Author's Note: I'm so happy, oh so happy, I feel- Oh, wait, what? It's way too late to be writing anything right now. Oh, wait, it's only 10:04, dang it. Well, anyway, enjoy.
Disclaimer: You recognize it? Yes? Then I don't own it. Sorry!
Chapter 12; in which there is food, knives, and strangeness (Oh my God, strangeness is actually a real word!).
The next morning at breakfast I can tell everybody is watching me even though I'm trying to hide my wings under the standard issue –in other words hand-me-down- shirt that is at least three sizes too big for me, I have to roll the sleeves up to keep them from falling over my hands.
"Don't take it to heart; they just aren't used to having people like . . . you here." Cheyenne, who's decided to be by my side every second, says. I think she was assigned to watch me to make sure I don't commit arson or suicide I'm pretty sure that would probably be an accurate assumption.
I put down my fork and stare at her coldly. "Allow me to rephrase." I almost growl. "They're not used to having Capitol mutations within their walls, living in the same ecosystem as their children. I shouldn't be here anyway. I should be in the Capitol competing to my death with my parents trying not to have to kill them."
She shakes her head slowly. "Rouge, just calm down and give it some time. You'll be fine here. So what if you had no friends and the only time you talked to a guy not related to you was to tell him to stop hitting you, that doesn't mean you have no hope here. I mean, people here are too afraid to beat you up."
"Yeah, back in twelve people beat me up then avoided me, here they point and whisper while avoiding me. Much better," I say sarcastically.
She looks defeated, "uh, well, at least they don't beat you up anymore." She's always the optimist, wonderful. "Besides, you have a wonderful new boyfriend and he can't ever leave you."
"Consider the factor of my, as you say, wonderful new boyfriend being hundreds of miles away in the Capitol." The metaphorical hole in my chest is growing and the pain is just too real to be purely in my head.
"Don't be so bitter." She says indignantly, "I'm only trying to help. I should go; I promised I'd talk to my friend about . . . um, I don't know, some kind of hippo entertainment system?" She scurries off.
She's not even trying. "Hippopotami have been extinct for over fifty years," I call after her. "If you're going to lie at least make it plausible."
I eat the rest of my lunch in silence before glancing at the bruise-colored, temporary tattoo on the inside of my forearm. Next is training.
I make my way to the elevator and down to the bottom floor where the indoor training area is. The trainer on duty, a large, muscled man with his black hair cut military style and cold, calculating blue eyes, introduces himself as Evans, or, as he told me very clearly, that I'm to call him Coach Evans. Today he tells me the class is working with ranged weapons and he wants to put me in archery.
The rest of the class arrives and we're told to go to the stations. I take a bow from the wall along with a quiver of arrows. I aim at the target on the wall and let go of the bowstring, hitting the target, even if not in the direct center. I take a moment to glance at another girl's target; she had barely hit the outside circle, compared to her I'm doing pretty well, but we're both just warming up.
Evans notices my skill and moves me to knife throwing. Dummies slide out of the floor and one lights up a soft orange color around the target on its head. "Just try to hit the targets." He walks away to give somebody else tips, leaving me to the targets.
I hit the first target without any problem, but the further they are from me the harder it is to hit. Overall, I think I did pretty well considering the pain that fills my chest with every beat of my heart.
After training I had a lot of other, unmemorable, classes and lunch before the areas on my body with the strange, bluish scars start hurting really badly. It feels a little like somebody is ripping my flesh off my body. I was in a geography class when it started, the teacher, Ms. Kenny, told me to go down to the Medical Center. When I arrived the woman from before, Cynthia Haralson I think, sits me down and starts asking questions. When did it start? Are there any other symptoms? What kind of pain is it?
I try to answer all of the questions, but some of them are just confusing. She's patient and constantly taking notes. In the end she decides to keep me here for observation since this could be anything.
"It could be anything from a reaction to a cold or an effect of the bond." She says, "I'd just like you to stay in case it's something serious or if it gets worse."
So I end up spending the night in a hospital bed.
