Time has passed.
What happened? Where am I? Who am I? I've been drifting in and out of consciousness for a long time, and it's been a struggle to stay awake. I am still with Snow, and dread fills my body, depressing and dull, a never ending ache. I will never see Kyan again. My friends and family have surely given up on me, turned their backs and are pretending I was nothing but a bad dream.
Slowly, I begin to cry, tears seeping through the bandages. I am the forgotten one, the person in the shadows, the failed hope.
Slowly, a woman enters the room, approaching me quietly and taking my hand. She wears a look of sympathy, a gesture so foreign. As she wipes the tears away, she reassures me, and this kindness is enough to make me weep.
"What are you doing here?" I whisper. "If he finds out, he'll kill you."
"He?" she replies.
"Snow. He'll kill you, he'll see. You have to go!" I'm still weeping silently.
"Oh, honey, you're not in the Capitol. No, we rescued you. You're gonna be just fine. Snow won't get anywhere near you, or me." Who am I supposed to believe? The voices in my head, or the nurse's kind, quiet words, spoken with such conviction? I frown, putting my head back on the pillow. She must sense my confusion, because she adds, "I can fetch Kyan, if you want?"
"Kyan...uh, yes," I reply. As she turns away, I add something of my own. "Thank you," I tell her, as loud as I can. "Thank you." She swivels around, smiling.
"We should be thanking you, Maria," she replies softly, heading out. As I listen to her footsteps fade away, I try my best to remember.
I have the basics together. I was in the 100th Hunger Games, and I won. I began a rebellion. To save my boyfriend and my best friend, I interrupted their Games and did a speech, diverting the nation's attention whilst they were rescued. That got me arrested, and tortured. I have survived, my leg broken, the word 'Snow' inscribed on my back, and my face carved up. The bruises are fading, the small cuts healing. I will get better.
A head peers around the door now, tears streaking down his face. It's as if day breaks for me - I am still very much in the dark, but light is beginning to show. I have escaped midnight, and the terror it brought to me. "Maria?" Kyan asks, and I nod slowly. "Maria - please forgive me."
He sits down on the chair beside my bed, and I put my arms around his shoulders, laying my head down on his chest. It's so warm, and I've been so cold, I wish I could stay there forever. Perhaps, for once, my wish can come true.
I want to scream, I want to yell, I want to howl. Let anybody, anything, that cares know how deeply wounded I am. I hold onto Kyan's arms as I cry, letting out the misery of five weeks in hell, head on his chest - safe.
"It's been so hard," he mutters. "So, so hard, knowing what was happening to you." I believe him. Perhaps it was even harder for Kyan, who is already haunted, to see the one thing he had going for him destroyed. But my mind is going foggy, and I fall asleep in his arms.
When I wake, Kyan is asleep in a chair on the other side of the room, and the nurse is back, peeling the bandages off my face.
"There, that's better," she tells me, holding up a mirror. I literally jump.
I hardly recognise myself - thick scars criss-cross my face in a symmetrical pattern, swooping under my eyes, over my forehead, around my cheeks. It's horrible, scary even.
"Are you okay?" the nurse asks me.
"I will be," I reply shakily, running my fingers along the scar lines.
"Do you want to see if you can walk?"
"That'll be a miracle," I mutter, looking down at my plastered leg.
She laughs, pulling up a pair of crutches.
"Oh, okay." I'm still completely shocked by my face, but thinking about walking pulls up a memory.
"What is it honey?" the nurse asks. I must have gone pale.
"I was- it doesn't matter."
"You can tell me."
I sigh. "They broke my leg, and they were dragging me back to the cell. I tripped up on something, and fell down, and I realised I just couldn't get up. I felt so, useless. They left me there to crawl back, but I couldn't do that either."
Kyan looks up at me from the armchair, and I know he heard it all, because he puts a hand over his eyes and turns away, unable to look at me.
"Try not to think about it," the nurse tells me as she hands me the crutches.
Try not to think about it? It's hard. Try to forget? Impossible, as the nightmares that wake me up that night prove. Three weeks later, I'm walking and eating meals with the public. I am a solemn version of myself. I don't think I've smiled once. And wherever I go, I am ALWAYS accompanied by the ghosts.