A/N: No excuses for my lack of updates, other than I have a life. Sorry, lovelies.
Also, this new banner is from completemadman over yonder on the Tumblr thang. Y'all should check 'er out! Great stuff.
"You don't want to hurt me,
But see how deep the bullet lies.
Unaware that I'm tearing you asunder.
There is thunder in our hearts, baby.
So much hate for the ones we love?
Tell me, we both matter, don't we?"
"Running Up That Hill" - Placebo
12. With No Problems
Pain.
It seeps in from every orifice and into every pore.
Angry nerves fire signals demanding attention from my unconscious brain. The air is too cold; the sheets to stale; the pillow too flat. Most importantly, the morphling is too weak.
My eyes open. Well, eye, I should note. Only the left opens, and it won't focus fully.
I squint; I blink repetitively; I clench it closed with all my might and open it slowly—but nothing lifts the haze from my vision. Everything is gray and blurry. The furniture has no lines, just diffused edges—like digitally edited photographs of print ads. Abstract. I find it frustrating, naturally.
Peeta would call it artistic; ever the optimist.
Oh God. Peeta. Where is Peeta?
I try to turn my head, attempt to ignore the pain. I succeed in craning my neck no more than five inches. It's hell. The movement is minute, insignificant really; but it's enough.
I have no skin. Not really, anyway. It's not mine. It can't be.
It's yellow and pink; criss-crossing textures and tones. Gone is the olive color from my father and my woods, replaced by mutilated flesh.
Where am I?
I try to scream, but it's no use. My voice doesn't work; my throat too dry and my vocal chords weak from lack of use.
I can't move my arms or legs. I'm paralyzed. By fear or injury, I don't know.
The best I can manage is a slight whimper. I just hope this room is monitored. I need answers. I need Peeta. I need my little duck.
I need morphling.
"You in there, Sweetheart?"
If there's a God, He's laughing at me. Cursing me for my sins; the deaths I've caused. Maybe I'm already in hell.
I blink once for "yes," and whimper again.
"I'm going to get a nurse. You're not supposed to be conscious."
He leaves, like always. He always runs away when I need desperately for him to stay and fill me in.
He doesn't return. Instead, a nurse walks in my room.
"I know you have questions, Ms. Everdeen, but we can't help you yet. You need to recover more. Any information could be overwhelming for you right now, but you needn't worry. You'll be fine soon," the thirty-something woman says calculatedly.
I hate her, I've decided. How dare she pretend to know what's best for me? She may be a nurse—a medical professional—but I'm Katniss Everdeen, co-Victor of the 74th Hunger Games, symbol of the rebellion, survivor of the 3rd Quarter Quell; physical matters are of little importance to me—but keeping me in the dark about anything is never the best idea.
I never responded, and apparently she isn't keen on patience. Maybe she just doesn't care.
She sticks the plunger in my arm. For a few seconds, the pain melts away and bliss follows.
Then it's just blackness.
I wake again, only this time with much less pain.
He's there again, his nose deep in a steaming mug of coffee. The sobriety is still a little big on him, but he's growing into it I guess. Not trusting my voice, I clear my throat.
"Had enough beauty rest, Sweetheart?"
"'s gon' on?" My vocal chords stretch uncomfortably from lack of use. Nevertheless, he seems to understand.
"I can't tell you anything about anyone else yet. I will let you know it's been a week since you damn well almost burned yourself alive," Haymitch almost growls.
Under the anger, I can hear the concern. The silent, "I couldn't deal with it if you'd died," that neither of us will ever say, but always know.
"Peeta?" I ask, but my eyes beg for information.
His eyes dart away from mine and I can feel my heart crashing in on itself.
"Please, Haymitch! Be useful for once in your life and tell me something! Anything!"
At the sound of my tears, he gets up and walks to the door. I hear the handle turn and the swoosh of it opening. His footsteps leading out the door seem more hollow than usual.
"He ain't dead yet, Sweetheart," he says without looking back and shuts the door.
I haven't felt this confused since I first learned of Peeta's hijacking. I don't understand Haymitch's behavior, and being that there's no one around to give me answers, I doubt I ever will.
There's no clock to use to keep track of time. Seconds feel like hours—hell, for what I know, they very well may be. Hours, days, weeks. I lie on my back and watch the dust fall from the ceiling. I bite my nails. Flavius would be outraged; Effie would have my head. Cinna would be understanding.
Sleep eludes me. I'm "fed" by IV, not trusted to feed myself. I probably wouldn't anyway. My feelings are nonexistent anymore; my body completely numb. Completely numb, except for the occasional twist of agony in my chest when I think of him.
Peeta, oh Peeta.
You promised me always. You promised forever. But where are you now that I'm slowly dying from the inside out; my soul and mind evaporating? Gone already is my sanity, though it may have left me ages ago.
The lights go out again. It must be night. I've grown accustomed to the darkness; the fade to black, it suits me well. The lights are harsh on my transparent "skin." I don't blame anyone for choosing not to visit me. I probably wouldn't let Prim. Haymitch probably knows that; that's why she hasn't come, right?
Prim, my little duck, she must be safe. Right? Haymitch would have told me. I won't ask next he comes.
I'm still a coward. (Though I know it's irrational to even worry over Prim; she was safe in 13 the whole time.)
Haymitch slinks back into my room while the lights are out. His footing is almost as quiet as mine. More comparable to Gale's; soft but heavy and deliberate. Haymitch would have taken to Gale as part of our strange little family one day, I reckon. If only they had the chance. Gale could have used an uncle-type figure in his life.
"Katniss, you listen to me. Listen well, ya hear?"
His whisper is brusque. His lips are practically inside my ear; he's far too close. His stubble coarsely drags across the raw skin of my cheek. I cry out, softly.
"Mk," I mumble.
"The gist of it is... well, Peeta had a bad episode when you two were separated. He was captured by rebels, but didn't understand that. Even after he was sedated and came back to consciousness, we couldn't calm him down. You've been out of commission and he's been too rabid to be around you. Coin has taken to keeping the boy around her like a lapdog every day, since I last visited you 10 days ago," he whispers frantically.
Tears well up in my eyes at the guilt I feel. My Peeta. Oh, God, my Peeta.
"Shh," he commands. I nod.
"I started sharing a compartment with him to try to help with the night terrors. Last night, I heard him laughing maniacally in his sleep. Before I could wake him, he said something, Katniss."
"What?" I ask, though I'm terrified of the answer.
"Coin is going to kill you, Katniss. Not just you, but all of the Victors, except for Peeta. She's going to reestablish Snow's reign, but under new names."
Like a bullet, I shoot up. I clasp at the loose robe I'm wearing and attempt to stand. My knees are shaky at best and the feeling leaves me dizzy as a drunkard. Haymitch helps me stay upright, for which I'm very grateful.
"Who can we trust?" I ask after regaining my bearings.
"The other Victors, Plutarch, Effie, Paylor from 8, and a doctor in the Capitol. He can help Peeta."
"How do we take care of Coin?" I ask as we exit my hospital room.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, we sneak quietly through 13. After a few minutes, I realize we're headed to my old compartment with Johanna. Though I'd love to see her, I wish I were going to see Prim.
As we approach the compartment, he answers me finally.
"The plan is already in motion, Sweetheart," he says with a smile that I can't help but return.