Collide
Chapter One: Smug
POV: Annie Cresta
"In my feild of paper flowers
Of candy clouds of lullaby
I lie inside myself for hours
And watch my purple sky fly over me"
- Imaginary by Evanescence
Here they call me Cresta. The only ones who call me Annie are the female "nurses" who try to lull me into a false sense of security. They casually ask about Finnick's whereabouts as they jab different needles into my arms, restoring minimal nourishment into my abused body. I almost roll my eyes. I'm not the sanest of people by far, but I'm not loony enough that I don't realize that they're trying to coax rebel information from me.
Well, I don't have any, I think, so there.
It's better if they think you're insane, I realize. They (the nurses) feel more pity toward you than contempt. Today I ramble on endlessly about a mermaid I saw by the docks once named Venetia with purple hair and a silver tail, making sure to randomly insert loud peals of laughter.
"You spent quite some time with Mr. Odair, correct?" a lady with caramel-colored skin and dark green hair asks in a sweet voice.
"Finnick was there too," I giggle, "he and Venetia waltzed together in the coral. She told us she'd bring us back to her palace-" my eyes widen for effect- "her palace made of bubbles. Can you believe that? Bubbles! Of every color and every shape. Some were shimmery, she said. But we never got the chance to go there. Can you believe that!" I smile widely like a little girl, and the nurse pats my head. A stocky man with turquoise skin and gold eyes takes notes in the corner, thinking maybe my story was some secret underground rebel code. I'll have to think of one about otters who wear dresses next. Really throw them off guard.
They dump me back into my cell soon enough and I quiet down. Here isn't so bad either. Here's just quiet and -so- boring, so I daydream in this place. Sometimes Finnick pops up, but often it hurts too much to think about him, so I mostly think about the lighthouse my father owned when he was still alive, and I imagine walking down a strip of perfect white-sand beach. I even paint the mermaid Venetia in my mind this time, wishing I had some paper and pencils to draw her. After I really get myself started with all this fantasy, sometimes I can even bring myself to forget about the drab gray cement that's so imprisoning and so never-ending at the same time.
The only room I ever want to get out of so badly is the room where they try to get things out of me without being nice. Here screaming won't help. They consider me to have a child's mind here, so they tell me it's called the Storytelling room. Something tells me they don't want to hear about bubble palaces here.
Oh, I thrashed at first. I cried and screamed and kicked things and begged. It doesn't help. They assume you have information, and they don't let up. It only gets worse. So I've learned to keep my mouth clamped absolutely shut and let my mind drag me in and out of conciousness, out of the present, of out reality, to the games to my father's lighthouse and back to the arena and Venetia's bubble palace and the hospital and to the victor's village and all the way back to this very room.
They have a mirror on the ceiling here so I can watch what's being done to me and a neck brace so I can't turn away. They have screams recorded. My mother's, my brother's, my own, Finnick's, my friends'... They play them over and over along with the sounds of axes hitting god-knows-what and gunshots and everything else horrible and bloody that they can think of. I could close my eyes, I suppose, as a deep, searing, unknown pain travels down my spine, but I don't. I stare myself straight in the eyes, looking for any sign of weakness or helplessness. I feel almost smug when I don't find any.
"Where is Finnick Odair?" a man grunts, and I feel a stab of pain in my ankle. I stare at my own mouth when I speak the only words I ever speak in this room: "I don't know."
Because I don't, can't they see that?