Yay! This is a pretty quick update for me, and I love you all for each and every fav, follow, and review. Hope this satisfies you for the time being. I know it's long and pretty short on dialogue, but bear with me. There are many good things to come.

Disclaimer: I sadly do not own The Hunger Games. Fuck my life.

Hospital For Souls

The Patient

I should've known something was wrong when I'd started feeling lightheaded. That was the first sign.

The second sign was the irritating rawness of my throat. It made it much harder to breathe and felt as dry as sandpaper. My only comfort was the soft cocoon that enveloped me, like worn but freshly cleaned bed sheets. I imagine this is what a cloud would feel like—if it wasn't composed of vapor and air. I took that as a sign that I was surely dead.

My father used to tell me and my sister bedtime stories. One night, after we had asked about what the Hanging Tree song was about, he'd explained the idea of death to us. We were both very young; I was no older than nine years of age. Prim, a measly five and a half. I had a faint grasp of the idea, but it was very vague. Our father had told us stories and myths Panem's ancestors had believed: the blinding light at the end of the tunnel that was a person's life, which would flash before their eyes in milliseconds. A city in the clouded sky with a gate made of gold and angels flocking around. A place for the good people of the world to live out their lives after death.

My sister sucked up the stories like a sponge, but I was more mature. I could see the look on my father's face. A small, satisfied grin etched into his dark features, but a spark of doubt in his steely gray eyes. He seemed to like the myths, but I never got the impression he truly believed them. Our ancestors weren't known to be the wisest of people back then. Most of them were horribly fictitious, fanciful tales conjured by others to entertain their children or themselves. Or so I thought.

I guess I was finally about to find out.

But I was too late to notice the signs.

Muffled sounds alert me that I'm not alone in my environment. The consistent beeping far off to my right is proof enough of that, along with the shuffling of feet.

Maybe the city in the sky had a lot of foot traffic, I wonder.

My entire left arm aches with pain from where I'd cut the delicate skin of my wrist all the up to my upper forearm. I remember the sting it had caused, the ghost's touch of the blade sends goose bumps through my core. It has the unintended effect of rippling to my extremities, allowing me to regain movement of my legs. It does feel as if I'm wrapped in a blanket of some sort. But that's ridiculous; I'm dead, I couldn't—or shouldn't—feel anything.

My eyes remain closed. I don't want to admit it, but I'm truly frightened by what I would find if I open them. A dark empty room? A group of angels waiting over me to break from my slumber? Anything is possible at this point. Death is an unsolvable mystery to the living.

I can't feel the minutes passing; only the short intervals between every beep off to my right give any indication that time is moving.

Beep…beep...beep. It's like an electric ping on a computer. For all my fear of the unknown, foreign situation I'm in, I find that sound more annoying than anything else.

On the eleventh beep, I begin to grow restless, tossing and turning about, much to the pained protests of my arm. On the eighteenth, I start exploring my cocoon with my fingertips, feeling out the delicate material. It's a familiar touch, resembling a linen or possibly cotton fabric. My mother would surely know which, but she's gone as well. On the thirty-first beep, I mentally prepare myself for what's to come, forcing my nerves to calm and harden like steel. 'You can't hide forever, Little Duck.' My subconscious memories remind me. I can't stay here. I'm too vulnerable in my current state: eyes closed, injured and in pain, confined under a layer of restrictive cloth. Panic rises in my chest and greets me like an old friend. The beeping seems to accelerate and become louder. Flight is essential now.

I'd laugh at myself if I could. Even dead I was still worrying about my survival in the afterlife. It was all purely instinctual, of course. The instincts won out—they almost always did.

Slowly, I move to open my eyes. The lids feel heavy under the stress of disuse, but I force them to comply. I'm instantly blinded by the brightness when they come agape, which doesn't do anything to help my sense of insecurity. Tentatively, my sight adjusts to the glow of the room.

I'm starring up at a white ceiling, fluorescent bulbs shining down on me. The panic comes to me exceptionally quick. My breath gets caught in my throat. I know it's too late by now, I'm already processing my surroundings and I'll get to an unavoidable, unbearable conclusion soon enough. A blanket is wrapped over my body, which I now notice is situated in a bed. The beeping to my right is from a monitor that measures my heartbeat, and attached to other complex machines. It sounds off erratically, in sync to the pounding in my ears, and taking with it the calming silence. That only worsens the anxiety that's threatening to paralyze my form. I look at my left arm last. It's heavily bandaged around my wrist. A few inches above it, a tube is punctured and taped to my skin, feeding blood and fluids into my system from a plastic medical bag.

I take it in. I take it all in. The omnipresent odor of blood—my blood—invades my senses. It makes me want to empty my stomach and pull at the roots of my hair.

My lips are quivering. My mind races a million miles a second. I can no longer focus on any of the surroundings because my eyes are moving everywhere at once.

For the sake of my sanity, streams of denial pour into my consciousness. But their dosage is too little too late, and my survivalist rationale will have none of it.

I shut my eyes tight and cover my head in my arms, gripping my skull and stretching the tube leading to my injured wrist. As if any of that will shield me from the conclusion I'm about to reach. And a half second later, the thought finally penetrates my defenses and breaks me.

I'm still alive.

Despite the rawness of my throat, I scream the first thing that comes to my mind.

Prim.

Her name shatters any prevailing silence in the room, and I'm wailing again just like I did when I tried (and failed) to take my life.

I only stop crying to throw the blanket off me, and pull at the tube in my arm until I'm free of its life-giving fluids. It hurts like hell, but I barely register that through my hazy thoughts and tears. I look down at myself, finding I'm wearing nothing but a thin, plain nightgown that ends just above my knees. It'll have to do; I'm in no position to complain. The fear-induced adrenaline running through my veins reminds me that escape is my sole goal at the moment. But when I attempt to jump off the bed, I fall flat on my stomach and a whimper of pain escapes me. My body is half numb (probably from some drugs) and I haven't yet gotten control of my motor skills, but I crawl my way on the floor till I reach the entrance.

Two pairs of shoes and dark blue pants greet my vision. I feel twin sets of arms grab me and haul me off my feet like a scrawny kitten. A kitten with nails and isn't afraid to bite. I manage to do just that to one of the men's ears. He yelps in pain and drops me back down, while I thrash to escape the second man. He eats a well-placed kick to the gut and doubles over. I just make it out of the room when reinforcements arrive, and I'm quickly outnumbered. Escape is futile now.

Five men have to drag me back onto the bed and hold me down. I struggle and claw and scream my sister's name to no avail. One of the men grabs a hold of my arm and jabs a needle in. The edges of my vision cloud up soon after, and it's not long until the empty space of unconsciousness pulls me under once again.

The Doctor

Everyone on the Psychiatric floor can hear the screaming that resonates from below us. The next moment is one of pandemonium and bedlam. Code One. Code One. Some of the patients start going into hysteria. Pillows are being thrown everywhere, patients running around chaotically. One man accuses another of stealing a book of his, they shout and punches are flying soon enough. Three patients are curled up on the floor crying their eyes out. To be fair, someone is always crying on this floor at least once a day, but still. The place is in uproar, and there are only a handful of professionals present in charge of dozens of cases.

This all happens just as I think my day is going pretty well.

It takes almost an half an hour for the madness to subdue, and another half for a calm atmosphere to return once back up arrives to relieve us of the pressure.

I slump down on a visitor's bench with a groan, rubbing the exhaustion from my eyes. This day is not going well at all. I had to physically separate patients and console them until they were calm enough to listen—easier said than done. It's a miracle no one was hurt too badly. I curse the man who came up with the idea of putting people with mental disorders all under the same roof. And Haymitch, for sending me up here.

I allow my eyes to close and lean my head back till it hits the wall, giving myself a few minutes of much needed rest from the unruliness. The bench shifts only slightly as more weight settles down to my right. I don't even open my eyes to find out who it could be.

A woman's voice gives me that answer. "You look like you've been through hell, Blondie." A sassy tone states. I can practically hear the smirk that crosses Johanna Mason's lips.

Johanna isn't like the other patients at Panem University Hospital. She's what we like to call an 'import' here. In other words, a long term case coming from outside Twelve for medical treatment. They're rare but not unusual, especially where the Capitol is concerned. The idea behind it is that a possible change of scenery away from the stresses of home provides a more effective recovery with psychiatric patients. Not that many find their way over to Twelve, though. We only have two imports: Johanna from Seven and Annie Cresta from Four. Annie is a day-patient—comes by for a few hours for her therapy sessions, then leaves to sleep at home with her fiancé. Johanna doesn't have that luxury, something she never tires of bringing up. Her envy is as much of a problem for people as her brashness.

I snicker and exhale a heavy breath. "Well, your roommates haven't been making my day any easier if that's what you're saying." It's a major understatement to the hell that has just transpired in the last 60 minutes. I lightly bang my head against the wall just to clear those thoughts from my head.

She chuckles. "Oh, I don't think they are the ones you have to worry about. You heard about that girl in Intensive Care? She's got quite a set of lungs; I think she almost busted my eardrum with her whining. But...that's nothing a little duct tape can't fix."

My eyes snap open as I give her an incredulous look. Not because she's considering taping a person's mouth shut—that would be a notable setback to the social progress she's making—but because she brought up our mysterious newcomer. After everything that's happened so far today, I haven't given much thought to exactly who was the source of the screaming and the cause of my current misfortune. I'm a bit disappointed in myself for not making the connection sooner. The girl's never even left my thoughts, save for the giant ruckus she caused up here, forcing me to focus on my actual patients.

"That was her?" I ask quietly, lowering my voice to not attract attention from others.

"Noooo, that was the mysterious cry of a banshee whose mission was to spoil the day and pop my ears like a hovercraft," Johanna counters in the same tone with an eye roll. "Are you really that brainless, Blondie?" her voice returns to a higher octave. "You're lucky you're good looking, Doc. I don't think I can handle average-ass people without brains."

I manage to crack a smile at that. "Who gave you that info on the girl anyway?"

"A little birdie." She shrugs nonchalantly.

"It was Thom, wasn't it?"

"I do have other eyes and ears around in this hellhole. I have been here long enough." She sounds almost insulted, giving me a narrow eyed look. A telltale sign I'll get no answer if I prod on.

It's my turn to roll my eyes. "Remind me again why you're her exactly? You know how much Haymitch just loves to hear you banter."

She waves me off with a hand, dismissively. "Haymitch is an old fart with his own problems. You're much more entertaining. And innocent. How have you not been corrupted by me yet?" She leans into me, running a finger down my arm with a knowingly suggestive smirk.

It falls flat in producing its intended effect.

I huff in annoyance, removing her hand gently, and leveling her with a look. "We've been over this Johanna; you're not allowed to have physical contact."

Ms. Mason is known for being a nymphomaniac—one of the reason she's on this floor, as well as having a phobia and being generally neurotic—and has been trying for the better part of her stay to seduce me. It's become something of a running joke between us during our sessions, and we have both laughed about it. But that doesn't stop her from trying. Our exchanges haven't always been this smooth. I'm her therapist; she's my patient. Nothing more can come of it. The issue of transference is something I take very seriously, and it took time and effort to get where we are today and still keep a professional standing with the brown pixie-haired woman. I've grown immune to her teasing advances anyway. Beautiful as she may be, I don't feel that sort of attraction toward her. I think she only does it to 'rid me of my inexperience'. Or because I have a penis. Her words, not mine.

She slumps back down on the bench irritated. "You're no fun," she glares. "And this 'no touchy' thing is inhumane. No wonder everyone on this floor is so damn depressed, they can't have any meaningful contact."

I simply shrug a shoulder, "I'm sorry, Johanna. It's not allowed."

She shakes her head at me, "You mild-mannered boys are always the hardest to come by, and then you just go on and on about your damn 'rules'." She punctuates with air quotations. "What's it take to get a little action around here?"

I raise a brow her expectantly. "Well, there's always the more traditional way. Meet a good guy, get to know him over coffee, wait till the third date till you can start…initiating anything." I emphasize that last remark.

She looks at me with this faraway look in her irises and a lazy grin, as if she's listening to a naive, idealistic child. "Oh, Doc. I think you should lay off the Rom-Com for a while. It doesn't always work out that way." And then, just to make her point and get to me, she adds, "Besides, it's not like you're getting any, either. I heard you haven't had a girlfriend in some time."

I turn to glare at her. "Who told you about that?"

She practically beams at me, a mischievous glint igniting her brown irises. "So it's true!" she exclaims, leaning her head in to rest on her palms. "Tell me, who was the idiotic bitch that let you get away?"

"I am not discussing my personal life with you of all people."

I am not opening that can of worms up to anyone, I add subconsciously.

"Now you're being a hypocrite. Isn't it your job to get people to open up about their deepest feelings and shit? Just a name! That's all I'm asking for."

I shift my gaze away, too annoyed to focus on her. "How did you even find out?"

Must be those many eyes and ears she's keeping up with.

Her saucy smirk makes a comeback in my periphery. "People gossip, Blondie, especially in tight-knit little places like this. And a girl's got to keep herself entertained somehow. You try lying down in a bed for a couple hours in the fucking middle of the day and see how exciting it is. I just live for our little tea-time talks, and you certainly know how to keep a girl busy."

Cocky as she may be, Johanna does know how to flatter a man. I blame that as the reason why my anger dissipates as quickly as it does and a grin threatens to overtake my twitching lips. The beeping of my communicuff is a welcomed distraction from the nymph sitting aside from me, trying vainly to look over my shoulder at the message. My face slips into that professional mask every doctor has as I read the line.

Dr. A: Patient, stable condition. Requesting consult for psych assessment. Room A202. Details to follow soon.

The message ends, along with the rest of my R&R time.

"Well, thanks for the company," I nod sincerely to Johanna, pushing myself off the bench to stand, stretching my body out to work the inactive muscles. "But I think I should be getting back to work by now."

She shrugs nonchalantly and sighs. "Fine, fine. Go and leave me to my own devices. It's not like I'll die of boredom."

I chuckle, straightening my work coat and smoothing out the invisible dust and lint. "You're in a hospital; I don't think we can get rid of you that easily."

An easy smile returns to her countenance and she regards me with well concealed worry. "Be careful with that girl, Doc. She's a feisty one. Rumor has it she bit Darius in the ear and kicked Thresh in the ball-sack."

I wince at the mental image, but nod in understanding. Guess I'll have to pay the guys a visit as soon as I can. "Thanks for the heads up. I'll see you in a bit, Johanna. Take care of yourself, and I'm afraid our next session has to be rescheduled for tomorrow." She rolls her eyes as if she needs reminding, but nods nonetheless. I give her one last look before making my way down the hall and head for the elevator.

She waits about ten seconds before calling out loudly, "My room is always open if you ever need a stress reliever!" Typical innuendo, but it's a mere jest. I've stopped growing embarrassed by her words a long time ago. It does cause a few people to turn their heads curiously, though.

"I'll take a rain check on that!" I tease, throwing a final goodbye wave over my shoulder and entering the elevator compartment.

The ride itself is short and uneventful. I step out of the elevator with long stride and quicken my pace. As I make my way through the congested passages of the building on my way to the Intensive Care Unit, my mind wanders. I know almost every floor in this wing like the back of my hand, navigating the halls without really focusing isn't an issue for me.

Voices drift in and out of my ears, none commanding my attention for long. Everyone seems to be talking about the girl. They all whisper the details in passing moments, as if no one else is privy to the conversation, yet everyone is keenly aware of them. It's scarily similar to high school, and I dutifully ignore all of it. It's just like Johanna said, gossip is entertainment.

I can't be pulled into that kind of thinking. I'm a clinical psychologist, and that's just not how I operate. I have to step into that room with an objective, and open mind. Whoever she is, she's still a person in pain, and I have to correct that in whatever way I can.

Dr. Aurelius is waiting for me outside the patient's room after I turn the corner.

The white haired, bespectacled man with sleep-ridden eyes greets me with a polite nod. He's very nice, experienced, and a hard worker, but I've never seen him shut his eyes for more than a few minutes—which is a rarity with those who are normally on call during the graveyard shift.

I nod back, "Morning, Doctor."

"Morning, Mellark. Everything alright in Psychiatrics now?"

I laugh nervously, "Yes, thankfully for now. What have you got for me?"

"Standard psych evaluation, we had to give her a heavy dose to calm her down. She nearly cut herself again, removing the IV the way she did, but she's being weaned off. Should wake up any minute now, I suspect."

I give a light smile, "Thank you, Doctor."

And he places a comforting hand on my shoulder, "Good luck, my boy," Before he goes off down the corridor. Apparently everyone is aware of how unusual this entire situation is. The attempted suicide, the incident, and the aura of this mysterious woman.

Those are the thoughts that occupy my mind as I take a deep breath and cross the threshold into her room. I look onto its occupant. Then my heart stops for a second. And I know for a fact the words objective and open minded are tossed out of my vocabulary in that missing heartbeat.

She's alone in the room, stable and unconscious, without a roommate to share it with and only machines as her company. She's also strapped down to the rails of her bed. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders messily, and her skin is that patented olive tone. Other than that, she's aged only slightly, but into something more…mature, fuller. It makes the blood flow inside me redirect away from my brain to a lower area and my legs tense in anticipation.

A whirlwind of emotions compete for dominion over my body. Shock. Sadness. Remorse. Hope. Fear. Anger. I'm not accustomed to associating that last one with the woman before me. They blend into a storm that rages beneath me and pulls me in every which direction they want. This goes on as my mind focuses on a specific memory.

I can count the number of times we've spoken to each other on both hands and still have fingers to spare. But it's the most recent discussion that stings the hardest, and anger seems to be winning the internal battle. I know I can't stay here.

My legs unfreeze from their spot and I run as far away from this room as I can before I can do something stupid and rash.

She's never going to leave my thoughts now. I'll have to see her every day, help her recover from the trauma of what she's done to herself. I don't know if I can deal with that. All I can concentrate on is two things.

Her name is Katniss Everdeen, and 10 years ago on Graduation Night, she nearly broke my heart.

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