A/N: This chapter is a direct continuation of Chapter 3: Scars are Inherited, unlike the previous chapters, which weren't chronological. Rose is still fourteen, and this is the day following her first exposure to the gravity of Hunger Games history.

Thank you so much to my reviewers! And in addition, thank you to whoever runs that Foxface page on Facebook. You're sharing my story got me really excited, and your feedback is the main reason that I cranked out this chapter tonight. I hope you all like it, and please give me feedback, advice, and/or constructive criticism.

I have a serious cliffhanger here, as well as some additional character development (including OCs Shane and Aken,) so hopefully I'm catching you off guard (in a good way.)

Oh! And if you have any last name suggestions for either of them, I'd really appreciate it. I suck at names, to be honest...

May the odds be ever in your favor!

...

I throw up twice before school the next day.

The first time, it's after I wake up from a nightmare – some heinous collage of Haymitch's guts and President Snow and my Mom's arrow in some teenager's throat. I shudder awake with an animal shriek, and I have to bury my face in my pillow to suffocate the screams. I don't need the neighbors to think I'm turning into my mother. When the inhuman noises stop, I'm still panting, and I feel acid lurching sickeningly up my throat. I'm sprinting for the toilet, one hand over my mouth, and then I'm puking again.

The second time, I'm walking to school when the thought of yesterday's history lesson hits me again like a slap in the face. I run off the road and throw up my breakfast into some bushes.

The teacher took the liberty of informing me that although she understood my "challenging family situation," I would be required back at class for another day of Hunger Games education. After all, I had the required permission slip. But no more videos, she assured me. Instead, we'd be reading some textbooks she'd ordered just for the occasion.

Great, I thought. Still images of teenager's intestines. I faked a smile and hurried home.

Back to class. Again.

I can hardly contain my horror at the thought.

I eat nothing at lunch. Shane even offers to share his dessert with me, but I know I wouldn't be able to hold it down. Shane looks concerned all day, that same agonizing uselessness lingering in his pale eyes, but he doesn't push me. He just sticks close. Whispers some encouraging words every now and then. Keeps himself between me and Aken, telling me to ignore the usual teasing.

I do my best, but I'm nauseous in every class. One final "feeling under the weather, Everdeen?" from Aken sends me scampering to the toilets again, but I don't actually puke. I just retch a few times until I remember how to breathe. I still feel horrible, all the same. I fix my hair, splash some cold water in my face, and attempt to blend back into the high school crowd.

My backpack feels like twice its normal weight. It's like I'm dragging a chain through every hallway. My fear and pain pursues me like a shadow, but so does Shane. Part of me wonders if he's the only thing keeping me grounded in reality.

Inevitably, history class arrives.

It's only a textbook, as promised. To my surprise, there aren't any photos. I feel some relief at this, until our teacher begins to actually read the thing. The hideous detail with which the Games are recorded gives me the beginning of a headache in minutes. It feels like someone is battering the inside of my skull with a sledgehammer.

Shane puts his hand on my shoulder, again. Aken chuckles. I can't just let him do this to me. I have to be strong. I stare at my desk. "Let go, Shane," I whisper.

"Rose..." he starts.

"Let go."

He does.

I wish he hadn't.

I wish I wasn't wishing that.

Our teacher keeps talking. She still smiles at me every time she says "Katniss" or "Peeta." I want to hit her.

It always comes back to people I know, somehow. I learn that Maysilee knew Grandma Everdeen before she died. That Mom sang a twelve-year-old girl the same lullaby I've been hearing for years as the kid slowly bled her life out of a spear wound. That Dad was the only reason Mom escaped the Career tributes with her life. That Annie Odair – once Annie Cresta, I learn, although she still insists today on being an Odair – lost her sanity thanks to a particularly grueling round of the Capitol's Games.

My head is pulsating in time with my heartbeat by the time the class is halfway over. My stomach roils. Sweat drenches my T-shirt, making it stick to me. I steal a glance at the clock. It's only been fifteen minutes.

Every second marks another grueling account of a teenager's unfortunate death.

I feel my fingernails start to dig into the pages of the Hunger Games history textbook. I need something to hold on to, anything. I wonder if this is what Dad feels like when he has a flashback. I grip the end of my desk as hard as I can. My knuckles go white with tension as I tighten and release at varying intervals, just trying to stay calm.

Minutes pass.

As the narrative moves forward, Mom and Dad become more and more prominent in the events. The teacher won't stop looking at me. I can hear Aken laughing every time her eyes flit over to my face, and I wonder how unnervingly pallid I must look.

Shane doesn't have to reach for me, this time. I reach for him. I'm too ashamed to meet his eyes, but I tie my fingers together with his, and he squeezes my hand tight. The pressure brings me back to myself, and I give him a squeeze back. I tighten my grip on his hand. He tightens his in return.

Maybe he doesn't care that I have problems. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe I really am stronger than I think.

A few more minutes kill that idea.

I'm going to freak out. I'm going to snap. In the back of my mind, it feels like everyone is watching me, no doubt weighing me against the damaged people in our textbook.

I have to get out of here, have to get out, have to get out.

Anywhere away from this –

And then I'm releasing Shane's hand, yanking my fingers free. My head snaps up to meet my teacher's eyes. "I have to go," I choke out, afraid to look at anyone, afraid to know how terrified and mad I must look. "I'm sorry," I blurt out. The tears are starting, a rush of heat in my eyes. I jerk awkwardly to my feet, managing to knock my textbook from the desk with my elbow in the process. "I'm sorry," I stammer. "I'm truly sorry."

I'm out the door before they can stop me.

Tears are flowing freely now, little rivers streaking my face, but I can't stop them. I increase my pace, racing down the hall, just needing to get out – but not home, I can't go home – back to the scarred father, the haunted mother, the wordless ghost of a little sister who was my namesake – but I can't stay here, not in a million years. Maybe Haymitch? I consider, but the idea's preposterous. He's probably drunk out of his mind.

I don't belong home. I don't belong here.

I don't belong anywhere.

I start running, fighting the tears despite the fact that there's no one to see them, and I feel my heart fluttering wildly like a bird with a broken wing. I hate this. All of it...

I'm barely down the hallway when I feel a big hand clamp down on my shoulder. "Where do you think you're going?"

I know that voice.

Crap.

I choke back tears that burn. "The bathroom."

It's not true. I'm going to the forest. I'm going to be alone, finally alone.

"The bathroom's inside, unless you want to go in the woods," Aken says from behind me. "I always knew you had issues, Everdeen, but really."

I wheel around to face him with a face that's meant to be unreadable as stone. "Leave me alone," I say. But my cheeks are hot. My eyes sting.

"The little girl's crying, isn't she?" Aken laughs. "Can't take a little history lesson, huh, Everdeen?"

I feel my stomach churn and roil with nausea. My voice comes out in a fierce, low growl. "Shut up, Aken." I shove him away, but he seizes my other arm in an iron grip.

He's grinning contentedly. A wolf would recognize that grin. "Oh, no need to get upset, girl... I wouldn't want to hurt that sensitive little heart of yours," he sighs. "If the Everdeen kid can't handle the hard, straight-up facts, it's not her fault."

I glower at him. I can feel my eyes flaming. My hands curl into fists. "I said to shut up –"

"Easy, there." He pins me to the wall, one hand restraining each arm. His hot, heavy exhales blow thickly into my face, smelling like rank, tough meat. I wonder what he eats to have dog breath. "I'm not blaming you, Everdeen. It's just your insane father – Peeta Mellark, right?"

I yank myself free and continue walking down the hallway, faster now. I won't look at him. I can't look at him.

Eyes straight ahead. Shoulders squared. Walking. Blinking back tears. Eyes straight. Shoulders even. Swallowing tears. Walking faster.

"Yeah, that's right," Aken taunts, hurrying casually after me. "Peeta Mellark – the victor who still paints sick pictures of mutts and dead children." I hear Aken's pace increase, his shoes making a sharp clack, clack, clack cadence on the hallway floor. "I hear he has flashbacks. Looks like he might kill someone. Has he ever hurt you, Everdeen? That'd be a shame."

"My father is not insane!" I spit behind me. I'm on fire now. I feel like I could kill someone. I have to get out of here, have to get somewhere where I can just be alone, or I swear, my heart is going to rip out of my chest. Or I'm going to lose it. Or I'm going to cry like a coward.

I break into a half-sprint, but Aken's already ahead of me, blocking my way, still grinning smugly. "Just cut it out, Rose."

I cross my arms in defiance. "Get out of my way, Aken."

"Are you threatening me, Everdeen?" he says. "Are you going to kill me like your parents?"

My heart is in my throat. I feel sick. My entire chest clenches around my stomach, grinding, and my heart twists behind my ribs: thump, thump, thump against my ribcage. A sudden heat, a swirling fire inside my core, and I feel myself start to shake. I'm going to explode from the inside out. This emotion doesn't even fit inside of me.

My voice comes out an octave lower than normal. "I said, get out of my way."

Aken shakes his head. "I'm sorry, could you rephrase that? I don't speak muttation."

And then I'm screaming.

"How would you be, if you'd been forced to leave your family and kill people like you, people with lives?" My face flushes with heat. "My father saved District Thirteen! He destroyed the Capitol, he saved Panem, he ended the Hunger Games, he... he..."

I can't breathe.

"No need to get so fired up, Everdeen," Aken taunts, stepping suddenly forwards. His fingers lock around my wrists, pushing me back against the wall. He smiles wider. "That's what they called your mother, right? Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire! I hear she's worse. Never recovered. Screams in her sleep, afraid of white roses, can't stand to hear her sister's name... Prim, wasn't it?"

"Shut the hell up, Aken!" I shout, caught off guard by the kind of language that's coming out of my mouth, but I'm too angry to care, losing my mind. With a yell, I shove all my weight into Aken. He grunts, but he pushes back, hard – I crash back against the wall, the air crushed from my lungs.

"Aren't you a feisty one, Everdeen? It's a shame, your family situation. You're really messed up. If you at least had sane parents, maybe you'd be able to make friends. Maybe I'd actually like you," Aken laughs. He releases my left arm, twisting his coarse hand up to rest it against my face. I think I might be sick. He brushes my cheek with his fingers, smiling. "You're prettier than you act. I might actually be interested in you, if only you weren't that mutt spawn."

He grins. His face is inches from mine. "Wouldn't you like that, Everdeen?"

My heart is racing.

I'm panting.

Sweat beads on my forehead.

Aken moves his hand slowly down my cheek. He cups my chin with his fingers, raising my face so that I have to stare directly into his stone-grey Seam eyes. "I think you would." His grip stings in my jawbone. "You're a pretty girl, Everdeen. You have your mother's fire."

He smiles again, laughing lightly.

"Don't touch me," I choke out.

Aken's fingers clamp like claws around my jaw. He moves his face closer to mine. "Why not?"

My heart is a drum. "Don't touch me," I repeat. Louder.

"Why not?" Aken growls, and his grip on my trembling wrist intensifies to the point of burning pain.

Aken's breath is warm against my face. I'm shaking, shaking hard, shakes that shudder from the back of my neck to the base of my spine. My heart races. My mouth opens as if to form words, but words won't come.

Aken releases my jaw. He curls his arm up, resting his hand against the back of my neck. He chuckles.

Then I'm shouting. I have no volume in my voice, but the words are flying out anyway, and I'm shouting the first thing that comes to my head, the only coherent word that can reach my lips – "Shane!"

"Shut up!" Aken snarls in a voice blacker than night.

I fight his grip on my arm. He pushes me back with a snarl. "Shane!" I yell again, over and over. "Shane!"

There's a shuffle of footsteps, a crash as the door to the history classroom flings open with a start. A stumble, a faltering gasp for air, and then a stutter of heavy footsteps. I'm still resisting Aken – he releases my neck, using both hands to seize my arms – the bones sting with pain in his grip – I'm still yelling, half insane, and my eyes close, I'm so scared, so scared, so scared... too scared to look...

Aken doesn't even have time to yell before Shane's knuckles smash directly into his face.