Lethate is not a character in the books, as many of you probably know, but I figured there have to be people doing the things. I debated for a while about what to call him and seeing that Suzanne Collins chooses names a lot of time from old traditions and things I took the name from this Lethe, the river of forgetfulness + Atë, goddess of ruin, it seemed appropriate given what he's doing.
I was born in District 12.
I worked in a baker's shop.
I survived two Hunger Games.
My name is Peeta Mellark.
I was born in District 12.
Two guards have come in and are unhooking me. I'm so done with this.
"No, let me go! I said-I said I'd be here!"
"Feisty today." They sound surprised.
I can't last long with it. I'm winded quickly and pissed with myself especially because they find it amusing as I try to push off he hits me across the face and I feel that frequent, familiar taste of blood in my mouth.
"Shit," one says.
"No, there's no broadcast. It's just medical."
There's palpable relief on the other's part as he hefts me over his shoulder the way I used to haul bags of flour and we go down the corridor, the swaying motion lulls me out and I'm not aware of much until I'm dropped roughly onto a cot. A bar goes across my middle and there are clamps around my upper thighs and around my right leg, and then my arms are once more chained above me. The cot is rotated so that I'm elevated, almost vertical. If I wasn't strapped every which way, and still without my replacement leg I could step off and walk.
Mr. Purple and Blue is there in the back of the room I can make him out despite the shadows because of the sharp contrast with the clothes of President Snow. This can only mean wonderful things for me, I swallow out of nerves, but it sparks a coughing fit. Snow looks over, and then points at me. A medical technician comes over and checks me over, can't have me choking to death before they're done with me, I suppose.
Snow takes a few steps closer to me, "You've given such passionate speeches for us," he says, "It's a shame they don't seem to be helping. Is it possible you're not truly giving it your all?"
If you can't say anything nice. Therefore I feel it's best to remain silent.
"Hm," Snow says, "You're normally such a wordsmith." He puts a hand on my chin and carefully pries my mouth open, "No. The tongue is still there. Good. I would hate to have to order someone else's execution today. I fear running out of useful people." He tuts.
"Things are ready," Mr. Purple and Blue says. Though today he's wearing mostly green-that's going to be confusing.
"Very well, Mr. Lethate," Snow says, "I'll leave you too it. I expect a full report."
"Of course." He nods to one of the technicians, who approaches with a syringe. They hook one of my arms up to a bag of fluids, which makes my hand cold and that spreads up my arm. The other arm is jabbed roughly by Purple and Blue-wearing green-Lethate, and there's that horrific burning again. I want to scrape and pull but the other arm is just as badly positioned.
"Let's see what you see this time," the light around his head spreds out as he speaks.
"How long do the raise duels last?" Snow's voice melts out of the door frame, "Eye prom ice dome point am door their four din hard you thin canape pan?"
I'm falling backwards.
Black smoke chokes me.