I spew the berries from my mouth, wiping my tongue with the end of my shirt to make sure no juice remains. Peeta pulls me to the lake where we flush our mouths with water, and then collapse into each other's arms.
"You didn't swallow any?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "You?"
"I guess I'd be dead by now if I did." I say.
Peeta was about to respond, but I cut him off. My lips were crashing against his, and the entire time we were kissing I could hear the roaring crowd in the Capitol echoing throughout the arena through the speakers.
The hovercraft materializes overhead and two ladders drop, only there is no way I'm letting go of Peeta. I keep one arm around him as I help him up, and we each place a foot on the first rung of the ladder. The electric current freezes us in place, and this time I'm glad because I don't think Peeta can hang on for the whole ride. And since my eyes were looking down, I can see while our muscles are immobile, nothing is preventing Peeta's blood from draining out of his leg. Sure enough, the minute the door closes behind us and the current stops, he slumps to the floor unconscious.
My fingers are still gripping the back of his jacket so tightly that when they take him away it tears leaving me with a fistful of black fabric. Doctors in sterile white, masked and gloved, already prepped to operate, go into action. Peeta's so pale and still on the silver table, tubes and wires springing out of him every which way, I almost forget we're out of the Games and I see the doctors as one more threat, one more pack of mutts designed to kill him. Petrified, I lunge for him, but I'm caught and thrust back into another room and a glass door seals between us. I pound on the glass, screaming my head off. Everyone ignores me, except some Capitol attendant, who appears behind me and offers me a beverage.
I slump down on the floor, my face against the door, staring uncomprehendingly at the crystal glass in my hand. Icy cold, filled with orange juice, a straw with a frilly white collar. How wrong it looks in my bloody, filthy hand with its dirt-caked nails and scars. My mouth waters at the smell, but I place it carefully on the floor, not trusting anything so clean and pretty.
Through the glass, I see doctors working feverishly on Peeta, their brows creased in concentration. I see the flow of liquids, pumping through the tubes. I see a wall of dials and lights that mean nothing to me. I'm not sure, but I think his heart stopped twice.
It's like being home again when they bring in the hopelessly mangle person from the mine explosion, or the woman in her third day of labor, or a famished child struggling against pneumonia and my mom and Prim wear the same look on their faces. Now is the time to run away to the woods, to hide until the patient is long gone and in another part of the Seam the hammers make the coffin.
But I'm held here by both the hovercraft walls and the same force that holds the loved ones of the dying. How often I've seen them, ringed around our kitchen table and I thought, Why don't they leave? Why do they stay to watch?
And now I know. It's because they have no choice.
I startle when I catch someone staring at me from only a few inches away and then realize it's my own face reflecting back in the glass. Wild eyes, hollow cheeks, my hair in a tangle mat. Rabid. Feral. Mad. No wonder everyone is keeping a safe distance from me.
Why are they keeping a safe distance from me? This is the Seventy-Fourth Games, they should be used to my appearance by now. I think.
The next thing I know we've landed back on the roof of the Training Center and they're taking Peeta but leaving me behind the door. I start hurling myself against the glass, shrieking and I think I catch a glimpse of pink hair – it must be Effie, it has to be Effie coming to my rescue – when the needle jabs me from behind.
When I wake, I'm afraid to move at first. The entire ceiling glows with a soft yellow light allowing me to see that I'm in a room containing just my bed. No doors, no windows are visible. The room smells of something sharp and antiseptic. My right arm has several tubes that extend into the wall behind me. I'm naked, but the bedclothes are soothing against my skin. I tentatively lift my left hand above the cover. Not only has it been scrubbed clean, the nails are filed in perfect ovals, the scars from the burns are less prominent. I touch my cheek, my lips, the puckered scar above my eyebrow, and I'm running my fingers through my silken hair when I freeze. Apprehensively I ruffle the hair by my left ear. No, it wasn't an illusion. I can hear again.
I try and sit up, but some sort of wide restraining band around my waist is keeping me from rising more than a couple inches. The physical confinement makes me panic and I'm trying to pull myself up and wriggle my hips through the band when a portion of the wall slides open and in steps the redheaded Avox girl carrying a tray. The sight of her calms me and I stop trying to escape. I want to ask her a million questions, but I know any familiarity would cause her harm. Obviously I'm being closely monitored. She sets the tray across my thighs, and presses something that raises me into a sitting positon. While she adjusts my pillow, I risk one question. I ask it out loud, as clearly as my rusty voice will allow, so nothing will seem secretive.
"Did Peeta make it?" I ask.
She gives me a nod, and as she slips a spoon in my hand, I feel the pressure of friendship.
Too bad I can't bring you with me. I think.
I guess she did not wish me dead after all. And Peeta has made it. Of course, he did. With all their expensive equipment here. Still, I hadn't been sure until now.
As the Avox leaves the door closes noiselessly behind her and I turn hungrily to the tray. A bowl of clear broth, a small serving of applesauce, and a glass of water.
That's it? I think grouchily.
Shouldn't my homecoming meal be a little more spectacular? But I find it's an effort to finish the spare meal before me. My stomach seems to have shrunk to the size of a chestnut, and I have to wonder how long I've been out because I had no trouble eating a fairly sizable breakfast that last morning in the arena. There's usually a lag of few days between the end of the competition and the presentation of the victor so they can put the starving, wounded mess of a person back together again. Somewhere Cinna and Portia will be creating our wardrobes for the public appearance. Haymitch and Effie will be arranging the banquet for our sponsors, and reviewing the questions for our final interview. Back home, District 12 is probably in chaos as they try and organize the homecoming celebrations for Peeta and me, given the last one was close to thirty years ago.
Home! Prim and my mom! And even Gale, it would be nice to see him again. Even the thought of Prim's scruffy old cat makes me smile. Soon I will be home!
I want to get out of this bed. To see Peeta and Cinna, to find out more about what's going on. And why shouldn't I? I feel fine. But as I start to work my way out of the bands. I feel a cold liquid seep into my veins from one of the tubes and almost immediately I lose consciousness.
This happens on and off for an indeterminate amount of time. My waking, eating, and, even though I resist the impulse to try and escape the bed, being knocked out again. I seem to be in a strange, continual twilight. Only a few things register. The redheaded Avox girl has not returned since the feeding, my scars are disappearing, and do I imagine it? Or do I hear a man's voice yelling. Not in the Capitol accent, but in the more rough cadence of home. And I can't help having a vague, comforting feeling that someone is looking out for me.
Then finally, the time arrives when I come to and there's nothing plugged into my right arm. The restraint around my middle has be removed and I'm allowed to move around. I start to sit up, but I'm arrested by the sight of my hands. The skin's perfection, smooth and glowing. Not only are the scars from the arena gone, but those accumulated over the years of hunting have vanished without a trace. My forehead feels like satin, and when I try to find the burn on my calf, there's nothing.
I slip my legs out of bed, nervous about how they will bear my weight, and find them strong and steady. Lying at the foot of the bed is an outfit that makes me flinch. It's what all the tributes wore into the arena.
Or what's left of it. I think.
I stare at it as if it had teeth until I remember that, of course, this is what I will wear when I greet my team.
I'm dressed in less than a minute and fidgeting in front of the wall where I know there's a door even if I can't see it when suddenly it slides open. I step into a wide, deserted hall that appears to have no other doors on it. But it must. And behind one of them must be Peeta. Now that I'm conscious and moving, I'm becoming more and more anxious about him. He must be alright or the Avox girl wouldn't have said so.
But I need to see him for myself. I think.
"Peeta!" I call out, since there's no one to ask. I hear my name in response, but it's not his voice. It's a voice that provokes irritation at first, and then eagerness. Effie.
I turn to see them all waiting in a big chamber at the end hall – Effie, Haymitch, and Cinna. My feet take off without hesitation. Maybe a victor should show more restraint, more superiority, especial when she knows this will be on tape, but I don't care. I run for them and surprise even myself when I launch into Haymitch's arms first. When he whispers in my ears "Nice job, sweetheart," it doesn't even sound sarcastic. Effie's somewhat teary and keeps patting my hair and talking about how she told everyone we were pearls. Cinna just hugs me tight and doesn't say anything. Then I notice that Portia is absent and get a bad feeling.
"Where's Portia? Is she with Peeta? He's alright, isn't he? I mean, he's alive?" I blurt out.
"He's fine. Only they want to do the reunion live on air at the ceremony." Haymitch says.
"Oh. That's all." I say. The awful moment of think Peeta's dead again passes. "I guess I wanted to see that myself."
"Go with Cinna. He has to get you ready." Haymitch says.
It's a relief to be alone with Cinna, to feel his protective around my shoulders as he guides me away from the cameras, and down a few passages to an elevator that leads to the lobby of the training center. The hospital then is far underground, even beneath the gym where the tributes practice tying knots and throwing spears. The windows of the lobby are darkened and a handful of guards stand on duty. There is nobody else to see us cross to the tribute elevator. Our footsteps echo in the emptiness. And when we ride up to the twelfth floor, the faces of all the tributes who will never return flash across my mind and there's a heavy, tight place in my chest.
When the elevator door opens, Venia, Flavius, and Octavia engulf me, talking so quickly and ecstatically I can't make out their words. The sentiment is clear though. They are truly thrilled to see me and I'm happy to see them too, but, although not like I was to see Cinna. It's more in the way one might be glad to see an affection trio of pets at the end of a particularly difficult day.
They sweep me into the dining room and I get a real meal – roast beef, peas and soft rolls – although my portions are still being strictly controlled. Because when I ask for seconds, I'm refused.
"No, no, no. They don't want it all coming back up on the stage." Octavia says, but secretly slips me an extra roll under the table to let me know that she's on my side. I wink back at her.
We go back to my room and Cinna disappears for a while as the prep team gets me ready.
"Oh, they did a full body polish on you." Flavius says enviously. "Not a flaw left on your skin."
Not that Peeta would mind. I think.
But when I look at my naked body in the mirror, all I can see is how skinny I am. I mean, I'm sure I was worse when I came out of the arena, but I can easily count my ribs.
They take care of the shower settings for me, and they got to work on my hair, nails, and makeup when I'm done. They chatter so continuously that I barely have to reply, which is good because I don't feel talkative. It's funny, because even though they're rattling on about the Games, it's all about where they were or what they were doing or how they felt when a specific event occurred.
"I was still in bed!" "I just had my eyebrows dyed!" "I swear I nearly fainted!" Everything was about them.
By all means, please carry on. It's not like twenty-two children weren't just murdered over the past two weeks. I think sarcastically to myself.
We don't wallow around in the Games this way in District 12. We grit our teeth and watch because we must and try to get back to business as soon as possible when they're over. To keep from hating the prep team, I effectively tune out most of what they're saying.
Cinna comes in with what appears to be an unassuming yellow dress across his arms
"Have you given up on the whole "girl on fire" thing?" I ask.
"You tell me." He says, and slips it over my head.
I immediately notice the padding over my breast, adding curves that hunger stole from me. My hands got to my chest and I frown.
"I know." Cinna says before I can object. "The Gamemakers wanted to alter you surgically. Haymitch had a huge fight with them over it. This was the compromise. Wait don't forget the shoes."
Cinna stops me from looking at my reflection, so Venia can help me into a pair of flat leather sandals and I turn to the mirror.
I'm still the "girl on fire." The sheer fabric softly glows. Even the slight movement in the air sends a ripple up my body. By comparison, the chariot costume seems garish, the interview costume too contrived. In this dress, I give the illusion of wearing candlelight.
"What do you think?" Cinna asks.
"I think it's the best yet." I say.
When I manage to pull my eyes away from the fabric, I'm in for something of a shock. My hairs loose, held back by a simple hairband. The makeup rounds and fills out the sharp angles of my face. A clear polish coats my nails. The sleeveless dress gathers at my ribs, not my waist, largely eliminating any help the padding would have given my figure. The hem falls just to my knees. Without heels you can see my true stature. I look, very simply, like a girl. A young one. Fourteen at most. Innocent. Harmless. Yes, it's shocking that Cinna pulled this off when you remember that I've just won the Games.
This is a very calculated look. Nothing Cinna designs is arbitrary. I bit my lip trying to figure out his motivation.
"I thought it would be something more… sophisticated looking." I say.
"I thought Peeta would like this better." Cinna says.
I flinch imperceptibly, and squint my eyes at Cinna. Before Cinna could react, I turn and look back into the mirror. Peeta? This isn't about Peeta. It's about the Gamemakers and the Capitol and the audience. Although I don't understand Cinna's design, it's a reminder that the Games aren't quite finished. And beneath his benign reply, I sense a warning. Of something he can't say in front of his own team.
We take the elevator to the level where we trained. It's customary for the victory and his or her support team to rise from beneath the stage. First the prep team, followed by the escort, the stylist, the mentor, and finally the victor. Only this year, with two victors, who both share an escort and a mentor, the whole thing has had to be rethought. I find myself in a poorly lit area under the stage. A brand-new metal plate has been installed to transport me upward. You can still see small piles of sawdust, smell fresh paint. Cinna and the prep team peel off to change into their costumes and take their positions, leaving me alone. In the gloom, I see a makeshift wall about ten yards away and assume Peeta's behind it.
The rumbling of the crowd is loud, so I don't notice Haymitch until he touches my shoulder. I spring away, startled, still half in the arena, I guess.
"Easy, just me. Let's have a look at you." Haymitch says.
I hold my arms out and turn once. "Good enough."
It's not much of a compliment, but then again, this is Haymitch I'm talking about. I think.
"But?" I say.
Haymitch's eyes shift around the musty holding space, and he seems to make a decision. "But nothing. How about a hug for luck?"
Okay, that's an odd request from Haymitch, unless.
Unless he wants to explain the warning that Cinna couldn't give me. I think.
And I'm proven correct because when I wrap my arms around his neck, I find myself trapped in his embrace. He begins talking, very fast, very quietly in my ear, my hair concealing my lips.
"Listen up. You're in trouble. Word is the Capitol's furious about you showing them up in the arena. The one thing they can't stand is being laughed at and they're the joke of Panem." Haymitch says.
I feel dread coursing through me now, but I laugh as though Haymitch said something delightful because nothing is covering my mouth.
"So what?" I ask.
"Your only defense can be you were so madly in love you weren't responsible for your actions." Haymitch pulls back, adjusting my hairband. "Got it, sweetheart?"
He could be talking about anything. I think.
"Got it. Does Peeta know?" I ask.
"Don't have to. He's already there." Haymitch says.
"But you think I'm not?" I say, glaring at Haymitch. I take the opportunity to straighten the red bow tie Cinna must have wrestled him into.
"It's not about being there, and more about warning you not to rub it in their faces; but then again when does it matter what I think?" Haymitch asked.
Touché. I think; albeit, I'm mad that Haymitch didn't tell Peeta. He neglected to inform Peeta of the plan, even if he was on the same page without being told.
"Better take our places." Haymitch says, leading me to the metal plate. "This is your night sweetheart. Enjoy it." He kiss me on my forehead, and disappears into the gloom.
I'm shaking badly. At first I thought it was because I was self-conscious of my dress, it being too short, but in reality I'm mad at Haymitch for ignoring Peeta again. What I thought my body shaking was because of excitement; now I'm certain it's because of the rage that is following through my veins. Peeta is going to be mad at me for manipulating him. Peeta won't care for technicalities; manipulation is just that, manipulation.
I wonder if I can get out this debacle with my heart still intact. Probably not. I think.
The damp, moldy smell beneath the stage threatens to choke me. A cold, clammy sweat breaks out on my skin and I can't rid myself of the feeling that the boards above my head are about to collapse and bury me alive under the rubble. When I left the arena, when the trumpets played, I was supposed to be safe. From then on. For the rest of my life. But what if Haymitch says is true, and he's got no reason to lie, I've never been in such a dangerous place in my life.
It's much worse than being hunted in the arena. There, I could only die. End of story. But out here Prim, my mom, Gale, the people of District 12, everybody I care about back home could be punished if I don't pour out my heart like Haymitch wants me too.
I have no choice, but to sacrifice my heart again. I think.
It's funny, in the arena when I pulled out the berries, I was only thinking of outsmarting the Gamemakers, not how my actions would reflect on the Capitol. But the Hunger Games are their weapon and you are not supposed to defeat it. So now they will act like they were in control the whole time. As if they orchestrated the whole event, right down to the double suicide.
Peeta, baby. I'm so sorry. I think.
I have to warn Peeta. Warn him of the wrath that could come our way. It's the only thing I can do; attempt to lessen the blow. The berries serve three purposes: the first was because I wanted to punish the Gamemakers for all he deaths they had cause this year. The second was because I wanted to prove that if I die, it will be on my terms. And lastly because I love Peeta.
I know it's morbid to commit suicide out of love for someone, but Peeta was about to do the very same thing for me. I think.
I brace myself as the metal plate lifts me up onto the stage; beginning the final act.
And the most dangerous part of the Hunger Games is about to begin. I think.