III
…
It's not like it was before. Haymitch had even told me so, that it wouldn't be the same the moment we stepped onto the hovercraft. I suppose I didn't believe, didn't want to believe him. I mean, I know I wasn't the same… but I didn't expect everything else to be so different.
…
When I had woken up I was in white.
White.
Just white.
The walls were white and so was the door. Even the small cracks in the white, tile floor were the purest shade of white I had ever seen. The blinds covering the window were white and so was the seat that was positioned under the window. I was dressed in all white: a pair of white, loose fitting pants and a tight, white shirt that didn't cover my shoulders and dipped down like a "U" at my chest. The bed I was laid out on was covered in white sheets as well as a couple white, fluffy pillows.
Yet it wasn't all white. There was the silver doorknob on the door, the silvery metallic piece of machinery that was positioned beside me… and the thin, silver band that was wrapped around my right wrist.
Katniss Everdeen - was engraved in it followed by, D12F.
An I.D. band? A tracker? I thought. But why, the Games were over… right?
Then in that moment as I became fully wake, realizing what had happened between the Games and the other tributes and the Capitol and the haunting horrors, doctors came rushing into the room.
And in that moment something set me off, a trigger was pulled. It was like back in the arena all over again. They weren't right, the doctors. They were too white and pure, crazy and pink, shiny and happy. They were too Capitol-y.
They weren't right.
But they were there with to heal me. They were there with needles and herbs and vials and clothes and odd tools. They were there to glue me back together. They were there to fix… the gash along my side, the bruises around my neck, the healing slice along my forehead, the dozen of cracked ribs, broken pinky finger, and appalling malnutrition.
They weren't right though, something was off, wrong.
The Games it-
My senses-
My mind-
I, me,-
Ahhh, I internally groan.
They weren't going to heal me.
No.
I wasn't going to allow it.
And then, as if the trigger was pulled back to the farthest it could be, something was ignited.
In the first thirty seconds two were unconscious, three were wounded in some shape or form, and another two stood hands up far away from me as possible in surrender. In the next five, I was on standing on the ground. In the ten that followed, I was free of the silver band they had locked tight around my wrist. In another ten, I was already on the lobby floor. Then…
I was out the door.
…
The Peacekeepers were in a panic when I entered the tribute building. They were rushing around, shouting orders, and checking their arms. They almost didn't see me.
Almost.
Yet when I was spotted the air turned from panic to utter stillness. It was like the calmness that washed over the forest before the eye of the storm hit. It was complete and utterly peaceful… but that was without a doubt too good to be true.
There's a long moment and then it happened. One of the Peacekeepers stepped forward and I became that… person.
The Peacekeeper that had stepped forward puts his hands up as if he was telling me he meant no harm, that he was surrendering. He acted as if he was approaching a wolf. And I was the - I was the wolf.
Therefore, slowly I step away from the wall before snapping, breaking into a full force sprint. The Peacekeeper reaches for the gun in his holster, but his actions are not quick enough. I drop down, sliding against the floor. I swipe his feet from under him, grabbing the metal baton from his belt in the process.
Then back on my feet again I swing the baton at an oncoming Peacekeeper.
He falls, down for the count.
It's then the other Peacekeepers standing around come to reason that I'm not going down without a fight.
Grasping their own batons, together they each took a step forward.
There's a pause - the moment before the attack, the first lighting strike, before the first droplet of water was to fall - and then I make my move.
Running for the one that stands the closest in front of me, he pulls back his arm to swing, but like the other, his actions aren't quick enough. I knee him in the gut, holding him up to block the blow from the Peacekeeper that comes from behind him. A knee to the gut and a baton to the spine he falls. I bring my baton up, connecting it with the throat of the man who had just swung at me before kicking my leg back into another, the Peacekeeper's knee, that was coming up from behind me.
As the man behind me falls, one from beside me comes out from my blind spot and he… gets in a hit.
His baton hits me along my side, connecting with my broken ribs and wounded flesh. And it's in that one moment I lose my breath, half falling to my knees. Yet I stay standing, bringing my elbow close to my chest before jerking it back till I hear the crack of the man's nose.
He lets out mumbled curses while I on the other grasp my side as a slick wetness escapes.
Gritting my teeth, I advance to the doors ahead, not taking my time. The fault, two men go down in the process. It's when I'm standing in front of the doors, they gracefully swing open. I quickly step into the small compartment, the elevator, and the doors gratefully shut behind me just before the remaining, charging Peacekeepers can slip in themselves.
As the compartment begins to move up, I allow myself to relax, falling against the wall.
Hand still resting along my side, my flesh continues to bleed, burning in agony.
I grasp it tight, as if it would make it all better yet it does the complete opposite.
Hand grasped to my side, the other still gripping the baton, my breaths quick and shallow, and mind reeling I nearly don't notice the doors open to a familiar floor. But when I do realize that the elevator had taken me as far as it was allowed, I drop the baton and push myself off the wall into the penthouse.
The place seems disserted. Not a thing looks out of order since I let. The furniture is empty and no noises through the halls.
Further into the penthouse, I find myself at the bar.
Running my fingers along the tops of the bottles, I admire their glass forms and rustic colo-
I take one of the bottles in hand, turn, and throw.
The bottle smashes against the wall and the honey-brown liquid stains the innocent surface of the wall. And then there's a pause-
Haymitch stares at me and I stare back. He doesn't blink and neither do I. It's a strained standstill.
It isn't till one of the pieces of glass that had stuck to the wall after impact falls to the ground, barely making anymore sound than a falling leaf onto a soft layer of grass, but it comes down clashing like a boulder. It's then as the piece of glass breaks a second time onto the floor that Haymitch gives in to the standstill held between the two of us, speaking the first words.
"Sweetheart," he says, looking me in the eyes, "What the hell you doing?"
I don't say anything.
"Sweetheart, you broke out of the Capitol hospital, just about paralyzed one of the doctors, killed one Peacekeeper, critically injured the rest of them you laid a hand on, and without a doubt pissed Snow the fuck off."
I don't say anything.
"Sweetheart." He says, voiced strained yet stern.
And then his eyes leave mine.
"Sweetheart," he says this time pitifully, taking in the blood coming from my side and newly forming bruises along the rest of my body.
I don't say anything.
He shakes his head at me.
"Grab that bottle with the mud-like color liquid and go sit on the table," he orders me as he walks out the room and down the hall.
I don't move.
Yet Haymitch knows me too well to listen as his voices rings through the hall, more stern and demanding than before. "Do it, sweetheart!"
And I obey.
He comes back a moment later and sits down on a chair in front of me with a small white box. Getting settled, he opens the box pulling out a needle, thread, and a knife. Without recognition, I shrink away from him only coming known of the fact of my actions when Haymitch grasp my wrist in his hand.
"You don't let me fix ya up I'll have to take you back to the docs," he pauses looking me in the eye, "Okay?"
I nod.
He nods himself, getting to work: rolling my shirt up to my chest, examining the open gash, threading the needle, piercing the skin, piecing me back together, wiping the surface of the red liquid, and spreading a clear liquid over the flesh.
When done, he wipes his hands on the rag that he pulls from box before reaching for the bottle beside me. He twists the cap and takes a swig. Then he hands the bottle to me.
"Drink." He orders, informing me: "I need a good reason to explain to the Capitol why the hell you fled a hospital and attacked numerous people in the process."
I look to him confused.
"Sweetheart, look at me," he says, "Liquor = uncontrolled behavior. And beside the fact that you are… irrational, the Capitol doesn't need to know that. You're gonna get drunk and we're gonna use it to our advantage, blame it on those docs saying you were over medicated and acted out as a consequence of whatever drugs they had you hooked up to."
I process what he said, allowing it to click. And then, when it does sink in, I take a drink from the bottle.
"Good."
…
My vision is blurred. The sensitivity level of my hearing has increased by… a thousand. I can't seem to focus… on anything. My mind's out of control, jumpy and hazed… like fog. I'm not in command of my body… disconnected.
Everything's not – not right.
And then…
Something unknown, a tall stature – possibly a man, enters the room causing it to shift or so it felt. I feel myself shift with the room, leaning to the left, and the bottle slip from my fingers. It slips from my grasp almost gracefully, clashing down against the ground into a million pieces, erupting into a loud volume of something like thunder in the sky.
I wince.
Then there's another shift in the room and I fall to my side.
"What'd you do?" I hear an unfamiliar voice say.
"Calm it, boy." I hear Haymitch's voice say from somewhere far off in the room.
"Why's she drunk, Mitch?"
"Need to fix the situation somehow."
"And this is how you fix the situation, you get her drunk?"
I don't know what Haymitch says or does next, but I assume it's next to nothing as the other voice speaks up after a long moment.
"Way to be a fuckin' mentor, Haymitch, way to be."
There's another silence, but this one is short. Then it's filled with the sound of footsteps coming toward me. They're the property of the other voice, the one that isn't Haymitch's, because as the closer they come to me, the smell of alcohol I know I myself is smothered in does not grow. The level of stench does not change as if it would have if it had been Haymitch approaching me.
The footsteps stop just in front of me and then I fill myself being lifted up. I'm held against something warm yet hard as I'm carried away. I'm sure, even in my befuddled mine that I'm taken from the room and down the hall to one of the bedrooms as I after being carried for so long I feel myself being laid down of something that is equal in comfort and firmness. Something soft is tucked under my head and something warm is brought over to cover my body.
Whoever had carried me here doesn't leave though.
And me, in my drunk and disorderly state know this, roll over to my side and look up at the person.
The image is just as blurred as if was before. The only think I can seem to make out is a tall and board figured person, most likely a man, and the shades of gold and blue and gray.
I squirm on the bed, childishly fighting the blanket I find myself entangled within.
Yet then for the first time I see the figure move. One of its limbs, an arm, comes down, tucking a few stray hairs behind my eye, whispering, "Shhh."
Something else is said, more, but my mind doesn't seem to register.
And then slowly, I fade away.
