Chapter 66- Astrid Clearwater
The rain is cold, but I turn my face up to it anyway, closing my eyes and willing myself to be anywhere, anywhere but District 3. The water clears my head too, washing away all the cloudiness and confusion, leaving me with something resembling what I used to have. In the two months since I got home, my head's cleared a little bit, but my thoughts still fragment out at the worst moments, and I still stumble sometimes when I walk. But I don't let them see. I won't let them see; I will never let them have that satisfaction.
Finally, I will myself to open my eyes, and I'm immediately blinded by the rain and the lit up Technology Development Center, which I've been standing in front of for half an hour. The water running into my eyes makes me want to scream and swipe it away, because it's too much like the blood when Agrippina, when Agrippina cut me. But I don't. I don't scream. I just stare up at the glass building that lets me see everyone inside working on something; inventions that will probably help the Capitol torture more of us.
Somewhere in there, Beetee is making himself indispensable, but I don't really know if I care how. Still, I've been standing in front of this building, one part of me trying to decide whether to go in and find him, and the other part telling me to just walk my route and go home. I shouldn't care about him, and especially not what he thinks about me. There's no point to finding him; what would I do if I did? What would I even say? The other part of me finally wins, and I turn to walk away, the lights still burned into my eyes wherever I look.
I haven't talked to Beetee since the train, and that was back in July. Almost three months ago, and not one word since. It's not that I haven't seen him; I have. It's hard not to since his house is literally next door to mine. But we don't even look at each other. He's lost in his own world of electronics and inventions, and I don't want to hear what he has to say. I don't need him. I don't need his half truths and partial lies, and his explanations of how he was essentially pitting Circuit and me against each other in the arena. I don't need him.
Still, I remember that spark of pride in his eyes when I won, and that's the part that softens the place in me that I've very effectively turned to stone.
District 3 tends to get dark early, and I forgot about it when I was in the Capitol. Two weeks there and I forgot a lot of things about this place. But the tall apartments and centers block out the sun as soon as it passes midday, and by early evening it's as dark as midnight. The only light comes from the different centers and factories spread out through the Manufacturing Sector, which I'm standing in right now. The houses and shops are better cared for here than the areas where I grew up, but it's not beautiful by any standards. Practical District 3. All the Capitol people would die on the spot if they saw it and had to live here.
I'd like to see it. Maybe have it filmed so I can watch it on cold winter nights, like how they're all watching me kill Circuit over and over on their own televisions.
Before I know what's really happening, I'm bent over in the street, pressing my hands against my temples and the pain that's trying to push its way out of my head. No. No weakness; I can't show weakness here, no matter how much it hurts. Because I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm not hurt anymore, even though my head hurts and I weave when I walk sometimes. I'm not hurt, I'm just confused. Sometimes I'll end up in one end of the district with no idea how I got there, or I'll forget something simple, like my brother's birthday or where I put something in the house. Sometimes I'll even forget what happened in the arena, which is a relief, but it makes it twice as awful when it comes back to me.
Elowyn's dead. Everyone in that arena is dead, except me. And Circuit would have made it home if it wasn't for me, because I killed him. He would have killed me but I killed him first. I'm the victor. Me. And it's just made District 3 hate me more, which I didn't know they could. It was a high bar to reach to begin with. But half the people mutter under their breath when they see me, and the other half look straight ahead and ignore me. It's not that much different from before, but I can feel their loathing has just gotten deeper.
It's September first. I forgot that. Automatically I veer off to the right, down a street that I walk regularly; it's fairly well lit by apartments and various shops that line it. It's safe enough, and that's what matters. It curves around to the left, and from here I can see the bright lights shining on the train station and a silver train waiting by the platform. They're late tonight.
With the rain pouring harder and dripping down onto my face, soaking my hair into dark strands that don't even look red anymore, I make my way towards the platform, hands in my pockets. I can see the open doors of the train, and the three men who are taking crates out of the cargo cars. Capitol workers, maybe even Avoxes. Three Peacekeepers stand by, their guns in their hands.
Shattering, shattering out, all those glass pieces of thoughts scattered inside my head, making me scramble to put them back together. They're not Capitol, they look district. District 6. Transportation. The glass shards holding my thoughts together are too fragile to hold onto for long, so I just keep my hands stuffed in my pockets and try to put an indifferent look on my face. It takes a moment, but one of the workers finally notices me.
"What're you here for then?"
"It's Parcel Day," I reply, not even bothering to wipe the water off my forehead and cheeks. Is it water, or is it blood? Water, it's water. There's been no blood since the arena, but I can still feel it pouring into my eyes, blinding me to Agrippina's torture. She's dead, she's dead too. I have to remember that and let her go.
"Waiting to get your first pick?" another one calls out mockingly. I shake my head.
"I'm the one who earned it in the first place. Thought I should watch it come in."
Recognition flickers over all three of their faces; it's not easy to recognize me as the victor of the 41st Games. That girl had red hair and a bloodstained uniform in the arena, then beautiful dresses in silk and gauze after. This girl, me right now, has none of those things. Dark, sopping wet hair, no makeup. But I'm wearing Capitol clothes, so maybe that should count for something.
"I just wanted to see," I say, pressing my hands deeper into the pockets of my blue wool coat.
"Doesn't matter to me," the first worker says, shooting a nervous glance at one of the Peacekeepers. "Crates got to come off whether you're here or not."
Five more crates come off the train while I watch, the rain soaking through my jacket. Tomorrow the mayor will hand out the food in them, and will every month until next July. I don't need any of it; we have enough food in our house to feed ten people, and they send more to us every two weeks. I don't need anything in these crates. I just want to see them. I don't know why, but I do.
As soon as the last crate is lifted onto the platform, I turn back to the dark street that I came from. The rain is pouring even harder now, if that's possible, and all I want to do is get back to my room in Victor's Village, in my house where my mother will be waiting for me. She knows that I pace the city every day; it's easier than sitting still.
Some of the lights have gone out since I stopped at the train station, making the street darker than it was before. I don't like the dark, not now. It didn't bother me before, but after being in the arena my imagination plays tricks on me, and I swear I can see those cat mutts stalking me in the shadows, keeping just out of reach. I can't sleep in the dark yet either; I have to have a light on, and that helps combat the nightmares.
I see them every night, over and over. The jungle and the mutts and the tributes; both the ones I knew in the arena and the ones I didn't. Trestle, the boy from 4, the little girl from 8, even Hazel from 5. Elowyn is in every single one, and she dies every time, but not only from knives. Mutts, drowning, fire- there's an endless variation to the dreams.
Tilling drags me down below the black water at least once a week, her rotting corpse hands knotting into my hair and drowning me again and again and again. I can't tell my mother. She can't ever know about my nightmares. I wake up every morning and tell her I'm fine, that I slept well. Because I am. I am fine.
My nerves are acting up; it's too dark to be out; I shouldn't have taken that detour to the train station. District 3 isn't really a place to be out in at night, and it doesn't matter if I'm a victor or not. My head and my feet have come completely disconnected, and I'm starting to weave back and forth like one of the drunks coming out of the pubs. That's exactly who I don't want to meet.
With one hand I reach out for support and find damp wood under my fingertips. Following the wall, holding onto it so I don't topple over, I manage to get myself back onto the main road. Straight up ahead I can see the Architecture Center, lighting the street right in front of it. I'm not scared of the dark, but I don't like the people who could be lurking in it. I just keep my hands in my pockets and try to walk straight, into the light of the Center, that stark, white light that's blinding me.
"You!"
Some drunk, yelling at someone else coming out of a pub. My thoughts are keeping together for the moment while I step one squishing step forward out of the light of the Architecture Center.
"I've been looking for you! Get your ass back here!"
Not me. Not me.
"Victor!"
It is me. But the years of growing up in the worst neighborhoods have taught me to never talk to the people yelling at me. None of them meant any good when I was a child, and he's not meaning any good right now either.
"Stop walking girl!"
Keep walking, Astrid.
"I said stop," he shouts, grabbing my arm and hauling me backwards, almost off my feet. Let go, let go, let go.
"Get off me!" Automatically I kick the man's knees, then swing at him with my free arm. He's a mutt, or close enough to one that I need to run. He groans, bending over to feel at his bruised knees, but I don't care. Maybe someone in the Architecture Building will look out and see us, but I doubt they care. Nobody cares.
As I get ready to run while he's still bent over, a group of people materializes out of the almost deserted streets, blocking my exit. The people I didn't want to meet are all around me, and I can't escape. I'm not scared, I'm not scared. I'm not. But I'm small compared to most of the people standing behind me, and I never had to fight anyone taller than myself in the arena.
"You killed my boy," the man gets out, finally pulling himself up to his full height. He's tall, maybe as tall as the boy from 8. I remember him, he was tall. "I've been looking for you for two months, girl. You killed my boy, and we don't let that go in this district."
"He had a fair chance at it," I say, my wits finally connecting back together. "Not my fault he didn't win." He's Circuit's father, isn't he? It is my fault, but you can blame Beetee. Blame him, not me.
He swings at me before I can react, catching me hard on the cheek. The impact sends me stumbling backwards, and the nausea that went away last month returns full force. I need an axe, a knife, something. I can't kill him, I can't, but it hurts, my face hurts, and it's not my fault, it's not my fault.
"Leave me alone!" I scream, trying to back towards a place where I can run, but someone behind me shoves me forward, almost making me fall. It hurts, but I won't let them see it. My ears are ringing, and the ground is slowly swooping again with this latest blow, but I force myself to stand up straight, my hands balled in fists at my side. I stared down Agrippina, I can stare him down too.
"I want you dead for what you did to my boy," he shouts, jabbing his finger at me. I don't react. He's not the first to want me dead, and now I'm doubting that he will be the last. "I want your head dropped on the doorstep of Justice Hall, and the Capitol can parade that around the districts."
No weakness. "I'd like to see you try. I killed your boy; I killed the others too. What's to say I won't kill you first?" It's taken two months to catch me, but I won't let him keep me and kill me. I thought I would be out of the arena when that hovercraft dropped its ladder, but I'm not. I'm not.
"Peacekeeper bitch!" a woman shouts behind me; she slurs her words so I'm sure she's been in one of the pubs. Just like Saul used to talk when he came home, and he wasn't gentle then either. I hated him, I hate everyone in this district for hating me, no matter what supplies and support I've brought them. I hate them, because they'll always hate me too.
"That's how you won; they weren't going to let a Capitol girl die in the arena!" another woman screeches. That's it, isn't it? Peacekeeper, Capitol. I'm neither, I swear I'm neither, but I don't know, since my mind keeps cracking and repairing itself. I'm not scared. No weakness.
My hair is wet against my face, feeling like blood, and my cheek is stinging like when the mutt kicked me, but with a deeper, throbbing ache instead of sharp and piercing. "I won, he didn't. Not my fault the Capitol put us in there," I snap. Somebody shifts behind me; they're inebriated and easy to push through, I just know it. Circuit's father comes at me again, fist raised, but I turn first, shoving a man to the side, and I run. One of them shouts at me, but I don't think they are running after me; they're too drunk to even walk straight. But I'm not running straight either; I'm weaving back and forth, and my head hurts, it hurts and rings and spins, and I can't think.
A building appears out of nowhere and the ground is too slick to stop; I slam against it, banging my shoulder. No weakness. I'm fine. I nearly fall over when I turn to run, but I catch myself and take off again. Won't let them catch me, because if they catch me they'll kill me. No allies, no allies in District 3.
My shoes don't have traction on the slippery cobblestones; they're Capitol shoes, not district shoes. They skid once and I go down face first into a puddle, hitting my head again. Ground's spinning, and it's all I can do to keep from vomiting from the nausea. No weakness. I'm soaked through my coat, and when I finally get myself up I can feel that my knees are skinned through my pants. Doesn't matter. I start running, shifting back and forth and catching myself from falling entirely, until I finally come to the water soaked gates of Victor's Village, where I can see the lights from my house draped over the damp stones and grass in front of it.
I'm shaking all over when I reach my front door, with the fancy door knocker and brass handle. It's too big, with more space than we could ever use, but it's made my mother and brother happy. My mother and brother who I'm going to see as soon as I open this door. I fell. I'm fine. Mama can't know; she can't know about what they said and did, because I have to protect her. Everything is fine.
"Trixie's home!" Axel shouts as soon as I open the door. "Trixie, guess what!" Axel runs into the front hallway and his eyes grow wide when he sees me. "You're all wet."
"I know, it's really coming down out there," I say, trying for a normal tone, even though my hands are shaking. No, I'm shaking all over. Just because I'm cold. I'm fine.
"Supper is on the table- Astrid, what happened?" Mama asks, following Axel into the room and stopping short too. "You're shaking, what happened?"
"It's just cold and I fell. I'm fine, don't worry," I say, as the floor does gentle swoops under my feet. I still might throw up, I don't know, but I'm fine. Fine.
"Did you hit your face?" she asks, coming over to me and tilting my chin up. Please don't touch me, Mama. I don't want anyone to touch me, ever again. Not even my mother.
"A little. I'll be okay, don't worry," I say, pulling back just enough so that she doesn't notice that I want her hands to fall.
"Come upstairs, we'll look you over and get you dry," Mama says, her mouth in that grim line that she wore almost constantly back in the apartment. "But take your boots off first, Astrid."
Axel bounces around while I undo the laces of my Capitol made boots and drop them on the floor to make a puddle. My brother follows me up the stairs, dodging the water coming off of my hair and clothes. It's been a while since our floors were damp, and this time it's me that's leaking, not our roof. But the house is so quiet, so quiet that it rings in my ears. Or is it just my head that's ringing?
"Guess what, Trixie, guess what?" Axel sings out, a big grin on his face. He's not looking sickly anymore, which is one of the best things about me winning the Games. He's finally getting enough to eat for the first time in his life, and he's been moved up in school too. Maybe he'll have a chance at a life that he would never have had if I hadn't won.
"What?"
"We learned how to create a hologram today!"
"That's exciting," I say, resisting the urge to press my hands against my temples again to try and cancel out the ringing and the pounding in my head. Everything hurts, but I won't let them know that.
Axel keeps chattering away about holograms, but my mind is elsewhere; namely the attack in the street. I'm shaking all over, but I have to pretend it's just because I'm cold. Because I'm wet. Not because Circuit's father wants me dead, and so do a lot of other people in this district. Not because of the throbbing ache in my cheek and jaw that's going to leave a bruise. I'm fine.
"Axel, you let me take care of your sister, and you can talk about your holograms after," Mama says, standing in the doorway of my room.
"Can I make hot chocolate?" Axel asks, another grin going ear to ear on his face.
"Yes, just be careful. And don't run," Mama calls after him, but it's too late; he's practically jumping down the stairs. I follow Mama into my room and she closes the door after me.
"What happened, Astrid?" she asks, leading me to the bathroom that is attached to my room.
"I fell," I mumble, trying to undo the buttons on my coat, but I can't even grab them with my shaky hands. Mama comes behind me and squeezes my hair into a towel, soaking away the worst of the water. Every time she touches me I flinch, but I try not to show it.
Please don't touch me, Mama.
Their words keep revolving around and around in my head while my thoughts start to fracture out again. I did kill Circuit, but he would have killed me instead. And after two months I still don't know how to feel about it. I haven't gathered those thoughts together enough, and I don't know whether I want to. And Beetee told me not to expect a warm welcome, but I doubt he expected death threats. Or did he? I don't know what goes on in that head of his.
"Be more careful from now on," Mama says, dabbing at my face now with the towel. I try not to wince when she touches my forehead, but her mouth is still pulled tight in that grim line. "You've bruised yourself badly. Are you sure you're alright?"
I nod. I can't cry, I won't let myself. No tears, no weakness, especially in front of my mother. I think we're both pretending that the arena didn't affect me at all. I left, I killed, I came back. Same Astrid, different house.
My hands are shaking too hard to even grab one of the buttons; I can't get this jacket off. "Let me," Mama says, putting the towel down and gently undoing each button, coaxing the wet blue jacket off me. My mind is fragmenting, shattering out until I can't think at all, just watch those shards of thoughts rotate around my head instead, out of reach.
"Stay here, I'll get your pajamas," Mama says, but she's a thousand miles away, and her voice has to compete with the ringing in my head. I'm in the mirror, I can see myself in the mirror. I'm not scared, I'm not scared of myself, but I don't look like how I used to anymore. My face has rounded out again since I left the Capitol, but my eyes aren't my own. Wild, wary eyes, with soaking wet dark hair framing them around my face. The bruise is already blooming on my cheek, and it looks ugly. A reminder of what they said and what they did.
Peacekeeper bitch. Capitol girl, one of their own. Peacekeeper, Peacekeeper, Peacekeeper.
Thoughts still out of reach; I can't think anything. My head is empty and full at the same time, and I can't make sense of my feelings. I'm not scared, I won't let myself be, but I'm still looking in the mirror, and I look like a girl who never left the arena. After tonight, I don't think I did. But I won, I was supposed to be safe, and now I'm not. I'll never be.
Peacekeeper.
Their words keep spiraling down and they're the only ones I can catch. They're the only ones I can think, so when my mother hands me the soft flannel pajamas, I ask the question I've been wanting to ask forever, without thinking at all.
"Was my father a Peacekeeper?"
Silence and those wary, wild green eyes in the mirror. I don't dare look at my mother, now that my question hangs between us. I never should have asked, I'm sorry. Shouldn't have asked.
"Yes," Mama finally says, and that one word is heavy with emotion, an emotion I can't place.
They were right, they were all right. District 3 didn't lie to me, but I don't know. I don't know what I don't know.
"Where was he from?" I finally ask, still keeping my eyes on the mirror. I don't want to look at my mother, but I have to, to properly hear what she has to say next.
"I don't know." Her voice is nearly in a whisper, and her mouth is in a tighter line than I've ever seen it.
"You don't?" They said on the streets that she loved him, and he left her. I don't know.
"I never even knew him," she says, nearly spitting the words out. "I never knew who he was, and I didn't want to know. I never wanted to know him."
I can still read her, and I can see her mind hardening and breaking at the same time, that bitter emotion in her voice telling me everything. That I was born of pain and I have caused her nothing else ever since.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked," I mutter, looking down at my still damp and shaky hands. Why did I want to know so badly? Maybe because I wanted to know whether those people spoke any truth tonight, and they did. They did.
"You wanted to know. There's nothing wrong with wanting to know," Mama says quietly, standing stiff as a board. Her long dark hair plaited back, that plait that she does herself now that I can't bring myself to touch anyone else.
I wanted to know, but I shouldn't have. I should have let it be, and let them shout at me without knowing the truth. I hate them, I hate all of District 3 for knowing what happened and still blaming my mother. It wasn't her fault.
"I'm only your daughter," I say, still staring at my hands. "Not anyone else's."
"You'll always be my daughter," Mama says, gently stroking my hair. I let her, because I can't cause her any more pain by pulling away. "No matter what."
I want her to pull me close like she used to, and squeeze me tight, but I can't do that anymore. I hugged her when I got off the train, but I can't be touched, can't have anyone touch me. Not after the arena, not after Agrippina and Circuit. I can't.
Oh Mama. I'm sorry.
"You should sleep, sweetheart," Mama says, breaking the heavy spell that's fallen over us both. "You're still shaking."
"I'm just cold," I say, trying to smile at her.
Does she blame me for what happened? Could she have had a better life if she hadn't had me? If she wasn't pulled down and blamed and spat upon just because of one Peacekeeper that she never wanted to know, and shouldn't have known her?
It's not my fault, but it is at the same time. And I'm sorry for it.
"Dry off and climb into bed. You'll feel better in the morning," Mama says, and gently brushes my cheek. "Be careful from now on. Your poor face."
"I'll be careful. I promise," I tell her. My head is reeling, and I don't want her to see me fall, which is going to happen in a minute if I'm not careful.
Concussion. Displaced fracture. Metal plate to fuse the bone.
I've had worse injuries than this bruise. But they didn't come from District 3.
"Goodnight, Astrid," Mama says, giving me a cool kiss on my forehead, then she's gone, shutting the door behind her.
I don't know what to think now.
Peacekeeper's daughter. A Peacekeeper like all the others. The Capitol, taking what they want and discarding what they don't need again. Dispensable, replaceable. And eventually, forgettable.
If I didn't have enough reasons to hate the Capitol already, I've added another one to the list. Mama, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. And I hate District 3 too, for what they've done to all of us.
I dry myself haphazardly with the towel, missing that button in the Capitol that dried me instantly, then I feel guilty for wanting something Capitol. I'm not Capitol, and I'm not quite District 3 either. I'm trapped in some world in between, because I'm a victor, and I am a Peacekeeper's daughter. No. I'm my mother's daughter. But I have the red hair and green eyes from someone she should never have known.
The pajamas are soft against my skin, but I long for that blue silk dress from the recap night. Slippery blue silk that was so beautiful, and that I can still feel now.
I'm confused again; without really meaning to, I end up on my bed, sitting with my knees bent and my head in my hands. Peacekeeper. Peacekeeper. Taking what they want and forgetting. Doesn't matter, never matters; district girls don't matter.
They were right. They were all right, my whole life, and still they hated me for something I could never prove and never have any power over. Red hair, green eyes, the only one in District 3. It's odd, isn't it? That I'm the only one? I don't understand, but I don't understand a lot.
I fracture out again, and my mind comes to rest on the last night in the arena. Elowyn, I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm sorry for. I didn't kill her. I was ready to, but I didn't. But she didn't have to keep me alive, and she did. So how can I ever repay that? I can't.
No weakness, no weakness. I press my palms into my eyes, willing this whole room to go away. It's beautiful, and even any Capitolite would be happy to live here, but I still wake up every morning expecting that waterlogged and peeling wallpaper, and sometimes I'm disappointed it's not there.
When I lived in the apartment, I had my thoughts with me. I went to school. Now I don't have either of them. Our apartment is probably leased to someone else who's desperate enough for two leaky rooms that hold a single bed and a stove. It was dirty and cold, and there was never enough food, so why do I long for that life now? Maybe I don't, maybe I just don't want to be here and a victor, after everything that's happened.
They want me dead. They all want me dead, because Circuit wanted me dead and I killed him first. They want me dead because I didn't die, and I'm blamed for that. For not dying in the arena like I was supposed to.
It hurts too much to sit still, so I make myself roll off the bed, stumbling to the side and almost hitting the wall before I reach the window. It's dark outside, as black as that last night in the arena was. As dark as the road to the train station that I walked tonight before Circuit's father wanted me dead. Before he punched me in the face. It hurts, but I have to pretend that it doesn't. No weakness, ever. Ever. Because I'm a victor and victors don't feel. I can't.
A lone figure walks up the lane of Victor's Village, and I start back, nearly falling, before I realize it's Beetee. He's obviously lost in thought, even though I can't see his face properly. His house lights are on, but there's nobody waiting for him there. He lives alone; does he have anyone else in the world? Or is he as alone in his head as I am? I don't know what to think, and my mind is gone again, cloudy and detached from the rest of the world. Somehow I get back to my bed, rolling onto my back so I can see the ceiling.
It shifts back and forth like the tides on the beach, and I can almost hear Elowyn talking about her sister, after Tilling had died. Her parents are childless now, because she helped me. It wasn't my fault, so I should let her go. But it's hard when I see her die every night.
In the arena, before that last night, I was waiting to feel that same relief that I felt when our apartment didn't burn. The arena burned for all of us, and it caught all but one in its flames. I'm still burnt though. I'm still looking for that relief, and I'll never get it. I'll never get that relief, because that fire will burn and burn until I'm dead too.
Beetee, why couldn't you tell me all the truths? Why didn't you tell me about what I have to prepare for? Why all the secrets and deception? What aren't you telling me?
Damp hair in a halo around my head, and no thoughts. No thoughts. Just an aching jaw and a slowly spinning room.
Mama, I'm sorry.