Chapter Fourteen; Anger

Haymitch had left her room shortly after, claiming that he needed a drink, and so that so Stephanie could get a shower in an attempt to relieve her stress before some more 'training.'

When she stepped out of the hot water of the shower she enveloped herself in the soft cotton robe, not bothering to get dressed yet and went to lie on the bed.

She inhaled deeply. The robe smelt…fresh, like a cool day's breeze. Shutting her eyes she allowed herself to remember. She was 8, her sister 14 and her brother 16. Her sister was teaching her how to do a plait by using blades of grass. It was a small field beside the factory. They were waiting on their brother and father finishing work. She remembered how fresh the air smelt as it whispered over the grass and then there was the huge explosion. She screamed, Weisna dragging her to her feet as they looked on in horror at the black clouds of smoke billowing out from the factory. That had been the day her father had lost his arm. She remembered, as they waited outside the small and inept infirmary how tightly her brother had held her, burying his face in her hair, unable to look at anyone. She had simply held onto him, not understanding why her brother was so distressed in her childlike innocence.

She lifted her heavy head from the pillow that was now soaked in her tears and got up to wash her face. This time she used cold water.

She put on the black trousers and green shirt and searched for her faithful piece of string, kicking the bed harshly when she couldn't find it.

"Now what is it?" Haymitch called as he stood in the doorway.

She turned to face him with a scowl and a muttered, "Nothing."

"Come on. We need to get back to work anyway."

Stephanie followed him dutifully out and down the hall. They sat in the main room this time. They practiced exchanging pleasantries etcetera, and after her initial, shaky start she started to get the hang of it. Rehearsed replies were easier she found.

Dinner came and went. She said she wasn't hungry and Haymitch just had another bottle of orangey coloured alcohol as he sat beside her, continuing on with her 'training'. In truth she couldn't eat as the hours ticked by.

Ficen had arrived unreasonably early, claiming that she would need it to make Stephanie look presentable.

She followed Ficen reluctantly and into the same room as before; only this time the room was sweltering. The heat in the room almost suffocated her.

"Why is it so warm?" she said.

Ficen gave her an answer that made absolutely no sense to her.

Before Ficen could start Stephanie interrupted her. "I'm going to get a drink," and she rushed from the room. She was definitely going to try and get the heat in the room down.

She heard voices coming from main room and went in; thinking she could complain to Haymitch or even Isa about it.

Surely Ficen trying to roast her alive before she got to the arena was illegal.

She rounded the corner and the colour immediately drained from her face.

The wide screen, sleek television was on and it was showing the Hunger Games. What year she didn't know, or couldn't think.

Stephanie could only register the sickening thud of the knife as it was plunged repeatedly into the screaming girl below and then how her screams became garbled as crimson blood stained her mouth mixing with her tears. The girl with the knife eventually stopped when the girl's screams had died, glassy eyes locked in a stare, arms falling lifelessly to her sides, all life gone. The girl with the knife fell back on her knees, the knife dropping soundlessly from her blood-stained hands to the booming voice of Caesar Flickerman presenting the 'victor of the 80th Hunger Games.

But it was the look on the girl's face. It wasn't victorious or joyous. It was relief and guilt as she began to issue choking sobs from her dry, cracked lips. Of course the Capitol cut away immediately to shots of the cheering, Capitol crowds.

Could I do that? Would I do it to survive? The sick feeling had already claimed her stomach and her head was spinning but she was too angry. How could the Capitol people think this was entertaining? They had destroyed so many lives.

She staggered a few steps forward and then fell to her knees. She felt the sobs begin to rise up in her throat and for those few moments she felt as though she were the Victor girl of the 80th Hunger Games; and she felt sick at herself. She couldn't kill. She couldn't have blood on her hands. And yet she knew that when it came down to it, she would kill to save herself.

Stephanie barely registered Haymitch as he pulled her to her feet and the television screen once more became sleek and empty. Haymitch shook her harshly.

"I …ca…can't. I can't do it."

"You have to."

"No…n…no."

"What did you feel?"

"… ?"

"Seeing that, what did it make you feel?"

"Sick. Powerless …ANGRY!"

"Angry at who?"

"The Capitol."

"Then use that anger."

"What?"

"Use it when you fight. Think of all the lives the Capitol take without a second thought, think of that girl – the Victor of the 80th Hunger Games. Use your anger to survive. Because you don't want to be another victim."

"I just…want to survive."

Stephanie melted into Haymitch as he pulled her to him tightly. She needed to feel secure, needed someone who understood the human instinct to survive that would make her a killer, but someone who would still accept her, because they knew the guilt and shame that she would feel.

She briefly thought how Haymitch smelt like cotton, like her robe, like the fresh day's breeze that day back home. Home; how far away it seemed. She heard Haymitch's voice distantly. "You will survive," but it was growing farther away.

And then it was as if a veil of darkness had been pulled over her eyes and she slumped in Haymitch's arms.