"Tell us what you know," the sultry, robotic voice says through the intercom. The metal gag releases itself from my mouth. My hands form fists underneath the metal bands confining my wrists to the chair. I notice that the white walls are remarkably sterile for how much blood I've lost in here. A hard look settles on my face as I stare at the lilac-haired woman behind the viewing window. "Tell us," her voice repeats, "What you know."
I stare her down, unblinking, and she stares at me, too. Her hand moves slowly to the silver lever on the control system, long, black nails carefully sliding it up. The sound of the opening metal door startles me, and I whip my head around to see white-clothed Capitol guards ushering in two terrified small children wearing hospital gowns that look about eleven years old. At first I don't recognize the boy and girl.
The clicking of high heels echoes off of the hollow walls and in walks the slim woman with the lilac-colored bob who was behind the controls. She struts toward me and lays her pale hand on my head, fingernails digging into my scalp. "I'll say this again," she says, voice dropping an octave. "Tell us what you know about the Rebellion."
I look up at her, hatred in my eyes and noting the lack of emotion in hers. "Fuck. You," I spit in her face as a deep laugh bellows from my chest.
I almost think I see a slight hint of anger flash across her face, but she regains her composure, wipes her face, and releases my head, gesturing to the guards. The guards bring the two children over to me, and then I see their eyes; the same eyes as my own.
"Olive! Vernon!" I exclaim, attempting to break free of the restraints around my wrists and ankles so that I can help my twin siblings. The guards raise their guns and point them at my brother and sister. "No!" I cry, turning to the woman. "Please! Don't hurt them! I'll…I'll talk! I promise."
Vernon starts to whimper. "Bree," Olive says sternly, her curly dark brown hair swishing as she moves toward me. She's always been the more mature twin; she's basically like my twin, though I am four-and-a-half years older than her. "Do what's right." She grabs my hand and squeezes her small fingers into my palm, a gesture used in District 1 when attempting to comfort somebody. Marvel did it to me the day we went into the Games.
"Not if it hurts you," I whisper-scream. "I'm not going to let them hurt you or Vern."
Olive closes her eyes tightly for a second, but then opens them and whispers. "Do what's right for Panem. Just like Katniss is the Mockingjay, you're the Phoenix. You're going to rise from the ashes of this, Bree. You're going to be the one who lived through both the Games and torture. I believe in you." Her tone is heartbreaking, because she knows she will die if I do what's right. But I can't bring myself to allow my siblings, who I've tried so hard to keep alive, to die.
"That's enough!" the woman scolds, and the guards seize my brother and sister. Then, she walks over to me, and I notice her nametag. Dr. Lilica Refsher. Dr. Refsher slaps my face with all her might, and I feel the welt forming on my cheek. "Talk!" she exclaims.
I look at Vernon, and then at Olive. They both nod knowingly to me and touch three fingers to their lips, stretching those fingers out towards me. The District 12 gesture that means "goodbye" to someone you love. I start to sob and look up at Dr. Refsher. "NO."
The shots bang so loudly that I jump in fear that I, myself, was the victim. When the pools of blood well at my feet, though, I know it's not me. I force myself to look at the lifeless and mangled bodies of what I once knew as my siblings.
The sobs rack through my body uncontrollably as I cry out, "You're a terrible, terrible woman! How can you kill children? They were eleven years old, for God's sake! God have wrath upon you and the entire Capitol!" The guards carry the bodies away and Dr. Refsher strolls back behind the controls.
Her voice trills triumphantly over the intercom, sounding significantly less robotic than before. "We'll have to try alternate methods."
Between anguished sobs, I scream, "What else could you do to me? You took away what I loved the most!"
Her eyes narrow from behind the window as she presses a small button, which makes two, sterile-looking syringes with long needles inject something into my arms. She smirks evilly. "Have you ever heard of tracker-jacker venom?"