Hello, everyone! I'm sorry it's been a while since I last posted, but the first week of school is always tough. That, and I didn't get any reviews at all last time, so I wasn't sure if anyone had read my previous update, which led me to postpone putting up this one.
Today's chapter brings us to a very dark place. Please don't hold it against me; I promise a happy one to balance it out in the near future. However, this one was necessary in order to fully appreciate events in later chapters. I just hope I don't leave any of you depressed.
I am not Suzanne Collins. I own nothing.
Warning: This chapter contains adult subject matter, including depiction of sexual assualt. It is not intended for younger readers. Your discretion is advised.
Zero
Zero. Zero. Zero. The estimate on the slip of paper the pawnbroker slides across the counter to me has a number on it, a number ending in three zeros, a larger number than I ever would have expected or predicted.
"You still want to sell?" he asks, his voice lilting in its peculiar Capitol accent, his eyes drinking in the sight of me, absorbed in my thoughts and the row of zeroes on the paper. I look up, resolute. "Yes," I say firmly.
The pawnbroker picks up the necklace and balances it gently on his long, tapering fingers, heavy with rings and ending in rainbow-hued nails. Its flawless gemstones glitter in the artificial light directed down over the glass counter-cases filled with jewelry, ornate watches and crystal. Here, in the Capitol, the lavish life is so encouraged that nearly everyone is in debt. An establishment like this probably does pretty well off the backs of those hoping to mitigate some of that debt.
"Cleaning house, are you?" the pawnbroker asks with a sly grin as he lovingly lays the necklace in his display window and counts out the money for me. "Memento of an old boyfriend?"
I cringe involuntarily and pull the scarf I've wrapped around my hair lower over my face, fearful that he might recognize me from television. "You could say that," I agree.
The pawnbroker hands me more money than I've ever held in my own hands before, and I carefully settle it in my pocket, where it weighs on my mind all day. On the train ride back, then at the station…finally, almost home at last, I take it out, wrapped in a handkerchief that's neatly knotted, and leave it on the back steps of a forbidding-looking cement building. It's the automotive factory where my father worked. Let it bring some happiness to some poor worker, to atone for the sorrow it brought me. Either way, I don't want it in my house.
The necklace was a gift from a man in the Capitol. He's not like the others. The others call me once, maybe twice. I know with a dark sort of satisfaction that once I close that hotel door behind me, I'll most likely never see them again. But this one is different. He has an appetite for me, a habit that I can't quite understand. He calls it a romance, what we share, but that word isn't nearly sordid enough to describe our arrangement in my opinion. What he wants isn't so much to romance me as to possess me entirely, to have me love and need no one else but him, to have me belong to him and no other. He does this under the guise of a thoughtful and devoted lover, but that's not nearly enough to obliterate the fact that he pays good money for my company and that, if he really loved me, he'd set me free.
The day before I visit the pawnbroker, I arrive in the Capitol. The train ride in was torturous: my stomach set in tight knots, the nervous buzzing in my mind betraying the forced calm I've imposed on my body. I trust myself to speak to no one, because I can't guarantee what I may say.
Too soon, I'm at the mercy of my prep team, who are complicit in this travesty. They are recruited to make me, in the words of none other than our revered President, 'presentable.' It's the same logic they must apply when they dress up tributes in layers of glamor and luxury before sending them off to their deaths. The difference is that my shame will be private rather than public, and the only death tonight will be that of my dignity, which I fight so hard to resurrect every time I get home from one of these little outings, to little avail.
"And…done!" says Felix, directing me towards a mirror. I look at myself dispassionately, because it really doesn't feel like I' looking in a mirror at all. It feels like I'm looking at a stranger, because the woman in the provocative-looking black satin dress and the painfully high heels can't be me. So maybe that means this isn't really happening to me at all, but to some unfortunate stranger. Maybe if I keep telling myself this, I'll come to actually believe it.
Tonight, he takes me out to a restaurant that's situated in an observatory at the top of a glittering glass building that seems to me to be made of cut crystal. He orders for both of us, because who am I to call the shots here? He orders red wine and keeps motioning for the servers to refill my glass, and even though I don't really like red wine much I drink it, hoping the alcohol will somehow dull the pain of what's to come. The tart red liquid tastes to me of bitterness. When the food arrives, he laughs at me as I pick at it noncommittally.
"What's the matter, baby?" he teases good-naturedly, "worried about your figure?" I decline to mention that I'm so filled with dread and resentment and frustration that I've completely lost my appetite.
After this, he decides to play the doting suitor and places the choicest morsels from my plate directly into my moth, using his own fork. I'm struggling to keep it all down. At one point, he whips out a flat velvet box and places it impressively on the table in front of me.
"It's our anniversary, darling," he coos. "A whole year, already!"
Oh, but don't I know it. I sit there, staring blankly at the box, wondering what would possess him to ever think that I'd want to open it, to see what's inside. He thinks I'm overcome at his generosity, though—is this for me? A poor little girl from the districts? Oh, you shouldn't have!—because he takes it upon himself to open it for me. A magnificent necklace lies on the bed of velvet. Its precious stones sparkle in the dim light of the supper club. I gasp, involuntarily, because I can't begin to calculate its value and how long it could sustain an entire family back home.
He reaches out, plucks the necklace from its case, and fastens it around my neck with a flourish. I reach up to touch it. I feel like a dog whose master has just bought it a new collar.
When we leave the restaurant, he takes my arm and escorts me to the hotel. I know it well. Sometimes, I see other victors there, hovering uncertainly a step behind their 'dates' in the lobby as they check-in. "Just the one night?" the concierge always asks with a knowing smirk, and I can't help blushing every time. I feel like such a whore, even though I know that it's not my fault. Tonight, though, we are alone in the lobby. If anyone I know is here, they've already gone to work. My work, however, is just beginning.
A room key clutched between his fingers, the Capitolean takes me by the arm again, gripping me just above the elbow, steering me into a glass elevator. It's got plush carpeting and a teardrop chandelier. The elevator whooshes upward with indecent haste—everything in the Capitol moves fast, it seems—and slides to a halt on the fifteenth floor. I feel like I left my stomach behind somewhere around the fourth.
Each step I take down the long hallway seems to echo in my ears. I don't want to—you can't make me—someone, please—in my head, I'm screaming out for help, hoping against hope that someone, anyone, will come to my rescue. No one ever does.
"And…here we are!" the Capitolean crows, swinging open the door to the hotel room with his arms outstretched, as if he's presenting it to me as his gift. He's had someone come in and scatter rose petals. It makes me want to cover my eyes and hide.
Overhead, the lights dim and I wonder where he obtained the remote that controls them so fast. But he's already moved on from the lights. He creeps up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. Through the satin sheen of the dress, I can feel his hands running over my body. After a while, they grab me firmly by the waist and he turns me around to face him. He's a lot taller than me. He bends down and kisses me deeply, and I feel nothing. Nothing but shame at the way I let the Capitol use me like a cheap whore…or rather, like an expensive one.
His arms wrap around me like suffocating branches and with every step he takes forward, I'm force to take one back, closer to the enormous bed piled high with plump decorative pillows. It's bigger than any bed I've ever seen back home, but it could be the size of my living room and it would still seem too small to share with a man like this Capitolean. I feel its plush mattress hit the back of my legs and I know I've run out of room. There's no turning back now.
The Capitolean seems to be in quite a rush. I guess he's been building up to this moment all night, maybe even since our last rendezvous. His hands have found the zipper at the back of my dress and I hear its low purr as he pulls it down. No longer tight, the black dress falls in a sad, discarded little pile around my ankles.
"Stockings, too, baby? What, are you trying to keep me out? 'Cause it's driving me crazy," he chortles. It's a sad attempt at a joke, and rather crude, and pointless as well, because we both know, deep down, that I couldn't keep him out if I wanted to. Which I do, with all my heart, though he's convinced himself that I look forward to our 'dates' as much as he does. With a blind self-assurance one finds only in the Capitol, this man has tricked himself into believing that I am as infatuated with him as he is with me.
Still bemused at this new addition to my wardrobe, but nonetheless visibly excited by it—are nylons some sort of aphrodisiac in the Capitol?—he unclips them impatiently from the ridiculous lacy garter belt they nearly had to wrestle me into. I hear a low pulling sound and am certain that one of them has ripped, and I wonder vaguely whether I'll have to pay for the damage.
His preoccupation with the nylons vanished, the Capitolean grips me firmly by the waist and lifts me right off the ground, onto the bed. I squeeze my eyes shut. Think of something else, Wiress, I plead with myself. Anything but this. Pretend you're anywhere but here.
He's tossing his clothes behind him now, crawling closer to me, his fingers tracing the lace trim of my new, fancy underclothes. They give me a new set every time I come here. Today's are black, like the dress. I wonder if someone actually gets paid to choose what color underwear I'll wear each time.
"You know I love you," he murmurs, trailing kisses that burn and freeze at the same time down past my collarbone. "Say you love me too. Say it!"
The words seem to stick in my throat, because it's hard to commit to such a big lie here on the spot. The others are so much easier, because they take their pleasure and then they're done. They never really try to talk to me. But this man, he wants more than just sex; he wants me to think about him, to dwell on him, even to need him. The only thing I need right now, short of a miracle, is a good distraction.
"Don't keep me waiting," he pants breathlessly, his hands working off the last remaining articles of my clothes as he waits for my response. I debate telling him the truth—that no, I could never love someone who uses me like this—but I'm afraid he'll hurt me if I do. Think of your family. Mother always said it was your job to help protect them. Do your job, Wiress. In the end, cowardice wins out.
"I love you, too," I whisper, fearing that everyone I really do love can hear my betrayal, and in this moment, I vow to cast aside this word, 'love,' because if I can cheapen it so by saying it to this monster, then it no longer holds any meaning to me.
My lie is greeted with a groan of approval from the Capitolean. Pinned beneath him, I squeeze my eyes shut because my body's fighting him, determined not to make it easy for this invader, even though my mind's already accepted the inevitability of surrender. I feel all tight and rigid, like I'm trying to lock up my body against his assault. But he's bigger and stronger and heavier than me, and I'm no match for him. The result of all this is a feeling like he's tearing through my insides with every movement.
I vaguely wonder if I'm bleeding. It happened the first couple of times, but I don't usually have to worry about it anymore. Still, I feel so raw and sore that I can't help wondering if he's somehow injured me. Perhaps it's serious and I'll die here, all alone, without my clothes...it's a chilling thought; the fruit of a mind that's anchored in a very dark place tonight. I make a mental note to check as soon as he's asleep and I can sneak away, and consign myself to praying that I haven't stained the bedsheets, because sleeping in a pool of my own blood is not an appealing prospect.
The Capitolean pulls me closer to him until the complete line of our bodies is in contact, skin to skin. His fingernails dig into my shoulders and the small of my back. I feel goosebumps forming on my flesh, because no matter how hard I try to rise above this humiliation and escape within the safety of my head, this degree of intimacy makes it that much more difficult.
Some nights, they finish up pretty fast. Once, I was lucky enough to get a 'date'—a young man around my own age; I wondered why he was out buying victors when he could be charming girls in a café somewhere—who was snoring beside me within no more than twenty or thirty minutes. Tonight I'm not that lucky, though. It goes on for hours—the discomfort, the spasms of pain, the feel of his heavy body on top of mine, crushing me down into the mattress. I wonder if he likes the feeling of being able to pin me down, to hurt me, and if it's precisely my vulnerability that led him to me, rather than other victors who are more beautiful than I. I suppose I'll never know.
He keeps at it for hours, forcing me into positions designed for acrobats, and even though it's dark in the room, I know my cheeks are burning red with shame. I feel thoroughly dishonored and very, very cheap, but most of all, I feel uncomfortable. Every so often, there'll be a night when my body betrays my pride and actually lets me feel some pleasure, completely against my will, and later on I'll feel sick, because the idea that I may have actually enjoyed it disgusts me. But tonight, I feel nothing but total discomfort and even pain because I wasn't ready when he started and I never succeeded into tricking myself into thinking I was feeling amorous tonight. I keep wishing that he'll tire out and it'll be over, and after a while I can't stop myself from whimpering in agony because there's no end in sight and he, groaning in pleasure, seems to mistake my cries for cries of ecstasy and keeps going. Why me, I wonder, what have I done to deserve this? I firmly ignore the thoughts of five dead tributes that rush forth in answer, because isn't that what the ceaseless guilt's for? Does my penance really require this degradation, too?
When he's finally done, I conceal my sigh of relief and tell myself okay, now he'll go to sleep and leave you in peace. I steel myself every time with the knowledge that eventually, the man will roll over, drift off into a sated sleep, and I will be free to tiptoe out of the room, lock myself in the bathroom and cry until I run out of tears, all in complete privacy and safety. I don't know what would happen to me if one of them caught me crying. It's only happened once, because I couldn't make it to the bathroom before the tears started, but my client that night was a sadist who'd whipped me with his belt and took my tears as a compliment.
But no, how could I forget that this one's not like the others? That he imagines me as his lover rather than his paid slave? And do lovers retreat to the bathroom to cower after a passionate night together? Well, I'm no expert, but I'd guess not. Anyway, he doesn't think so. Just as I wrench the covers up to cover my body—because I'm painfully embarrassed by my lack of clothes—he moves over beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his skin and his breath on the back of my neck. I turn away so he won't see the tears welling up in my eyes. Think of your family. You did it to keep them safe, I reason. Think of Electra's kids. You wouldn't want anything to happen to them.
I feel sore and tired, and strangely empty inside. Softly, I whimper into the pillow. Beside me, I can hear him whispering, "Shh," hushing me like you'd do to a fretful baby.
The man from the Capitol strokes my cheek gently, like a lover would do. He plants furtive kisses on my neck and murmurs a lot of nonsense that I barely hear. He wraps his arms around me, huddled in a miserable little ball, and pulls me closer to him. Still, I face resolutely toward the wall, determined not to let him see me cry, my jaw clenched tight to keep from crying out, my hands clenched protectively on the blankets gathered under my arms to shield me from his gaze. He brushes my hair back off my face and it is this that finally undoes me, this gesture that my mother, and later Electra, and still later Beetee would use to soothe me when I'm distressed. He has no right to do this! Not him! For the first time tonight, I feel completely at his mercy and completely violated. He's finally found a way to shatter my defenses. My tears silently hit the pillow, like cold pearls.
It seems like forever before his deep, even breathing convinces me that he's asleep, but it's probably really no more than an hour at most. Heart hammering, I slip out from under the arm he's got thrown possessively around my waist, like some sort of human restraint. Every creak of the bed or the floor threatens to give me away. Silently, I gather up my clothes from the carpet and steal through the darkness to the bathroom.
The hotel bathroom is a dazzling expanse of white tile and gleaming metal fixtures. It's probably bigger than our old apartment back home. There's a state-of-the-art shower and an old-fashioned bathtub—the kind with high sides and clawed feet—and a sink set into a counter of priceless marble, piled high with aromatic soaps and little glass bottles of colorful liquids.
Bolting the door closed behind me, I put on my underclothes and step back to examine the remainder of my clothing. The smooth surface of the black dress is inexplicably wrinkle-free, even though it's lain in a heap on the floor for hours now. It seems like nothing in the Capitol—not even the fabrics—can be allowed to show wrinkles, signs of age and wear. The stockings, though, have a long tear in them, from when he pulled them off. Either way, I wouldn't be able to get any rest in this getup, and no one had the foresight to give me any pajamas. They probably figured I wouldn't need them.
The hotel's left a couple of impeccably white cotton bathrobes hanging in the bathroom. They're so gleaming white that they actually hurt my eyes. Without thinking, I remove one from its hanger and pull it on. It's not as soft as I'd expected—truth be told, it's actually rather rough-feeling—but I cinch the belt tight around my waist and pull it closed more tightly at the neck. While doing this, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror.
I look pretty haggard. My hair, which I've recently cut to about an inch above the shoulder (much to the distress of my prep team), hangs limply in a rumpled mess. Some of the back pieces stick to the nape of my neck. My eyes are getting red equally from crying and from struggling to hold back tears. A small bruise is forming at the base of my neck, just under the bathrobe's folded-over collar. In the merciless light of the bathroom, I look deathly pale, weary and utterly wretched. A young woman with the sorrows of the entire world weighing on her shoulders.
Unable to resist any more, I sink to the cold tile floor, my back against the ornate bathtub. I draw my knees up to my chest, wrap my arms protectively around my legs and weep softly.
Zero, zero, zero. The number on the receipt the pawnbroker handed me shows a sum larger than any I've ever possessed at one time. And yet, once you look past that first number, all you see is zeroes. Nothingness. Completely meaningless, like the trinket that earned me this money and the suffering that earned me the trinket. Like what my life's become.
And there you have it. Well, I hope all my readers are well and are not experiencing the weight of the world on their shoulders, like poor Wiress is today. I also want to wish a happy new school year to all the teachers, students and school workers out there (yes, I know many places have been in school for a couple of weeks now; I think we're among the last school systems to start each year). It's been a rough first week back-due to both work and other things-and I think I managed to transfer a lot of my own stress and anxiety into this rather dark chapter. By the end of the week, though, I'd managed to work through a lot of what was bothering me and was able to feel hopeful again. It's a wonderful feeling, and I intend to enjoy it as long as I can, while it lasts. One thing that would really help keep me feeling optimistic would be hearing from some of my readers. So please review! In the meantime, I hope I can get back to update soon. It's a vastly more appealing option when you weigh it against alternatives like creating homework and planning lessons.
That being said, it's time for me to be a good girl and start work on the aforementioned lessons. Have a wonderful weekend!
Delilah