6/11/18

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The Manipulation Games 3: Rebellion

Chapter Thirteen: The Mockingjay Returns

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When I wake up the next morning, the curtain that divides my room in half is closed. On the other side, I can hear nurses and doctors shuffling around, barking orders at each other in a frenzied panic. Their silhouettes peek through the thin white curtain, dancing about like morbid shadow puppets. I rub my eyelids, blinking to adjust to the bright lights shining upon me.

A nurse falls into my half of the room, panting heavily. She turns to me, and her eyes widen like a deer caught in the headlights. Stumbling forward in what resembles a drunken state, she quickly begins to check my vitals.

"And how are you today, Miss Mason?" she gasps, taking my blood pressure.

I stifle a yawn. "What time is it?"

"Just a little past two in the morning. I hate to wake you up, but doctor's orders and all."

My sleepiness is replaced by annoyance. "I was already awake. What do you mean, doctor's orders?"

The nurse releases my upper arm from the tight grip of her machine, scowling at whatever the result is. "She says we're crowding her. The patient, I mean. Can't blame us, though. If something happens to the Mockingjay now, this rebellion is as good as over."

I glance at the curtain again. Katniss is really back there? What could've happened to her here in Thirteen that would require medical attention? Unless this is about the baby thing, but Peeta told me that was a lie. I feel like an idiot for being out of the loop, but it's not like I've had any visitors except for those lovesick kids from Four.

"Did she fall down the stairs or something? Because I'd pay her to do it again."

The nurse shakes her head. "She was shot on a mission to District 2. Don't worry though, our doctors are doing everything they can. She'll be up and fighting again before we know it!"

Everything they can. The doctors are doing everything in their power to patch up a stupid gunshot wound, when there's a little girl in a coma just a few doors down who has been completely abandoned. Rage courses through my veins, and my body begins to heat up to a feverish degree. I bite my cheek and force myself to breathe, balling up my fists.

How am I this angry? I actually feel a lot more clear-headed today than normal. Weren't the drugs dulling my emotions? I glance over at my arm, noticing the lack of an IV.

"What happened to my drugs?"

The nurse looks up from her clipboard. "You mean the morphine? We're trying to wean you off of it now that you've recovered. We can't release you from the hospital yet, since we still need to monitor you, but you should be healed."

I can't take any of this crap anymore. I push my blankets off and get off the bed, straightening my nightgown as I stand up.

"I'm taking a walk," I growl.

The nurse shakes her head. "I still need to finish your checkup. We need to get it out of the way before I'm needed with Miss Everdeen again."

I glare, and she holds her hands up in surrender.

"Just be back soon."

I nod my head, trying not to walk out of the room too aggressively. The poor woman's just trying to do her job, and I'm making her life difficult. On the other hand, this crap is getting out of hand. Mockingjay this, Mockingjay that. It's the same attitude among everyone here. Everyone acts like the Mockingjay can just snap her fingers and end the Games forever. But she isn't the only person who's responsible for this rebellion. There were and are countless people working behind the scenes, making sacrifices these lazy bums in Thirteen couldn't even begin to fathom. All while they've done what? Hid in a bomb shelter for the past 75 years while our children were slaughtered? They have a lot of nerve claiming that they're the saviors of the other districts, that if it weren't for them and Katniss we wouldn't even stand a chance.

I nearly bump into Katniss's quote-unquote "cousin" as I finally make my escape from the hospital wing. He jumps back in shock, and I stumble backwards into the wall. A lightheadedness begins to set in, and I find myself leaning against the wall for support.

The cousin, Gale, I believe, studies me closely before asking, "Shouldn't you be-"

I cut him off. "Doesn't matter. I'm out of here."

Where to, I don't know. Perhaps I'll go hide out in Finnick's room. Maybe Annie's, when she gets discharged. All I know is that there's no way in heck that I'm going back to the hospital.

Gale raises an eyebrow.

"I'm sick and tired of these freaks! They're prioritizing whoever makes a good show, and leave everyone else to rot! If it weren't for Peeta, they wouldn't have even thought about saving us!" I snap, pushing him out of the way.

I hear footsteps following close behind me, and Gale begins to protest as I move farther away from him. I break into a run, praying that he takes the hint and stays behind. What use is it to follow me, anyways? Anyone with a brain would know there's no use trying to convince me of all people to do the rational thing. It's like the nurse said- I'm recovering. If they don't need to fix me anymore, there's no use staying.

My legs wobble, and I lean against the wall for support. Exhaustion hits me like a truck filled of bricks, and my lungs feel as though they've been packed full of mud. I turn around as I gasp for air, and I'm greeted by the sight of an empty hallway. Good, I've lost him.

Alone at last, I stumble into the bathroom across the hall. The room is dimly lit by a single LED light, which flickers on and off. The stony floor is cracked, with chunks of concrete missing in the corner. A heavily-streaked mirror hangs above a simple sink, and a black hand towel hangs next to a construction paper sign reminding citizens to stay within their toilet paper rations. I almost laugh, but it catches in my throat and I end up hacking up blood instead.

I look at myself in the mirror, wiping the blood away from my mouth. The bags under my eyes are far more prominent than they were pre-Quell, and scratches and scabs cover my bald head. All my muscles have sunk in, leaving me stuck with a bony shadow of my former glory. I don't look like Johanna Ivette Mason anymore. Instead, I look like a failure who let the Capitol defeat her.

The blood on my hands stares into my soul, mocking me for my weakness. I scowl, leaning forward to turn the sink on. The sooner I can get cleaned up, the sooner I can figure out my game plan. If I have one, anyways.

My hand never makes it to the water.

The sight of it gushing from the faucet, the sound it makes as it hits the sink- it's all too much for me. My lungs start working overtime, trying desperately to save me, but they can't. I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't stand. Tears fall silently down my face, their moisture sending me into further hysterics. It's like I'm back in the Capitol, back in Nero's chair. The feeling of electricity burning my skin returns, stronger than ever, singeing my skin in its wake.

My own screams are the last thing I remember before I pass out.

...

Hi again! I'm sorry it took me so long to update. I'm starting my senior year of high school soon, and there's a lot of personal things going on in my life right now, so I've been extremely stressed out lately. I've always had problems with anxiety, but lately it's been a lot worse. I just wanted to be honest with you about why you haven't heard from me in a while. Obviously I would never abandon this story, but I may need to take a bit of my focus off writing for a bit. I'm not taking a hiatus from the story, but I am taking one from that weirdly complicated update schedule I insisted upon. Thanks for understanding, and thank you all for reading my stories!

May the odds be ever in your favor,

-Spectrobes Princess