The next days are a torment of impotent anguish as the Peacekeepers slowly beat and mutilate Darius to death, demanding answers he doesn't have to questions they don't care about. Sometimes they just play the audio into my cell, his muffled screams of agony and despair between their dull questions about who knew what. Sometimes they haul me into the other room and I watch, screaming myself raw and rubbing bloody welts into my skin where I pull against the manacles.
When I'm in my cell I lie curled on my side, head buried in my arms. I haven't eaten since the day they snipped his fingers from his hand, and they beat me whenever they come to collect the bowl and it's untouched. If they are going to hurt others to get to me, I'm removing myself from the equation.
The time blurs into nightmarish waking hours filled with pain and horror, and terrifying sleeping hours filled with pleading and blame. They've resumed their pointless beatings. Sometimes asking questions, sometimes just hurting me for the joy of it. As my body grows weaker, my mind becomes fuzzier. I begin to hallucinate and I have trouble separating reality from dream. But it doesn't matter, really. Each is equally horrible. I'm huddled in the corner, eyes squeezed shut, whispering apologies into the nothingness to drown out Darius' keening wail when it rises to a high pitched shriek and then gurgles into silence. I freeze, listening carefully and hear a muttered, "Dammit." My hands begin to tremble and tears creep down my face. Finally.
My next two meals are force fed, guards holding me down while one of the men in tunics shoves a tube down my throat. It's a lot of work, and I'm pretty sure I can outlast them. Like with Darius, they'll become impatient and overdo it. I wait.
The next time the guards come in however, Johanna begins to scream. "Eat, Peeta! Eat it! Just eat!" Immediately, I can hear the guards descend on her cell and begin to rain blows and she grunts and shrieks as they land, but she continues to holler, "Eat, Peeta! Eat eat eat!" Her cries grow louder as the crunches and thumps increase until I can't stand it any longer.
"I'll eat! Shut up, Johanna! I'll eat!" She quiets immediately and the beating stops quickly after. I cradle my head in my hands, but when the bowl scrapes the floor next to me, I raise it to my cracked and broken lips.
I don't know how much time has passed, I lost track of the bowls and the beatings and the dreams. It doesn't matter how long it's been anyway, every day is the same, and always will be the same. I don't know what is being gained by this, no new information for them. What do they want? Why are they doing this? What are they waiting for?
And then one day is different. Nephew steps inside my cell, flanked by two guards and looking nervous. I watch him warily, he looks scared, like he's confronting a cornered animal.
"Hello, Peeta," he says softly. I don't answer, waiting for whatever awful thing he brings with him. "I know you've been alone for a long time. I told President Snow you would probably like to talk to someone." His lie stinks like his fear, but I don't call him on it. I wait.
He tries again. "You must be wondering about what's happening to you. President Snow said I can tell you what we know." I roll over away from him and close my eyes. Lies are of no interest to me. He continues doggedly. "Katniss has been working with the insurgency. They worked out a plan for her escape from the arena with the help of a handful of traitors and she is now working to bring one of them to power. We needed to be sure you weren't a spy, needed to be sure you were completely unaware of her plotting, but recently we've become certain she acted without you." His words are empty echoes, I only hear noise. "Perhaps you'd like to see?" he asks.
My attention snaps to him. See Katniss? I hate myself for how eagerly I turn, how hungry I'm sure I look. He places a small screen on the floor in front of me and it crackles to life. There she is. Tears pool in my eyes and spill over, my hands trembling at my sides. She stands in front of a huge crowd at the Justice Building in District 9, I recognize it from when we visited on the Victory Tour. She looks so different, eyes lined dramatically and a dark lipstick making her look older. She speaks firmly and clearly, asking the district to take up arms, calling for them to fight to the death for their liberty. I watch, my breath frozen in my throat, drinking her in. Swimming its way through my murky consciousness, a buzzing doubt drifts in and out of my focus. Katniss has never been such a comfortable speaker as she is now. But apparently, I didn't know her as well as I thought I did, maybe all that shyness in front of crowds was an act. My brow wrinkles, my befuddled mind trying to put pieces together. In the third row is the woman who drew my attention on the tour, her anger radiating from her. But this isn't the same crowd, is it? Katniss wasn't wearing black in District 9. And she certainly wasn't talking about arming themselves against the Capitol.
Nephew sees my questioning stare and clicks off the screen. "Like I said, she's inciting riots out there right now. People are dying by the hundreds because she doesn't understand what's happening. She thinks she's asking people to fight for their freedom, when actually," he leans close and stares into my eyes intensely, "she is just a puppet for another power player who is trying to seize control for themselves." I shake my head, trying to follow what he's saying. Yesterday, I was knocked unconscious by the heavy metal end of the club swung at my head and my thoughts still won't line up properly.
"Who?" I mumble.
"Plutarch Heavensbee," Nephew replies dramatically.
"Pfft, Plutarch?" I shake my head, my vision swimming and fading. "He designed the Games specifically to kill her."
"No," Nephew replies, voice low and serious. "He designed the Games specifically to free her."
My head aches with the effort of trying to think about what he's saying. Plutarch as the mastermind of her escape? It doesn't even make sense. But, on the other hand, it kind of does. He was in the perfect position to monitor her in the arena, what better way to keep her safe? What better way to know where she was every minute of every day, and be able to meet her when the time was right? My syrupy thoughts struggle with reasoning this through, and then a blinding clarity.
The entire time we were on tour, she'd been so worried, so anxiety ridden. But suddenly, at the President's mansion, she had become carefree and light-hearted. I see her in my memory, Plutarch cutting in and sweeping her away to dance and talk to her privately. Holding her in my arms that night as she slept for the first time with no nightmares.
"What?" I ask Nephew, and he nods to someone behind me. A sharp pinch in my arm and I flinch away to look down at a tiny pinprick in my bicep. "What?" I ask again, my brain refusing to function correctly in its damaged and deprived state.
I feel my heart beginning to speed up, my muscles tighten and my breathing becomes ragged. I feel a nameless panic starting in the back of my skull and worming its way through my bloodstream into my chest and belly.
Nephew leans forward and asks, "What happened that last night in the arena, Peeta?"
A vision of Brutus looms in front of me, bursting from the wall behind Nephew. He roars and swings his glinting knife at my head while the wall snaps and crackles with electricity. Chaff, dragging himself on his forearms, screaming and covered in biting, tearing insects, reaches for me. I cower against the wall, covering my head and trying to claw my way away from them.
"Katniss blew out the force field," Nephew's voice rings through my head and I peer through my arms. On the screen Katniss stands and takes careful aim. Her arrow lowers and she turns toward me with a malicious smile, the arrow on fire and its blazing light throwing sinister shadows on the planes of her face. She releases it to fly toward me, piercing my heart. Screaming, I tumble backward, ripping at the burning shaft, my hands and clothes catching fire as she stands over me and laughs.
"I think we're good," Nephew says, his head elongating and fangs showing over his lower lip. He leaps for me, clawed hands tearing at my face and I kick backward, flying over and my head smashing against the floor. The room wheels around me, blooming with flame and smoke, and then blackness.
When I wake, I'm alone. My head is pounding and my entire body is covered with clawed scratches. My fingernails are caked with blood, I've been tearing at myself. My heart pounds and I can't catch my breath. Clutching my head, I squeeze my eyes shut, try to calm myself. I pull deep, slow breaths, try to find the tether in my mind that reaches out to connect me to Katniss. As I search, my heart races faster and I feel queasy. I shy away from thoughts of her and my father's image floats into my mind's eye. Calm and steady, comforting and loved, I focus on the detail of his hands. His large, strong hands pounding and kneading at silky dough as we work side by side at the tall bench. The square nails he keeps so meticulously clean and trimmed. The way his thumb, like mine, bends back at the top knuckle. When he runs his hands over my head, stroking my hair and soothing me when I'm sad or afraid. The way he cupped the back of my head and peered into my eyes, our bright blue gazes mirroring each other's as he told me he loved me before I left.
My breathing begins to slow and I roll onto my back, arms thrown wide at my sides. I stare at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what has happened. I can't remember anything clearly, but I think Nephew was here? I think Brutus was here, too, so that isn't a sure thing. I also think I saw Katniss, but when I try to think about either of them, my mind skitters and shies away from it.
I pull myself to sitting, leaning against the wall with my legs drawn up. I press my fingers to my eyes, trying to get control of my thoughts. I remember Nephew, coming in and trying to start a conversation. Was he telling me about Katniss speaking at rallies? Something about that had rung false, but I can't remember what it was. He had shown me video of it, I saw it happening. Why didn't I believe it? I don't remember.
He also told me that Plutarch Heavensbee is the rebel leader trying to wrest control for himself. I had put the news together with Katniss' sudden mood change the night she met with him and then…what? None of it makes sense, there are holes in my memory and parts where my mind refuses to go. It's like a locked door, or a black pit. What is happening? Maybe the blows to my head are damaging my ability to concentrate, to reason. I shudder at the idea.
I spend the day trying to make sense of the chaos in my mind. Nothing fits together though and the more frustrated I get, the more tumultuous my thoughts become. My head jerks up at the sound of the keypad outside the door, my stomach tightening in knots of fear at the thought of what's to come. But instead of the uniformed Peacekeepers, it's Nephew again. He smiles a greeting and walks inside. He is much more confident today, peering into my eyes, checking my pulse at my wrist.
"How are you feeling today, Peeta?" he asks in a friendly voice. I ignore him, staring quietly and waiting for him to say whatever he's come to say. "You seem more lucid today, is that true?" Again, I don't answer, but it doesn't deter him. He seems excited, almost giddy. "That's excellent," he continues, ignoring my silence. "I've brought you a treat today. Would you like to see Katniss again?"
He watches me with an odd shrewdness and I try to remain expressionless, but I'm sure he can tell I'm eager. Nephew sets up a small screen in front of me and switches it on. Is that the same as before? Katniss flashes into view, the cave in the arena last year. She's feeding me the broth Haymitch sent in. A quick sting in the back of my neck, I slap my hand up to swat it away. What was that?
I look questioningly at Nephew, but his eyes are on the screen. My eyelids feel heavy and my head droops forward. I reach up to rub my eyes and my hands look strange, too big, and hook fingered. My heartbeat starts to race and I feel a frantic itch under my skin. Wide-eyed, I look up and Katniss has me by the throat, forcing nightlock in my mouth. I clench my teeth together, pressing against the wall of the cave, but she pries my jaw open and shoves a handful between my lips. Spluttering and gagging, I spit desperately, but blood pours from my mouth. Katniss sprouts wide, black, leathery wings and flies through the cave opening, shrieking and hurling flaming arrows to ignite the forest as she goes. The roaring fire closes in on the small cave and I scream as my skin becomes sheets of flame, the walls are burning, the floor, the ceiling. My throat erupts in gushing lava as I burn, melting away into nothing until blackness closes over me.