The Unspoken

AN: Sorry for all the political intrigue and Petra's perceived mood swings...it's what happens when the author is fed a consistent literary diet of George R. R. Martin and Stieg Larsson. As smart and strong as she is, I still try to portray her realistically as a child grown up in a very rural, very bleak, very misogynistic society stripped of her home and dignity and thrown into the nightmare of the Capitol and the Games.

As far as rating goes, I apologize for not increasing it to M sooner due to the high volume of violence, cursing, and sexual content. I admire fanfiction. net both for its lack of censorship but also precautions in protecting the rights of fanfic authors and readers alike. I sincerely hope no younger readers have been or will be unwittingly exposed to mature content through my writing.

"I had the right to know," I tell them.

"Would it have changed anything?" My Mentor asks. "Or would you still have chosen to become my champion?" I am Petra Angelovna, Tribute, Reaped, contender in the 73rd Hunger Games. Is Klerkov right? Would simply knowing have truly changed anything?

I don't have the answer. "I had the right to know," I insist instead. "I had the right to know. From you. And you," I turn to Tasha. "Especially you."

"Being honest isn't the same as being kind," the wigged woman responds demurely. "You knew I didn't want you to wear that outfit."

"But you didn't stop me. You sent me out there like a kot and you said nothing," I tell her. "Fuck you both. Otva'li."

"Are you firing us?" She asks me quietly.

To that question, and all the others, I find I have no answer. I shut the door. Snick the lock into place. Sit slowly, armor and spiked hair scratching the oiled wooden frame. Are you firing us? Tasha Pushkina asked me. Petra Angelovna died the moment her name was pulled from the lists, Klekov said. Do you understand? Already dead.

Do I even want to live anymore, now that I know the true cost? Should I have killed myself first chance I had after the Reaping? Would it have been better to take my chances with the Resistance instead?

…the honest answer? I don't know.

I hear them outside my door for some time, whispering back and forth, for once not arguing. She calls for me, several times, but eventually their voices fade and soft footsteps disappear down the hall. It's all wrong, all of it. The carpet too soft, the walls too bright, the electric lighting eerie and humming. And everywhere is saturated with that horrible Capitol stink, like lye and bleach, like a medic's hut smothered under a sweet, crisp scent of day-old flowers. I miss the smell of earth and straw, of rot and blood, the stench of human and animal shit and piss and sweat, miss the moldy, greasy feel of wool and fur, the crackle of fire and the choking of smoke. I miss my father, even my mother, miss Irena and Marta and Lidya and Zoya who I haven't seen for twelve years, miss the bleating of goats and the cold of winter, even miss the cruelty of old women and young girls alike, even Dmitri Berezoski and his constant taunting…

I miss Home. Miss 6. I'm not the Butcher, not the Stone-heart, not some brave woman or Klerkov's champion. I'm just Petra, Petra Angelovna, the-girl-who-was-reaped and the-girl-who-will-be-raped. I bury my hands in my hair, pull that bear-skin cloak around me to hide but even it is permeated with that sterile reek.

I cry. I cry until my eyes are dry and bloody and my throat is raw. Then I curse. And curse, and curse.

I know he's out there. Somehow even before the soft tapping of child's hands on the door I know he's there. "Go away, Malcovitch," I say over my shoulder. "Just leave me alone."

But I see, rather than hear, the padding of his small feet before my door, casting long shadows across the room. I could pretend to ignore him, but he'd only stay, too stupid or scared to leave.

"Did Tasha and Klekov send you?" I sneer. "Did they think you'd make me feel better?" Cry-baby is as silent as ever. "Well they're wrong," I continue. "You're a pain and a burden and a pest and I hate you. Go away."

More silence. Even through the door, I can feel his eyes on me. "Hell," I finally spit. Then I let him in.

There's only truly nice thing about the Capitol. All the food, all the glamour, all the attention is only because we're Tributes. They made us celebrities where we should have been slaves. But even so, even the Avox are afforded their electricity. It's a constant presence, controlling the lighting, the temperature, even the water. Imagine never freezing in winter, never stifling in summer. Imagine hot water, as much as you like, without having to cut and carry wood or trudge through mud to find the hot springs.

I shower. Take as much hot water as I like, let the tiled, mirrored, blinding bathroom fill up with steam like a sauna. Even with Malcovitch the stall is still enveloping. Three adults could fit here comfortably, I think, then my nose wrinkles. Perhaps they do. With their electricity and their Vids and their adverts and their surgeries, with all their riches and their excesses it's easy to see why in the Districts we think they're the civilized ones. But now that I'm here, now that I've seen it, I know it all comes at a cost.

…Us. Tributes and Games to keep us in fear. Fear so they can have so many and so much, and keep us content and complacent so little and so few. "It's not fair, Malcovitch," I tell him again. "It's just not." Not fair they have all these comforts when my sisters died on pallets of straw in a wooden hovel. All this food while Malcovitch and many, many more are starving. Not fair to give us all a taste of Capitol life, then tell us to kill children if we want to keep it. I understand now why Victor Ivan Klerkov—for all my childhood the mysterious Man-eater—never left the Victor's Village.

Out of guilt. Out of greed.