A/N: Hi guys, here's a semi-longer chapter for you! Sorry it took so long, I've been busy with my other fics and stuff :/
Hey, if fanfics about equality is your sort of thing, then maybe you could check out my new fic 'Home'? I'm not really into self advertising but I've got high hopes for this one but am not getting a lot of feedback. It's about gay rights and how the choices of others can effect a whole family.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Chapter Seven
"So you're Katniss then?" The short haired woman immediately asks as soon as I set foot in the dining room.
"Yeah," I answer, approaching the table the woman is leaning against catiously. "Are you Johanna Mason? My . . . ah . . . tutor?"
"You bet your ass I'am," the woman says. "Johanna Mason is the name, whipping imps like you into shape is my game. Please, sit." I pull out a chair from under the table and sit down on it, watching the woman closely as I do so. "So your Aunt tells me that you are incapable of comprehending the country's current state of law?"
"That's right," I reply, folding my arms tightly and resting them on the table.
"Well I've been called to fix that," Johanna says. "Let me guess, your main question is why?" I quirk an eyebrow in confusion and nod my head. How could she possibly know that? "It's one of the most common questions that people in your situation ask. 'Why treat them like this?', 'Why do you think it fair?', 'Why can't we all just be equals!'" All of those questions have passed through my mind at least once over the years.
"But . . . why?" I ask with a confused frown.
"The main basis of the laws of the country now is that there has never been equality since the beginning of time. Women were bestowed the labours of life: pregnancy, hardship, aches and pains, expectancy to serve while men sat on their fat asses doing nothing," Johanna says bluntly. "In the 20th century during the decade known as the 1950's women did everything: cooking, cleaning, looking after the man and their children. Well, now we're in a smarter age, an age were men get what they deserve and are treated the way they should be."
"But . . . in doing this now . . . doesn't that just make us just like them?" I ask. The question causes Johanna to bark out a laugh.
"Just like them?!" she exclaims. "Just like them?! We are nothing like them OK?! It's saying stupid things like that that will get your ass slung in Capitol prison!"
"Excuse me?" I frown. Capitol Prison? The Capitol has a prison?! Kids used to tell horror stories about a prison in the Capitol but I never believed them. Well they are called horror stories for a reason. The stuff of horror and fiction, used to frighten children before they go to bed at night and give them nightmares.
"Oh yeah," Johanna says, her face taking on an omnious scary expression that makes a shiver jump down my spine. "Capitol Prison. Anyone who breaks the new world laws get slung in there. Have you heard of that Cresta woman?" I nod numbly in response, vaguely remembering the name from the news article I read in the newspaper. "As soon as she gives birth to her baby there's a cell in the ultimate hellhole with her name on it. Hopefully there will be more hope for her child."
"What if the baby's a boy?" I frown. "There's always a possiblity in that."
"Oh my god you're more a dickweed than I thought you'd be," Johanna huffs. "You don't think like that. Especially vocally dumbass! A pregnant woman carries a girl up until the point proven wrong! This country is no longer oppressed with the idiocy of male domination and is now a free world! There is no 'what if's?' anymore. This is the way the world works now. Get it into your brain or you're not going to survive!" I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out so I close it again quickly. "Now get out of my sight. As far as I know there's no hope for you, but I'm not one to give up on a challenge. But to complete this challenge I'm going to need time. Now piss off so I can think."
Relieved to be dimissed, I leap off my chair and run for the hills. I stumble down the stairs and go outside for some air. I lean against the front door and take deep breaths to calm my nerves. She's my tutor? She's barely any older than me and are teachers allowed to swear at their students? As far as I can tell anyway, everything that has came out of her mouth so far has been bullshit. I've learnt about the 1950's, and sure, it was a dark time for womankind, but I also read up on the future. There's been loads of powerful women from the 20th to 21st centuries. Probably further back as well! All these women, I realize, are turning the 22nd century into the dark ages again. When power and dominance is something of importance. What happened equality? What about the famous words of Martin Luther King? Even if that was for the comparison of one skin colour to another the point still stands!
Am I truely stupid because I don't understand this? Am I blind to the truth or some imbucline who can't comprehend what fair is in modern times? Everything in my mind though is telling me that this is pure crap! How does a few different body parts and ways of thinking change who's higher up in the ranks and who isn't? I just . . . can't get it!
"There must be something you're missing Katniss," I say to myself as I pace Effie's driveway. "Something that would explain all this and assemble it all to make some sense! Johanna is right, the question is why? Why enslave an entire race of people for a hundred years just to knock them off their high padestols? Why cause so much pain and heartbreak just to prove a point?"
"Power."
Once I reach the bottom of the driveway I spin round to the sound of someone's voice. Power? What does that mean? Power? My eyes scan the garden and fall upon the back of Peeta the Slave sitting by the flowerbeds, pulling up some weeds.
"What?" I frown.
"The answer to your questions: power," Peeta the Slave says, not even stopping his work or turning to look at me.
"Power," I repeat slowly as if tasting the word on my tongue.
"Yes, power," Peeta the Slave confirms. "Excuse me for speaking out of turn but if it assits you in your quest for truth I doubt you'd mind. The answer is so simple yet no-one sees it. Power."
"Care to elaborate?" I ask, walking across the grass to stand behind him. Even with my shadow looming over him, he doesn't stop working nor does he turn to face me.
"Everyone wants power," he states as if obvious. "There's always the little guy who's been knocked around all their life who wants to stand up from the herd and become the all powerful being. The dominant figure of that community that decides what and when something happens. Power seperates an individual from the rest of the group. It makes them feared and it therefore makes them powerful."
"I'm not sure I'm following your logic," I frown. Taking an uncertain glance to his left, Peeta the Slave sighs and stands up, a bunch of weeds in one hand and a trowel in the other.
"I shouldn't even be speaking to you, let alone telling you this," he states, moving away from me and heading up the garden. My eyes widen in shock and my mouth drops as he gets further and further away from me.
"Then why did you start?!" I call after him. He ignores me and keeps going. "Fine, leave baker boy," I mutter under my breath, folding my arms. A frown suddenly etches onto my face in confusion? Baker boy? Where did I get that from? This boy is Effie's slave, he ain't no baker. Something in recess of my mind though is telling me he is. But why?
"What did you call me?" Peeta the Slave asks. I look back up at him and start slightly as he stands facing me for the first time since we started talking. My eyes take in the dark bruise forming just above where the red mark sat on his face last night. Blonde strands of hair fall from his head and make a patheic attempt at covering the blemish. I wonder if he did that himself to avoid stares or his hair did it itself, naturally falling in waves like that.
I can't help but think of how it's the latter and how utterly beautiful it is.
"Baker Boy," I answer. "Why?"
"Look, I don't know what Effie told you about my past," Peeta the Slave hisses harshly, his change of demeanour making me jump. "Or about where she got me and there may be nothing I can do to stop you from calling me what you want when you want but know this: I'am not, and will never again be a Baker Boy. Got it?" He's inches away from me now and I look him in the eyes defiantly. I've obviously struck a nerve without even meaning to.
My brain unable to think of a way to respond to the outburst, I blurt out the first question that comes into my head. "What did she hit you with?"
"That's none of your buisness," he answers icily.
"It was obviously something hard if it made such a bruise," I insist.
"Again: None of your buisness," he replies.
"It is my buisness, you're mine now as well and I don't want my aunt going round turning you into damaged goods," I say, internally wincing at the harsh, possessive words. Peeta the Slave eyes me curiously, sizing me up and very probably wondering what my deal is.
"Bamboo cane," he finally says. I wince, thinking of the sting and burn a bamboo cane would cause with just a simple gentle slap and comparing it to the almightly whack Effie gave this poor soul last night. "What? Am I 'damaged goods' now?"
"No," I answer warbly. "Never. I'm sorry."
Looking completely taken aback at my words, Peeta the Slave frowns and asks, "What?"
"I'm sorry," I repeat. "For the damaged goods comment, for the bamboo cane, for Effie. Everything. I'am, from the bottom of my heart, sorry."
Bewilderment is written all over Peeta the Slave's voice as he absorbs what I've just said. I look around, suddenly worried that someone heard me, but the streets are empty. "No-one's ever said sorry to me before," Peeta the Slave says, his blue eyes suddenly looking saddened and overcome with grief.
"Then it's long overdue," I reply, stratching my head awkwardly. My eyes suddenly slide past him and look into the living room window that faces out into the garden to find Effie staring at us curiously with Johanna scowling by her side. "They're watching us," I whisper. Peeta the Slave stiffens and doesn't even try to look behind himself. "What do we do? We've been standing here too long for me to have been giving you an order."
Peeta the Slave sighs and gets down on his knees infront of me. "You're right," he says.
"What are you doing?!" I exclaim.
"Hit me," he whispers in response.
"What!?"
"Hit me Katniss," Peeta the Slave insists. "It's the only other plausiable explanation for us to be standing here like this. Hit me."
"I can't hit you!" I exclaim. "Don't make me hit you!"
"Just do it," he says, closing his eyes and wincing, waiting for the blow. "It's fine, I won't blame you for it."
My hand clenches by my side and I let out a suddering breath. He's right, the only other reason I'd be standing here with him so long was if I was telling him off for doing something wrong and was about it hit him. But I can't hit him! It's not right and is against everything I believe it!
The moment my hand makes contact with his face, a sting immediately sets into my hand and I wince, the loud crack of skin hitting skin echoing round the street. In that moment, a memory flashes into my mind from when I was a child and when my mother would hit us in a fit of rage. Throwing myself to my knees infront of him, I take his face in my hands and plant a kiss on his lips. From his and my side, it's an apology, from Effie and Johanna's side it's . . . ah . . . an expression of sexuality? I have no idea what they call it.
I trail the kisses up to his ear and whisper quietly, "I'm so sorry," my voice wobbling with grief of having to degrade myself to the same level as Effie and the rest of the female population of the country.
"It's OK Katinss," he whispers back. "Nothing I'm not already used to."
I know, from his sorrowful tone of voice, that he's telling the truth.
A/N: Sorry again that it took so long but I hope the Peeta/Katniss interaction made up for it!
Also, don't forget to check out the fic 'Home'! :)
Please R&R :D