Katniss

Sitting idly in the living room of my Victor's Village house, in the large space occupied only by two couches and a tea table, I find it incredibly hard not to despise the Capitol. My ankle-bound tracking device digs into my skin as I press my foot against the leg of the chair I'm in. The pain is not entirely unwelcome—maybe if Dr. Aurelius and his cronies realize how much harm the shackle is causing me, then they'll take it off once and for all. There isn't much entertainment other than constantly calling Portia to check up on Cinna's recovery. I don't even bother going over to Haymitch's—I know Hazelle is probably doing a better job than I ever could.

Gale and I strike an unspoken agreement. He still brings me meat, and I trade him for it, no matter what he says in protest. We can't talk like we used to, at least not in the Victor's Village house, but we still do talk. At least I have that.

Every night, after Gale is back from the mines, he takes me to his house in the Seam, where Hazelle always has a wonderful supper laid out for all eight of us by the time we arrive. Prim and my mother become too preoccupied with other matters—Prim with school and Rory, who's apparently declared his feelings for her, only to find out they've been reciprocated all along, and my mother with more and more victims of the abusive Peacekeepers—to spend time in my house, watching over me, so another deal is made for Hazelle to come check up on me every once in a while when she's free from maid duties in Haymitch's house.

I hear the door click open, and Hazelle pokes her head around the pale, eerily clean wall, her hair messily tied into a bun as she sets down her basket of cleaning supplies. "Hey, Katniss," she says softly, making her way to the couch across from me. I smile in reply. That's the good thing about Hazelle: she knows how I am, knows my nature and what I'm used to, so she never pressures me into a response I don't want to give, or a gesture I don't feel like doing.

She rubs her hands together, and I notice they're starting to become drier. Maybe it's the cold, but, if it is, I know my mother concocted a lotion that helps with that. "Do you need something for your hands?" I ask, not even bothering to think how it may be taken as an insult or a not-so-subtle hint about the damage. She gives me a tight, sad smile, and shakes her head. I insist, "No, really. My mother has a herbal lotion, it works great for—"

"I know, Katniss," she interrupts me, folding her hands on her lap. I tuck a stray hair behind my ear and lean forwards, motioning for her to explain herself. "It's not the first time my hands become this dry. It's just, I know a lot of people that would find a better use for your mother's lotion. Besides," she adds with a bitter chuckle, "I'm not bleeding yet."

Yet. The word echoes in my head as I realize how strong Hazelle has become. She's lost her husband in the mines, been forced to raise four children all on her own, had her oldest son and food provider near death by whipping, and when it comes to do something that cannot rightfully be considered as selfish? She insists on giving it to other people. Hazelle, I realize not for the first time, is a hero.

Meanwhile I, the apparent face of the rebellion—at least according to Boggs, Cinna, Bonnie and Twill—am sitting in a pool ankle-deep with self-pity, digging my skin into a shackle just to get it taken off. There are no words strong enough to describe my shame.

As if she can read my mind, which I have to think hard if she can't, she leans forward and looks at my new accessory. Her eyebrows shoot up in a question she doesn't dare to ask, and she sniffs regretfully, sitting back. "Does it hurt?" she asks instead, not daring to take her eyes off the shackle. I shift my foot, which is considerably difficult to do because of the weight of the apparatus, and shrug. But I can tell she sees at least part of the wounds, because her eyes widen and she gives a slight gasp. "Should I get your—"

"No!" I protest quickly, eager to change the subject. If my mother cures the cuts, Dr. Aurelius and his crew won't think there are any negative side effects because of the awful shackle, and I'll be forced to wear it endlessly. Then I realize how desperate I sounded. "I mean it's okay. I barely notice it anymore."

Hazelle nods, but I can tell she doesn't believe me. Thankfully she chooses not to push it. She gets up, clapping her hands twice, and bends to pick up the basket. "Well, I'd better go," she tells me, walking to me and smoothing my hair. Then she plants a kiss on my forehead and heads straight to the door. I remember something long overdue and call her back suddenly.

"Hazelle!" I say. "How is he?"

She gives me a rueful smile as she opens my door, stepping outside. "Honestly? He's no better than you." And she's gone.

I recline back onto the chair, trying to decipher her meaning. No better than me? I thought I was doing great! Well, if you don't count digging my ankle into the cuff, being confined to the Victor's Village and my house and Gale's house in the Seam, my previous therapy starting to take a reverse effect as I stop trading with the baker.

Okay, so I'm not in the best shape either. But Haymitch must be much worse than I am! And though there's no evidence to prove me otherwise, I'm pretty sure that I have no match against an alcoholic victor. I reach down to scratch my ankle, subconsciously going for one of the scars, when I catch sight of the ring on my finger and stop. It's amazing how much I feel Peeta's presence now that he's gone and I only have this small token to remind me of him. Of course, there's the original pearl, but for sanity's sake I've given it to Prim—along with the parachute, the mockingjay pin, and basically every other reminder of the Games.

Suddenly the phone starts ringing. For some reason, I immediately assume it's Portia, and I run to pick it up, ignoring the slight limp due to the shackle. "Portia!" I say breathlessly, not even pausing to consider that there may be other people trying to reach me through the phone.

"Hi, Kat—Oh, no, my dear," chirps up a high-pitched, heavily accented female voice I recognize only too well. "This isn't Portia, but if you want I shall put her on the phone once I'm finished speaking with you. It's me, Effie!" I can almost hear the exclamation marks in her voice that punctuate every single one of her sentences. I picture her bobbing around excitedly, stroking her cat or mouse or whatever she keeps as a pet, as her obviously fake pink curls bounce around her head.

"Oh, hi, Ef—" I manage to say before she continues, interrupting me. Huh. Effie, interrupting me. It's almost like a paradox.

"I'm just calling to verify the date for the Victory Tour," she goes on, her voice rising and falling and looping in the annoying Capitol accent. Sometimes I have to wonder if she's faking it.

"Oh, when is—" I try again, but she cuts me off. Again.

"Monday, Portia, your team and I will arrive in District 12 to begin the preparations," she adds enthusiastically. I roll my eyes, fingers combing through my hair as I ineffectively try to tune out my annoying escort. Then I process what she's saying. Monday. That's in four days. Four days before I have to leave District 12 and go to District 11 and look pretty, according to Jackson and Boggs. A shiver runs down my spine as I realize, I have no idea what to expect.

"Is Gale coming?" I ask suddenly, undoubtedly interrupting something very important she's trying to convey to me.

I can hear the shock in her voice. "Gale?" she clarifies, as if she thinks she may have misunderstood me. "Well, it's not scheduled…" There's a sound like someone flipping papers, and I can hear the scratch of a pencil, and then she tells me, "Actually, that may just work out after all. I'll have to make some readjustments, he'd have to sleep on a mattress on the floor in your bedroom, not that you'd mind, since you're family, right?" She doesn't give me time to protest—not that I would—and keeps chattering on and on about ordering extra food at meals, and having to buy some male products. Finally she blows a kiss into the phone and says goodbye, never mind the conversation she said she'd arrange for Portia and I.

I set the phone down with a click and run my hands through my hair nervously. How am I going to tell Gale that he will have to travel in a train full of Capitol attendants?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to everyone for the reviews! I finally stuck Effie into the story. I'll try to update as soon as possible but tomorrow is Monday and I will be at school, so no promises!

noname: Aw, of course you're dear to me! (All my reviewers are dear to me!) And I hope this chapter answered your question. And happy way early birthday! (Yes, I am a girl. I just kind of assumed everyone on this site is a girl, soo my bad! It's nothing personal!)