She wretches her eyes closed. She can't bear to watch. But she can hear the crowd roar, his grunt, the cannon boom, Claudius Templesmith's voice announcing her as the winner. Caesar's hand is gripping hers, and he pulls her to standing, presenting her in front of the cameras again, showing her off to all the cheering fans, showing off the Warrior Princess from District Two, the Victor of the Seventy Fourth Annual Hunger Games. She forces a smirk, but anyone with a brain cell could see she's faking it, could see she's breaking open, flying apart, that nothing can hold her together anymore. She's breathing hard, the dress is too confining and she's going to lose it, she's going to lose it all, she's going to start screaming, here on the stage in front of everyone, and she feels like she's going to puke and god she hopes she won't but she can feel it coming up, and then she's being shoved off the stage, the microphone pulled from her lapel, and Enobaria's standing in front of her, one eyebrow cocked. She loses it then, leaning forward and emptying the contents of her stomach right onto Enobaria's neon orange shoes. Enobaria starts screaming, terrible, terrible, horrible things, but Clove doesn't hear it. She doesn't hear any of it. There's a roaring in her ears that drowns out all else, and she can't fathom why, but there's a pain in her hand and then she can't move.
Screaming.
There's a car door slamming, somewhere near her head.
Screaming. Such terrible, anguished screaming.
A reassuring pat on the knee.
Screaming. A never ending cry that drills into her ears.
Bright lights, flashing above her, entrancing her.
Screaming. It grows only shriller, never ceasing for breath.
Another car door opening.
Screaming. She wonders vaguely if it's her.
Arms under her knees, scooping her up like a broken china doll.
Screaming. She thinks it might be.
Elevator doors slide closed, hiding a sea of Capitol citizens wanting to catch a glimpse of their newest Victor.
Screaming. She can't seem to close her mouth.
Bright fuschia carpet.
Screaming. She can't seem to stop screaming.
She doesn't know if she sleeps, or if she just lays in the bed, screaming herself hoarse for hours, but if she does, it's dreamless. When she sits up again, the light has shifted, and she's back in her old room in the training center, with it's pristine blue walls, huge bed, larger than her whole apartment back home, and bathroom more luxurious than anything she'd ever seen. She twists sheets in her hands, wishing for a knife, a blade, a weapon, anything to end the pain that courses through her veins, the anguish that haunts her every motion.
When she finally moves, its to stumble into the bathroom. She vomits again, this time mostly liquid, and then rests her head on the cool porcelain. She couldn't move if she tried.
She supposes that's how shes found hours later, curled up on the floor next to the toilet, broken. She's tucked back into bed, and hushed voices near her are hissing to one another, combining and never ceasing. She rolls over, pressing her palms flat against her ears, trying to drown them out, but they just drill into her, snaking under her hands, forcing themselves to be heard, to be noticed. She takes a deep breath and opens her mouth as if to start screaming again, and then the voices are gone, the hissing has stopped, and she's alone again. She's alone.
"I'm alone." She says hoarsely, testing out her voice. It barely makes a sound, scratchy and weak and broken, but it's hers. And it's confirming what she's known since the hovercraft picked her up, screaming and crying and fighting, wanting nothing more at that moment than to end her life because it just wasn't worth it anymore.
And then there's another voice. A voice so familiar and welcoming that she knows immediately who it is with such certainty that she doesn't bother moving to check. A voice that for years has called out to her, teasing her in it's large, boisterous manner, demanding that it be paid attention to. A voice that has mocked her from across streets for as long as she can remember. A voice that grows low with something she has no words to describe it with when he's around her, just the two of them, alone. A voice that Clove would have killed for.
A voice that Clove killed.
"You've still got me." He laughs and walks out of the shadows, his face, so whole and tan and spotless and perfect and healthy, turned straight towards her. "And I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart."