A/N- I'm sorry that it's so short, but there weren't any other scenes that I wanted to add to this part. This is really to give answers and tie up this part of the stoy before I start taking in a slightly different direction. I'll probably update later tonight or early tomorrow to make up for how short it is, though. Thank you for reading, and please review.
I am taken directly to the President's Mansion, and even given an escort to lead me to his office. Everything in that building makes me sick. The air smells of roses, but far more potently than could be natural. The sickly sweat smell clogs the air, making me dread each breath. The walls, which are painted a brilliant crimson, almost look blood-stained to me. Snow probably took the bodies of children from the Hunger Games and used their blood to paint them. Worst of all, however, are the paintings that adorn his walls. They are scenes from Games of the past, immortalized. I catch a glimpse of myself, basically depicted as some kind of God, with my trident raised above the girl from Seven. Her fiery red hair makes a halo around her face, just like I remembered, even though the horror on her face is grossly exaggerated. She wasn't scared at all. I remember that clearly. She was sure she could win up until the very last moment.
The thing is, though, that picture doesn't bother me as much as others. After heading down a few hallways, I figure that all the pictures depict the last scene of the Games, the final kill. Mine, compared to others, wasn't bad. There's one of a girl with another tributes head lying at her feet. Right now, that one bothers me the worst. Then I see one with Mags' name on it. It's completely innocent, you couldn't tell it was from the Games at all. She's perched in the tree, a small smile on her face, as she watches a boy, more than twice her size, taking a bag of berries out from his bag. In his hand are a half dozen or so blueberries, and then two other ones that are eerily similar. Nightlock.
"Mr. Odair?" my attendant asks me. He's standing in front of me, waiting for me to follow him. I'm tempted to tell him to learn some patience, but Snow wouldn't like that at all. I can't be portrayed as a mean grouch, can I now? So, I force myself to tear my gaze away from the painting and walk down the last corridor to the President's main office.
The first thing that hits me is the smell. The stench of roses are multiplied times ten, and I almost gag. I start to give the president some smart ass remark about his perfume, but I stop short when I actually look into the room. The last time I spoke to him, it was in the remake center, where I stayed my first trip to the Capitol. Now, I'm in his true office, and I wish I were anywhere else. There are more portraits on his walls, still of the Games. This time, however, it has to be the bloodiest, most brutal scenes in Games history. These ones do hurt me.
The one that I see first almost kills me, and I know that my nightmares wil probably start reflecting the brutal scene once again. Titus is standing above Kyra's dead body, with her heart in his mouth, his hands and face dripped with her blood. I look away as quickly as possible, now seeing a painting of a blonde haired girl with a bird's long beak through her throat, blood dripping down her neck, her still eyes opened in horror. As soon as I look away from that one, I see something that's almost more disgusting than the first in a way. A tribute's face is the main focus, his head bashed in, another tribute visible standing over him, bits of gore on the spikes of his mace. Those are only a few of the pictures that keep our great president company. I do my best to look away.
"I see that you're quite taken with my portraits," Snow says when he sees my face.
"Why?" I ask him, the word coming out almost like I'm in awe. I basically am. This man, with his ability to relish in other people's suffering, has a talent that makes me feel very small and very vulnerable.
"I need some things to keep me company during my tedious hours at work," he replies.
"That's sick." He smiles, like I've given him a huge compliment.
"I realize that some people may not share my tastes in fine art. That isn't why you care here, however, is it?"
"Why did you kill my mother?" I ask him, not bothering with small talk.
"Because, dear Finnick, you went against my wishes."
"When did you ever say that I couldn't get engaged to Annie?" He chuckles.
"That, I assumed, you could figure out by yourself. I had no idea how thickheaded you were, and I'm sorry for not making myself more clear." Truly sorry, I bet.
"You could've warned me." He chuckles softly.
"Oh, but Finnick, I did. You simply ignored them."
"You can't tell me that you expected me to have any idea what Orica was talking about."
"Well, maybe she wasn't completely clear. The thing is, however, that you should have known better. A proposal, really Finnick," he says in a very condescending tone. It's like he thinks that I'm just a stupid chit while he's the master of the universe.
"No one was going to find out. I was going to continue working for you without a word."
"That is your first mistake," he says, "trying to do something behind my back. Your second is assuming that just because you were going to do it in secret means that no one is going to find out. Someone would've figured it out, eventually, and that wouldn't have turned out well. The Capitol's golden boy can't have a wife, can he now?" Snow pushes himself out of his chair, standing with some discomfort. I have to wonder if it's that poison he's had to drink, slowly eating his body away. I have to hope. Maybe he'll die. That'd make the war a lot easier.
"No one would've found out," I tell him. He strolls over to me leisurely, a small smirk on his face.
"You must know how I hate to take risks. Too much hassle, really. I don't understand why you're so surprised. I thought that you knew me better than that," he says, his snake-like eyes looking up at me innocently. I have to look away so I'm not tempted to claw those eyes out of his head. He's right, though. I should have known better. He's a filthy shit ball. What else could I expect from a man who hangs portraits of kids dying in his office?
"Are there any other "rules" that I should know about?" I ask him.
"There is only one rule, and you know it. Keep the women of the Capitol happy, and you will be happy. You know very well that hearing of your engagement would definitely not make any of those lovely ladies happy."
"Okay. I got that, I know that now, I knew it then."
"You just didn't expect to get caught," Snow says. He takes a step closer to me, and I have to work not to step away.
"How did you catch me?" I ask him. I'm pretty sure I know, but I want a confirmation.
"Let's just say that I was nervous after I picked up on you talking to your dearest Mags, so I generously had Orica warn you, then told her to keep an eye on you. She did her job well," he says. I would be more angry if I hadn't already suspected something like that. It still pisses me off that another Victor would do something like that, though. I guess when that kind of brainwashing starts at age twelve, it's hard to have a mind of your own.
"That chick always creeped me out," I tell him, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing anything similar to the sting of betrayal, or even anger.
"Many people in the Capitol would consider her beautiful. I was even thinking of asking her to keep you company during your next real visit," he says. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to remain calm. Well, and not throw up. I've been wish messed up chicks, but there is no way that Orica is going to lay a hand on me.
"I don't believe that mating outside the species is appropriate," I tell him, trying to detach my tone as much as possible. If he knows how grossed out I am, he'd force me to do it. Thank God he doesn't. Instead, he nods.
"True, true, true. It wouldn't be good for your image, anyway," he says. "Victors from other Districts are cute together, but there would be way too many questions if you were seen with a Victor from your own District."
"Of course. We wouldn't want anyone thinking that there's anything real between us," I say, trying not to laugh at how fucked up all of this is. It's weird, I think, how this could make me want to laugh. Maybe it's beause crying would be the other option, and laughing is so much easier.
Snow takes another step closer to me, so that we're way too close for casual conversation. I'm sort of freaked out.
"Yes, I do believe that you realize that by now." He lifts his hand and looks at his watch like he has an appointment soon. "Is there anything else you need?" He's close enough to me now that the smell of blood on his breath is gag inducing. I'm forced to take a step back, much to his pleasure.
I almost like to think that he smells like the blood of all the innocent children that stains his soul. Not that there's anything wrong with him poisoning himself, actually that's very amusing. It's just that imagining those kids that he killed still affecting him, even like that, would be nice. I mean, there's been seventeen years of Games since he rose to power, which means that almost four hundred kids have died because of him. Then add on the hundreds that die of starvation or illness in the poorer Districts, and the people that he's killed for other reasons, and that total is in the thousands. Yet, it seems like he doesn't care whatsoever.
Maybe it's just all the practice. My first kill hurt. Then it gradually got easier. At least at first, I guess. I still have nightmares, though, and a lot of them are from the people I killed. I still think about their families sometimes, what kind of life they had before I took it away. I doubt that Snow ever does that.
"Do you ever see them in your dreams?" I ask Snow, nodding towards the paintings. He bursts into laughter, then waves me out of his office, still laughing like I just told him a hilarious joke. I can't be sure if he thinks that the concept of having dreams about them is funny, or if he was just trying to cover something up. I settle on the first answer. Seriously, Snow showing any sign of guilt? Yeah, right.