Warning: Detailed self-injury and thoughts of suicide in this chapter. Skip if the matter is too intense or personal to read.

Wanda Oscicmann, District Three: Comfort

Place in the 61st Hunger Games: 24th Place

SCRAP!

munch. munch. munch.

SCRAP!

munch. munch. munch.

"How was Training?"

"Good."

SCRAP!

munch. munch.

She turns to the boy forced to go through this hell with me, shiny black hair swinging with her movements. "And yours?"

Shrug. It's an acceptable answer.

SCRAP!

munch. munch. munch.

"Did you learn anything in particular?"

Kelso slams his fist on the table. The sound reverberates throughout the quiet room, shooting us alert. If any of us felt sleepy before we surely weren't now. "What did I say about talking to the tributes, girlie?"

Head cast down in shame, the woman peeps out an apology. It goes silent again.

To state the obvious, tonight's dinner is awful. The food is not the problem. Pounds and pounds of decadent, luxurious gourmets to dip and dabble, sip and sample to our liking served with a snap of a finger. From fruits to fishes to some foamy soup stuff, what's not to love about that? The people around me, however, leave much to be desired.

Our mentors are...interesting. Wiress, the pale, twenty-something year old waif who has the attention span of a goldfish and Kelso, the red-faced, frowning old man who is eternally pissed off for no good reason. How are these people honestly supposed to attract sponsors and save us in the Arena? No one will want to listen to what these two rejects have to say. I'm getting tired of associating with them and it's only day two. If they can't hold my interest, how in the world are they going to fare with a brainless Capitolite? A two-minute conversation with Wiress would be a miracle and rubbing sandpaper on your crotch would be more enjoyable than interacting with Kelso.

Why did we have to get the unwanted pair this year? Beetee and Nanette are way better. They're smart and know how to conduct themselves. The public likes them. Best of all, their tributes make it far into the Games. A boy made it to the final five six years back under Beetee's guidance. I used to feel sorry for Wiress, defending the absent-minded victor against the mean names others around town would call her. Until I relied on her to save me in the Arena. My life in kooky Wiress's hands. Praise Panem if I survive the bloodbath.

I can tolerate Wiress but Kelso is just unacceptable. Bearded and never without his hat, the way he goes about treating others is infuriating. I could care less how much age and experience the man has over Wiress. Disliking her is understandable. But treating my mentor like an unruly child with every word she speaks is flatout disrespectful. And if he scowls at me one more time he'll find my little foot shoved somewhere he'd rather it not be.

No Wiress, I will not discuss training with you. No Wiress, I will not tell you what happened there. No Wiress, I will not let you know how my asthma flared up and I humiliated myself in front of all my competition. You can't do anything to solve my problems and even if you could, you would fail miserably at each and every one you tried to fix. Both of you would.

All this stays trapped in my mind while I shovel food in my mouth under the pretense that I'm daydreaming. No one questions me. They're either more dense than I thought or don't care. I'm not sure which is worst.

To distract myself and create some noise in the painfully mute room, I grab my third plate from the buffet behind us. I'm full but I'm not stopping until I hurl up every last grain of rice and kernel of corn, just because I can. Starving in the districts then being sent to die. Ha! I deserve much more than a delicious meal. Why Dmitri is being modest is beyond me; with our days numbered, why not go all out before it boils down to being slaughtered over a pack of crackers?

Plopping a whole Cornish hen, a generous dollop of sweet potato mash, and two helpings of cheesecake on the elaborately engraved plate, I devour the food, testing a reaction from either of my mentors. When that doesn't do it, I drop my silverware and attack the stuff with my bare hands. Not even a glance from Kelso. I know the escorts and stylists would have already been rushed to the hospital if they saw me like this. They were thankfully merciful and left to party hours before to spare us from blasting our brains out. Catching my partner's eye, Dmitri looks on disapprovingly and I stick my food-crusted tongue out at him, egging him to have some fun. He needs to loosen up. Doesn't he know he's going to die?

Growing irritated by the silence, I swipe of an orange and leave.

"Aren't you going to excuse yourself, Wanda?" I hear Wiress's flighty voice. I don't respond.

Fuck manners.

Not bothering to change out of my dirty sweats, I dive headfirst into the sea of pillows and immediately regret it. My body hurts all over, right down to my fingertips. I'm absolutely exhausted and in a whole new way. The exhaustion I know is staring at your plate hoping against hope more food will magically appear or getting blisters from standing for hours on end and having to walk the pitch black streets hand-in-hand with an equally tired, equally weak friend. But this? I'm not used to this. The factories don't call for climbing trees, being submerged in water, or dodging knives and arrows until the sky goes black. How the Careers do it is beyond me.

Slowly I turn on my back, wincing at my screaming muscles. I can already imagine how awful I'm gonna feel tomorrow. Throwing the orange in the air and missing ever catch, my thoughts gravitate towards the darker side of my mind. Why train us? Why give us the small hope that we can survive? I mean just that too: survive, not win. Winning is out of the question. Going on pure logic and common sense, a week of running and rolling around can't compare to years of experience. I'll need months of daily practice to contend with the Careers. And look at me; what does my pathetic fourteen-year-old self have to offer? An easy kill? Sponsor points for the other tributes? The only other person I could maybe defeat is the redhead from Six and she has more fight in her than I could ever wish for.

Drifting into more depressing areas, I think back on past Games. One in particular that's haunted me was the 27st Games. I obviously wasn't alive at the time but I remember the reruns clear as day. At the start of the Games, a Career was waiting on her plate ready to kill when an enormous reptilian mutt leaped from the waters and decided to take matters into its own hands. Or rather, teeth. She didn't see it coming. The other tributes had to watch in horror as the crocodile destroyed the screaming girl's body, now a bloody mass of muscle and flesh. That was a brutal year.

Will I be that girl, the one replayed over and over to remind people of the brutality of the Games? And she was a Career, District Two at that. I'm destined to be subjected to some awful trap once the Games need some spicing up. With the reality of the situation just days away, is it better to die in the bloodbath or later on? Dying first means instant death, zero chance of winning, game over. Dying later on means that I'll be in constant fear of my life until the very end, whatever awful end that will be. I shouldn't disappoint my family by losing the first day in but either way, I won't come out of this alive. At least if I'm killed at the Cornucopia, I won't have any blood on my hands. I won't suffer as much.

Look at me. First day of training and I'm fantasizing on what way I want to go. Victors don't think like this. Liquid forming in my eyes, I rub them out as hard as I can. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

Launching the orange at the sparkling music box across the bed, it shatters the wooden construction into pieces, silencing the soft music emitting from it. I need a better outlet, something to ease the pain and make my now short life bearable. No one here can help me. Wiress and Kelso are useless and Dmitri and I agreed to only make contact when it's absolutely necessary. That way when the time comes, our deaths will be easier on the other. I came up with the plan and will stick to it till my cannon goes off.

Frustrated by my frustration, I spring from out of the bed set on a plan. I know exactly what I need to relieve all this stress. Finding the perfect item is what's going to be the challenge. Rummaging through every crack and crevice, I'm determined to find it. Not in the dresser, not in the end tables. I search the bathroom twice. Nothing except for an inhaler. Bravo to Wiress for remembering my request. I still don't know how it's going to work in the Arena, if they even allow me to bring it in. The medicine cabinet slams shut and I stomp my way back to my bed. This stupid room is so unnecessarily big yet has nothing that can do the job!

It's when I plop down in defeat that I spot the tiny hand mirror I threw on the floor during my rampage. Stepping over a few items, I go to check it out. Hm, small, sharp, and has glass. Slamming it on the bedpost, I wait for someone to come at the sound of the crack. If they didn't come when I broke the music box, why would they now? Still, I move frantically, hiding the bigger glass shards in my pocket and flinging the rest in the wastebasket. Inspecting my arm, I find the perfect spot right above the elbow. Shakily, I pick out a nice-sized piece and bring it to exposed ara. Looking around for any intruders, I turn my back to the door to begin the process. This excitement is too much to bear. I close my eyes.

The glass rakes across my skin once. Not hard enough. Let's try again. I dig deeper and this time I'm successful. Pebbles of blood swim out of the small wound and quickly, I dap it on the dark bedsheets.

The results are instant. My sadness is gone. My head is clear. I can breathe now. Finally, I can breathe. Just two cuts aren't enough. I need more.

Another swipe at my skin, this time more eagerly. Reveling in the tiny stream of red, I bring it to my mouth to taste. Usually I don't do drink the blood but, desperate times call for desperate measures. I actually don't do any of this except when life gets really bad. One of my co-workers got me hooked to this. She called it "cutting". Told me to cut little bits at a time and not go overboard or I'd attract attention from my parents. Said all the girls were doing it to relieve tension, that no one got hurt. I was disgusted and told her how crazy she sounded, that there's no way it worked. Days later, Daddy came down with some type of cough that had him bedridden for a week straight. Without the extra income, things got hard, real hard. The stress was too much to bear and admittedly, the cutting idea had been tossing around in my head ever since the girl told me about it. One night after an exhausting shift, I retreated to my closet-sized room, grabbed the sharpest thing I could find and had at it.

The rest is history. This makes what, cut #11 or #12?

I snuggle inside the soft pillows, letting all the frustration wash away. I'm not proud of this, not all at, but it's the only thing that works. Most of the others do it way more often than me and I stop at my arms. Girls at the factory like to talk about their cutting marathons and compare their marks, or "trophies" as they're nicknamed. A few even have cutting parties, where a group of them take refuge in their bedroom and go at it for hours. I've seen far worse than the ones I've got.

I ready the blade for one more round. Searching for the best spot, my eyes insist on my wrist. As quickly as I shake the idea away, it comes back. I've never tried cutting there before. I heard if you do it too deep, you can bleed to death. That's what happened to one girl's cousin apparently. But isn't that what I want? I've been dying to find the permanent solution to my pain and misery. And really, what can the Capitol do if I end it all here? Nothing. I can win the Games my own terms. Fuck the Capitol! I've already said goodbye to Mom, Daddy, and Diggie. Just one swipe, one good swipe can make this all go away…

"Wanda! What are you….."

Someone's here. Hurriedly, I try to discard the evidence. From the corner of my eye, I see a figure closing in.

"Leave me alone!" A shard goes flying towards the target. It dodges it with the grace only a Hunger Games victor would possess. Wiress.

The harder I try against it, the more my voice trembles. "Don't know how to knock?" Seeing my arm, her mouth forms a sympathetic 'O'. That only makes me feel worse about the whole situation. Pulling me into an embrace, I try my hardest to push away. When that doesn't work, the punches come out. Either the willowy woman is stronger than she looks or I'm just that weak.

"Let me go! Let me go!" Why do I sound so weak, so pathetic? I do not want nor do I need this woman's help. Yet my struggle gets weaker and weaker and my face wetter and wetter. Shushing me silent, I throw one last hit before I give in. My tears are soaking her dress, a pretty white gown embellished with flowers, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"There, there child you're too…" Her focus is lost and I stare up through glossy lens to see what's gotten her attention. Wiress is staring off into space, seemingly trying to find the words to say. One of her usual episodes. "Pretty to be doing such ugly things to yourself," she says when she finally comes to.

Sniffling, I go to pull away again but no such luck. My body, slack and needy, simply won't allow it. Why do I yearn for this woman's comforting hands? I don't know Wiress and she doesn't know me, so why am I reminded of my mother at this very moment? "Don't lie to me. I'm nothing special."

Somewhat of a chuckle comes out of her mouth. "I wasn't either and you see how they took to my post-Games appearance."

It's true; Wiress was near death when she won almost a decade ago, so emaciated and starved from lack of sponsors that most people thought she wouldn't live to be crowned victor. Instead of being horrified, the Capitolites were inspired. Falling in love with the teenager's gaunt features, the malnourished look took the big city by storm. Anybody who was anybody flaunted their exposed rib cages, sunken cheeks, and bony limbs. Wiress had set off a fashion trend and gained the Capitol's favor just by outlasting the other tributes.

"No offense but I don't think I want to do what you did." This brings out a laugh from both of us. Nothing's funny about what I said really. I'm implying that I'd rather die than hope to win the way my mentor did. Wiress was smart and stealthy, but she got lucky in the end. I know I don't possess half of the skills she has. Still, we find humor in the situation, maybe because we both desperately need something to ease our anxiety.

The raven-haired woman wipes my tears away. A smile is planted on my face to convince her that I'm fine. She doesn't believe me but she doesn't question me. Good. At least give me the dignity to go without being badgered about things I don't want to share.

As if reading my mind, she responds. "I understand. We're all hiding…a little bit of misery behind our pretty little masks."

The knowing look in her eyes gives me a glimpse of what the Arena Wiress was like. Smart. Sneaky. Intuitive too. I see how the woman lasted so long in her Games, going solo and killing the others with her traps.

"What did I say about talking to the tributes, girlie?" Kelso appears by the door, face stern as he repeats his sentiments from earlier. This time, his tone is much softer and, dare I say it, calmer. And is that a hint of concern I detect? "I tell you time and time again Wiress: don't get too close to them."

"Oh shut it, you bitter old thing," Wiress stands up for herself, teasing the man good-naturedly. I like seeing her with some ferocity, however small it may be. She still has some fight left in her. From the corner I see Dmitri peek his head in, curious as to what's going on.

Casually sipping from the round glass, Kelso is as tactless as they come. "Suit yourself. When she's gone, don't come to me for sympathy." Tipping his hat off, he bids both us goodnight as if he didn't just confirm my death and leaves, taking Dmitri with him.

Wiress waves him off and smiles for my sake. I can tell his words have affected her. "Don't listen to him. Kelso's a sourpuss."

The rest of the night takes a turn for the better. Wiress and I chat and converse while she combs and brushes my knotted, fussy black hair. Originally I wanted her to leave along with the others but I eventually ended up valuing her company, then wanting it. In the process, I get to know my mentor in ways I never thought I'd care to. Questions ranging from the trivial to the serious are asked and answered, and the same goes for her. She doesn't mind that she's doing most of the talking, respecting my wish to listen rather than speak most of the time. This is not what I imagined my time in the Capitol would be like and I still see Wiress as a strange woman, but it's soothing having conversation with the victor.

Somehow the topic of boys comes up and I contemplate asking the question that's always been on my mind.

"Are you and Beetee, um, you know, dating each other?" My question does hold some merit. The pair is practically glued to the hip, rarely seen without the other, in front of the cameras and behind them. During interviews, Beetee always finishes her sentences and on more than one occasion I've seen them hold hands and embrace. There's a definite connection between the two.

Her brushing stops. For a second, I think she's angry at me. Turning around to apologize, I see that she's not mad at all. She's embarrassed.

Face redder than a tomato, Wiress stumbles to find the words to say even more than usual. "Oh goodness no Wanda. Beetee….and I are just close companions. I have…a husband. Chester is his name. We've been married for years now."

Wiress is not blushing because she feels something other than friendship for her close friend and fellow victor. I realize that she simply doesn't discuss things of that sort, especially with a tribute. I imagine the introverted woman not even having thoughts of such a romantic or sexual manner. Now that I think about it, picturing Wiress as a wife and performing marital duties throws me for a loop. My mind dares to envision more intimate scenarios but I quickly wash them away.

Ew.

"I apologize. I shouldn't have asked you that."

"It's okay, dear," she pats my shoulder. "Besides, Beetee is too submissive to be my husband. He'd let me run all over him."

We giggle at the small jab towards the older man and I picture a bossy Wiress barking orders to an obedient Beetee, dog collar and leash on his neck and everything, causing me to laugh harder. To let out a genuine laugh. The feeling is nice.

"Wiress?"

"Yes?"

"Do you," my voice quivers and I mentally kick myself at the realization. "Do you think I'll win?"

Her eyes cast down and stare off at the broken music box still laid out on the carpet, purposely avoiding my eyes when she answers me. "Anything's possible."

She doesn't believe her words. I appreciate her for not straight up lying to me. She's honest, plays it safe. Anything is possible and strange things have happened in the Arena, but the odds of me up against twenty-three other kids are not in my favor. No amount of sponsors or Gamemaker traps can change that.

"Okay," I swallow the knot of fear clogged inside my throat. It's a hard reality to accept, but I have no other choice.

Finishing up my hair, Wiress yawns and declares it's bedtime for the both of us. Before she leaves, she kisses me on the forehead once, an act of kindness I wasn't prepared for. Studying her, the look of sorrow on my mentor's face is clear.

"Just try to live…every day like it's your last Wanda. That's all you can do at this point."

The tears thought long gone are coming back. One makes their way through, sliding down my cheek as I silently nod my head in understanding. Such a crybaby.

"I will. The clock is ticking," More tears break their way through. Wiress's soft palms wipe them away. "Tick tock, tick tock."

A smile forms on her worn face. She looks much older than twenty-seven. "Tick tock indeed. Tick tock indeed."