This is not a dream. Johanna's thoughts are right. This is a nightmare. The air moves fast like a torrent, lifting her dark hair in a halo formation. It seems like a dream, dark clouds, violent wind, endless, endless sea. But it isn't a dream. They're on an island of hard marble with a cornucopia of glass. To Johanna it's beautiful, though a twisted kind. Like the beauty of hell.
She's in a masquerade ball and her mask is a little girl. She's fifteen but for the past week the world's seen her as eleven. Ha, what a joke. She's more mature than anyone here, she's sure of that. Johanna's always loved the idea of being young again, but now that she's here it's like hell, the kind with no beauty, a raging inferno you only deserve if you're a sadist through and through. Johanna Mason is, of course, not a sadist but yet she's here. It's funny how those things work.
She thinks too long. She's watching the way the sun hits the glass of the cornucopia when the gong sounds. Though it catches her off-guard, she's sprinting towards the center like everyone else. Her leather boots are rubber-soled, easily pounding into the marble. Her dark hair flies behind her and the only thing in her mind is Run. The steady pound of feet is keeping her sane. The boy sprinting beside her on the marble is an older, taller District Two brute. His dark eyes are angry. They glance her way.
A hand lands on her shoulder, clutching the tight white fabric. It pulls her close to its owner then shoves her away, leaving Johanna to collapse on the marble. By the time she hits the ground, only one thought registers in her mind: This is a fucking nightmare. She doesn't think she can get up. She lays on the ground, hands stinging. She thinks she's twisted her ankle but she doesn't know anything.
xx
The Victory Tour is supposed to be a grand ordeal of solid-gold plaques, beautiful dresses, and praise, but for her, Johanna's left curled under a blanket with the snow raining down around her. She told them no. She knows that the ones who submit, the ones who put on the pretty dresses and the ones who smile when they're supposed to, are the ones who are taken advantage of.
Finnick submitted. Annie did the second she won, a fearful, not-so-innocent girl of only fifteen. Johanna refused to. They took her fancy house away and there she was, when she was supposed to be on the Victory Tour, huddling in an alleyway draped in a blanket. She supposes they'll just show the crowd Finnick. They never tire of his tan, muscly body or his charming aura. They'd easily throw away The Betrayer, the small, pale girl who refused to smile. Annie was truly beautiful, a real popular girl among Capitol men and even the ones from Four.
Enobaria was among the ones who stayed strong, yet she'd had a victory tour. She didn't smile or wear the fancy dresses. She wore the same modest, brown dress all week and never spoke. She wore a grimace when posing for pictures. They didn't have her rot in an alleyway, though. She still has her fancy brick house on Victors' Boulevard.
Johanna pushed the blanket off of her. The speckling of snow made her skin damp. Everything stuck to her; her clothes, her hair, even the dirt on the ground. "I am still a person. I am still a dignified member of this society. I am still a fighter," she whispered, her voice hoarse and faint. She's barely strong enough to get up, but she pulls herself to her feet and wraps the blanket around her. It hasn't snowed much yet but it's freezing. Icicles hang from the roofs around her and she runs a finger across them as she walks.
"Honey, Miss Mason, you need to go get on the train! The Victory Tour is today! Your victory tour!" Mrs. Heller calls out from her front steps. She's sitting on a sheet of plastic plucking a chicken.
"I'm not going," Johanna responds bitterly. "You know what happens when the Victors go on the tour. I won't be a slave to the Capitol, I won't." Mrs. Heller's abhorred look gives Johanna the sign that she should continue on her way. She trudges through the snow down Geyser Street, across Morrison Lane to her home.
Bang, bang, bang. She knocks hard. No one answers, so she lets herself in. It used to be her house after all. "Mother? Father? Arlene?" she shouts. Her voice echoes through the walls like a bullet in a room of steel.
She drops her blanket and slides out of her boots. "Mother. . .Father? Arlene!" The house is empty, but there are four pairs of shoes by the door. She steps into the small, dark kitchen. A lightbulb is shattered on the ground. Everything seems normal. The cupboards have meager amounts of food, Arlene's test is graded with a B, everything except the doorway. In the doorway out to the hall, a note on white paper is nailed to the doorframe.
It reads,
Dear Miss Johanna Mason,
We knew you would look here. Your old home, of course, is the place you would go to first when in need, and you certainly are in need, are you not? After your revolting and uncalled-for "escape" from the victory tour and subsequent prostitution, the Capitol decided that a punishment was in order.
There's blood on the doorknob, blood on your sister's bed, have you not checked? Such an intelligent girl, Miss Mason, I am sure you know what this means.
Never forget, Miss Mason, that we own you. You are a slave to the Capitol and its people. When you won, it was like signing the contract for your indenture. And surely you know what this means.
President Snow.
It's marked with a white rose emblem at the bottom. Johanna runs to the door to check. There's blood. On her sister's made bed, the white sheets are stained red. He wouldn't dare, but he did. President Snow is not the wise old man he seems. He's a devil through and through. Johanna can't put a stop to this, but she can never give in. She never will, never. Ever.
Johanna just supposes that this cold winter makes hearts fragile, but her heart? It's not glasseous, not fragile. Snow's is colder than ice, colder than snow. But that's all a part of the illusion. Glasseous hearts, icey hearts, they don't exist. Discontentment is the one thing Johanna Mason will never understand.
For Sam/MissingMommy as part of the GGE14.