I'm in the cafeteria for lunch when I finally see her again. No, she's not here in front of me. She's there, on the television, playing out the propo that District 13 has released once again onto the national broadcast system. I still don't know how they do it, but every so often they break into the closed channels and overtake the Capitol's highly secured line to the people.
I almost choke on my stew as she shouts about burning and the rebellion and eternal salvation that only comes from joining the fight. It's magnificent and enthralling and I can see why she's the center of it all.
When it ends, I'm even more confused by the way that I feel and the happenings of those weary days in the ward. I can't draw the parallel between that woman on the television and the fragile girl who watched me for days. They are of the same body, but there is no trace of them being the same person. Not in my stories, at least. It doesn't make sense.
I turn carefully to the stranger next to me, surely preparing to look foolish.
"Who is that?" I motion to the now dim set in the ceiling corner and implore this woman to tell me more. She scoffs and looks down at her schedule on her forearm.
"Have you been living under a rock? That's Katniss Everdeen. Victor of the 74th and final Hunger Games." The woman huffs out angrily and stands with her tray. She leaves without another word and I'm left to this moment on my own.
Victor of 74? But that's the Games I'm Victor for, isn't it? Isn't it?
I am quite seriously losing my shit as I sit here, my eyes frozen on the TV that lies dim in the corner. Lunch has been signalled to end and those around me seem to disperse with an unusual speed. I don't move, paralyzed by the confusing thoughts that are filling my brain.
We couldn't both be Victor's. What was that woman getting at? Maybe she got the number wrong. Maybe she didn't know who I was. Maybe, maybe, maybe. So many maybe's. I lift myself to my feet, making for the doors before a guard yells at me to return my tray. I'm startled at his voice and jump, rushing back to grab my discarded items and placing them in the return.
When I'm finally free of the confines of the room I make my way to my solitary cage, a gift for the crazy of District 13, and lock myself in.
It's here in this room where I turn everything over.
I was supposed to know her. That's what she implied when she visited me. I'm supposed to know her well. Haymitch won't tell me but I know that there's more to this than just the strange occurrences that are all connecting together.
I can't help but wonder if perhaps there's even more between myself and the girl named Katniss Everdeen.
I resolve to know it – to search it out and find the answers because this feeling that grows in my gut (the one that tells me that I need her here with me) is not being quelled by the cautious actions of the doctors or the nurses.
I may not have all my memories, but I sure have stories, and if any of this is supposed to connect then maybe those stories aren't even stories. Maybe they're really memories.
Maybe I really, actually, truly, loved, Katniss Everdeen the Mockingjay and the girl who was going to save Panem or have it burn to the ground.
I spend the next few days abandoning the schedule that's intoned in my flesh each morning. I don't care for the time slots or the classes or soldier duty – all I really care about is putting the puzzle pieces together and having it all make sense.
Instead I sit in my room – my locked room – and write down every little bit that I've made up about the girl who watches me. There are pages, journals, full of my musings. If I weren't so determined to figure it out, I'd think I had an unhealthy obsession.
On the fifth day I hear Haymitch at my door. It's the first time that he's ever come looking for me, at least since I got out, and it doesn't bode well in my stomach. I try to ignore his rapping knuckles, pretending that I'm not here, but he doesn't give up.
"Boy, come out, come out, from in there. I know you're there." I open the door to his raised fist, preparing to knock again. He looks at me, his eyes startled by my disheveled appearance. "Well Peeta, glad to see you're giving off that 'sane' appearance." He pushes past me into my room and kicks the door closed behind him.
I turn and watch him sit on my bed, shoving my carefully arranged papers around into an unorganized mess. I'm tempted to yell at him for ruining my system but realize that it'll just make me appear even more unhinged than the hundreds of papers already do.
"Can I help you?" I try to keep it pleasant but it comes out more as a bite. His eyebrows rise slightly at me and he picks up one of the papers and begins to read. My fingers twitch slightly, longing to grasp it from him.
"What is all this, Peeta?" He doesn't look up from the paper, reading it all the way to the end.
It's a story from so long ago, one where we were just children at school in history class together. I thought about her braids in that story.
"Just stories. I got bored." I try to disguise the obvious fact that they're all about Katniss. Maybe he won't notice. I don't remember her name in that one.
Shit.
I watch as he picks up another one from the floor. This one is more recent, of us joking about frosting. The stories had seemed so real.
"Where did you get the ideas?" He pushes, looking up to meet my eyes then. I shrug, not willing to give away what could make me sound insane. "Hey," he insists, kicking out his foot lazily. "Peeta, where did you get the ideas?"
I feel the rage in me then, bubbling up from inside and pushing into my brain. If there is any proof to my theory he wouldn't be asking me this. He'd be realizing that I was figuring it out. I am crazy – this proves it. I thrash out against my desk, shoving my token from the Arena to the ground and stomping on its gentle form.
The ribbon sits there, crushed under the sole of my shoe.
That didn't feel good. It actually hurt.
I see the old man stir in the corner of my eye.
"They were in my head. I thought they were real." I feel downtrodden as I admit it, certain that he'll be taking me to the loony ward again for more treatment. He doesn't move though and I look to him then, meeting his questioning gaze.
"So you remember then?" His words are almost too soft to pick up amongst the hum of the ventilation system. My eyes narrow. What is he not telling me?
"I don't know what I know, Haymitch. Why don't you fill me in?" I lean back against the wall as he stands unsteadily on his feet. He makes towards the door and I grab for his arm. I need to know. Need to. "Tell me!" I shout, but he shakes me loose.
"I need to make a call. Stay here." With that, he leaves and slams my own bedroom door in my face.
I want to set fire to the papers.
I don't stay and wait for him to return. I couldn't even if I wanted to. My palms are itchy and my feet need to walk so they carry me out and into the dead hallway where I head unaware to the infirmary. I don't know why I'm here exactly until I see her – the little nurse who seemed to take my lack of memory almost personally.
I wait until she finishes tending to the patient who lay in the bed before her. When she bids him farewell I approach quickly, my steps heavy and giving me away. She whips around to face me, surprise evident on her features as she takes a step back.
"Prim," I nod, and she tries to smile but it's tight and anxious. I'm making her nervous though I don't mean to. I retreat a few paces back and try to ease the tension in my brow.
"Peeta, what are you doing here?" Her voice is breathy and weak as she turns and heads into what looks to be an empty office. I follow, picking up that she wants to keep this between us.
"Who's Katniss Everdeen?" My words shock her and she turns to me, wide eyed. Her mouth moves but no words come out and I have the urge to just shake it out of her. I don't.
"Have you been taking your medicine?" She asks instead, not providing me with the answers I want. She cocks her head to the side and looks me over carefully. Surely my hair is a frazzled mess and I look a bit unruly. Maybe I am crazy.
"That's not an answer to my question."
"And that's not an answer to mine." She replies. I feel like we could get lost in semantics or she could just tell me what I want to know.
"Prim, please. Please. Can you just tell me what's going on? Why won't anyone tell me anything?"
I don't hear the shuffle of feet behind me over the beeping and the whooshing of the air in the vents so I'm surprised when I feel hands grabbing my arms and a needle sliding home into my skin. I feel light as I sink down, my eyes never leaving Prim's concerned gaze.
"I'm sorry Peeta, but we need to make sure you're all better." She's crouching down in front of me as I slowly slip into darkness.
When I wake up I'm not in my room anymore. I'm strapped once again to the gurney that holds me in place. Back where it all started only this time there's no girl watching me through the glass.
Haymitch comes to me late in the day (at least what I think is late in the day – there's no sun to tell me better). He sits at my bedside and though I long to wrap my fingers around his throat, I can't. I stare daggers at him instead hoping to convey my sense of betrayal and the overwhelming rage that I'm feeling.
"What the hell is going on?" I nearly yell, my voice echoing off the dead cement walls. He sits still in his chair, his eyes watching every twitch of my fingers. When he leans forward I snap and try to break free, my wrists pulling at the restraints.
"Just as I thought." He mutters, sitting back and folding his palms in his lap.
"And what exactly was it that you thought, Haymitch?" I spit. I want to actually spit on him, but I refrain.
"That you weren't as dandy as everyone thought you were. The Capitol's done something but I'm not quite sure of what it is just yet." It doesn't make sense, whatever he's saying. I'm still angry.
"What do you mean?" I figure if he's talking, it's better to keep him going so I can get as much information as I possibly can.
"I mean, kid, that when Johanna came back she wasn't the same. I knew something was off with you. They tried to hide it with the memory loss – but there's something else." So they were really memories? I suddenly want only for Katniss to be here, to be with me. The feeling of need for her overwhelms me and I gasp for air until Haymitch is pressing a button and a drug is filtering in through the tube in my arm.
"Better?" He asks as my body begins to relax. I feel light and calmer. It is better – I nod in reply. "We just need to keep you monitored for a while, until we can find your trigger. Then we can treat you."
He stands to leave and I try to fight the heaviness in my eyelids.
"And Katniss?" I ask as his hand rests on the doorknob. His voice is gruff in response.
"Try to get over her."
I'm no longer strapped down when I wake up again. I'm given free reign – at least around my room. My hands can't jiggle free the lock on the door and so I'm trapped still, but at least no longer stuck in the bed. It's a small victory.
Over the past few days they've been filling the room with supplies for my 'future testing'. The phrase has been ominous but I try not to think of it that way, especially when I see them rolling in a TV and some painting supplies. None of it makes much sense but I don't protest – since when have TV or painting ever been torturous?
It's not until the hallway and my room are dark that I take notice of the sounds surrounding me. They put me on edge before I even recognize them as the noises of an insane Johanna just down the hall. She's screaming bloody murder, just as she had in the Capitol holding cells back when we were at their mercy.
I try to block it out but it still gets in, getting under my skin and raising my flesh with goose bumps. I want to help her, to call out and tell her she's not alone, but I know she won't hear it and even if she did, she wouldn't be able to focus. In those screams I know she's too far gone to be salvaged right now.
That's something you learn about the sound of other people's screams.
I roll over in my bed, pulling the pillows against my ears as I try to block it out. If I weren't already crazy, her terror would sure push me that way. Hell, maybe they're intending to make me crazy just so that I won't ruin their plans.
Suddenly, District 13 doesn't seem so appealing anymore.
"And when you think of the Capitol, what do you think about?" This doctor and his inane questions are grating on my last nerve. They've strapped me back into bed for him to come in here and prod me with stupid anecdotes and ridiculous probing questions.
I don't think any of us are getting what we intended from this session. I look away from his questioning gaze as I answer.
"I think about the Games. About white walls and a feeling of burning in my skin. I don't remember much of the Capitol. Just that it makes me itch."
I remember clear as day, though I'd never share it, the way that the nurses had probed me for more than just strategies of the rebellion. They'd taken everything from me, stripped me bare and forced themselves on me. All the while pumping my body full of drugs that burned the inside and made me feel lightheaded.
"How much do you remember about the Games?" I feel my fists clench, my nails dig into my palms, as he brings it up.
"All I remember is winning, I told you this. I remember the ladder coming down and then my body freezing and then waking up in the Capitol. I don't remember anything else." And I don't. I remember winning 74 and then being whisked away for treatment and whatever else they call it. I don't even remember the Victory Tour, though they showed me footage in the Capitol.
"Alright, Peeta. I think that's been enough for today. How about we try some more tomorrow?" The doctor stands and moves towards the door. If I wasn't strapped down, God help him.
"Wait!" I shout, the man turns to look at me over his half-moon glasses. "What am I missing?" I know I'm missing something that they're not telling me. Haymitch keeps saying that they're trying to let me get there on my own, but with each day all I get is more frustrated. I hear the doctor sigh, his hand turning the knob.
"You'll find out soon enough." He replies, and then he's gone and my straps come undone and I'm free once again to pace my new cage.
"How do you know who Johanna Mason is?" This is a new doctor. One that lets me sit without restraints as long as I don't get out of bed. He's not like the other ones and I can't exactly put my finger on why.
"What kind of question is that?" I ask in return – and I'm being honest. It's a stupid question. I know her because I... Know her.
Okay, so what if there's some holes in my memories. So what.
"When did you first know who she was? When can you remember placing a name to her face?"
I have to think back for that one. In all honesty, the screams down the hall have just always been Johanna Mason. I don't really remember meeting her, not face to face. At least not until being brought here.
The thoughts have my brain turning over in circles trying to piece the puzzle together. It's troubling and confusing and I don't want to answer.
"I don't know." I reply in a non-committal manner. I feel his stare on me and I dare him to ask another inane question.
"What if I said, Peeta, that you don't know Johanna Mason?"
"I'd say you were a liar. Of course I know her. She screams all night." I'm growing more frustrated now with every poke and prod.
"Okay. Tell me about the first time you understood that she was Johanna."
"A guard must have mentioned it – what does this have to do with anything anyways? Why does this matter?" I toss the glass from my side table across the room and watch it shatter. The doctor raises his eyebrows and I shrug.
"Peeta, I need you to focus. I need you to tell me how you know her."
I don't have patience anymore for this. Swinging my legs over the bed I put my feet on the floor. He's up and out the door before I even get a chance to step towards him. Good. Stay gone.
I return to my spot on the mattress and lay back, the anger and frustration a mere memory from my consciousness. It's weird, the way my emotions click around so quickly. I try not to think about it.
