Everything feels surreal.
There is a bone-deep cold holding onto me, locking my body into place.
I feel nothing but this cold, until slowly, dimly, I being to feel hands, touching me.
I want to move, speak, ask questions, except I'm frozen, helpless to do anything but fervently hope that these are the rebels reviving me. That Peeta is somewhere nearby.
I cannot open my eyes, but I can still faintly sense my surroundings. An overwhelming smell of metal and bleach. Sheets of a cot beneath my fingers. A machine beeping nearby.
A doctor, mouth covered with a mask and primed sharply in surgical robes, pries open one of my eyelids, flashing a light across my face.
Some sort of sound escapes me. My body, suddenly a little lighter, twists to the side.
"We need more anesthesia," I hear the doctor say.
My heartbeat slows. My thoughts grow foggy again. I try to fight it. I cannot.
I am lying on a padded table.
I am largely unable to move, or open my eyelids, or even raise my head.
There are tubes in my left arm, a needle in my right wrist, and another tube shoved down my throat. I feel as though I cannot breathe. I cannot even scream. I'm choking, panicked. I move my right arm; or, at least, I try to. The arm simply flops across my body, feeling like a flipper. I have no real motor coordination, no proof that I even still have fingers. I manage to swing my arm around until I rip the needle out. A beeping sound goes off, but I can't stay awake long enough to find out who it will summon.
The next time I surface, my hands are tied down to the table, the needle back in my arm. But at least, I am no longer intubated. I can move my head. I turn it, forcing my eyelids to lift. I'm in a large room with a low ceiling. There are two other padded tables next to mine.
To my right, is Johanna; wired up to multiple different machines.
She's still alive, I think, then realize, of course she is. We both fell into the ravine. The rebels must have been hard-pressed to pull us from the water before we drowned.
I turn my head the opposite way and I am not surprised to see Enorbaria on the other table.
Those last few moments are hazy. Hard to recall. The venom has certainly affected my memories. But I have not forgotten that she betrayed us. The way her knife cut across my chin as we fell. The blood.
My hand – extended… Peeta.
I lift my head, suddenly desperate to get my eyes on him. To know he made it, and that he's okay. I just have to know. Have I failed? If I could not save the boy with the bread…
Before I can locate anyone, my head gets too heavy to hold and it slams back – hard – against the table.
In my unconsciousness, I dream.
Most of the dreams are too vague to remember, or they are simply memories I hold from the past. Like the time my father first took me hunting, or when I brought Prim to the meadow and taught her how to make a crown out of flowers. They are light sweet remembrances… at first… but over time, they become darker and more real.
Sometimes it is me, helpless, lying on the ground. Staring up into the starless sky. Or I am sleeping in my bed back at District 12 and in the distance, I hear a wailing child. And I know that child is wailing for me, but I cannot seem to pull myself from the bed. The longer I struggle, the louder the wails get. I know something is hurting it. Someone. I'll come, I try to shout in these dreams, but my mouth is mute.
More than once I dream that I am in the arena again. The tunnels spin around me, confusing me. I am lost in these dreams, always. I am searching, but I cannot be sure what for. I assume Peeta. Or an escape. Some respite, some hope. I wander the underground tomb, completely alone.
When I finally wake, I am alone.
I am still strapped to a padded table, but Johanna or Enorbaria are no longer beside me. The room is different; smaller.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling. I find being awake startling, difficult. A handful of my most recent dreams play through my thoughts; and then I am rewinding, until I find those last few minutes from the arena. They blur by, jumbled.
Had we actually escaped? What had happened after Enorbaria pulled me over the edge of the ravine?
Frustrated, raw with emotion and without any answers, I fight the restraints holding me down.
I throw myself against them.
Somewhere, far off, I can hear the sound of rain.
I twist against my restraints, pulling my thighs together. A tube runs along my leg. To match the needle in my arm.
Why am I strapped to this table? I ask myself.
Realizations start to dawn on me.
I do not want to consider it at first. Yet there just isn't any evidence to suggest otherwise.
Why would the rebels tie me to a table?
I rock against the restrains again. This time I catch sight of the machine at my bedside.
With its Capitol seal branded into its side.
I feel nauseous. But how? How?
It's a stupid question. Of course, the Capitol would have sent a hovercraft the moment they saw that tributes had broken free from their arena. They would not allow us to get away; not easily. Our plan had failed. Whether we were too late, or the rebels were never going to come at all, I could not say, but it does not matter now. None of it matters. We have lost. In the worst way imaginable.
The Capitol did not pull me from the ravine unconscious, bleeding, and half-dead just to crown me victor.
As the reality of my predicament sinks in, I stop fighting the restraints and allow the despair to take me over.
I lay there for a long time.
There must be cameras on me, watching me. I wonder why no one has come running.
How long have I been unconscious?
Where is Peeta?
I wanted so badly to protect him. To outdo him. I cannot believe how spectacularly I have failed; and yet, it is not too late. I am still resolved to save him. He is not in this room, but surely, he is not dead.
I must find him... and kill him now, before the Capitol gets to choose the agonizing means of his death.
That is the best I can do. To give him the mercy. And then do the same for myself.
Suddenly filled with purpose, I raise my head. I have to get off of this table.
There are multiple tubes connected to one of my arms. I am not sure what their purposes are, but I feel fine.
I turn my hand around, trying to find the place where the jabberjay had marked me. Nothing. No bandage. No stitches. No scar.
Why would they make me perfect again? To what purpose? I feel violated, just like last time the Capitol doctors had chiseled out every flaw in my skin. Those were my scars. My memories to go with them. Hunting marks. Callouses. The cut across my forehead that could have served as a painful reminder to Clove, but also, the time I risked everything to save Peeta.
It makes sense to me suddenly, why they would fix me so completely. President Snow will be wanting to make an example of us all. Especially me. He'll want me to feel every ounce of pain when he inflicts it on me, so I need to be in my best shape. He will want my execution to be public, and he cannot have anyone pitying the battered girl that ruined everything because of any remaining imperfections.
I lull my head back, to rest against the table. Then, stunningly, there is the sound of metal clicking free and the leather straps restraining me fall away. I push myself into a sitting position and hold onto the padding until the room settles into focus.
I tear out the tubes and needles. It's painful, awful, but I find a sense of urgency has consumed me. If someone has let me out of my restraints, that means they are aware that I am awake, and they are watching me.
The sound of rain comes from the single window on the wall. The window is open. A cold wind sweeps through the room.
I slide my legs off the table and look around for a weapon. There are a few syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Perfect. All I'll need is air and a clear shot of Peeta's veins. I can even use the same needle to kill myself.
I am naked except for a thin cotton scrub top and scrub-like pants. I slip the syringe into the waistband of the pants.
The door is locked. I curse myself for thinking there was any chance I would slip out, somehow find Peeta, and end this quickly. I feel trapped. While I am no longer restrained, there is nothing I can do.
There will be no escape this time, I think – and then I remember the window.
I hurry over to it.
The cold moisture in the air hits me. The smell of the rain reminds me so strongly of home. My family. District 12. How much did they see? When did they cut the cameras? Do they even know I am alive?
Are they alive?
I look out the window, trying to make sense of the world plunging before me. There are bars partially obstructing my view, imprisoning me. The spaces between them are barely wider than the span of my hand, but as I test the solidity of each slat, I find the two on the right side are loose, just waiting for a good shove. They give with a crack.
The person who is watching me will have raised an alarm.
I climb into the window, letting my legs dangle down the side of the building. Icy cold drops of rain fall against my face.
The drop is three floors tall. I stare out across the buildings sprawled in front of me. This is not the Capitol, I realize. The paving stones are too gray. The rest of the world, too green, without the mountains that famously tower over the Capitol skyscrapers. There are no skyscrapers here.
It is District 3, I realize. I had only been here briefly before, during the Victory Tour. But why would I be in District 3 now?
I contemplate jumping, enjoying that I have the freedom to do so. I would, if not for Peeta. He could be in a room just next to mine. There is still a possibility that I can get to him, to offer him the mercy.
I hear the door open behind me, but I am hesitant to turn. I am mostly out of the window. The only thing keeping me from falling is my grip on the side of the frame. I use my free hand to pull the syringe from my pants. I can at least take someone out before I go myself.
"Ah, you're awake."
As if he did not know. As though he had not been the one who ordered the restraints to release me.
I know I should reply. My mind grapples to make sense of things, still battling fatigue from being unconscious for so long.
I force my lips to part, despite the surge of loathing in my chest.
"Where is he?" I say, harshly, my voice ragged. "Where's Peeta?"
"Please, Miss Everdeen let's have some civility," President Snow says. "Step down from there and have a conversation face to face."
Reluctantly, I turn my head towards him.
President Snow, same as ever, stands within the door frame.
He is unsmiling, showing none of the lightheartedness he had used in his tone.
"You are weak still," he says. "You need to eat." I notice for the first time someone must have swept in before him, placing a bowl of broth next to my padded table. In it sits a roll, saturating all the liquid.
My stomach rumbles and clenches painfully.
I refuse to move. I stare at him. Waiting.
"Where's Peeta?" I say, fingers contorting around the syringe.
President Snow frowns, making a movement with his hands. A burly man steps through the doorway. I tighten my grip on the window frame. I am torn. Should I take the chance to streak out that door? Hoping that I will somehow reach a nearby room containing Peeta? Or should I just throw myself out the window now?
"Why don't you just put that down?" asks Snow.
Before I reach a decision, the guard lurches forward, gripping the hand with the syringe. He twists my wrist, until my hand is forced to open, and I release the syringe. It clatters to the floor, and the man collects it, then leaves.
Once he is gone and I am unarmed, Snow settles in a chair beside my padded table.
I no longer have a choice to make. Only the window remains. My last choice. I cling to it.
I do not know why Snow did not order the guard to remove me from the window, but I am glad.
"Do you know what you've done, Katniss?" Snow says to me. "Do you understand what you've forced me to do? What this country has been enduring?"
No, I think. I don't care. I just want to finish the job with Peeta. My dying wish was to save Peeta. And if saving him meant killing him, I could do it. I don't care about Snow's personal woes. About the country. Even if I all that trouble in the arena was to save me.
I stare at Snow, uncaring.
He stares back, at first calm, but slowly, as he realizes how little I care, his face darkens. "Who helped you?" he asks. "I know you could have never orchestrated something like that all on your own."
Orchestrate what? Those last few flurried minutes of action and confusion? The whole rescue mission? Surely, he must know that the escape had not been my idea. It was.. who had Beetee mentioned? District 13? He can't blame any of this on me. I was going to play by his rules. I was going to let Peeta be the one and only victor. I orchestrated nothing, nothing but Peeta's survival.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
His lips press together in a sharp line. "I thought we agreed not to lie to each other," Snow says.
I don't answer. It is his choice not to believe me.
Stray raindrops catch on the collar of my shirt, slipping down my spine. Instead of it chilling me, it has an oddly reviving effect. I feel my alertness going up. Steadily, the cold water wakes me from the stupor.
Snow chuckles.
I look up, shocked. I do not think I have ever heard him laugh genuinely before.
"You don't know. They were using you, too," he says, and there's a mocking edge to his tone.
"How long have I been unconscious?" I ask him.
"A while," he says. "You were difficult to revive. The damage you sustained was extensive. The venom. A head wound from the fall into the ravine. The knife wound to your throat. The water in your lungs."
"How long?" I demand.
"Two months."
That cannot be true. Before I can even contemplate this, Snow continues talking.
"Your state has been so critical, we have not even been able to transport you to the Capitol," he says. "District 3 was the closest place to the arena with the equipment needed to keep you alive."
"Why?" I ask. Why try so hard to revive me? Let me die.
"For the same reason all those victors in there agreed to die to keep you alive, Miss Everdeen. It is almost sad the way you do not see all the trouble they have went through for you," he says.
But it didn't work. I'm here. The Capitol has me. I think of Cecelia, Seeder, Chaff, Wiress, and those who I had not seen, but those who had attempted to aid my escape for the sake of the rebellion.
Finnick. Johanna. Beetee. Peeta… where are they?
"I must say that the resourcefulness of the others to get you out of there was admirable," Snow comments lightly. "And still, you do not even seem to understand why they've done it.."
My head aches. I do know why they did it. For the rebellion, but I don't know… I am not sure what I can do for a rebellion now or at all.
"All I want is to find Peeta," I tell Snow. "I don't understand what you or the rebels want from me!"
"We want you, Katniss, because you are the Mockingjay," President Snow says. "It is not something I like. I take it, possibly, maybe they don't either. Neither side chose you. It was you who has put yourself in this position. What matters is what the districts believe."
The Mockingjay. On the pin, in the song, with the berries, across the watch in Heavensbee's hand, on the cracker of those in District 8, symbolized in the dress that burst into flames. I am the Mockingjay.
The one that survived despite the Capitol's plans.
This is exactly what I was told by the others in the arena. Even Peeta, who had acknowledged the fact that the mockingjay means something more than just a pin Madge had given me.
Except, I have never really understood the magnitude. Inside the arena these things felt far away. All that mattered to me in there was the escape, not what those recusing me would want to do with me afterward.
I think of Haymitch, sneering at my plans to flee District 12, to start my own uprising. Ridiculing me for even suggesting the fact that District 13 could exist. Subterfuges and deceptions. All of that, behind a mask of sarcasm and drunkenness. So convincingly and for so long. What else has he lied about? What more has he done to deceive me? He never intended to save Peeta, not really.
Both sides see me as nothing more than a tool.
I want to hate him, but I do not even know if he is alive.
I do not know if anyone I know or love is alive.
Two months is a long time.
"Where is Peeta?" I ask, my fingernails digging into the wood of the windowsill.
President Snow casts his eyes toward the bowl of broth next to my cot.
"You should really reconsider eating. The bread will get soggy, and the broth will get cold."
Not here.
I nearly smile.
Safe. Peeta's safe.
President Snow would not hesitate to hold Peeta over my head, to control me. So, his refusal to answer the question leads me to only one explanation: Peeta was rescued.
The hovercraft I saw before falling into the ravine must have been the rebels after all. But I can only assume they were unable to stay long enough to collect those who had fallen back into the ravine. The Capitol would have sent their hovercrafts. The rebels may have been driven out before they could collect their real prize. What others they were able to save may be a disappointment to them, but not to me.
I have succeeded in my mission. Peeta is safe. I can rest.
I am just about to let myself slip over the ledge of the window, to welcome the end, when Snow speaks.
"You wouldn't do that," President Snow says.
Why? "Because I'm the Mockingjay?" I say, unable to hold back the anger. "I'm the Mockingjay and it's hard enough to keep me alive as it is, right?"
"How would Peeta have felt about this?" he says dauntingly back.
I would rather have Peeta thrown from a window than have to endure the Capitol's wrath. Would he want the same for me? I do not really want to die, what I want...what I want is to have him back. But I'll never get him back now. Even if the rebel forces could somehow overthrow the Capitol, I can be sure that President Snow's last act would be to cut my throat. No, I will never get Peeta back.
Death is my best option.
If I am dead, I cannot be used as bait. I will not be tortured, or my mind distorted.
The pain can end now, knowing Peeta is safe.
Then I backtrack. I look over at Snow, but his face is unreadable. ...have felt… Past tense. Maybe the hovercraft was not the rebels. Maybe the Capitol simply killed him. Why else the past tense?
"Peeta would not have wanted his wife and child to die," Snow says.
Child?
Why would he mention Peeta's made up story about the pregnancy?
A manipulation tactic?
"You really should eat," he repeats. "The baby will need the nutrients."
My hand moves, finding the small soft ball I feel when pushing down on my stomach. But maybe this is just a trick. Snow could have just made it seem like… and what do I know about anything? So, I may have gained weight… while in a two-month coma…? No, that would not make sense. But I cannot be… but that night. The night before the Games began…
No, this cannot be true… it can't…
Snow is leaning forward in his chair, watching my reaction. Enjoying it.
I am not just his puppet; I am a profitable puppet. A two for one deal.
My hair is dripping wet from the rain. I could still jump. So what if I might be pregnant?
To the child, it would be a mercy, too.
I jump.
I am knocked back into the room, by the forcefield I had not seen.
Of course. That is why he had not been worried about me sitting in the window.
I surrender. I simply lay there, where I had crashed to the floor, unable to move.
Snow calls in the burly man to move me, pulling me back onto the table.
Doctors come and go, reconnecting my tubes and wires and needles. I watch, not speaking, not moving, not fighting, nor directly cooperating. I feel as if all the fight – all the hope – in me has died.
They can pump whatever they want into my arms.
The window gets re-barred the next day.
The doctors try to guilt me into eating, using the pregnancy as bait.
They say I will be transferred to the Capitol now that I am well enough.
The day of the transfer, Snow visits me again.
I open my eyes and find Snow standing over me, holding up something that I dimly recognize: a golden locket. He has the latch open, with the faces of Gale, Prim, and Mother bearing down on me.
Mine, I think.
"Hello, Miss Everdeen," he says, keeping a light tone.
"Stealing is punishable by death," I say. My voice is hard and hollow.
His lips tilt upward. "Yes, I know."
I reach for the chain dangling down, but he pulls it easily from my grasp.
I stare up at the faces that I have not seen in, odds, how many months? I wonder where my family is. What the rebels are up to. I reach a hand further out and my fingers briefly touch the picture of Prim.
"Where is she?"
"Your sister?" the President says dimly, like he's forgotten.
"Where is she? What's happened to her?"
"Well, you know what happened to the Hob."
I do know. I saw it go up. That old warehouse embedded with coal dust. The whole district is covered with the stuff. A new kind of horror begins to rise up inside me as I imagine firebombs hitting the Seam.
"They're not in District 12?" I ask. As if saying it will somehow fend off the truth.
"Katniss," he clucks. "I must be honest with you. We have a deal. I am a man of deals."
I recognize that voice. It is the same tone he had when he revealed my pregnancy.
"Miss Everdeen." I screw my eyes shut, willing away his words. "There is no District 12."