CHAPTER TWO: AUTOMATIC RESPONSES
~ Enobaria Romula Verus, Age Twenty, Victor of the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games ~
"You heard it, right?" The live wraith at my door is as pale as the dead one who haunts me. "59:02?" She nods. "Please come in, and shut the door behind you." She does, and both of us are engulfed in utter blackness. There's no moon tonight. It's just as well, because one never can tell what Panem's security devices can see. I've searched my opulent house from top to bottom, aiming to find them, but I haven't yet. That doesn't mean they're not here. Even in the Victors' Village, the Capitol's eyes are watching you.
"As you might have guessed, I'm 62," I tell her, "and you're 64. Welcome." I slowly reach out my hand so as not to startle Vera, and she shakes it. "I don't want to turn on too many overhead fixtures, because -"
"A flashlight, then," she murmurs. "Or a candle, if you have one." It's a relief to know that, as one victor to another, I don't have to spell out everything to her. Maybe, after what happened in her final interview with Caesar Flickerman, she's even more paranoid than I am. If so, good, because that'll help both of us.
With only the cold glare of the Village streetlights shining into the kitchen to guide us, we work our way there. After I reach for the flashlight dangling from a plastic hook on my refrigerator, I change my mind and open a cabinet next to it. That's where I keep emergency supplies: a first-aid kit, bottles of water, pain medicine, matches and candles. I take one of the long white tapers, slide it into a metal holder, and light it after glancing once more out the window. "The coast is clear. I think my room will be the safest place."
Vera nods, her wan face illuminated in the candlelight, and then remembers something: "Wait. If I heard what I think I did, and investigate it further, it might help if I had a piece of paper and a pen to take notes."
"Over there." I gesture to the kitchen table with the candle, and she gathers these up quickly. "Follow me." Even though she's not a Career, my companion certainly knows how to follow orders without asking too many questions. Is this only a result of the Hunger Games, and having to make split-second decisions? I dare not even think this until we get to my private quarters. Once we do, I code-lock the door: 0-5-2-0. The 05 is how many people I killed in my Games, and the 20 is my present age. We both sit down on my bed.
Vera lets out a big whoof of a breath and begins. "Thanks for -"
"You're welcome. I'm taking these precautions not only for your sake, but mine." After putting the candle on the nearby nightstand, I continue, "We both know that everybody thinks you're crazy, but what you may not know is why they're watching me like a hawk. See these canines?" I lean close to the flame and smile. "They're gold-plated, on special request from President Achlon, to symbolize my triumph. That means I have the strongest teeth of any victor in this Village, but no one wants me to use them except for eating."
"Would you?" she asks after a very long pause. I don't answer, because I'm not ready to yet. "Why would President Achlon want you to do that? It's…" She doesn't say insane, but I suspect that she wants to.
"I don't know, but his grandmother, for whom he was named, also led Panem. Her last name was Achlys, and she was -" I shudder and shake my head. "Anyway, if we're quiet, we'll be able to talk without alerting anyone or anything." I stare Vera in the eye. She doesn't flinch. "I called you here because you heard."
"The scream," she whispers, "at fifty-nine minutes and two seconds into your final Games. It was Astrid."
"Correct. I'm glad you watched them." After entwining my fingers together so hard that they hurt, I go on. "The thing is, you and I both know that Astrid didn't scream until I - well. Still, the sound is there before that moment, and only we can hear it. That means Miss Burya is either a hallucination, as some of our fellow Hunger Games winners accuse you of having, or something else." I paused. "A ghost, is what I mean."
"I've thought the same thing. Maybe my psychiatrist and psychologist are right, and I should be locked up. However, what do Capitolites think their gilded cage is that they've built me - a hotel?" Vera smiles thinly.
"For the sake of argument, let's say we're right on the other count, and Astrid is a ghost. Other than your ripping out her throat, why do you think she could be haunting you? You killed four others…" Trailing off, she looks confused, and then her hand drifts to the paper. I don't interrupt, because something strange is happening to Vera. As if it had a will of its own, her right arm jerks and moves pen across page, slowly at first, and then practically streaking across it. I clench my hands into fists and try not to react, but prepare myself for a possible blow. Vera's eyes are completely blank, and she's not looking at what she's writing.
When her hand finally stops, I take a glance at the mark-strewn page: WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?
I clasp her wrist firmly, but don't intend to hurt her. "Vera? Do you know what you just wrote?" She shakes her head, looks down, and recoils from her 'notes', completely horrified. "It's all right; let's calm down." Once both of us are breathing more evenly, I tell her, "My attack was an automatic response, just as I suspect your writing was. If Astrid Burya wants to talk, maybe this is her way of doing so, sick though it is."
My fellow victor's mouth falls open. "I don't think I want to do this anymore."
"Please. If she doesn't kill me first, I know Iwill." Silence enfolds us in the darkness. Unlike in the kitchen, I have the blinds of my bedroom windows closed, so the only lights are the red numbers from my alarm clock and the candle flame. "No one else can help. The sleeping pills do sometimes, but not always."
"You're saying that…killing Astrid in the way you did…was automatic?" A pause. "I don't believe it."
"You might if you were a Career. Besides, we know full well that when someone else is trying to attack us, our muscles do the thinking instead of our brains. They react faster than we ever could if we took the time to ponder what we're doing. 'Muscle memory' is a very fitting term. I've been trained since birth to fight in the Hunger Games, and have practiced so much that I can't not kill. However -" I swallow hard. "With my bare hands, I could have punched or strangled her instead. Why didn't I? What filled me with so much hate, or rage, that the only thing my muscles could 'think' of to do was to tear out Astrid's throat orally?"
I give a start as Vera flips the paper over, exhales raggedly, and begins to write again: TELL HER.
"Everything?" I ask, my voice a rasp. The bottomless pit of dread that used to be my stomach replies yes.
