.Peeta.
I have an hour to say goodbye. There's no way I'm coming back, so I have to make it count. The problem is, I can't think of anything I have to say to the people who will be coming in to say their goodbyes to me. I don't want to waste my breath on trite sentiments. I'm more preoccupied about other things right now anyway, and I try to sit down on the luxurious couch in the room, but I'm back on my feet and pacing in a matter of seconds.
Why her? Why did it have to be her? Why, of all the little slips in that fucking ball, did it have to be Primrose Everdeen, whose name would have only been in there once? Of course Katniss volunteered. I honestly would have been shocked if she hadn't. And when I'd begun to lunge in her direction, my best friend gripped my wrist so hard that the pain brought me back to my senses, stopping me from doing something completely irrational and dangerous, like rushing over to her in a fit of panicked desperation.
Not that I'd ever told anyone about my feelings for the resilient Seam girl, but it's not like it wasn't obvious to the people closest to me. I'd too often spent a moment too long with my eyes trained on her at school, only to return my attention to the conversation at the lunch table and find a couple pairs of inquisitive, teasing eyes on me, accompanied by a knowing elbow nudge. With my friends standing around me during the reaping, all eyes had locked on me, and they'd protectively huddled closer before I could do anything stupid.
Until my name was drawn and it didn't fucking matter. It was really more of a blessing, really, because now I at least have the option of helping her get back alive.
I clench my teeth as my throat closes with the threat of tears, and when they finally begin to sting my eyes despite my efforts to keep them back, I impulsively turn and slam my fist through the wall. Fuck it. I'm about to be sent to my death, and if I don't play my cards right, I may have to watch the only person I have ever loved die as well. I can damage whatever the fuck I want right now.
I flex my fingers as the knuckles begin to bleed a little, and I shake the plaster from my hand. The mild pain is therapeutic, and it distracts me from how anxious and terrified I am for her. I'll take physical pain over emotional any day. I punch another hole in the wall, then clamp a hand over my mouth as the tears begin to flow freely.
Why the fuck did it have to be her. I can't let her die.
My family enters the room, my brothers first, followed by my parents. There really isn't much to be said. There are some rough, vise-like embraces from my brothers, a couple of subdued words of sadness from my father. And then my mother is...my mother.
"Maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. She's a survivor, that one," she says, and I don't miss the sneer in her tone. I don't disagree, but this wasn't meant as an encouragement to me or a compliment to the very girl she once called a vagrant and a Seam savage, among other vile slurs. This is a subtle form of mockery, disguised as consolation so she can get away with it while my father's present.
I exhale sharply through my nose, giving a mild roll of my eyes. I see my mother bristle and tense her arm as though she's about to rear back and slap me like she always did every time I would bat a defiant eye in her direction, but my eyes narrow and flit to the fist-shaped holes in the wall in a silent, suggestive threat, and her hand falls limp at her side. Yeah, that's right. You can't do that shit to me anymore, remember? Two can play at the uncontrollable rage game, and I'm much, much better at it. I don't have time for her disingenuous bullshit, or her pathetic attempt at getting in one last jab at me before I'm sent off to my death.
I turn to my brothers. "Get her out of here. Please," I say through clenched teeth. "I need to speak with Father alone."
My father's not a very confrontational man, and whatever animosity he senses between me and my mother, he stays out of it. I'm grateful for it. He's a more patient man than I, and way too easily exploited for his charitable nature, and I can't imagine what would happen if he intervened. She'd likely treat him with the same condescending, belittling attitude she's directed toward me, and he'd never deserve that. My brothers steer her out of the room, and she begins to resist a little, but one last glance back at me and she's subdued a little, no doubt seeing the flash of impatience in my eyes. This is not the time to be on my bad side. There is absolutely no reason for me to practice restraint anymore.
The door doesn't close soon enough. It hasn't even clicked shut when I'm rushing over to my father, bracing firm hands on either side of his shoulders as I fix him with a determined, solemn stare.
"Father, listen to me," I say quickly, and he turns inquisitive, concerned eyes on me at the urgency in my tone. "The girl that just volunteered, I...I love her." I wince at how flat and insincere it sounds, and I realize that I'm so panicked and frantic about what has to happen now, that the first time I've ever mentioned my feelings out loud, it's with little reverence or passion.
He blinks once, curiously turning his head to the side, but doesn't seem all that surprised.
I keep sincere eyes on his, and he nods once to indicate for me to continue. "You know I'm not coming back. You know that, don't you?" I press. He purses his lips and a deep crease forms in the center of his brow, and I can tell he's struggling to hold back tears, but he merely nods once more. "I'm going to do everything I can to get her back instead. When she returns to Twelve, I want you...just...let her know, okay?" My voice falters, and I cough once to mask the hitch in my voice, but there's no stopping the tears now. I force myself to continue. "She...she misses her father. She'd probably appreciate your company. Maybe visit her sometimes. I know mom wanted a daughter anyway, and I'm sure you did too. I just need her to..."
I don't finish, but he rests a light hand on my shoulder and nods, indicating that he understands. I impulsively lock my arms around his neck in a tight embrace, and his arms are just as crushing around my ribs. "She's the primary provider for her family," I breathe against his shoulder. "Make sure they don't starve."
We pull apart and he looks to the floor and nods. "You know I'd never let that happen again, anyway."
We both know he's thinking of Mrs. Everdeen. It's obvious he never got over her, and it killed him when they were clearly struggling after Mr. Everdeen died, and my father could do nothing about it, as much as he wanted to. It's a weight that constantly hangs over us, but that we never speak of aloud. And now that I'm going off to my death, we both share these secrets with one another. Our shared unrequited heartaches. It's hopelessly bittersweet.
"I'll visit the girl now, if you think...it would do any good." He looks to me questioningly, asking permission, seeking my opinion in the propriety of it.
I think about it for a second and nod, wiping tears from my cheek that have become an uncontrollable torrent at this point. "Perhaps you should. It could help to build her trust. I'll need it, if I'm going to help her in the arena."
"I'll go by the bakery for a gift for her. The cookies you frosted this morning."
A small but genuine smile breaks through my sorrowful expression. "Yes. That would be perfect."
I turn away so I don't have to watch my father leave. I feel like it will hurt too much, that it would be the thing that finally unravels me.
The Peacekeepers finally come and escort me out, but something's off about the lobby when I come out of the room. It's different from before, when I was just here an hour ago. My family's there, and so are my friends. Katniss is there, and she's holding Prim's hand. Everyone is wearing black and they're standing with their backs to me, huddled around something I can't see. I come up behind Katniss and very softly say her name, but she doesn't respond. I touch her shoulder, but she doesn't seem to know I'm there. No one here seems to be able to see me, really, and I push through the throng of people only to come upon a nondescript pine box - the kind they use to ship fallen tributes back to their districts.
I look down at my own body, and my face is peaceful as though I'm merely sleeping. A chill runs down my spine, and I realize that some dreadful mistake has been made, some other person has died and been mistaken for me. I turn back to the people assembled to mourn me and shout at them, wave my hand in front of faces in a vain attempt at getting someone's attention. I'm not dead. I'm here, I'm not dead! Why can't anyone see me? None of the faces really look all that forlorn, they're just vacant and hollow, stone expressions as though they're mannequins.
I turn back around and jump back a little when I see that the dead me has opened his eyes, and there's something chilling and inhuman in them as they stare up at me, a sneer curling his lips. In the time it takes me to blink, he's pulled out a knife and buried it deep into my ribcage.
A painful gasp wrenches through my body, and I bolt upward a little from where I lie, which only causes the searing pain in my ribs to increase. I slam back against the bed, letting out a moan of agony, then I see the tubes running into my arm, delivering unknown substances into my bloodstream. I blink twice and try to focus my eyes, but it's difficult with the bright white halo of halogen light glaring back down at me from above. My heart jumps into my throat, and I'm vaguely aware of the frantic beeping of the heart monitor that keeps a perfect tempo with my panic.
I've been captured again. I'm being tortured again.
My hand flies to the tubes in my arm, determined to wrench them free, but a small, olive-skinned hand covers mine. I jerk my head up and see a slightly bewildered, disheveled Katniss staring back at me, a chaos of emotions registering on her face. She looks remarkably fatigued, and the creases on her cheek match the pattern of wrinkles in the sheet just next to me. She looks a little stunned, but mostly relieved.
On instinct, my hand flies to her throat. There are too many thoughts and emotions warring in my head right now, and I don't have the time or the fortitude to sort them out. I feel her pulse beating wildly against my palm as my fingers close around her neck, firm enough to hold her attention, but not tight enough to cause any damage.
"Did we get him?" I ask urgently through clenched teeth, and my vision blurs from the excruciating pain brought on by the exertion. Even the smallest movement causes me agony.
She pants a little, then nods frantically in my grip, never tearing her eyes from mine. "We got him," she breathes.
I release her and relax against the pillow just as a couple of medics dressed all in white charge into the room. I'm vaguely aware of Katniss holding a hand up to subdue them, signalling she's alright and to give us a minute.
"He and Coin are being detained until you're well enough to carry out the execution," she says.
I close my eyes. My memory is slowly coming back to me, and I remember being shot. I open my eyes again and look down, gingerly lifting the sheet off of me to reveal a patch of gauze taped over my ribs. The pain inundates my entire right side, piercing all the way through to my back, and I shift uncomfortably only to exacerbate the pain. I squeeze my eyes shut and lay back again, trying my best to lie as still as possible and relax all of my muscles in the hope that it will cause the pain to subside a little.
"Is there any possibility of them upping my morphling dosage?" I ask in mild annoyance.
"I'm terribly sorry, but any narcotics administered while you're in detox would be too risky," says a male voice from the door, and I finally look over at the medics, recognizing one of them as the emergency doctor who had apologized for having to amputate my leg. How long ago was that? Days? Weeks? It seems like a lifetime separates me and my exploits in Sterling's clubs.
I feel a stab of pain in my chest, but it's not from the gunshot wound. This is an entirely different kind of pain, and I try to avoid thinking about what's causing it. "Detox," I repeat numbly. "Not sure I follow."
"We're treating your dependency on controlled substances," he answers. "The Capitol has made groundbreaking developments in treatment for it, and you should stop experiencing symptoms of withdrawal and addiction within a matter of days. ...Unfortunately, we can't administer any opiates or narcotics during the process."
"Days?" I ask. "You can do that?"
He nods. "I really am very sorry about the discomfort. You must be experiencing a lot of pain. I can send a nurse in with something mild to help you sleep while we speed along the healing process of your physical injuries."
I nod. Finally, my eyes shift upward, to the various fluids being administered into my veins, and they're giving me blood. My breath catches in my throat, and I tentatively reach up and touch my fingers to the A Rh POS printed in bold lettering on the label. There's the too familiar sting in my sinuses as the sorrow threatens to come, and I close my eyes so no one can see the glistening of tears in them. Sterling is gone. Crispin is gone.
Some small part of me, deep down in the recesses of a place I can't quite reach, is overwhelmingly thankful that Katniss hasn't joined them. But right now, all I can feel is rage and contempt and vengeance and regret. Seeing her again after all this time caused a turbulent conflict of emotions that I don't even want to begin sorting out, and I don't trust myself to not lose it and become dangerous again. It was all I could do to keep myself under control ever since I opened those blast doors, and every moment leading up to now, I've felt myself slipping. I'm still not even entirely sure of Katniss' motives, and I'm too numb and distracted at the moment to care. I'm not even sure I'm still capable of being that person she's wanted back so badly anymore. She kissed him goodbye at the tree in the arena.
"The doctors say they think you'll be well enough to carry out the execution in a week," Katniss says, and the hopefulness in her voice sounds forced.
I huff out a bemused snort. "Still as unconvincing as ever," I say quietly. "How ever did you convince all of Panem when we were in the arena?" I don't know what made me say it. To be honest, I didn't even realize I was saying it until it was already out. Like it wasn't even me speaking.
She becomes incensed, her face turning a mild shade of red, and she shoots up from her seat. She lashes out and knocks over a tray of medical utensils that had been positioned nearby, scattering the objects across the room. "Who the fuck were you to me?!" she shrieks, and her steely eyes emanate nothing but betrayal and anguish and sorrow. But mostly betrayal. "We were strangers! We were fucking strangers!"
She becomes incoherent as her sobs eclipse her voice, and she struggles against Haymitch, who comes in behind her and forcefully drags her out. He returns moments later, dripping blood from a nasty scratch over his eye, and it's clear that he's doing his best to be patient and sympathetic, but it doesn't stop him from glowering at me.
"That actually did go a lot better than I expected," he says, and though he sounds annoyed, his voice is lacking the dryness of sarcasm.
I don't even look at him. I'm still really pissed at him, too. I search my brain for something cutting and clever to say, but all that comes to mind are a string of insults and expletives that I've already hurled at him before, and I hate repeating myself. "If it's okay with you, Haymitch, I'd really rather be alone right now," is all I can say.
His mouth flattens into a straight line and he nods curtly, then leaves without another word. The medics follow.
And then I fall apart. I sob so hard that I'm sure I've aggravated the stitches in my side, and I don't really care about the pain anymore because I'm hoping it will drown out the emotional agony I'm feeling now. But it doesn't, really, and the tears keep coming until I feel something cold enter my veins from the tube in my arm, sending me back into blissful oblivion.