Soft shadows dance and flicker around my room, created by my glowing suit of artificial embers. My sleeping quarters are still foreign and mostly untouched, save the bed. The light catch the odd shapes of the decor and transform what little I recognize into an entirely new setting. I drop my eyes to my lap, away from the unfamiliar creatures conjured by the dim light and focus on the fine details of the low pulsing flame. I push myself back into my old home in 12, when the cold nights and hunger kept me awake, curled up next to the small hearth pleading with the damp twigs to stay lit until morning.
Back in 12, survival depended on well placed snare lines and arrows. Becoming a Victor eliminated the anxiety of scrounging up something to eat and burning furniture to stay warm. Becoming a Victor also outweighed the positive attributes: a man in 11 was killed, Darius now an Avox, 12 is in Thread's clutches and Peeta and I are going back into the arena. Thankfully, now that I am in the Capitol, Snow's attention is here, away from Prim. His use of Darius is yet another reminder of his power and it makes me crave the taste of Nightlock.
How many more will have to fall because of me? What else do I have, besides my own life that Snow wants? The only thing I have left is Peeta - and his victory will not be taken from me, even though Peeta's words after this morning's opening ceremony left me rethinking the plans to ensure his survival.
"You're so . . . pure," he said. Everyone is so confident in me, and now, they think I'm pure. How could I be when I have killed people? Or had my innocence torn away on a dusty kitchen floor? Peeta and Cinna were right about the Capitol; they are molding me into something I'm not.
I push the button on my cuff to extinguish the artificial embers of my costume and disappear in the darkness.
The next day, Haymitch expands on his lecture, telling us we not only have to play nice, but make allies too. When Peeta and I split up in the training center, I discover the knot tying station and find the activity almost meditative. Working my way through the assortment of knots, increasing in difficulty, I relax and push aside the events from the last few days. The coarse ropes rub across my fingers, leaving them pink in places where callouses have no purpose.
An hour or so passes when the difficulty of the knots exceeds my abilities and a new kind of frustration takes over. Suddenly, my annoyance turns to curiosity when my left ear twitches at the sound of soft footsteps approaching. My breath stalls and my hands still when someone puts their arms around me from behind; taking the rope from my grasp and finishing the intricate threaded puzzle. I close my eyes when I hear the deep inhale of my scent just under my ear.
"So, Girl on Fire, figure out any secrets to tell me yet?"
"I already told you, 'I'm an open book.' Maybe you could enlighten me with the secrets you already know?" I cock an eyebrow as I turn and meet a pair of sea-green eyes.
Finnick stands a foot taller than me and the lack of distance between us makes my chin tip higher than I want, but it adds to the snooty expression I aim for. I hope here in the training center, Finnick wouldn't just see me as just the survivor Cinna painted me as or the girl in the yellow dress, but the real me; a broken killer just like the rest of them - and in no way, pure. When he leans forward, I take it as a dare to see if I will move away or blush. I keep my head still and bite my cheek as I start to lose focus of his eyes. I refuse to blink.
He lets out a slight, pleasurable hum and says, "About you? That thing with you and Peeta. Complete. . ." He tilts forward another inch with his mouth slightly open and I swear to myself for closing my eyes. "...bullshit." My eyes snap open at his accusation and he is already a step back with a smirk across his face. "You wouldn't know what love was if it bit you in that tight ass of yours," he continues as the smirk turns into a full gorgeous smile. I scowl at his remark even though I know his words are meant to get a rise out of me.
"How would you know? Just because you've slept with everyone in the Capitol, doesn't make you an expert on the subject." I say as I cross my arms over my chest.
His eyes drop slightly and he tucks his lip between his teeth. "What I do is because of love," he says, lifting his chin. "I am sure you've done a few things, outside of that arena, that you're not too proud of. Not for Peeta though. No, what you're doing for Peeta in here isn't because you love him - you are repaying a debt." The muscle in his jaw flex as his lip twitches into another smirk.
He moves past me and steps in front of the table that has various length of rope available for practice. "Peeta, on the other hand," he says picking up a piece of white cord, "is in love with you. Head-over-freakin'-heels." He turns back to me and leans against the table, working the cord between his fingers. I keep quiet, curious to hear the rest of his theory. "You didn't have a choice coming back here. Let's say you were in his place; would you have volunteered, like he did?" His question takes me by surprise, even though I had an idea he would say something like this. I break his gaze and try to find the words to say. He already knows the answer, but repeats his question just to hear me say it out loud.
"No," I manage to answer, "I wouldn't have."
"I thought so. But hey, just in case you can't find any berries this year, you might want to learn this knot." Finnick slips the white cord that he tied into a noose around his neck and pulls up on the remaining slack, miming strangulation with a grunt and crossed eyes. He laughs when I roll my eyes and walk away. His chuckle tweaks in pitch as he pulls the noose back over his head and catches his Adam's apple, only making him laugh harder.
After lunch I hope to find better conversation. Cashmere and Gloss invite me over to work on hammocks and I timidly accept their offer. Just like Finnick, the siblings tower over me with an even more impressive physique. I had less than a year of a decent diet and a few months of training against their lifetime of combat mastery.
"Hey Katniss?" Cashmere asks from the other side of the woven vine. I answer without looking up from one of my knots, trying a technique from the rope station earlier.
"You did really well last year, but I have to say, your hand-to-hand sucks. Seriously, how big was that girl from 2?" She looks at her brother, Gloss, sitting cross-legged just to her left. He lets out a slight chuckle as he continues his task of weaving the longer threads of vine through the mesh. I look up and chew on my lip.
"I could have had her. I was just… creating suspense for the cameras," The sarcastic remark I make is more for my benefit. I don't want to dwell on that memory - it took me three months to shake Clove from my dreams.
"What do you say I show you some moves? Maybe then you will have a chance against Old Man Woof." Cashmere stands up and offers her hand to help me up.
"That bad, huh?" Given the circumstances, I thought I did well in the arena. I even got in a few good hits against the Peacekeepers the other morning. I would just have to do a better job at keeping my distance and getting to a bow sooner.
Cashmere and I suit up in basic sparring gear a few stations over. The padded knuckles on my gloves make me feel vulnerable; I needed my hands for climbing or holding my bow. The vest feels too big on my shoulders. I couldn't crouch without the neck of it sliding up under my chin. To my relief, Cashmere decided against the helmets since we were going to take it slow.
We start off with a few punching exercises which consist of me hitting a circular pad that Cashmere holds up in front of me. It only takes a few minutes before my shirt is drenched and I beg for water. She waves me off, drops the pad and puts her gloves on. "Nah, you're fine. C'mon, let's dance a bit," she says bouncing around. My throat burns and it was getting harder to breath, but for some reason, I step forward and lift my gloves.
"That's it," she puts her gloves up and waves her hand, calling me to step closer. "Let's see what you got, c'mon."
I keep my distance and punch the air, not wanting to hit her. When I swing my right, she steps forward to block with her left arm. Even with the padded glove, her arm was like hitting a tree. She calls me again, this time with both hands, fingertips wiggling from the red vinyl. I wipe the sweat from my eyes and mimic her bounce and step. I swing low with my left this time, hoping to have her lean in and open her up for my right. Sure enough, she leans in to block and I step forward, sending my right high. Before I can blink, she catches my fist in her left palm and cracks me across the jaw with her right.
"Oh shit! I'm sorry!" I hear her yell and her feet trample across the mat as she runs over to me, laying ass up on the mat. "You weren't supposed to step into it like that. I was just going to tap you." Against better judgment, I take her hand and stand up. She disappears while I rub my jaw, swearing under my breath. When I see the bottle of water in front of my face, I accept her apology and drain half of it. I feel the cold water run down my throat and into my stomach, cooling my core for a brief moment.
"There you go. You okay?" She asks taking the bottle from me.
"Yeah, you just caught me by surprise, that's all." I gasp as I try to catch my breath from the cold water. She sets the bottle down and surprises me again when she resumes her bounce.
"Want to try it again?" Her smile is either from encouragement or enjoyment. Something told me to take my gloves off, but my pride got the better of me.
"Yeah, why not." I say, shifting my jaw.
"Try something different this time," I hear her say from behind her gloves. I try and size her up and think two steps ahead of her defense and this time I no longer mirror her bounce. I take a wider stance and shift slightly forward on my toes, thinking back to the fistfights that would break out in the alley by the Hob. I keep my gloves high in front of my face, hunch my shoulders, turn sideways and tilt my left elbow up. I even flick my nose with my thumb and sniff as I try to imitate the men who have "had it up ta here wit yer shit."
"Alright! Let's do it!" She cheers me on. I feign with my left and shift to the right, gauging her movements, waiting for her to strike again. "Scrappy little thing, isn't she, Gloss?" She calls out to her brother who is standing just off the mat.
She finally takes a swing with her right which I am able to block, but I don't punch back. Then she lashes out with her left causing me to lower mine for the block and it opens me up for the one-two I attempted earlier. The right-handed punch spins me around and lands me on my back, seeing spots and tasting blood. The next hit churns the half liter of water in my stomach making me burp up a mouth full when Cashmere straddles me, grips my vest and pins me down.
"Why'd you have to do Glimmer like that, huh?" Cashmere hisses. I choke out the last bit of water pooling in the back of my throat.
"What-" My nose burns from the liquid and my split lip makes me wince. "What do you mean?"
"Glimmer, you little shit. They didn't even send her body back home because of how fucked she was from those tracker jackers. It should have been you reduced to ashes."
How can I apologize for something I was forced to do? It was only meant to scare them away. Glimmer was the only one from the group to perish from the attack. She was also my first kill and I had her mentor sitting on top of me.
Suddenly someone yells out, catching the attention of my opponent, "Hey glitter-tits!" Cashmere sits up and looks towards the insult. I try to look over but the padded vest shoved under my chin restrains me.
"The hell do you want, Johanna?" Ah, the girl from District 7. I thought she was busy rolling around naked in oil for a wrestling lesson.
"Why don't you leave some for the rest of us, huh?" Johanna yells from her station adjacent to ours. I guess she moved on to naked yoga - naked being her contribution to the activity.
"Isn't there a sponsor you should be fucking?" Cashmere calls back, releasing her grip on my vest.
"Oh, hardee-har. You're not the only one who has lost a tribute, you know? Haymitch would've stabbed all of our eyeballs out if that were the case. Probably would've fucked your dry eye socket too, considering how many tributes he's lost to yours." Before Cashmere could retaliate, Atala, the head trainer, runs over to our area, waving her arms and blowing a whistle frantically.
"What did I tell you? No fighting the other tributes!" The older woman huffs and scowls at us, infuriated that anyone would dare cross her rules. This gets Cashmere to stand up and turn her attention to the trainer.
"We're sparring. Don't you know the difference? Just some friendly play. Huh, Katniss?" She looks down at me and offers her hand. When she pulls me up, Cashmere lifts and eyebrow and cocks her head towards Atala. I suck on my lip and keep my eyes on Cashmere, never releasing her hand. She whispers my name and nudges her head again, waiting for my answer.
"Yeah…" my answer is muffled through closed curled lips. I continue to stare at her as I lean over and spit on the mat, creating an egg size splatter of blood. "…We were just playing." My nostril twitches into a snarl as I suck my busted lip back between my teeth. It's Cashmere who breaks first and looks away, pulling her hand from my grasp.
Atala isn't amused and gives Cashmere a final warning as I yank my vest and gloves off. Johanna calls over and asks me if I want to join her for her lesson. I roll my eyes and head for the nearest exit to find a bathroom.
White tiles cover the walls and floor, accented with cool grey trim and stall doors. Black bullet-shaped trashcans stand on either side of the black counter that runs more than fifty feet in length along the bathroom wall. Small white cloth towels are placed between every other sink. Anything that isn't porcelain or plastic is dark smoky grey stainless steel.
Twelve stalls. Twelve sinks. Twelve mirrors.
I don't notice the details of the room until I sit down against the far wall to catch my breath. One of the trashcans, no longer smooth and sleek, lay on its side in the middle of the room, dented and crumpled. The white tile floor and smoky stainless steel was now spotted with my blood in front of the twelfth mirror and the last white towel in line was slowly shifting in colour wrapped around my hand.
I tried to calm myself down, standing in front of the last mirror, repeating my mantra. But when I saw myself with my hair plastered to my forehead and the blood running down my chin, I snapped. I cursed at the feral girl in the reflection I had grown accustomed to hate. She was weak and stupid. This wasn't a game; games were for children and there were none in this year's event.
This girl was stupid for believing that there would be a chance for Peeta's survival. She was weak against the Careers, the Peacekeepers and the Capitol.
I wasn't able to hit Cashmere, but I had to hit something. My anger lashed out; striking the stupid girl in the mirror, kicking the trashcan, punching the black counter top, all while my shouts echoed off the tile and back to me.
The tantrum stopped when sobs wracked my body and I began choking on tears and blood running down my throat. I gripped the counter to steady myself as I coughed the metallic taste from my mouth. The shock of the cold water sobered me for a moment as I rinsed my mouth and wiped my face. One of my knuckles, nicked by the broken glass, continued to bleed even under the water. When I examined the small cut on my shaking hand and I was amazed at how fierce my knuckle wept. I wrapped my hand with a small towel and watched the crimson tainted water slowly disappear down the drain.
Fatigue hit me suddenly and I sat down against the far wall and leaned my head back as my drying tears left my cheeks stiff with salt.
What is Haymitch going to think when he sees me like this? Not only will it further prove I lack people skills, it will also reinforce my opposition to the idea of obtaining allies. If I was forced to make a list of possible allies, it will not contain any names of those who can easily kill me.
Twelve stalls. Twelve sinks. Twelve mirrors.
I miss home.
