether intentionally or not, without any hint of sarcasm in its tone. Although Effie irritates her without fail every time she sees her, she also gives her a target for mocking which never fails to slightly refocus or lighten her mood. Beetee is not someone she would say she enjoys talking with or being around, but she has to begrudgingly respect him for his continued survival, for his obvious intelligence and cunning, even if she cannot quite shake her tense conviction that he will one day accidentally kill or possibly her with his electricity fascination. Even Annie Cresta, whom Johanna had never felt more than exasperation and reluctant, limited pity towards before, has somehow, between her own small efforts and the sunny, innocent nature of her and Finnick's son, managed to find a place in Johanna's life and self-acknowledgement. To some extent, perhaps more for Finnick than due to her own merits, Annie too has found a small niche in Johanna's present existence, has formed a tie along with the others.
And then there are the Firebugs, as Johanna calls them in her head if not to their face, Katniss the former Mockingjay and her boy toy, Peeta. Johanna has known them for the least amount of time, has cursed their name and existence on numerous occasions, and at times has been sorry for fighting so hard for them to survive at all. And yet the ties they have managed to attach to her are perhaps the strongest yet. Five years and sometimes Johanna remembers all too easily Peeta's cries beside her cell in the capital, a sound that had chilled even her near icy heart with understanding of his pain. You could not hear a person in that state of agony, and have them hear you make near identical shrieks yourself, knowing you were intended to protect him, to keep him from the very anguish he is presently experiencing, and not come out from the experience with a tie to him, a feeling of reluctant and strained responsibility and respect that could not be entirely broken.
That optimistic, pure, and lovestricken young boy that Peeta had been had died a slow death in those long hours and days of torment, and Johanna had been the only witness to his passing. However much she had scoffed and rolled her eyes at him before on the Capital screen or even in person, however disgusted or even jealous she had felt of his affection and concern for Katniss Everdeen before, she could begrudge him nothing after. She more than anyone knew that now, if not before, Peeta had earned his place among the victors of the Hunger Games.
And then there was Katniss. She too had somehow grown on and perhaps into Johanna. Her bravery and her brashness, her determination and yet somehow her vulnerability, the succession of losses she had undergone that Johanna too could relate to all too well, had become points she could relate to, even if neither woman ever spoke a word to acknowledge the parallel. Katniss, like Johanna, did not flatter others or frequently seek them out, did not even pretend to be friendly or kind or interested in much else than her own interests and survival. And it was exactly this that Johanna could respect and understand, exactly this that eventually made her irritation and resentment of her become tolerance over time, even a strange sort of caring. Perhaps a year had passed before Johanna could acknowledge that she now cared about Katniss's survival not just for the sake of her own, but for Katniss herself.
The firebugs had not given her freedom; nothing short of death, perhaps, could ever truly give her that. But their existence and their actions, and even their symbolism, more than the two themselves, had given her some hope and limited rights, had shook up most of her world as she knew it, and Johanna had to give them credit for that.
She doesn't love them, any of them. Even now she can't afford that, or perhaps, she is so worn down from merely surviving that she no longer remembers how to. But she does care, and maybe that's close to the same thing, at least in this new world.
She couldn't call herself happy now. But she had food and she had others, when she wanted them, and she could reasonably be secure that she would not be murdered- or if she was, that justice would be served in her favor. Some days she was frightened and angry, unwilling to step outside or unable to lift her thoughts from the darkness and gore that had so long been her daily life. But sometimes when Johanna was with the others, she could smile and tease, and laugh with genuine humor rather than aggression or sarcasm. Sometimes she could almost believe that it was no longer her rage that drove her, but rather a faint and hesitant hope that some day, there will be greater meaning and feeling in her life. And some days, she can almost say with confidence that this day has arrived.
End