Johanna

Goddamn it, I hate this place. Three years later and they're still in those black uniforms mourning her. And I thought the gray was bad. Most of the time I just want to shake them, tell them to snap out of it, and remind them of the favor that Little Miss Everdeen did for them. But no-they're still the mindless robots with fluorescent ink stamped on their arms, eating the stupidest-sized portions the world has seen.

I want to leave. I've wanted to leave since, they carted me back here after Coin fell-literally-but the doctors keep telling me I'm unstable. That if let out I'd turn to dicing up my wrists and worse. Either they're blind or just want to keep me captive here, because no one mentions the growing number of scars over my body, of the yellow stains and extreme sagging of my skin, of my caved-in appearance. My guess is they're just blind. These people only see what they want to see, only pay attention to the most random, unimportant details out there.

And I don't even know why I'm here. The last I remember of being in the Capitol was laughing with such glee and enjoyment as Mockingjay shot Coin-they tell me I was nearly killed in the stampede towards Snow that followed and was brought back to 13. Apparently I needed the "familiarity" of my old quarters and psychologists. Crazy shit, all of it. Nothing's the same here. And yet everything is. I'm not even being treated except to be kept alive. If I wasn't so out of it all the time, maybe I'd be catching on to some insane conspiracy theory 13 has going. It wouldn't surprise me. But I'm always either plagued by nightmares, both asleep and awake, drugged up on morphling or some other substance, or nearly comatose.

Maybe I wouldn't be well or happy in 7, but how well or happy can I be holed up in a white, completely sterilized room here in 13 forever? This has got to be illegal. It's like I'm a prisoner again. Next thing I know they'll be torturing me and screaming for information I didn't even know existed. They already do in my dreams.

The only escape is the morphling. They stopped giving it to me on a regular basis years ago, but I find ways to knock myself out of consciousness-bang my head against a wall, scrape my arms and legs along my much too dull bed frame in order to bleed as much as possible, I've even broken my ankle on purpose before. When I come back to consciousness, I find a small set of pills on the table next to me, or if I'm lucky, an IV bag and tube plugged into me. Only enough for a couple of hours, though, and then I'll be lucky if I get more in a week. Looking forward to the break from the nightmares of semi-sanity it brings me, the drug is all that keeps me from knocking myself off for good. The unknown of death scares me too much, I admit it, but the reliability of the morphling gives me something to look forward to.

And I hate it. I hate being dependant on anything at all. I want them to let me go, to let me go to the familiarity of 7 where I can get involved with the black market of drugs and have morphling on hand whenever I need it-which will presumably be always.

There are no familiar faces here, only the doctors. And even then they're always shuffling them around so I never see one for longer than a month. What I'd give to see anyone from the rebellion or before again, even dumb old Mockingjay. I wonder where she is often. If she's even alive. I assume she is, because I know I would have heard if she'd died. I doubt her and Peeta are morphling addicts. And of course they're together, probably surviving day to day back in the ruins of 12. There's no where else they'd go, and I know they couldn't get along without each other. Star-crossed lovers as always, of course. Even if he has homicidal rampages sometimes, which I doubt. His love for her was so sickeningly strong that even mutt venom couldn't have kept it down for long.

Then my thoughts occasionally drift to Annie. She's the only person, besides Peeta, that I can actually wish happiness on. It's hard not to, after hearing their screams echo around the Capitol's torture chambers, mingling with my own, for those months that I did.

No, none of them have turned to the morphling. Only me. The weak one, the one who can't even wash herself without being completely drugged out of it and scrubbed by foreign hands. I disgust myself, both physically and mentally.

And then, even though I clearly can't survive on my own, I know that I need to get out of here. If I have to die, I'd rather it be in the woods of 7 than strapped to a flat, metallic bed of 13. A place that isn't even supposed to exist.

This story will include most surviving main rebels and will follow HG canon to the absolute best of my ability. Obviously, this chapter was just a prologue and they will hopefully get longer.

Also, if you wouldn't mind, I would absolutely love to know how you all think I did regarding the writing style of this...is it too forced? I'm looking to capture Johanna in the style that I think SC would and please let me know if it seems too contrived. :)

And, of course, I do not own the Hunger Games in any way, shape or form.