Characters belong to Suzanne Collins; anything that you don't recognize has been improvised by me.
Chapter Three
Life became considerably easier in the weeks that followed my return. My father and Noah still had to work and go to school, but seeing them fill out and gain weight brought me more joy than I thought possible for one person to have. Since winning, most of my time was either spent being alone, or being with Blight when he's up for having company, until Sunday's when Bruce didn't have to work.
Despite the worries I'd had when I first returned, Bruce had taken my victory extremely well. While I was gone he had dropped out of school to work more. Apparently he got the notion in his head to provide for my family if I were killed. At first I was angry with him, since his family is so much larger than mine, and less able to provide for themselves. We don't get to spend nearly as much time as we used to together because of this, and I hardly ever saw him since I no longer had to work; but a little time with him was better than none at all.
Blight had given me plenty of warnings once I got home to be careful about how much time I spent with Bruce, especially if it was in public. It's clear in his stern, abrasive tone that he's looking out for me. But it also means that other people are probably keeping an eye on me and what I do. I briefly wonder if there might be something he knows that I don't, but I never ask about it; figuring he knows what he's talking about, based on his own experiences.
Which is why, more for Blight's nerves than mine, Bruce and I usually meet only once a week somewhere in the middle of where the Victor's Village and the rest of the district connect. Nine times out of ten Bruce and I ended up going off into the forests, heavily secluded from prying eyes or ears. It's usually late at night when we finally get here, hidden by the darkness of the night, but I could still make out the features of his face to know when he was smiling at me in his same warm manner. Still feel the same loving hold of his hand in mine. This is probably the only time where I feel like I do not have to be on edge. I'd almost forgotten how much of a comfort Bruce is to me.
But then as the weeks started to slow down, and the high I got from all the attention and press wore off, the nightmares that had temporarily visited my head on the train ride home, steadily came back growing stronger and worse in imagery, with each passing night.
Everything around my conscious life, started to become static. Re-experiencing the deaths of the other tributes streamed through my subconscious mind. Seeing the ax that did the killing, being held firmly in my blood drenched hands. I hack my way through each of them one by one, every time I try to sleep. I see myself willingly impale a girl's jugular with a solid thunk of an ax. Slit another boy's throat with his own knife, as if it were made out of butter. Hear all their screams mingle with the sounds of cannons, each of them getting louder; as if someone's turned the volume up, until it gradually becomes quieter and resorts itself to a muted hum of background noise.
But then another dream, a memory of my mother on her death bed from when I was around Noah's age, filters its way in. She looks just as frail and exhausted as she did back then, her pallor pale like a fish's belly. When she speaks to me it isn't her voice that comes out, but Logan's, the boy who was reaped along with me; screaming at me for not putting him out of his misery. For just leaving him there to die half a mile from the Cornucopia, instead of coming back for him. When I blink my mother suddenly vanishes, and I see Logan in her place, lying in a massive puddle of blood; his body visibly gaping with large gashes, his voice straining, begging me over and over to do something.
Out of every nightmare I've had, this is the one that always seems to repeat itself, making me rise with a cold sweat and a racing heart. Sleep, needless to say, becomes impossible, no matter what aid I try.
It is after this dream appears to me a fourth time in one night, that I jerk myself out of bed, tugging my legs into a torn pair of work pants and boots, pulling on the nearest shirt I can find, and stumble my way down the stairs.
A glint outside of the den's front window catches my attention. It seems that just about every light in the second story of Blight's house is still on. If anyone could understand how I'm feeling, it would be him. I waste no time in leaving my house as quietly as I can to head over.
When I got to his small porch I didn't bother knocking. If he was actually asleep right now, I didn't want to disrupt the little amount of rest he somehow manages to get. Walking through the foyer I made my way through the mess of dirty dishes that had become his kitchen, and over the piles of unwashed clothes that sporadically lay around, and headed upstairs, shutting a few lights off as I went.
Reaching the second floor I spotted him immediately, still dressed in his day clothes, sitting in a room that I can only assume to be a home office. For a while he doesn't notice me, and continues to stare out into open space with such a perplexed look, as if something heavy is weighing down on his mind. After standing there for about five minutes, I nudge the door, waking him from this stupor. He gets up a little distractedly, and opens the door wider, motioning for me to come in.
Never mind this being a home office. There's nothing office oriented about it. All that's in here is a desk that doesn't have anything on it, and a couch. There aren't any bookshelves, and nothing hangs on the wallpapered walls.
I sit beside him on the small couch, both of us silent until his dark brown eyes meet mine, and he asks me what I'm doing in his home at three o'clock in the morning, uninvited.
I tell him about my recurring dreams and the panicked sleeplessness they bring me. My stomach is in knots, and the glare from the ceiling light only makes the ache in my head, increase.
"I feel trapped inside my own head. That I can't get out and that no matter how hard I try, there's no way to turn it off. That it will never end."
Blight just puts one of his hands on my shoulder, giving it a light squeeze, telling me that even though he hated to admit it, this was only the beginning. That even this will become a small, almost trivial matter, when I'm faced with everything else being a victor has to offer.
The pattern of me rising, more often than not screaming myself awake from nightmares, goes on for the next month and a half; although I tried my hardest not to see Blight every time it happened, despite his constant reassurances that it was alright if I did. The only solution I found to preventing them was not sleeping, which became nearly impossible for me, unless I just didn't want to function.
After the first visit at Blight's home, I made the decision that morning not to tell Bruce about it. He was so busy, taking care of his younger siblings while also working overtime. Loading all this on his shoulders would only make him even more stressed out.
The only day he had off was Sundays, and most of the time was spent with me, yes, but he'd always fall asleep within minutes, while his head stayed nestled in my lap, or on my shoulder. I didn't mind though. It was apparent on his face how utterly exhausted he was, and if I could be the source that let him get some true, undisturbed rest, even if it was for a short amount of time, then I would be.
It's on such a Sunday that I opened my door, ready to go see him, that I instead opened it to the sight of my escort and manager, Peri Vaseloom — a man in his late twenties, that's just too pale a shade of pink to be healthy, adorning new glitter dusted lime green hair, lips and fingernails, as well as new eyelid tattoos; standing on my doorstep with my stylist, a fifty something year old woman who is still desperately trying to keep herself looking young — an attempt that she's failing horribly at — and my prep team; which still remind me of mosquito's in the way that they seem to flutter around me, and make me into what they consider to be gorgeous. At first I'm baffled as to why they're here, until I remember my Victory Tour.
They powdered me, fluffed me, stripped my body of any visible arm or leg hair, and redid my eyebrows all the while chattering on about things I could care less about. Once they finished rubbing oil on my limbs, they trimmed my slightly outgrown hair, back to its previous shortened length. This whole process lasts for a good two hours, since every member of my prep team is an extremist when it comes to perfectionism, and were specifically told to just "take care of the necessities".
After telling me they will be back tomorrow to collect me for this tedious tour, and leave, I shrug into my worn in jacket from the days of when I used to work, grab two loaves of bread, fill a canteen with warm tea, and walk into the forest to find Bruce sitting behind a large stack of freshly cut trees that haven't been gathered yet.
"Are you nervous?" he asks me harmlessly, putting his bread down to gently rub the side of my hand with his thumb. I lean on his shoulder, putting my other hand on one of his denim clad knees.
"Why should I be? This whole stupid jamboree is for me after all, right? Besides, it only lasts for about a month."
He tenses beside me, and almost immediately I'm hit with the intensity of what I've just said. My games had lasted at least a month if not more. And of course I thought of Bruce as much as he did me, I'm sure. I can only imagine what went through his mind as he watched me on the screens. What did he think when he saw me butcher through half a dozen kids? I can feel how tightly his muscles have tensed through his clothes.
I move closer, kissing his cheek while hugging his arm. "At least this time we can be sure I'll be coming back." His shoulders slump, slowly relaxing. The pressure of his arm finding its way around my waist to pull me as close as can be makes my cheeks warm.
He presses a kiss on my forehead so full of longing that my stomach drops, making me miss him already; wishing I didn't have to go. Resting his head on mine, we sat huddled together in a familiar, comfortable, silence. A long moment of silence lingers in the air until he breaks it by telling me not to do anything stupid. I can't help but chuckle at him, doing my best to reassure him that I won't. It's only when the small pink hues of the sunrise start to appear, that I have to force myself to leave his arms a second time.
Been so long, and I do apologize! End of term projects and presentations have a nasty habit of taking over one's life. But since it's been quite a while I'm planning on posting two chapters since the original version of this one had to be cut in half. Enjoy, and let me know if there's anything you'd like to see, and I'll see what I can do. Thanks!
