The Figure

Things are blurry. I can hear machines whirling wildly in the background of my subconscious like some kind of egg scrambler gone haywire. Nothing makes sense, and I fear nothing ever will again. Time has become infinite and ambiguous. I do not enjoy this feeling.

Every so often, I believe that a small voice enters my head. As far as I can tell, this voice is not known to me. It speaks two phrases:

"Because it has to end somewhere, right? The arena can't go on forever."

Why this? Why does such an ominous voice, so harsh in its execution, whisper these two incomprehensible fragments? Where are they from? Who speaks them?

With difficulty, I can recollect simple things from my past. I am Effie Trinket, a Capitol citizen. I am a female. Besides those two facts, everything else is guesswork. The only reason that I even know of the latter's truth is due to one of the shapeless assistants that seem to be holding me under this cloud of confusion. Every so often, they come in and speak in low murmurs to each other.

"She is coming to."

"Get me another vial."

"Do you suppose the effects are wearing off?"

This last question rings around in my brain. The effects of what? Are they wearing off? What have I become and further, what is to become of me?

One day, everything stops. Faceless, fuzzy assistants grab at me, forcing me to my feet. The room is pitch-black. With the gentleness of a stampede, I am ushered into a dark hallway. I try to speak. My mouth is held shut by something strong. Those rough hands force me through the hallway, never once faltering. By the time we reach the other side, things have begun to lighten. The room is grey, not black. Everything is grey. At the end of the hallway lies a door. The assistants urge me on, pointing at the door without gesturing. I walk into the door blindly, reaching for something tangible to grasp.

In the other room, I find a mirror. The walls look soft, so soft that I could sleep propped up against them. I examine the walls with curiosity, taking in their texture and feel. The mirror captures my attention. I touch the smooth surface and find a heating sensation. Recoiling from the mirror, I turn to leave and find no door.

My forehead sweats. I do not understand this. Once, there had been a doorway. Now, there were padded walls and a hot mirror. I spin around quickly, determining that nausea has set in. Slowing down, I realize that I cannot determine any emotions. The words that I could have used in this situation-anger, frustration, confusion, dizziness-are gone. Replacing them is a dull jab to the abdomen.

Just when I believe that the end has come, a figure appears. They grab me forcefully, and I put up no fight. The figure guides me into a chair. Was that there before? My hands are forced into cufflinks that rest on a wooden desk. Was the there before? The figure crosses the desk and stands at the other end. I cannot distinguish anything about their face. No features come into focus.

"You are Effie Trinket."

The voice that reaches me is clear, precise even. I turn a bit at the sound, refusing to believe that it came out of this blurred creature.

"Reach up to your mouth. There you will find a small piece of adhesive. Remove it."

The cufflinks snap back into the table, releasing my arms. For a moment, I stand there dumbfounded. Then, as if automatic, I reach up to my mouth. A piece of material rests on my lips. I pull the sticky gunk away from my lips and find freedom. My lips feel cracked, yet indescribably smooth.

"Replace your arms into the holsters."

Again, my arms snap into the table. The cufflinks reattach, holding me into the desk. Drool pools down my chin. My body has agreed to disobey my thoughts at this point.

"In front of you lay two pictures. Take a look at them."

Two pictures lay on the desk, neatly arranged. I could not tell when they became real. The one to my left contained three people. One was a woman. She had blue eyes and thin lips. Her blonde hair sat in an elaborate design on her head. The other two people were men. The older man looked proper. He had a fierce glance in his green eyes. His lips were almost curled into a grimace. The man behind him looked significantly younger. He sported darker hair than the woman did, but still a shade of blonde. He showed a gleeful smile and the beginnings of facial hair. I could not identify any of the people.

The second photograph showed two people. One was a cheerful, dark-haired female. She looked proud and strong. The other person was a man. He had dark eyes, powerful eyes. He was dressed handsomely and fine. His facial hair looked impressive. Again, the figures were indeterminable.

"Do you know any of these people?"

I glanced toward the figure again. My lips were freed, but I found myself unable to answer the question. For a moment, we stood in silence.

"Answer the question. Do you know any of these people?"

A sharp pain began in my wrists. The cufflinks were becoming painfully hot. My mouth opened in surprise and let out an involuntary gasp.

"N-no."

The pictures were set ablaze. I watched with wide eyes as the couple disintegrated into ashes, piling up on the desk. Emotions were shortcoming. I found that had I even wanted to experience an appropriate response, I would not be able to. The desk changed. On the surface lay a myriad of objects. A wig, a pocket watch, a ring, a note.

"Do you recognize any of these objects?"

I tried to stare across the desk at the figure. They simple hovered in front of me, blurry and out of focus. A second glance at the objects produced no ephemeral emotions. I simply shrugged.

"No."

Finally, the desk cleared. It began to recede into the floor, the figure stepping over the pass to meet me face-to-face. They pulled me to my feet, and I found that my hands were freed. I rubbed my wrists, attempting to get the clammy, cold sensation off my skin.

"What do you know about the Hunger Games?"

The day continued with questions from every angle. No matter the stimulus, I could not seem to produce any appropriate response. The questioner never lost patience with me. Their tone remained lifeless through the procedure. No notes were taken. Overall, the session seemed useless. Furthermore, it was not efficient.

Not efficient for the simple face the information was being withheld. Undoubtedly, the masked aggressor must have had ulterior motives. However, I withheld key information.

Among the mass of pictures and objects that I was subjected to, only upon one item did I experience something. A gasp almost escaped my mouth at a picture of alcohol. The questioner took note of this and prodded me to continue with my findings. Something told me to shut up.

"Nothing."

"Do you know what this object is?" the figure prodded again.

"No."

I did not know what caused me to think of him. If it was even a male. Just that one name that rebounded around the graspable information within my brain. One name: Haymitch Abernathy.