Surprised I managed to edit this and get it up on time! I have a bad habit of forgetting what day of the week it is.
I know there is always a lot going on in each of these parts, so to comment on a review: Kendra and Harris were killed by Myner as a punishment for the Games and Cam's warning when Massie was in the hospital the first time. There's really nothing else to it, just some casualties. Derrick lost both his mother and sister in a similar fashion, but only because he said "no."
I believe this will have 15 parts. I just finished editing part 10!
Let's Kill (Tonight)
Part Eight
memory | ˈmem(ə)rē
noun
something remembered from the past
synonym: recollection, remembrance, reminiscence, reminder, echo, impression
Through the letters Massie only grows more confused.
She takes her mother's advice. Her dead mother's advice, advice she made up in her head when the thought of losing a parent scared her. She committed suicide, the papers say, and her father backs up: unhappy and unwilling to live anymore. A coward's way out.
But like the words on the papers and the memories in her mind, that doesn't make sense and it doesn't sit right. Her mother was not the type to kill herself even if she was feeling particularly sad. She'd take life by the reigns and turn it into her favor. That's how she managed to create stunning evening wear and influence designers for the Games. It's how they say she wrangled her father into marriage. Even when she was beaten down she always found something to make her live, to give her a leg up; there was always a lion cub to manipulate, just like in her arena. Death was never an option for her. She'd live longer than they allowed her just to spite them all.
She reads between the lines and avoids the surprising ache in her heart her mother's death brings her. She listens to her father, to Cam. She gleans that they know more than they let on but are talking in code, and that may not be because she is paying attention. She thinks it is because of the bugs on the train. She also gathers that William is not as upset as a husband should be that his wife has died. He grieves, of course, but he moves on with his life. He doesn't seem to think much of it, but she catches him once with his head in his hands and blaming himself. She thinks again that maybe the suicide does not make sense. Allows herself to think that perhaps it wasn't a suicide at all, but that thought leaves her as quickly as it comes because who would murder her mother, a famous Victor, and why would her mother not fight back?
She spends the remaining days locked up in her room, hungrily reading letters from a boy she is convinced does not exist. She reads them, then rereads them, then rereads them.
Between the lines, she merely finds that there is much she does not know. Much, she thinks bitterly, her own mind is not letting her know.
There are conversations on this train that prick at her, that make her want to scream. There are sentences on paper that make something bubble within her, hints of something that cannot possibly exist. There are articles and gossip shows dedicated to a boy that makes her blood boil at the sight of him. There are dreams that feel like memories but cannot possibly be. There are flashes of blood and phantom feelings of blades on her face and hands on her neck and mouths against hers. There are hours she does not remember, washing and scrubbing and soaking in baths and showers, trying to clean herself of an arena that she has not been in for almost five months. There are shadows in doorways and faces behind her lids that haunt her. There are sentences that follow her from voices that have never said them.
There is I can't wait to kill you and I see you look at me and they are threats and taunts and they are not uttered in the voice she knows hates her.
There are whispers she knows are truths. There are embraces and kisses and oaths that betray the very core of their society but she cannot figure out who said what and why they did it and why she held so tightly to them that she remembers them now. Remembers them only when she is panicking, seeing blood and bone and rolling heads in empty halls and shoving her head under hot water and scrubbing her skin raw.
Massie doesn't figure much out by the time she gets to the last letter. She holds it tightly, reading it again, and takes her bottom lip between her teeth. She is sitting on the edge of the tub, her feet submerged in water that boils.
There is someone in each district and it does not have to be a person from that district. They are people from the Capitol that follow the tour. They are those bank managers and the people that control who gets food and when. They are escorts. They are Peacekeepers. Worst of all they are the people from the districts—the rich ones. The politicians. The ones who act like this does not affect them.
I entertain who they tell me to and I let them take what they want how they want it when they want it. I can't say no or suggest anything else or do what is not asked of me. Sometimes nothing is asked of me. Sometimes everything is asked of me. If I do not there are consequences. I have learned that the hard way. I have learned a lot in the past months.
I learned to hate myself and other people. I learned how to pretend pretend pretend and I learned how to make myself smile when I really want to cry. I learned winning is not worth it. I learned there are terrible people out there. I learned there is a chance you may not
No. I do not want to write it. If I do that means it's real and it means I'm doubting. I'm not. All that I do is for that one thing. That one thing I know is true. It is the only thing I am certain of. The only thing that
I heard you have been released from the hospital and your tour will begin in a few weeks. I will be back in Four by the time you get there. Meet me at the beach the first night. I know you've always wanted to see it and there is nothing more beautiful than the stars and the surf and the way the moonlight turns the water silver
Crossed out multiple times like he is not sure he wants to leave it there is except for you and it is the first time Massie has read a compliment in these letters and has not wanted to gag in disgust. She runs her fingers over the words, feels the indent of the pen, feels him writing them. She reads between the lines.
He does not say it and he has not said it in many, many letters. Not since something has happened to him that is out of his control. Not since something broke him into submission. There is a probing at her brain that tells her she knows what it is, has seen it before, but she cannot grasp the thought. She grasps his other meaning though, sees it in the way he tried to hide it from her, from himself maybe. From other prying eyes.
Except for you reads as I love you even after all the shit he's been through. They took what they could but they could not take this.
Whoever wrote these wants her to believe he cares past the horrors of his own life. Wants her to believe he's holding on to her like a lifeline.
Massie drops the paper, digging her nails into her thighs, trying to pull herself out of the storm of confusion the letters brew within her. She feels the breaking of skin but still that confusion stays within her, heart warring with her mind.
She knows but she doesn't.
She knows but she doesn't.
She knows.
She doesn't.
She knows.
It is getting harder to find reason not to believe the words she reads. It is the sincerity in which they are written. It is how conversational they are, like they are things he wants to tell her. Sometimes inconsequential, sometimes important, though they are not too detailed. She is to be trusted. She is trusted. They seem like… they seem like they are just thoughts he wants her to know because he knows they will meet again and he can tell her everything in full. They seem like their future is already certain and she is in his and he in hers.
With her nails in her legs and blood staining her fingertips, she sees her reflection in the bath water. A face bloodied with deep cuts at the corners of her mouth, red dripping all over her. She brings a hand to touch at her cheeks. She does not feel scars or gashes, but she sees a different, more male finger when she looks at her hand, a small puncture wound beading scarlet. A voice brushes against the walls of her mind, a guttural sounding of her name, a startled, pained shouting of the same, and—I can't kill you.
Softer still: I can't do this without you.
In response: I won't do this without you.
Massie gasps, reaching into the tub to grab the letter she dropped into the water. Heart thundering, she is glad to see the words are still in tact and she reads and reads and reads the ending until it is seared into her mind, until the sentences are both the ones visible and the ones that are implied.
Meet me at the beach the first night. I want to see you.
There is nothing more beautiful than the stars and the surf and the way moonlight turns the water silver. It is my favorite time to be on the beach and I want to share it with you.
Except for you. I love you.
She is already thinking traitorous thoughts, thoughts she hopes a good night's sleep will fix, so she allows herself one more. No matter what happens, she thinks she will go to the beach at the time he asks and she thinks that if he were to kill her there she would not mind getting killed by him.
The thought feels familiar.
...
Her feet are mottled and red when she leaves the bathroom. Tiny crescent moons litter her thighs, already scabbing over, though the blood still stains the skin.
Cam takes one look at her and sighs. "Why do you do this?"
She watches him rub a tingly cream on her feet, between her toes, massaging lightly, and slipping warm socks over them. The material sticks and she answers, "I'm punishing myself."
"What for?" He cleans off her legs, inspecting her intently for any other sign of self-harm and finds none.
Massie is still jumbled and confused so she looks out the window as she gathers her thoughts. They are approaching One; she can tell by the increase in lights, the bustle of sound she can't really hear but knows is there, and the tall buildings that spring up as landmarks in the distance. As much as this is home she wants to turn back around and that is when she lets go.
She is still not happy she has to share her victory, still not happy she is in the dark for some reason, still not happy something is blocked but she lets one little piece of her chip away and fall.
"I am starting to believe him," she murmurs. It is as quiet as she can make it, knowing this room may have ears in it. Maybe even eyes. She swallows, looking away from the window and placing her hand in Cam's hair.
For the first time she notices the way he stiffens at her touch before relaxing, realizing it is her. It is the first time she wonders if maybe his discomfort when she gets too close or flirts with him may not be because he's known her forever and she flusters him, but she doesn't know where that thought came from.
His hair is soft though. She runs her fingers through it absently, massaging into his scalp.
He swipes his own touch along her scabs, meeting her gaze. She keeps her heart rate down as she looks into both of his eyes, forces herself to acknowledge his blue one and the overwhelming feeling it burns through her. "And that is not good for us," she tells him. "I know I am not supposed to."
Cam doesn't say anything, not when she is dropping her hand to trail her fingers along his cheekbone, cupping his jaw, analyzing the lines of his face. Her thumb prods at his lower lip, a question burning in the furrow of her brow, and she is so close to figuring something out. That disappears when he brings his own hand to capture her wrist, squeezing lightly as he says, "That depends."
"Depends on what?"
He glances from her to the corners of the room in such a fluid movement she almost misses it. "On what side you're on," he answers. "Can I see it?"
It takes longer than she would have liked to hand over the letter. It is one she does not want to part with. She thinks it's because it's the last one and there are still so many questions that remain unanswered. Cam understands this and lets her hold one side of the paper as he holds the other, reading as quickly as he can.
There is a war of emotions dancing across his face. She wonders if he can read between the lines like she can, if he sees the words she sees—ones that aren't really there.
He says something like I need to get off this train under his breath and then, to her, "What do you remember?"
She is the most honest she's ever been when she replies, "All of it and none of it."
"Ask me one question," Cam orders.
"One?"
"One." Cam looks around again, face pinched, and scoots closer to her. If anyone is watching them they'll think they'll going against her father's orders from the other day. Is that—she thinks it might be deliberate on his part. And maybe hers, subconsciously, because there is no other reason why she would be so touchy with him. "Make it count," he murmurs.
He closes his eyes when she runs her fingers through his hair again, leaning into her hand, and Massie thinks.
She thinks and she thinks and the one thing that she really truly does not understand flings itself to the forefront of her mind.
"Did he kill Ripple?"
She remembers Ripple was twelve, very good at first aid, and uncommonly kind. She was tiny and toned and Dune Baxter's sister. The letters mention her a lot for someone who orchestrated her murder without a care, but Massie has these… these flashbacks that negate that. When she thinks about Ripple, Derrick from Four is always there: at her side, braiding her hair, feeding her fruit, watching out of the corner of his eye, killing someone for getting too close. All of this is in her brain, covered by a fog, and she does not know if she is making it up because she wants to believe the boy in the letters is the boy in real life.
Cam's eyes are clean when he opens them again and his voice is sure when he says, "No."
Massie's hands shake. He slips his fingers between hers and squeezes.
"What is real and what isn't?" she asks.
"I can't answer that," says Cam.
Read between the lines.
Listen.
She nods. "I'll have to go," she tells him, tapping the letter.
"You will," he agrees, "but that is a while from now. Remember that the first stop is the Capitol. Remember what they expect from you."
Remember what Myner expects from you.
What he wants is proof she is not the person he thinks she is. The person he thinks she could be. That's why these letters are here. And it's working: Massie is not sure they are fake. Not anymore.
Doesn't know what's fake and what isn't. Not really.
"And if I am not want they expect?" she asks hoarsely.
"That's the thing, Massie. You can choose," Cam answers. "Decide who you want to be. What you want to know. What you want to believe. No one else can make those decisions for you."
She clenches the letter in her hand, somehow gathering strength from it. "What if I make the wrong choice?"
"You will still have me and your dad. You will always have two people in your corner. Three," he adds, squeezing her fist, "if you want to allow yourself that."
Massie blinks. "What do you know?"
He smiles a bit, sad and small, and says, "Read the letters again. Myner will be looking for any faults—you'll need to convince him. The train pulls into One tomorrow."
...
She doesn't read them again.
She doesn't have to.
The proud part of her is embarrassed, but the other part, the one that knows more, the one that shields her, has memorized every word. And when she sleeps—
When she sleeps, the wall drops, just a bit, and she allows herself to remember.
...
There is blood behind her ear, sticky and warm. She feels it gather there, but she ignores it; her hands are full of double-edged spear. She grits her teeth and goes to throw it again, unhappy with her recent performance, but is stopped.
"Be careful," Derrick Harrington says, "those dual-ended spears are vicious." He has the audacity to bring his fingers close to her face, pressing the pads against the wound she's inflicted on herself, almost as if she's not two seconds away from gutting him. "Sorry." He isn't. "May I?"
She blinks. Doesn't answer.
Derrick smirks, attractive and intriguing, and tells her, "You've nicked the skin here. How'd you get this thing back there?"
It's the first word out of her mouth: "Talent." It sounds stupid.
He sighs fondly and murmurs, "Come on." He only hesitates for a brief moment before wrapping his hand around her wrist. "Ripple's really good at first aid."
"That must come in handy," Massie shoots back. She doesn't know why she's following him. He's kind of irritating, the way he's always just around, in her periphery, in the spot next to her, down the hallway. "You're very clumsy."
"Is that so?" Derrick whispers. She doesn't remember him being that close. She tries to ignore it, the way the rumble of his voice sends shivers down her spine, and trips over her own two feet. "Looks like you're the clumsy one here, Block."
"I am not clumsy," Massie snaps, unintentionally tightening her fingers around his. "It's just—"
"You're too close to me?" the boy suggests, a purr in her ear.
Massie stumbles again.
His laughter warms her blood, has her gritting her teeth… has her leaning into him—and not because she's interested, god no, but because she's falling over.
"If you wanted me to hold you," Derrick says, "all you had to do was ask. This is a bit much."
She slaps against his chest, rolling her eyes. "As if I would ever want—"
Derrick's grin is large and infectious. Massie finds herself mirroring him, unsure as to why, because her training has been paused, and if she is managing to injure herself, she is not as prepared as she'd hoped. "Looks like you do, though," he replies, breath ghosting over her cheek. When had he bent down?
"I tripped once," she argues.
"Twice," he shoots back, shifting his grip. She is pressed against his chest now.
"It's the blood loss," she responds airily.
He snorts. "Blood loss?" he echoes, laughing. "You have a tiny scrape."
"And yet you are so concerned you are having your partner check me out because she's good at first aid," Massie retorts, wrinkling her nose.
Derrick brings his hand to her face again, curling his fingers around her jaw. She feels him against her tiny scrape, as he calls it, and feels him hot against her chest. They're standing too close for comfort in the training room, surrounded by allies and enemies alike, but she can't… she can't stop looking at him. At the sharp lines of his cheekbones, at the gold sparkling in his eyes, at the unruly curls plastered to his forehead with sweat.
"Oh, believe me," he whispers huskily, and she wonders if he cares as much as she does that they have eyes on them, "she's not the one checking you out." He grins, teeth sparkling and face alluring. "At least," he adds, a finger reaching out to trace the shape of her mouth, "not the way I am."
Massie shivers before she shoves him away, taking great care not to fumble as she crosses the room to Ripple, who she allows to clean her up, ignoring the preteen's questions and giggling.
Seemingly unaffected and still in view, Derrick has no issue with the spear she struggled with, throwing it straight through a dummy's head.
...
It is small, the memory, but more important, it is not something they can change. Not something that can be altered. No one alive has ever seen it, just Massie and Derrick from Four, and her mind…
Her mind has been confused about the Games, nothing else. Everyone has seen those, everyone from the Capitol to Twelve; they know everything she's done. Have seen everything she's done. But no one has been given the privilege to see the behind the scenes of tribute training, not the Gamemakers, not the sponsors. Everything the world knows about them starts after the individual scores reveal.
(Massie, twelve. Derrick, twelve. Twelve twelve twelve.)
So this, this one thing that pricked and prodded and forced itself to center stage—it is fact; it is true; it has not been tainted. It gives off the same realness Cam's answer had—did he kill Ripple? No—and Massie feels something in her cling to it. To the feel of this boy's touch, to the sparkle of his smile, to the way her heart had raced, had skipped beats when he got too close.
She chugs a glass of water, standing in her bathroom, and when she awakes again, early in the morning as the train slows into the stop at District One, she remembers only pieces of her second dream.
What she mulls over, ignoring the crowds of fans, friends (not really, no one was as good or as bad a friend to her as Kemp), and family (her father's and mother's alike), is the dark of the arena, the shout of that boy's name—DERRICK!—and the thud of his feet as he runs to get his trident, which, for some reason, is hidden deep in the forest.
She shakes the hand of their mayor, another of President Myner's—and subsequently, her father's—friends, and gnaws at her lower lip as images of Ripple's body, pinned to the ground with blades Massie recalls Landon of Two favoring, replaces the sparkling pavement of the streets.
The roar of her district is drowned out by the shrieking of that twelve year old as a sharper, more cared for spear is shoved in and out of her chest, her stomach, her thigh, her shoulder.
Massie knows, so very certainly, that Ripple Baxter died slowly. Carefully. Deliberately.
She knows, not as certainly, that Landon of Two did it to destroy Derrick of Four.
She knows, but doesn't really, that if given the chance, Landon of Two would have killed Derrick of Four that same night. He was not given the opportunity.
She knows, just as certainly as she knows Ripple suffered, that Derrick used the trident he'd hidden to end Landon's life, a small act of revenge for brutally murdering a twelve year old girl… A twelve year old girl that never should have been there.
When Massie is settled in her own bedroom, so many months after leaving it for what she thought would be the last time, she pulls out her own stationary, spritzed with jasmine and vanilla. She does not date it, sign it, or address it, merely slips it into Cam's palm and says, "Make sure this gets to where I need it to go."
He nods, already knowing the location without her telling him, and exits the room when it makes the most sense. She wonders how he will do it.
She wonders, as well, if the four words written in her delicate hand are enough.
...
The letter, when it gets to Four, reads:
Whatever happened to Missy?
...
Presently, Massie is trying hard not to regret that letter, trying hard to ignore the memories—are those what those are?—that plague her, day in and day out, and can't keep Cam and her father out of her room any longer.
The Tour starts in a few weeks, and even though she seems to now understand the urgency of cultivating herself into something less… her, she does not want to do it. Does not want to lose her strength, and her ferocity. If she is anything else, she is—
"It is not weak," Cam emphasizes for the hundredth time. An exaggeration, but Massie feels they have this conversation once every five minutes. "There is really no need to be so defensive at every turn!"
"It's not defensive," William puts in (un)helpfully. "It's offensive. She's trying to rip your head off and all you did was ask how she's enjoyed her time in your district."
Massie sighs, crossing her legs at the knee. "I'm sorry," she snaps, "but there is no way I can even pretend to enjoy my imaginary visit to Nine. I hate Nine."
"You've never been there!" Cam bites out. "How can you hate a place you've never been?"
"Easy," Massie replies. "It's not One, therefore I don't like it."
William arches a brow, all long and elegant, sprawled out on the leather chaise in her bedroom. He says the next thing so carelessly Massie has to believe he's rid their home—because she hasn't moved into her own yet, and probably never will—of bugs years ago. Or perhaps they never had any, being so close to the president. "And yet you stared at Four as we passed it with such…" He chooses this word deliberately. "Longing."
"I like the ocean." Massie shrugs.
"You've never seen that either," Cam retorts.
"Fine," she concedes, "I like the thought of the ocean. It seems… seems tranquil."
"Tranquil," Cam echoes. "What do you know about tranquility?"
"The ocean is the complete opposite of tranquil," her father adds. "Where did you even learn about the ocean?"
She is silent.
Cam says, "The letters."
"You told me it was nice there, too," she snaps.
"Yeah, but I've been there plenty of times to make that assertion. You just—agreed."
"Would you lie to me about the ocean?"
"No, but those letters might."
Massie shakes her head. "No," she says, certain of this as she's been certain of nothing else. "He wouldn't lie about that."
"Hm." William hums. "How do you figure that?"
"I just… I just know."
It sounds flimsy, she is aware, but it is the truth. There are only a few letters she is willing to admit are one hundred percent true: the one where he talks about the price of his trident, the one where he talks about sitting in the ocean, and the one where he asks her to meet him at the beach. She guesses she can say the one about her mother's death is also true, but she doesn't like that one, or the knowledge that her mother is dead, so she ignores it.
William stares at her, not impressed, and she feels the need to explain herself. "I wouldn't lie about One to anyone, even if I hated them, or was trying to do whatever he is trying to do to me," she says. "So I believe that he would not lie about his home, either. I don't care what his motives are in doing so. I believe the ocean is nice, and peaceful, and I would like to see it someday, I think."
"And you'll get to," her father replies, "once you listen to our advice and make yourself more likable."
"I am likable enough as it is!"
Cam snorts. "The only people that want to hang around you are me, him, and Jakkob. Not even our annoying escort wants to be near you. She wasn't even on the train ride back here."
Massie blinks. She hadn't even noticed. Is that bad of her?
"Kemp liked me," she mumbles. The thought of him makes her heart hurt. Saying his name has jolts of guilt spreading throughout her body.
"Kemp liked the—" Cam starts, ready to win this argument, but her father's clearing of his throat gives him pause. He flicks his gaze to him, swallows, and says, quieter, "He did, but even he'd say you are being a bit much. He probably… he probably wouldn't even recognize you right now, to be honest."
"What do you mean?"
"He means you are being a right brat," William says, no sugar-coating here. "Entitled and pretentious and unwilling to listen. We're trying to help you, or do you want the world to like that boy from Four more than you? Have you forgotten the importance of this Tour? He has strength and time on his side. The world already knows him and the world already loves him."
Massie thinks of the annoying magazine articles about him, and his "dreamy" eyes, and his "sex god" hair, and his "killer" smile, and wants to die.
"It is a competition, Massie," he continues, even though she is half listening. "It is a test. You know it, you've said it: two never come out. Two did, this time, and you need to make sure it was worth it. They may have liked both of you in that arena, but there is no saying if they'll like both of you out of it." William pushes himself up, pressing his elbows to his knees as he gazes at her. "Cole is testing you on two fronts: did you do what you did out of genuine care and love for that boy and can you make the Capitol love two new Victors at the same time?"
Cam shoots her father a look, startled and stern, but Massie doesn't see it. Doesn't even hear most of that speech. What she does, though, is the end.
"The Capitol loves all of their Victors at the same time," she says. "They love you, and Cam, and they loved Mom, and they go crazy over Alicia Rivera and Kristen Gregory—"
"We made ourselves useful. We made them believe they needed us, wanted us, loved us. In their eyes, we are worthy because of all the things we do for them." William holds her gaze, like he is trying to explain the meaning of life to her, not allowing her to look away or even blink, it seems. "When there is one Victor, they hone in on that one. That is where your talent comes into play. They want whatever you can give them. When there are two Victors vying for attention and trying to prove themselves… do you really believe they will not pick one over the other?"
Massie licks her lips, suddenly dry.
Cam just has to add, "And they cannot get enough of him there. He is incredibly—"
"I know how attractive he is!" Massie shouts at him.
"I was going to say charming," Cam returns with a chuckle, "but attractive works, too, I guess. Nice you know you think the same."
"I'd be blind not to." She sniffs. "I am not too proud to admit it."
Even William bobs his head in agreement. "He is a remarkably pretty boy." He cuts a glance at Cam. "Kind of like you."
Cam grimaces.
Massie mistakes his discomfort for annoyance and opens her mouth to tell him he's, in fact, prettier, but she can't get the words out, even if she sees them on the tip of her tongue. A part of her knows that even if it is the truth, she, herself, would be lying by telling him that. For all she flirts and annoys and teases Cam, she finds Derrick from Four more attractive than him… and that makes her skin crawl.
"Fine," she snaps instead. "I will be more… how is it you want me to act?"
"Nice," supplies Cam.
"Preferably the same but without the animosity," suggests her father.
"Relatable," adds Cam. "More emotional. Maybe less inclined to scoff at bouts of crying."
"Most importantly," outlines William, "willing to discuss Four, share a victory with Four, even talk about Four positively."
Massie feels herself frown.
...
She looks over the many speeches her father and Cam have prepped for her. It is of the utmost importance she does not deviate from any of these, no matter the circumstance, but, most especially, it is important she memorizes this first one, the one she will read at the Capitol during the party President Myner is throwing in her honor the next day.
It is a mixture of careful words about Derrick Harrington, her time in the arena, her gratitude towards her sponsors and fans. She will be everything they want her to be if she can just manage to keep a straight face for fifteen minutes, and she can, she will, if it means ensuring she does not fade to the background.
And she will read this. She will make sure to emphasize the right words. Smile at the right time. Will keep the shudder from her spine. She will not be rude; she will not brag. She will be kind, charismatic, and on her best behavior.
It's just… she's confused. Not like that is anything new these days, but she cannot be confused if she's going to stand in front of her president, and the Capitol, and everyone who watched, and rooted, and bet for her (and against her). She needs to be of a right mind, needs to have herself sorted before she heads over there, and she is… she's running out of time.
Massie tosses the speech to the side, reaches for one of the many letters she's finally finished reading. Her eyes scan those slanted words, but she does not see them, does not grasp their meaning. They could have said anything, they do say anything, and how is she to trust what they mean when she has her own words that mean the same, if not less?
She throws her blankets off her legs and gets to her feet. Her oversized shirt falls to her thighs; she trips over her too long pant legs. She shuffles out of her room and down the hall, to where Cam has been staying, and does not bother to knock before she slips in.
It is then, with the moonlight strong against the sharp planes of Cam's face as he sleeps, that Massie realizes just how late it is.
That doesn't mean she's going to turn around, though.
She slips into the bed beside him, jostling the mattress enough to wake him, and stares at him until he opens his eyes.
He does not seem too surprised she is there, blinking tiredly at her. "I feel William will hate this if he walks in."
"Does he often walk into your room in the dead of night?"
"No," says Cam, "but it seems you do."
"One time only, darling," Massie replies. "Don't get used to it."
"I would never get used to such a thing," he replies around a yawn. "It's hard to believe you are here to cuddle, so—what do you want?"
Massie gasps a little, faux-outraged, and wraps her arms around his chest, burrowing into him. Cam follows her motions, embracing her, and rests his head against hers. "Start talking," he orders, "or I may fall back asleep."
"Can you tell me another truth?" she asks, voice small, muffled by him and a pillow.
She knows his words will make the most sense. Will tell her the full truth. Words written on paper will not. Cam… Cam has never lied to her, not once. She trusts he will make her understand. Will help her with a speech she doesn't believe in and a Games she is constantly confused about.
"You'll have to ask it," he tells her.
It is easy to. "Why does my kissing Derrick matter so much to everyone? Why do I have to prove it meant nothing?"
Cam's chest rises and falls slowly. His heart is calm beneath her ear. She is warm, wrapped up in him. She wonders if he can feel how nervous this inquiry makes her.
"Because," Cam says, after several moments of careful silence, "it didn't."
"Didn't what?"
She doesn't know why she asks this. She seems to already know the answer. It is prodding and clawing at the back of her mind, insistent, like listen listen listen, even though it doesn't make sense.
(But it does. It does it does it does. She just won't listen—listen, Massie!)
He yawns, smacking his lips together in an effort to stay awake. His voice is slurred as he replies, "Mean nothing."
"What do you mean by nothing?" she whispers, hoping he doesn't take this as yet another question.
He is too tired to acknowledge her prying, or maybe he doesn't care. Massie fists the back of his shirt. "Whatever you remember about the kiss is wrong," he mumbles. She has to strain to hear him correctly, his words trailing into each other, hardly enunciated correctly. "You wanted to do it, so you did. You didn't do it to try to kill him or to confuse him. If that were the case, you wouldn't have done it so many times."
"So many times?"
Cam tightens his arms around her as she shivers, overwhelmed by his response. She knows he's telling the truth; even if she were worried he wouldn't—and she isn't, she knows him—sleepy Cam cannot create a lie to save his life. That's why she is here now, and not waiting until the morning, where he is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with her father in his corner.
"Think about it, Massie," he says, and she can hear him falling back to sleep. This is the end of the information she now so desperately craves. There is no way she can wake him again for more. "Why would Myner be so insistent you prove you do not have feelings for him if you didn't already have them?"
"But I don't," she whispers, more to herself than him.
Every time she thinks about Derrick Harrington, this angry warmth spreads through her veins and nausea takes over her stomach. The very thought of him makes her ill. Annoys her. He takes over her every thought process and riles her so much she sometimes cannot stop to focus on anything other than him—
…if you did not already have them…
Cam snuffles against her, burying his head in her neck, and Massie lets him, carding her fingers through his hair.
…if you did not already have them…
"I don't," she mouths, looking out the window, at the moonlight, and the clouds slowly crossing the sky.
She doesn't.
She does not.
She does not.
And yet—
Is there a chance the angry warmth is… is affection? Is the nausea in her stomach—are those butterflies? Does she not think about anything but him because she wants to? Because she likes the curve of his smile, and the wave of his hair, and the gold flecks in his eyes? Did she get so mad at those girls touching him (on television, in magazines) because she wants to be the one doing it? Because she has done it, and he is not theirs, but hers?
Is there something here she is not seeing?
Is it important she sees it now? Should she have capped a lid on her thoughts? Should she have asked a different question? Can she make it through the Capitol's party knowing what she knows now? Does she know anything now? Will this doubt affect her, her speech, her performance?
She stays only a few minutes more, ensuring Cam is deep asleep, and slips from the room, heart thundering, hands shaking.
You wanted to do it, so you did.
You wouldn't have done it so many times.
Massie spends the rest of the night memorizing her speech until she can give it backwards, forwards, and sideways. Until she can say the words without a shaky voice. Until the indifference is more truth than anything else she knows. When she gives this speech in front of everyone else, she will mean every word of it. She will pass every test. She will prove to Myner and the Capitol and the districts and everyone else watching that she did not do anything because she has feelings for Derrick Harrington.
Because she does not.
She does not have feelings.
None.
Not for him.
And even if she does, they are negative ones, like… like annoyance, and irritation, and anger, and everything else that fits under that umbrella.
They pop in her head like a mantra. She holds them close, dispelling that small seed of uncertainty. Now is not the time to fall deeper into the uncertainty she's been slowly wading through. Not now, not ever.
Annoyance.
Irritation.
Anger.
Annoyance.
Irritation.
Anger.
Annoyance.
Irritation.
Attraction.
...
Massie's fingers twitch as she pulls the stack of letters closer to her.
Massie's fingers twitch as she runs them across the words on the papers. She can feel some of the emotion this boy was feeling as he wrote just by how hard he pressed his pen down.
Massie's fingers twitch as she reads them, combing through the notes with a fine-picked comb, Cam's voice running through her brain. Her mother's voice running through her brain.
Listen.
Think about it, Massie.
Massie's fingers twitch as she reads them a second time, a third time, a fourth time, a fifth time—
Read between the lines.
Because it didn't.
...
"Don't you want to know what I was thinking about that made me forget about my leg?"
"No."
"It was you. I was thinking about you, and how happy I am that you aren't dead. There was a cannon earlier, and—"
"That was the girl from Seven. I killed her because she didn't know where you were and she was useless to me."
"You… I thought—you were looking for me?"
"Obviously. You think I'd look for someone else?"
"Massie."
"Yes."
"Look at me."
"Oh."
"Why?"
"I don't want you to die."
"Massie."
His mouth is hot against hers, soft and familiar, even though she's never kissed it before. Her cheeks are wet with tears, and she knows this is from her fear of his death, though she is not sure why; death is her only truth here. The only thing that is real.
Her heart races wildly; her teeth dig into the plump flesh of his bottom lip; she is warm all over, wants her hands in his hair, on his face, on his chest. Wants to be close, close, close, wants him to touch, touch, touch—
Don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me, her mouth seems to say, just not using any words.
I won't, his promises back. I love you I love you I love you.
She gasps, tinny and small and submissive, lets her hover over him, lets him flip them over, lets him run his tongue down her jaw, her neck. Lets his teeth bite her collarbone, lets him smack a loud kiss there, lets him claim her.
"Please," she begs, digging her fingers into this hair. Tugging tugging tugging. He groans, licking against the skin that meets the neck of her bodysuit. She feels him drag his teeth there, a tiny nip, and she swallows roughly, shivering.
"We can't," he mumbles, though his actions speak otherwise, "not here. Not when—"
"I don't care," she breathes, "please. Please, Derrick—"
He growls at the way she says his name, breathless and pleading and full of want, but does not give her what she wishes for.
...
Massie gasps, shooting straight up, her face flushed, her body aching.
"Shit," she curses, pulling her blanket tight around her shoulders.
You wanted to do it, so you did.
It appears she wanted to do more than kiss him. Wanted it so much she didn't care that they were A) in a fight to the fucking death, and B) being filmed at every angle.
"Shit, shit, shit."
Because it didn't. Didn't what? Mean nothing.
...
Derrick, do you love me?
...
The morning of the start of her Tour, Massie pours herself a cup of coffee, drops a spoonful of sugar into it, stirs stirs stirs.
Across from her, Cam is munching on a piece of toast. Her father skims the paper. They try to act as casual and calm as possible, but she knows they are as nervous as she is, though she refuses to admit it. If she does not say it out loud, she is nothing but relaxed, ready to lie to her entire country, ready to be someone she is now not sure she really is.
She watches them chew and drink, read and hum, and decides to wait until their mouths are full to say, "How long do you think the Capitol can suppress my memories for?"
Despite the meaning behind the question, despite the horrors and (no doubt) treason she committed to even have the doctors fuck with her mind the way they did, despite the unadulterated fear she knows she should be feeling, seeing Cam and William choke is just as amusing as she hoped it would be.
...
"So I didn't dream that?"
"Dream what?"
"I slipped into his bed and made him tell me why my kissing Derrick was such a big deal. I knew he wouldn't be able to get out of it because he'd be half-asleep."
"You did what?"
"I'm sorry! I didn't—I was asleep!"
"Evidently not!"
"She was bound to find out anyway," Cam snips, stabbing at his now cold breakfast. "Don't tell me you thought Myner wouldn't test her at his mansion."
William clenches his jaw, says nothing.
"No," Cam laughs. "You thought she'd be fine? Dude, my connections tell me that—"
"Your connections could by lying," interrupts William, because, like Massie, when he doesn't want to know something, he doesn't want to know, and he will do everything he can to ensure he does not.
Cam's voice is a sensual sing-song when he replies, "They never lie to me. That's what makes them so beneficial."
"Yeah, yeah," William snaps, "the Capitol loves you. I get it."
"And they fear you," Cam returns. "It is a nice balancing act we have here."
There is a brief moment of silence, both men trying to dominate over the other as they glare, and Massie decides, despite her every nerve telling her to interject, to chew slowly on a piece of melon as it all unravels.
Her father concedes first, vein in his neck throbbing. "What do your connections"—he says this word with no concealed hatred—"have to say about Massie's Tour?"
"He's been hinting at having her watch her Games if she messes up."
"Has he mentioned what he will consider a 'mess up'?"
"No," Cam admits. "He's kept that under lock and key, apparently, but it makes me want to go over her speech, just to be on the safe side—"
Massie rolls her eyes and says, "Why does it matter? I can watch my Games. That's fine."
"No, Massie." William glances at Cam. "You can't."
"What do you mean I can't?" she demands. "I've seen them before. I've lived them before. There's nothing there that will make me second guess myself. It's just the letters."
"You're right," her father says to Cam. "You're right. It was the letters first. And then it would be the Games. A test, not only for her, but also for his medical staff—"
"That's not the only thing they've heard," Cam continues sheepishly, "but I am sure you can guess what it is."
William breathes deep, like he already knows, and cracks his knuckles. "One thing at a time, Cameron."
"You know I'd rather you call me Cam."
"One thing at a time, son," William snaps.
Cam flinches, the tone of voice the older man used having rattled him to his core. He drops his gaze quickly, watching his plate intently. He follows Massie's lead and furiously eats the fruits on his plate, refusing to look up until necessary. They don't call her father the King for nothing, she guesses; he can command even the two of them.
William eyes Cam for a second longer, a frown pulling at his mouth, and turns his disapproving gaze on Massie. "You are incorrect," he tells her, and he is trying so hard to act like an adult who has it all together, a parent who knows best, that Massie lets him talk down to her. "You haven't seen them before."
"What?" she asks. "Of course I have. I had a Recap and everything."
Cam tilts his head to look at her, still chewing, and frowns when Massie opens and closes her mouth like a fish out of water. Before William can say anything else, he blurts, "What do you remember?"
"Most of it," she answers. "What happened to me, obviously, but not the whole thing in its entirety."
"Tell us," he orders, though it comes out as a suggestion—nice and open and encouraging.
"I'd really rather not." The memories flood her and she winces, her heart not quite prepared to become cozy with them once more. She knows she has to, but that's for a few weeks from now, when she starts from the bottom up, beginning her Tour in Twelve after this nonsensical kick-off party at Myner's mansion.
It also begs the question why she has these memories of Derrick that make her skin heat up and her core ache when he killed Kemp right there in front of her. For some reason, her body loves him—Derrick, not Kemp—but she knows, knows with certainty, that he is an asshole, and a traitor, and he murdered the one person Massie did actually have legitimate feelings for.
Is it possible to be in love with the way a person kisses?
Is it possible, someone whispers in her mind, someone she thinks she knows but can't quite place, that you're being lied to?
Lied. She holds onto the word. Probes it. Defines it in every possible way she can.
Who could lie to her?
Who would lie to her?
How could they confuse her like this?
Think about it, that same voice says.
Think about it? Think about what?
Despite her lack of understanding, her mind starts going down a winding path, a hunt, if you will, and when she thinks it has hit a light at the end of the tunnel, a memory that could change everything, she hits a roadblock. Whoever is leading the charge inside her slams against this partition, over and over, kicking and punching and trying to break—
It doesn't work.
Massie flinches each and every time they try to tear that wall down, whoever they are—it's her, isn't it? It hurts, which is weird, mental things aren't supposed to physically hurt, are they? She thinks not. She thinks a lot, actually, and she's stuck trying to see what's been hidden from her so carefully, so strongly, that she doesn't realize the iron grip she has on her knife until her father starts to coax it from her hand.
Cam is peering at her strangely when she focuses back on the breakfast table, her back ramrod straight and her skin feeling oddly slimy. She drops the knife to the plate, pushes both away, and curls into as much of a ball as she can in her chair.
"What happened?" he asks.
"I don't know," Massie admits, voice muffled by her knees. "I don't know much of anything, it seems."
William asks her to share, if she's willing, and she's not, not really, but her mouth opens anyway. She tells them about the whole thing. Tells them what she remembers of her Games, tells them how she sees and feels things that don't make sense because they never happened to her, tells them about the flashes of tributes she sometimes glimpses in the corner of her eye, the corner of rooms, and she tells them about how easily she tires when she starts thinking. About her Games. About these letters. About herself. About anything.
Even now, explaining all this… she's exhausted and she knows she can't blame it on anything that happened last night. It's a different kind of tired she feels, like her brain's flipped a sign on its door that says CLOSED FOR THE WINTER and she is just allowing it.
She doesn't see the panicked look Cam and William share.
She doesn't hear the whispers that normally irritate her.
She doesn't feel the hand Cam lays on hers.
She doesn't, doesn't, doesn't.
And when William breaks through the silence that seems to have crushed them for seconds, minutes, maybe hours, she doesn't acknowledge that, either. She's too busy drifting away, her brain locking the door, shutting the lights, and slipping out, taking a vacation when it shouldn't.
...
The spray of the water is hot and harsh. It feels like it is burning right through Massie, droplets shooting through her skin, her veins, her muscles, her bones, like bullets. She kicks a foot out, startled, and doesn't like how her hands feel bound behind her, doesn't like this feeling of hard rope digging into her flesh, rubbing against her thumb. Maybe if she breaks it—
"Stop."
"Get it off," Massie screeches. "Get it off get it off get it off."
"There's nothing there."
"Of course there's something—"
She blinks at the hands that wrap themselves around hers, long, pale fingers that trace their way from her palms to her wrists to her elbows. She watches, and watches, and watches. These hands do this several times before her heart slows. Cam does this several times before her heart slows.
Massie flicks her gaze up at him, still avoiding that blue eye, and breathes, long and measured, from her mouth.
"See?" he offers, still massaging her arms. "There's nothing there. You're okay."
She is not okay, actually. She's sopping wet, but so is he, and her hair is sticking to her, clinging to her neck like someone is… like someone—
Cam shoots forward and that scares her, too, just a bit, and her back slams against the side of the tub. He murmurs sorry but doesn't move, pulling at her hair. The hair that wrapped itself around her throat, the hair that was starting to make her feel like she couldn't breathe.
He wraps it into a knot, the strands so heavy with water it stays without a tie. His hand is the same, lingering at her throat, fingers lighter than the palm that cradles the back of her neck. He is too close again, tooclosetooclosetooclose, but Massie presses her hand to his heart, listens to it beat, calm and steady, and then drops her forehead to his shoulder.
She has always liked him best. He is nice, and he cares, even though he's sometimes too flirty for his own good. Sometimes too touchy and unaware of boundaries until he is reminded. Sometimes sad, and haunted, but never letting it show more than in the lines of his face and the color in his eyes. She was surprised when he fought Fawn to be her mentor—if there are enough mentors, and there are in One, normally it is split by gender—but she is irrevocably grateful he saw something in her when she and Kemp were chosen last year. She doesn't imagine Fawn would sit with her in a shower after she's had a—what is this that she's had?
(Also, but not as important right now: where is Fawn?)
Her voice is rough, like she hasn't used it for anything other than screaming when she asks, "Why am I in here?"
"You…" His breath is warm against the cold of her wet hair at her ear. "You went away for a bit, I guess. You were—tired."
She swallows. "Right. Did I… I told you, then, what I've been feeling?"
Cam is silent for a moment too long. She knows. He doesn't have to answer to tell her that yes she's finally admitted to not being alright.
"You could have told me," is what he opts to say. He brushes soft, tiny touches along the skin of her throat. She shudders, the feeling somehow both comforting and yet entirely terrifying, trapping. He stops. "I don't… I told you—you shouldn't have to go through that alone." There is a hitch in his breath, a stutter in his heartbeat that reads not like I did.
Massie presses her nose deeper into the fabric of his shirt. "Mentors aren't supposed to—"
"I'd like to think we're friends, Massie," Cam interjects. "But if you don't, mentoring doesn't stop until your Tour ends, so you're going to have to tell me if you're overwhelmed or tired or whatever it is you're feeling. You're going to have to be honest with me—"
"I'm sorry," she says, because she can hear the hurt surging through him, can feel the way he cringed away from the word mentors. She backtracks quickly, even though trying to save face here is making her tired again. She should tell him that soon. "I just… I never really had friends," she admits, and that sounds so dumb and sad for someone like her—someone charming and funny and pretty, but it's the truth. "I think we're friends. I don't know why you'd want to be my friend, but… but if you do, that is okay with me."
"Good," returns Cam, "because like it or not, we've been friends since they chose you to volunteer."
Massie yawns. "That's a long time for me not to know I had a friend."
"Should I have sent you a gift in the arena that said 'surprise we're friends!'?"
"Probably," Massie answers. "I listen a lot better under pressure."
"Massie—"
"Cam, I'm tired."
"Okay," he says. "You know you don't have a lot of time to rest, right? We have to leave for the Capitol in a few hours and your prep team will start their process here and finish it on the train."
Massie nods.
She feels Cam turn the water off, then hoist himself out of the tub. Her pajamas cling to her, so wet and uncomfortable, her socks full of water at the toes. He tells her to lift her arms and she does, and then she is being carried to her bedroom, where he hesitates in placing her on her bed.
"Doesn't matter," she mumbles. "Won't be using it for a while."
He drops her there, busies himself with making sure her hair doesn't settle on her neck, and then turns to leave after he's tucked her in, wrapping her in the blanket at the edge of her mattress.
She is on the brink of unconsciousness, has been this whole time really, but it's right there, when she hears him talk to her father, probably at her doorway.
"She's going to mess up," Cam says softly. It sounds like he's screaming. Massie wills sleep to take her faster, but it pauses, like it's listening, too.
"Don't talk to me like that," William snips.
"I'm not talking to you like anything. I'm just stating a fact."
William sighs. "You sound like you're blaming me for this."
"You did ask for it," Cam replies, voice neutral, "did you not?"
"I asked for her to be spared."
"You asked for alterations," bites back Cam. "And alterations you got. But at what cost, Will? Is this worth it?"
"She's not dead, so of course it is." Her father is struggling to keep his voice low.
Please please please, Massie begs Sleep.
It stays where it is.
Stays where it is and orders, Listen.
"She's not dead, but she's like this," Cam articulates. "And she's kept it from both of us, so we don't know how long she's been walking around like half a fucking person."
"Probably the whole time," William offers. "If not then, then after she started reading and believing the letters. I believe they may have kept some sort of affection for the boy in her so she would be walking two roads at the same time. Confusion and power plays are what keep the Capitol running."
"Did you know this would happen?" Cam inquires. "When you suggested it, did you know they'd turn her to this?"
"If you are implying I am working with Cole to destroy my daughter, Cameron—"
"You work with Cole"—Cam spits the name like it's something dirty—"an awful lot. Pardon me for merely asking."
She hears William's swallow as if he were standing over her; it's that loud. That pained. "Come on," he says, "have a drink with me. There's a lot you need to know before we get to the Capitol."
"Like?"
"I'm going to need whiskey before we get into it," William mutters.
"Ah," Cam replies. "It's that kind of talk."
"You have no idea."
"Should we prep Massie's Games for her to review?"
Her bedroom door whines as it closes. Massie strains her ears to hear the end of the conversation.
"No," William answers sadly. "She will have to watch them with Cole."
"She will fail even more if she does," Cam argues. "You can't just let—"
"I have to," William interrupts, "or else it will ruin everything."
Their footsteps recede, climb down the stairs, and it is silent once more. Massie thinks she hears cabinets opening and closing, but the kitchen is too far away for that, so she must imagine it.
Do you understand? Sleep asks her.
No, she thinks.
A soft caress allows her brain to turn off again, a darkness starting to settle in her bones. Don't worry, is the last thing Sleep says, you will soon.
When she succumbs to it in its entirety, consciousness leaving her and her mind creating dreams full of her mother, she knows who was trying to talk to her this entire time.
Kendra says to her, "Do not blame him. He was trying to protect you the only way he knew how."
"Mom," Massie chokes out, "am I the reason you're dead?"
There are fingers in her hair, brushing strands away from her face. "It was a long time coming," her mother answers. "When you go to the Capitol, I need you to be strong."
"I was never as strong as you," Massie tells her. She feels the overwhelming urge to cry and doesn't understand. "And I'm so tired."
"They will make sure you are awake the whole time," Kendra says. "And you are strong, my darling. Stronger than you think you are. Do not give an inch. Even if it hurts, even if it shocks you—face neutral, eyes blank, voice unwavering. You are more than a Block, you are my daughter."
"Yes," Massie whispers. "I am."
"We do not break, you and I," Kendra continues. "We do not bend."
Massie repeats her words like a mantra.
Kendra smiles sadly, eyes greedily taking in Massie's features: her nose, her cheeks, the dark brown of her hair, the different shades of color in her gaze. "I wish I had been given the opportunity to love you properly. I wish—"
Massie squeezes her mother's hand. "You can say it. You follow no rules now."
"Oh, honey." Kendra sniffs. "I can't, because I don't believe it. Not truly."
"Why not?"
"Because if I wished for no Games, I'd also be wishing for no you," Kendra answers. "As awful as they are, I would never get rid of something that led me to my greatest treasure." Her arms are warm around Massie, and she smells like she always did—the high-end perfume Massie knows she will demand Jakkob cover her in for her party later. "Know something, Massie."
"What is it?"
"We love you," Kendra murmurs. "Both of us. In our own ways. We are not bad people. This world has shaped us into people we would not normally be. I'm sure there is another world where we are nothing but boring, embarrassing parents you can't stand." She cups Massie's face in her palms, amber eyes meeting amber eyes. "Wouldn't that be nice?"
It's a far fetched idea, but Massie thinks she might like it. Wonders what it'd be like. She nods.
Kendra presses a kiss to her nose, like she used to when she was small, and says, "This world needs to burn, so that one can rise from its ashes."
Massie feels the pressure of that kiss for the rest of the day, even as the dream fades into nothing but an itch in the back of her mind.
