Night
That night at dinner I can't concentrate; my mind keeps obsessing over the training and I'm wondering if I tried the right stations, if I gave a good enough impression of myself to the other tributes and whether or not I should have entered into that pact with Emelda.
Although Cordula and Caspian have quizzed Stelson and me on pretty much every single aspect of today, I haven't mentioned the agreement that I had made with her. Doubtless they would consider it to have been a bad idea, and besides, I can't reveal it to them without letting Stelson know as well, and I can't do that without breaking my promise to Emelda. Not that I should really care about doing this, but I don't like liars and traitors, and I'm determined not to be one myself.
I jab my fork disinterestedly at the vegetable stew that sits steaming on my plate. There some vegetables I recognise easily – potatoes, which were pretty much the staple food in the Community Home, and turnips. But there are other more exotic looking vegetables on my plate as well – yellows, greens and oranges that I've never seen before in my life. Even when my mum had been alive, and we'd had the money to spend on food, most of it had gone on her morphling. Besides, it's not as though we had ever really cook anything anyway. The only time I had ever gotten a decent meal was when Mags had invited us over for dinner.
"Do you have anything else that might be useful?" Cordula asks as the silence at the table stretches out to an almost unbearable point.
I just shrug in response to her question, and force myself to take a bite of the stew. I suppose the taste should excite me – I've certainly never tried anything like it before; it has so much flavour compared to the food that I've had in the past. And it's not just stodgy mush like back at the Home, but I can't really bring myself to care. It's just hard work having had to spend the day pretending that I've been well trained and that my mother taught me all her 'victor's secrets' just as Cassia had said that Enobaria had done. I had been trying to cling onto anything that might give me an advantage, but all I'd really wanted to do was scream at her every time she had given Stelson that look that said that she was planning on killing him. I don't know if I'll be strong enough to do anything to protect him.
"Nerine!" I jerk my head upwards to find her watching me with an impatient expression.
"What?" I snap impatiently; I feel shattered, but based on the past few nights, I doubt I'll be able to get to sleep when I am finally allowed to leave the table and this pointless conversation to go to bed.
"There's not much we can do to help you if you won't tell us anything helpful."
"I've told you everything I saw," I grumble under my breath, my voice rising slightly as I detail the list that we have already given them. "Tamir's miserable, and most probably extremely dangerous. Spent most of his time lifting weights and glaring at people. Emelda's a spoilt brat, but she's clever and knows what she's doing. She won't tell anyone why she volunteered. Lucius is blatantly the leader, and Cassia's a bitch," I finish with a glare. "That good enough?"
"We need their strengths, and their weaknesses," Caspian points out, trying to diffuse the growing tension in the room by adopting a mild tone, "not just the fact that you don't like any of them."
"Who said I didn't like any of them?" I retort, ducking my head and staring back down at my plate to avoid having to meet his eyes. I still feel uncomfortable around him after this morning, and his calm attitude just grates on my nerves. Particularly now when I'm feeling more on edge than I ever have before in my life.
"Cassia's a bitch," he repeats back to me and I narrow my eyes in frustration, but choose to ignore him. I know that I'm not doing myself any favours when I lose my temper and shout at everyone around me. "So, Cassia's strengths? And her weaknesses as well."
I glance sideways as Stelson who is on his third plate of food. It will probably to him good to bulk up somewhat before we get into the arena, but I don't like the fact that he has continually had his mouth stuffed full of food ever since we sat down to eat, leaving it up to me to describe our day's training.
I huff out a sigh, and mutter in a deadpan tone, "she's good at throwing knives, wrestling, swordplay. She bashed a dummy in half with a mace, beat one of the attendants in about five seconds flat with an axe. Oh, and I think I saw her-"
"Ok, Nerine," Cordula cuts me off with an impatient tone, "that's enough."
"You asked for her strengths," I snap in response.
"Yes, but what would you say that her go-to weapon is? Is she physically strong enough to take all her tributes down in hand-to-hand combat? Or will she rely in her skill in throwing knives?"Cordula demands so many questions of me that my head begins to ache, and I wish more than anything that I could just excuse myself from the table and go and lie down in the peace and quiet of my room.
"I don't know," I mutter, pressing my index fingers against my temples as if somehow that might alleviate my headache. I can't keep talking on and on about the other tributes like this – I'm fed up of being forced to evaluate their strengths and their flaws. Besides, every question she asks me just makes it clear how little I have done what she asked me to do. If you start examining the other tributes then they become more like real people, and I can't afford to see them like that once we get into the arena.
"But you should know," Cordula yells, slamming the flat of her palm down onto the table – her eyes flaming with anger, and I recoil from her as I take in her furious expression. In this moment she could almost be Mr Grausam, back at the Community Home, his whole body tensed with fury as he hefted the whip above his head. His mouth shrieking obscenities as he tried to get me to understand what I had done wrong. Just as all those times with him, I can't understand what I have done to make Cordula so angry. I didn't pay attention as she had asked me; but surely I am the only person that would have an impact upon?
"Cordula," Caspian mutters from the other side of the table, once again trying to diffuse the angry tension around the table. I glare furiously at him – I'm so sick of people thinking that I'm incapable of standing up for myself. That I'm just some pathetic little orphan girl who understands nothing of the world. And so my anger boils over as I spot the sympathetic expression on his face, and I fling those words at him.
"You don't understand anything of the world," Cordula spits at me before rising to her feet and knocking the chair over; it falls to the ground with a heavy thud as she storms out of the room and Cookie glances between us, an expression of disgust on her face.
"You're all such barbarians," she murmurs, before picking up her spoon and digging into her dessert. I clench my jaw, wanting nothing more than to shriek furious words at her and wipe that stupidly passive expression off her face.
Stelson is watching me with his mouth hanging open, "Neri," he murmurs, and I turn my glare round on him as I recognise his familiar placating tone. I don't want to be calmed down – I just want to fume and rant about how I have no damn control over my own life. I push my own chair backwards, feeling a strangely vindictive pleasure at the way the metal legs scrape loudly against the floor, and stalk out of the room.
Once I'm out in the corridor though, I feel like such an idiot. Mai always tells me that I need to get a better handle on my temper, and not let my emotions get so out of control, and I know that I shouldn't have gotten so worked up about something so insignificant. But, chances are, these could easily be my last few days of life, so surely I'm allowed to lose my temper?
I walk back to my room and try to pull it open – it doesn't budge, so I try pushing it instead. Nothing happens, and I eye the stupid thing in frustration, grabbing the handle and yanking it impatiently, pushing and pulling it in my attempt to force it open. I just want to get into my room and spend the rest of the evening hiding from everyone else after the spectacle I just made of myself, but now I can't even do that.
I shove my shoulders against it, but it still doesn't give way. "What's wrong with you?" I hiss, my frustration peaking and causing my voice to wobble in anger as I glare at it.
Someone clears their throat from behind me, and I whirl around, slamming an infuriated fist against the door as I do so. It's Caspian – I feel a flush rise in my cheeks, and hope fervently that he'll just think it's anger.
"You have to slide it open," he tells me, and I can still detect a faint hint of amusement in his tone. I clench my fist at the idea that he's mocking me. But then I sigh – after that display, I deserve to be mocked; acting like a moody little child doesn't exactly cause me to deserve any respect from him.
I place my hand against the handle, and tug at it again, this time trying to slide it along. It still doesn't move, "why can't they just have normal doors?" I snap, giving up and leaning my back against the wooden panels.
He laughs, "you know, sliding doors aren't actually that hard to open." He takes a step past me and gestures for me to move away from the door.
"They are when you're in a bad mood," I mutter under my breath and he grins in response. It takes him about three seconds to have the door opened, and he turns back to me with an annoyingly smug expression on his face. "Do you want a congratulations?" I demand viciously, annoyed that he can keep himself so well under control.
"You shouldn't talk to Cordula like that, she only wants to help you."
I just roll my eyes – I know all of this. She's my mentor, and so I'm supposed to listen to her, and not antagonise her to the point that she leaves the room in a rage. It's common sense really, but that's not something that I have particularly high levels of at the moment.
"I know," he says with a grin, "you already know that. But you seemed like you could use a reminder."
"Thanks," I reply sarcastically, "I really appreciate it. Now, goodnight." Chances are, I probably won't be able to sleep tonight, but I can at least try, and I don't want to talk to him anymore in case I say something that I'll regret.
"Night," he starts to turn away, but then he spins back around, his gaze holding mine for a moment, "and just a heads up – doors don't open if you talk to them." He turns away once more and disappears up the corridor, leaving me watching him with an incredulous expression on my face. For someone who was in this position himself only two years ago, he's annoyingly calm about everything. But then again, I suppose the only real example I've had of a victor was my mother, so perhaps I just imagined that everyone was affected in the same way as her. She was clearly just weak.
I sigh, and shake myself to clear my head, realising that I've been leaning against the wall, staring after Caspian. "Idiot," I tell myself firmly, forcing myself to walk into my room and drag the door shut. It's stupidly easy now that I've calmed down a bit and I groan at how pathetic I must have appeared to him.
Well, not that it matters anyway – I don't particularly care what he thinks of me.
Even as I think those words, I know that it's not strictly true, but I make myself focus on other things; on taking a shower and trying out more of the buttons, on changing into my pyjamas and lying stiffly on the bed, trying to make myself relax enough to fall asleep.
By about 1:00 am the next morning, it becomes annoyingly clear to me that I'm not going to be falling asleep anytime soon. Every time that I almost drifted off, I would remember something that would start me back awake again. Something I had seen during training, or the argument at dinner time. Everything from the last couple of days is playing out across the insides of my eyelids and nothing I do can cause me to relax.
I glare at the clock for a moment – hating those luminescent numbers for reminding me of what I already know; the less sleep I get now, the more exhausted I'm going to be once I get into the arena, and that's hardly going to do me any good.
As I roll over onto my back I stare up at the ceiling for a moment, and wonder if Stelson is feeling the same way – if he is also lying awake in a room that looks exactly the same as this, and obsessing over the Games just like me. In fact, I wonder if, on every level of this building, other tributes are lying awake, unable to drift off for fear of seeing things in nightmares that they would rather not even consider. Strange as it sounds, I like the idea that other people are feeling the same – it makes me feel less lonely.
After lying there for a few more moments, I decide that it's futile to just lie around here, because if I do then my thoughts are going to start going places that I have no interest in examining right now. I remember the television in the living room and wonder if anything will be on it at this late hour.
I assume so – the Capitol citizens seem to keep different hours than we do back in District 4. Every night so far I've heard music and laughter until early in the morning. I suppose that's what happens when you have nothing to get up for in the morning – you don't want to waste any time by sleeping.
I wonder if that's what is keeping me awake at the moment – the thought that my life is slipping away from me, and every tick of the clock brings me closer to the arena. Perhaps I can't go to sleep because my body doesn't want to waste those hours unconscious.
So, abandoning my attempts at sleeping I push myself upright, and cross the room to find the purple silk robe that I had dug out of one of the drawers after my shower last night. I drape it around me, and double knot the cord tightly around my waist, before sliding the door open. I roll my eyes once more at how easily I manage to do it, and promise myself that I will apologise to Caspian at breakfast. And make him promise that he won't tell anyone else about it. I suppose that I'll have to say sorry to Cordula as well, because something tells me that she is just as capable of bearing a grudge as I am.
As I wonder out into the hallway I realise that this is the first time since we arrived at the Capitol that everything around me has been completely silent.
I've always liked the night time – back at home, my favourite part of the day had been the evening. In the harbour there are several creaky old abandoned warehouses that the merchants dismiss as dangerous and so are universally avoided by everyone. Well, almost everyone, because in the evenings those warehouses come alive with music and dancing as people crowd into them.
Mai and me had first discovered about the 'vaults' a few years ago, when we had needed to get out of the Home, and escape from the squawking of little kids and the high pitched shrieking of Matron as she attempted to keep them under control. We had ended up wandering aimlessly around the harbour, talking about nothing in particular as the air grew increasingly cold and we knew that we would soon have to return. Just as I had been about to suggest that we turn back around, we had heard something in the distance. Being as bored as were, we had followed the source of the music and stumbled across a hive of activity in the place we only knew as being boarded up, and falling apart.
Of course we had stood in the queue with the rest of them, determined to find out what was going on within the walls of the building. It had held so much promise for us – a way to escape from the mundane schedule of our lives and offer us an adventure. But when we had reached the door, we had been turned away by a burly man who had pretty much just laughed in our faces before telling us we were too young, and sending us away.
Perhaps we should have just given up, but we were far too determined for that. We went back almost every single evening, sneaking out of the Home, and joining the queue, each day certain that it would be the one that we would finally be allowed in. But every night followed the same pattern – we were dismissed and turned away from the warehouse. And each night we built up new fantasies about what the inside might hold – of course, we could hear the music. It was loud and raucous inside, but I felt my feet tapping to the harsh beat, and I had wanted nothing more than to get inside and experience it for myself.
We were almost sixteen before the guard finally relented, and we were allowed in.
I lean back against the side of the warehouse, feeling the music booming through the walls and shaking me right down to my bones. Mai grins at me, her face sparkling with anticipation, but I've stopped believing that they'll let us in. He said that we need to be eighteen before he'll allow us to cross the threshold, and I guess I would have given up trying by now if it wasn't for Mai, and the excitement in her tone whenever she speaks about what might be inside.
To be honest, I think we've probably built the whole thing up to be much more than it really is, and anything in there will disappoint us now. But I still can't deny that there's that familiar flush of anticipation as we draw nearer to the front of the queue, that familiar feeling of hope.
Finally we reach the front, and the guard eyes us with amusement, "not you girls again," he says with a grin, his eyes shining with laughter as he takes in the sight of Mai, who is practically bouncing up and down. I try to lean past him to see what's inside but, as always, all I can see is smoky darkness. I breathe it in; it's just as nice as the salty smell of the waves that envelopes me when I stand on the beach.
"Evening Kenn," Mai says, adopting the same flirtatious tone she always does when she speaks to him. I feel slightly disgusted because he's so much older than we are, and he can barely even pass for attractive with his receding hairline and beaky nose.
"When are you two going to give up?"
"Just let us in?" Mai wheedles, batting her eyelashes at him, "please?" I roll my eyes at her embarrassing display, I just hope he doesn't get the wrong idea about her. Everyone always says that Mai is 'easy' but I know that she never takes it further than a flirt, which can sometimes get her into trouble.
"Now, if I let you in this one time, do you promise that you'll stop bothering me?"
"Sure," I mutter, smirking up at him to let him know that would never happen – not in a million years. Unless, of course, it's rubbish in there.
There's a moment where he hesitates rather than just turning us away with an impatient huff and I watch him cast a furtive glance around. "What the hell," I hear him mutter under his breath, and then he raises both his head and his tone, "you girls are from the Community Home – I guess you know how to look after yourselves."
Mai lets out a squeal of excitement, while I try to act slightly more dignified as he finally moves aside and we take our first steps inside.
I cough slightly as the smoke fills my lungs and I feel slightly disorientated in this strange, smoky haze that surrounds us. But Mai grabs onto my arm and tugs me along the corridor while the pounding of the music grows louder and louder and fills my ears.
I smile to myself now as I remember that sense of awe that I had felt walking along that corridor with Mai. The inside of the 'vaults' had been grimy, and filled with sweating, dancing people but I had connected with it instantly. In District 4 those warehouses aren't widely known about, and I would describe the majority of the people as outsiders; people who don't really fit in with the general crowd. I guess that's why I had felt so at home there.
It's easy to lose myself in the beat of the music and the heat, so easy just to block everything else out and dance mindlessly.
I shake myself now – I shouldn't be thinking about the warehouses, and dancing, when I'll be in the Hunger Games in a matter of days. No matter how much the club means to me, I highly doubt that I'll ever see it again. There's no point in reminiscing about the things that are long gone, which is exactly why I never allow myself to think about my mother.
I decide that I want to go to the living room, turn the television on and use it in just the same way that I use music, and dancing – as an escape from the real world. But as I reach the open door I freeze, my feet sticking to the carpet beneath my bare toes. There's a brief moment where I'm forced to shake my head because it reminds me so much of that night from six years ago; a darkened room, the flickering light against the walls, a faint hum resounding from the television.
I narrow my eyes, squinting into the darkness to make out the shadowy shape resting on the sofa. It takes me several moments to work out what I'm seeing, and as I do my breath catches in my throat. Caspian sits perched on the edge of the cushions; his forehead resting against his palms and his dark hair spilling over his hands.
I can't believe how well he had been hiding his pain from everyone else – it astounds me that he could do a complete u-turn like this. Happy-go-lucky and friendly around other people, but like this by himself. I had seen hints of his pain his eyes, but I hadn't expected to see anything like that. I stand stiffly for a few moments, reluctant to move. I'm not exactly a great sympathiser, and I don't know what I'm supposed to say to someone like this. I have no idea what he's going through and, to be honest, I'm sure he would rather I didn't reel off meaningless condolences. We all know what the Hunger Games can do to people – we just never talk about it.
Just as I've made up my mind to disappear, and leave him in peace, I adjust my position slightly and my elbow snags against the side of the door, causing it to emit a tiny squeak. My breath quickens and I snatch my elbow back, but the damage has already been done and Caspian's head jerks up.
"I'm sorry," I splutter, feeling colour rise in my cheeks as he surveys me with a confused expression, "I didn't know anyone would be awake. It's just, I couldn't sleep and-" I cut myself off midway through my rambling before I start to really embarrass myself. "I'll just go back to bed," something inside me protests as I say this though – I don't want to return to that cold, empty room and lie awake for hours on end.
"You don't have to," he mutters, gesturing vaguely towards the television, "you can stay, and watch it if you want."
I shake my head slightly, "I don't want to..." I trail off, thinking of the best way to put this, "to disturb you."
He laughs, almost bitterly, and I glance at him surprise. The night is certainly bringing out a different side to him, and it's making me feel uncomfortable. "I wasn't doing anything, so there's nothing to disturb." And the way in which he says those words makes me realise that he really doesn't want anyone else to hear about this. I can't say I blame him though – I remember how much my mother had tried to hide her addiction from me, how she tried to pretend that the Hunger Games didn't have an effect on her. Caspian's attempt now works just about as well as hers had done. But I'm certainly not going to question him on it – it isn't any of my business.
So I cross the room, and sit down on the opposite end of the sofa, tucking my legs up underneath me and scrunching my robe up with my fingers. An awkward silence settles across the room for a moment as I train my eyes on the television, and try to make out what it is that I'm watching.
After I watch as woman dressed in a skin-tight silver cat suit and knee high purple boots chucking some coloured balls around between her hands I glance over at Caspian for an explanation.
"It's Panem's Got Talent," he says, grinning at me in such a way that would make me forget about what I had just seen, if it wasn't for the slightly dull look in his eyes.
"What does that mean?" I demand as the camera shows three other Capitol citizens, sitting in a row and shaking their heads, looking sorely disappointed. I can't say I blame them – the woman didn't seem to have been demonstrating much talent from what I could see. It amazes me that the Capitol has time to make these pointless television programmes while, back in District 4, we only ever have the television turned on when a viewing is mandatory – we don't have time to recline in front of it, watching rubbish like this.
"It's a contest, I think. They get judged and the best ones go through to the next round." I roll my eyes in astonishment.
"What's the point?" I question, but he just shrugs in response. "Why are you watching it?"
"I couldn't sleep either," he murmurs.
I bite my lip, and turn my attention back to the screen for a few moments, watching in confusion as a man does a strange dance with rods of different coloured lights. It's a far cry from the dancing in the warehouses back home – this is disciplined and structured. It's as though the Capitol has removed everything that I enjoy about it – the free, let-yourself-go aspect of it. You're supposed to just feel the music, not move in these stiff, unnatural positions.
I glance back over at Caspian, "I won't tell anyone," I blurt out, before realising that it probably wasn't the best idea. He raises his eyebrows at me and I knot my fingers together, trying to focus on my hands, rather than his face.
"How about we don't talk about it?" he says determinedly, looking back at the television. I said those words so many times after my mother's death – trying to pretend like it didn't really bother me and push people away so that I wouldn't have to talk about it, or even think about it before. So I don't press him any further – because those words are what I always used whenever I wanted to avoid a conversation and, curious as I may be, I won't keep questioning him, because I remember how much I'd wanted to hit and scream at those people who hadn't listened to what I was saying.
So I just nod in response and watch a group of people singing away, and swaying to the rhythm of the annoyingly upbeat music. Then they try to hit the top note, and the singing turns to squeaking – two of them are cut off completely and laughter erupts from my throat as the camera shows the expressions of the judges. I hear Caspian chuckling by the side of me, and I cast a quick glance at him out of the corner of my eye, before dragging my attention back to the screen.
Perhaps we're both just trying to pretend that nothing's wrong, and that we still have the ability to laugh, or maybe it's just that I finally have an opportunity to mock the Capitol without risking getting into trouble, I'm not sure. But sitting here laughing at this is a damn sight easier than lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling and willing time to slow down. And, as much as I may try to deny it, the fact that I'm not alone helps too.
Sorry for the long wait - I've been very busy. Updates will probably be quite infrequent from now on, because I'm nearing exam season :(
As always, I really appreciate reviews - I always want to know how I could improve my writing. :D