Chapter 2: Can't Believe It
When I come to, I can't see anything. Rather, I can't see anything good. The images torment my mind. It's like watching my life play over inside of myself. Only fragments stand out.
"…Even the birds stop to listen…" My father.
"…Do you think anybody will buy burnt bread?..." My mother.
"…Hey, pay attention! Stop staring at her…" Richard, my best friend.
"…For District Twelve is Peeta Mellark…" Effie Trinket.
"…Why bother…" I can't even think her name anymore.
The images and sounds come faster now, burying me alive.
"…Even without all the mutts and explosions…" There's a burning pain, all over.
"…Because I pushed her…" I'm being stabbed with ten thousand knives.
"…The blood on my hands…" I can't bear this.
"NO!" My eyes fly open. I don't want to relive these horrors. It was bad enough the first time, but nothing could possibly be worse than what I am enduring now.
I stare up at the white ceiling, amazed at how pristine it is. So flawlessly painted, without any mark or defect. Then common sense takes over, and I realize that such a perfect thing could only come from the Capitol.
The Capitol, where there are cameras and where people are analyzing my every move. With this in mind, I climb out of the bed and shudder as I see the arena uniform nearby. I put it on, but long to cast it away. The feel of the fabric is menacing.
The wall slides open and I walk out, realizing with some shock how healthy I am. I was one of District 12's well to do, but even we had limited food. In the arena, since I was only there for three or four days, there wasn't much time for me to really starve. But I've never felt as completely whole as I do now.
If it weren't for the gaping wound in my heart.
I walk down the hall that has been revealed and see Effie, Haymitch, and Portia waiting for me. Haymitch claps me on the shoulder and says, "Congratulations," in a gruff tone. Effie is her usual excited self, full of compliments. Portia just hugs me and then leads me to my prep team.
I've almost forgotten their names, what with the cloud of misery that's hanging over me. There's Rochelle, the woman with super-pale skin and orange eyes. It's a mystery to me how she managed that operation without going blind. Then comes Hamlet, the rather dramatic man who's fond of long, curly wigs and spotted suits. Lastly, there's Chiffon, the youngest. She's got lustrous blonde hair and strikingly blue eyes. The only visible enhancements are on her feet. They're absolutely tiny, and she has to use special shoes to walk.
They exclaim over how I've been given a full body polish, and then get to work painting me. I settle in my chair and do my best to ignore their incessant babble, but it works its way into my ears somehow. It's all about how lucky I am to have won, and my bravery in attacking the careers, and how strong I must be to defeat Thresh. Not one word is said about the flower who died for me, so that I could go home. Nothing except one line by Rochelle:
"I can't believe you did all that for a little girl!"
I want to walk out right then and there, but Portia is waiting and she's so genuinely nice that I don't want to upset her. So I grit my teeth and do my best to think fairly. They've been raised to believe this. It's not their fault. They don't know anything else. It doesn't help much.
My prep team leaves and Portia returns, bringing clothes and a certain amount of sanity with her. I dress and find that I'm in an elegant suit, something I might wear… never. I've never had even the slightest opportunity to wear anything close to this in my life.
It's quite nice, though. White undershirt and jacket with black pants. There's a black tie as well. Portia fixes a perfect red rose in my buttonhole and I feel like I'm going to my wedding. Or my execution.
"Presto," she says, stepping back to admire me. I stand there awkwardly, thinking that maybe I should thank her, and realize that she's scrutinizing my face rather than my outfit.
"I'm sorry, Peeta," she murmurs.
"For what?" I ask dumbly.
"No one should have to go through what you've endured." I look in her eyes and see an almost motherly warmth before she glances around as if she's afraid. Of course. She as good as said that she disapproves of the Capitol with that simple sentence. "Okay, let's get you to the show. It's for you, after all," she says, and leads me to a room that's underneath the stage. She rushes away and Haymitch appears.
He gives me a surprising one-armed hug, and just before he releases me, he whispers, "The Games aren't over yet. Be careful." I stiffen and then force myself to relax. He takes a step back, his eyes boring into mine. I hear his silent message: Do you understand?
I nod almost imperceptibly. I do understand. I understand that, by my obvious brother-like affection for Prim, and my unwillingness to let her die, I have defied the Capitol. This should scare me silly, but instead I feel a sort of burning satisfaction. Panem needs to know that what is happening is profoundly wrong.
There's still enough of the arena left in me, though, that I remember that this is the Capitol we're talking about. And if they want to kill me – or anyone I care about – they can.
So I know I'll have to watch my step.