~white lips, pale face; breathing in snowflakes~
She knocked on the door, resentment and anger driving her fist. She'd won the first battle only to lose the war, and now she was nothing more than a marionette. Moving because they told her to and playing dirty games because that was the price for her survival.
It was the Capitol's way of reminding them all that there was no true Victor.
A middle-aged man opened the hotel door, his dark eyes looking her up and down before letting her in. The stench of cigarette smoke made her gag as she stepped over the threshold. The wooden door slammed shut behind her back, the lock clicking into place with such finality that it made her feel like a trapped deer. She shrugged off her coat and slipped off her sky-high shoes, leaving them by the doorway for a quick escape later. And even though she'd done this dozens of times before, the sight of that man reclining on his bed drilled a hole into the pit of her stomach.
She was angry, she was fuming.
"Come here," he drawled, his shirt half off and his leg dangling over the bedside.
She stood her ground, rooted to the floor by the coat stand, her arms wrapped around herself. I'll leave this time, I'll just give him a good long slap and walk out the door. But she told herself that all the times before, and she had never had the guts to do it. She hadn't refused a man since that first night all those years ago, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday. She hadn't refused a man since the night her entire family was murdered.
"Are you going to come any time soon, Johanna?" her clientele was impatient, the toes of his left foot tapping unconsciously.
She took a step towards him, desperately blanking her mind. He pulled her onto the bed, his pale blue fingers ripping the scant clothes off her body. His fingers raked through her short hair, melting the pure snowflakes that adorned it from her journey here. She closed her eyes and pretended she was elsewhere just so she could stand him doing it, all of those shameful things that only married people should do to each other. Perhaps he had the rights, for her was a Capitolist and a married man and the person who bought a piece of her. But she was twenty-one and powerless and unloved, and she resented her situation.
"Tell me you love me," he whispered in her ear, his hands roaming her body like he owned her.
She watched from up above as her body struggled to string together coherent thoughts. All the things that she wanted to say were impossible, as was all the things she wanted to do. She wanted to hurt him like her hurt her, to kick and punch and take satisfaction in making this pig submit to her, but she couldn't and she'll never be able to.
So she muttered incoherent words, and he ate up the lies that she dished out.
She told him 'love' when the only word on her mind was 'hate'.
But after it all, when they lay spent in bed, she wondered what the difference was between those two. In her mind, 'love' and 'hate' have become one and the same, blurred concepts that could not exist individually.
The Capitol had made her that way.
~the worst things in life comes free to us~
She ran for the nearest pot plant, throwing up her entire breakfast into the artificial roots. It earned her several withering looks from her fellow Victors, but the Capitolists walked by as though nothing was wrong. Of course they would walk by like that; she'd been to too many of their parties whereby food was a commodity and vomiting was considered a necessity. Their attitudes sickened her, but not as much as this intangible knot in her stomach. She'd never been sick in her life.
She rinsed her mouth out in the bathroom, gurgling litres of water until she could no longer taste the acidic residue. This same thing had happened for the past week now, the vomiting episodes and the sickening feeling within her. She told herself that nothing was wrong, that this was just that once-off flu that everybody must catch some time in their lives. But deep down inside she had other suspicions, suspicions that she'd rather die before she admit them to herself.
But when the sickness continued for the third consecutive week, she bit her lips and bought one of those boxes from the chemist. Sitting down in her little cubicle, she unwrapped the dreaded packet and followed the instructions on the box. A blearing light stared back at her, accompanied by two little lines that crucified her heart.
Four weeks gone, and another soul was growing within her.
She found herself on the cubicle floor, her arms wrapped around her knees as the stick lay abandoned a hand span away. The whole world had blurred into a great big mess.
It wasn't her fault, but she was paying the price.
~because we're just under the upper hand; go mad for a couple grams~
"Get rid of it," he told her after she stormed in angrily, demanding the earth and the sky.
She stood shell-shocked, looking at this dark-eyed man who had paid to touch her. It was his child, because she only did this shameful thing when she must, and he was the only one who was insistent enough.
"What?" she replied dumbly, too surprised and hurt to battle him with her usual sharp words.
"Get rid of it," he repeated, sliding a handful of banknotes over to her, "Here, take this and go to that centre down west. Whatever you do, don't let my wife know."
She picked up the banknotes and threw it in his face, screaming at him for being so heartless. He was the one who forced her here, he was the one who initiated it all, and yet he was acting as though it's her fault. Don't let his wife know? Why, his wife must be one stupid woman to not notice his absences.
"Do it for my kids, Johanna," he spoke to her, his words soft and persuasive as he tried to get her to calm down, "You wouldn't want them to be the laughing stock at school, would you?"
She was shaking with anger and humiliation, and before she could even think about it her handprint was blooming on his cheek. What about this child? Hell, I didn't want him either but now that he's here I'm not about to give up on him!
'Get rid of it,' he said. So this child was not good enough to even deserve a human pronoun. This child that was hers. This child that was half Capitol and half District, apparently a shameful mix.
She slammed the door behind her and stomped home, thankful that she did not have her axe in hand because then Mr Capitol wouldn't be breathing right now. She wanted to keep the child, even though his father disgusted her. Johanna Mason was not one to give up on other people, because she knew what it felt like to have everyone giving up on her.
But they didn't let her have it her way, even though she was paying the price. Mr Capitol was an important political figure within parliament, and so his every desire was satisfied.
Inside the operation theatre, they strapped her hands and feet to the anaesthetic table. She screamed and yelled, protesting until the very end. They gave her all the drugs they had, hell bent on knocking her out, but she hung on until she couldn't anymore.
She was a fighter decapitated, and all she was capable of now were silent pleas.
~it's too cold outside; for angels to fly~
The light slanted through the leaves, dappling his skin and hers with an ethereal glow. Their heads were bent, their bodies admitting defeat whilst their mind ran in circles to deny it. She spoke, slowly, the words weighing her down as though they were lead balloons. He reached for her hand as she stopped speaking, encasing her pale white fingers within his.
They were broken soldiers, now broken toys. Easily bought and easily discarded. Him with his charming demeanour, his emerald green eyes and his tousled bronze hair. Her with her attitude and her sharp edges, with the fire within her that made the task of taming her so much more enjoyable for the Capitol men.
But they only wanted her for the chase. She laid her palm flat on her stomach, feeling acutely the absence of the tiniest bulge. She didn't want the child, but once she found out she had it she didn't want to give it up. Johanna knew how it felt to be given up, and she had vowed to never do the same to another being.
But they forced her, tugging at her strings and controlling her like a marionette. And she had no choice but to give in.
Under the dappled sunlight, she felt as though she had the darkest cloak around her shoulders. A cloak of guilt and hatred.