After our training session, Finnick had triggered something in me that left me hungry for more information about what happened between him and Thread. We were at a standstill on that combat range, unable to say exactly what happened, but came to an understanding. Thread had Finnick and Johanna, I knew that, but how? My mind kept churning different scenarios, keeping me awake in a clustered cycle between what Thread did to me and what he could have done to them.

For the next few days, Finnick and I just talked in passing or at the lunch table about anything that didn't involve a certain Peacekeeper. Even if I had the courage to ask him, any information gathered at this point would be useless considering there are only four more days until we go back to the arena.

Four more days until our pain and abuse will be over.

At lunch, I look around and see that everyone is also aware how much time we have left. Conversations become shorter, comments really, and some are starting to eat alone or with their district partner.

Peeta and I stay together in our usual fashion, and like the others, our attention is drawn to the plates in front of us. The Careers: Cashmere, Gloss, Enobaria and Brutus sit the furthest away from the main group. Their once friendly demeanor starts to turn into whispers and sideways glances shot in our direction.

Finnick and Mags share our table but sit at the other end. Finnick quietly keeps Mags company with stories from home while she dips a finger into her third serving of pudding, wiping the cup clean before sucking the last little bits from her fingers. I look back at my plate that has scarcely been touched. My stomach must also be aware of how many days are left. I know I should be eating whatever is available to prepare me for the Games, but I feel as if my body is already accepting the fact it won't need much more to last me for another week.

"Hey, sunshine!" Johanna gives a cheerful greeting as she slams her lunch tray down on the table across from us. Mags doesn't look up, but I can see a slight smile cross her face. "You're lookin' mighty fierce today, Katniss. Plannin' on throwing those bags under your eyes at some careers?" she asks before she takes a big bite of bread.

"Afternoon," I mutter, returning my eyes to my plate, annoyed with how she can be so chipper when the clock is ticking.

"Grumpy too. That'll scare 'em off. How you doin' Peeta?" she says, giving him a wink.

Peeta clears his throat and gives a curt nod, "Johanna." Ever since her show in the elevator, he gets a silly grin on his face when he sees her.

"Effie likes to make sure we are up, up, up! at least two hours before prep and training," I mutter, pushing bits of mashed potato around my plate. I would rather her, and any other opponent, to think my lack of sleep is from the rough hours during training and not because I'm afraid to sleep. I'm not only afraid of where my mind will go, but what will happen in the next four days.

Since I flushed the morphling pills, I've tried to convince myself that I could get to sleep on my own. But when I hear the click of the automatic locks around midnight, I know I've made a mistake by not sneaking over to Peeta's room earlier. So I lie awake staring at the ceiling until I am too tired to dream.

"My first escort was like that, until after my Games," Johanna says between bites. "I stopped her wake up calls with an ax through her pretty green wig. You should have seen it! Her wig stuck to the wall as she ran away screaming! I think she was more worried about being seen with a bald head than my accuracy."

As much as I would like to do the same with Effie, I keep quiet and force a spoonful of mashed potato in my mouth.

"Oh, don't tell me you're being antisocial like the rest of those meat-bags?" she says with a full mouth.

"Hard to be social with someone when you might have to kill them." I keep my eyes to my plate.

"Come on, there's plenty to talk about. Kill some time before we kill each other, yeah?"

"What do you want to talk about?" I say, setting my spoon down and crossing my arms. "The Sponsor's Ball tomorrow, or the training scores after that? How about the interviews before..."

"We finally get out of this dump?"

I'm puzzled by her response.

"Even if the arena is a hellhole, it's better than being cooped up in here," she states firmly. "Sure, I could go on about how much I want to shove my boot up Snow's ass and walk back home to 7, but what do you think that'll that get me? Treason? Firing Squad? At least out there, I'll still have my ax in my hand when... if, it happens. Maybe I'll get a few more kills under my belt. My belt, not some piece of shit sequined, tasseled, pink belt..." Johanna trails off, cursing her stylist in between bites of bread and smoked ham. "Sorry aprons aren't part of the uniform, Peet."

Peeta gives a nervous chuckle and scoots his chair back. "I'm going to get some more bread. Katniss, you need anything?"

I shake my head and give a small smile, even though I'm jealous of his clever escape from Johanna's crude ramblings. I turn my attention to my water and take a sip, hoping she will take the hint that I am not up for much conversation. I don't want to risk the chance of accidentally bringing up something we all know too much about.

Johanna watches Peeta walk back to the buffet counter, and then she leans across the table and whispers to me, "Alright, you gotta give me the deets on Bread-Boy over there. He stick it in your oven yet?"

I nearly choke on my water and slam down my glass. Before I can grab a napkin to sop up my mess, she continues with a mischievous grin, "Ho, ho! Peeta hasn't lit your fire yet! No wonder you look dead already. I'm tellin' ya, a solid lay will put ya right down. Has he even kneaded your dough yet?" She flexes two hands in the air.

With the napkin pressed to my mouth, my wide eyes belay my embarrassment.

"Johanna!" I hiss as I lean forward. My overreaction seems to have fueled her for another suggestion.

"All I'm saying is if you're fresh out of booze, pills or sex, the best sleep remedy is, as always, your trusty friend," she winks, lifting her hand and waving her fingers.

I shake my head and give her a muddled look.

"Got to get on with the self-lovin', you know what I mean?" Johanna says, wiggling an eyebrow.

Taken aback, I feel my face grow hot and I look around, hoping no one has caught onto our conversation. "What's wrong with you?" I hiss. "How can you talk about something like that at a time like this?"

"You think I should be moping around hating the last few days of my life? I'd rather be showing my wrestling trainer a few more moves back in my room." Johanna winks and takes another bite of her bread, chewing with a big smile.

"Well, I can't afford to think like that. And what you've been through, I can't see how you can either," I say, dabbing water spots off the front of my shirt. Finnick has put a complete halt to his stories and turns his attention to Johanna. In their silence, I realize what I have said and look up expecting another one of her famous outbursts.

Instead, she replies with a huge guffaw while Finnick keeps a careful watch.

"Snow may control the Games or even who fucked me if they had enough coin. But hear this: I'm in control of when, where and how I get off. Seriously, I have no regrets about the things I do, because I chose to do them." Johanna says loudly, proudly tapping at her chest with each accented word.

"But how can you even do something that someone like... Snow used against you?" I ask quietly, stealing a quick glance at Finnick, making sure I'm not about to cross any lines.

"You're not always in control, but when you are, why not enjoy it?" she says, leaning back in her chair, folding her hands behind her head.

I see a slight nod from Finnick and he turns back to Mags, picking up where he left off about some fisherman's tale about 'mermaids.'

Keeping her eyes on Peeta as he starts his walk back to our table with a full tray of food, Johanna quietly concludes her suggestion before he gets too close to hear, "I'm serious about what I said. You'll be out like a light. Or is a little handy work too hot for our Girl on Fire?"

With a sigh, I drop my head in my hands and Peeta sits down in his seat next to me. "What did I miss?"

My sigh turns into a groan when I hear Mags start to laugh.

- O -

Later in the evening, Peeta and I are escorted to our rooms by Effie who is going on and on about tomorrow's Sponsor's Ball. All the while, I roll my eyes and drag my feet, dreading every detail coming out of her tangerine colored mouth.

"Remember children, tomorrow you will have to be up early for your prep team! With your training and all, I am sure they will have a lot of work ahead of them. So get straight to bed! You want that beauty sleep for your sponsors!" Effie sings as she shoo's us down the hall while her tiny shoes tap the beat.

When we arrive at my room, she pulls the door open and shoves me inside before I have the chance to utter one complaint. The door slams shut behind me and I hear a muffled Peeta say his good nights and thank yous before Effie's tickity-taps disappears down the hall.

I shuffle straight to the bathroom to begin my after training routine: tug my braid loose, groan a melody as I strip off my filthy uniform, press the three buttons I know to be safe in the shower, and stand under the water until I feel the salt leave my skin and the ache from my muscles.

After the shower, my appetite tugs at me for something, anything, to eat. With my towel still wrapped tightly around me, I find a green apple in a small fruit basket on the window-side table set out to make the room more welcoming. I'm surprised the apple isn't made of wax because I could swear that same fruit basket has been here since I arrived. When I bite into it, cracking through the firm skin, the freshest, perfectly sour juice hits my tongue. I shake my head and wonder if this is a Capitol creation or from another District, because we had nothing this flawless back home.

I pick out a tank top, underwear and silk bottoms to wear for bed, and when I let my towel fall to the ground, I think about Johanna.

I turn to the full-length mirror on the wall and for the first time since the Reaping, I look at myself. I truly look at myself, just me, not covered up in a polyester uniform or in an old leather jacket. I notice new curves since I stood in front of the mirror in Cinna's simple yellow gown. If I were to put it on now, the front would no longer need the padding he added in lieu of me being altered, and the straps would hang a bit prouder on my shoulders. Petite, pale, smooth legs wouldn't be peaking out from under the hem, but broader calves with newer scars would show.

With the apple in my hand, I vaguely remember a similar image of a nude woman with an apple in an old storybook. I don't know what all the fuss was about, I guess I was too young to understand the symbolism. I shrug and take another bite, studying my face as my jaw moves. Although fatigue shows in my eyes, they are no longer scared or feral. My face is clean of blood and grime; it almost glows in the soft light of the room.

This must be what Johanna feels when she looks in the mirror, to see that she is not broken or frail or even resembling the child that she was in the arena. I feel a sense of pride with my shape and strength in the lines and angles of my body, but not the same pride as Johanna to go traipse around the hallways or elevators.

Even with a slight new confidence in myself, I still feel the urge to cover up and slip on the tank top and underwear. Once in bed, I give the voice command to dim the lights and settle into my next routine of staring at the ceiling.

And I wait.

Soon, my finger is tapping and my foot shakes idly.

"You're not always in control."

What happened to Johanna, I wonder. She let on that she was like Finnick, being used by the rich Capitol citizens. But how did Thread get to her? Snow has his ways of enforcing his rules. Could he have used Thread to get Johanna back to the Capitol to perform? Or was it her refusal that earned her his punishment?

I wonder where I would be if the rules didn't change and I became the sole Victor, or if Peeta would be entertaining the green skinned, blue lipped, upper class if I kept the berries in my mouth.

But how is she not broken? How is she so confident?

"I have no regrets about the things I do, because I chose to do them."

I chose to lie in the flowers, and that didn't turn out so bad I guess. I chose to let Peeta stay in my bed and he never hurt me. But I also chose to visit Haymitch that night and empty that bottle. I chose to stand up to Thread.

I kick the covers off and drop to the floor, forcing myself to do push-ups until I lose count and the twisting ache in my chest moves to my arms instead.

I can't think of the choices I have made, but of the choices I will make; ensuring Peeta gets his victory means I will die, and that's more important than the past.

Maybe tonight I should go to Peeta's room, because mine suddenly feels empty and cold without him.

When the clock chimes a little tune for midnight, I run to the door; just as my hand closes around the knob, I hear the locks click.

"No..." I sigh, and with a huff I fall back into bed.

And I wait.

"You'll be out like a light."

It's such a stupid idea. My hands rest on my belly and my fingers start to tap again as I regret throwing out those blue pills.

"Why not enjoy it?"

How could I enjoy something like that? Thread, the camera, that horrible dream...

But at this moment, there are no cameras, no eyes, no Thread and no sleep for nightmares. I am safely locked in my room, alone and wide-awake.

Johanna must have been teasing me like the others had, trying to make me uncomfortable. Yet somehow, I become curious and wonder if she was actually being serious about her remedy.

Fingers continue to tap on the bare flesh between my tank top and underwear.

"Or is a little handy work too hot for our Girl on Fire?"

Part of me wanted to tell Johanna everything, that I'm not some sweet, pure, little girl. I've done... stuff.

Back home, Madge teasing me about my inexperience mostly out of boredom and sheer curiosity sparked my personal experimenting. It never amounted to much. I wasn't even sure what I was accomplishing, but it was one of the few times I could be selfishly alone. Only a handful of times did I have the opportunity to partake in such an activity: during the summer months when my mother was away for days at a time delivering babies, or Prim was out late at a friend's house.

The tapping stops when my finger runs across the plain cotton fabric of my underwear.

"Damnit, Johanna," I mumble to myself and slip my fingers under the elastic. Staring up at the ceiling, my fingers gently explore the different textures of soft curls and smooth flesh. My hand stills when my middle digit slides further down and dips into a slick heat. Fighting the urge to try Johanna's remedy must have awakened something that was eagerly awaiting my attention.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and reluctantly start to move my fingers, slowly swirling them over my most sensitive spot then back down to my center. Concentrating on how I feel under my fingertips, frustration begins to take over. This never worked for me before, but there has to be something more to it.

This time it felt wrong. A twinge of guilt stops my hand. I should be concentrating on the Games or even that stupid party tomorrow night. Not only do I feel guilty, I'm slightly embarrassed to be touching myself after what Thread did.

If this is one of the ways Johanna can be in control, why cant I? These are my hands. This is my choice. This is my last ditch effort to get some sleep. That's all.

Besides the guilt and the embarrassment, it feels different. I'm not awkwardly in the woods with my hand down my pants listening for Gale's silent footsteps to suddenly appear, or at home listening for Prim to trample up the creaky front steps.

I'm alone. I'm safe. I'm in control.

I let my mind wander.

I think of the safest place and the safest person I know - I picture myself laying in the same yellow flowers from training, but this time in the meadow and Peeta is with me. I think of his steady artist's hands when he made me disappear, wondering how his touch would feel under the fabric of my uniform.

I let my left hand wander.

Fingertips delicately skip across my belly and dip under my nightshirt. They trace my ribs, just under my breast. They venture over my nipple and skim across my collarbone.

My hand explores my curves as if it were Peeta's, unfamiliar to the soft skin and gentle rise and fall of hips and breast. Stopping briefly at interesting peaks and valleys, I test my reaction to its touch, caress, pinch and squeeze.

I picture Peeta's blue eyes wide in intrigue and they soon disappear when he dips down, bringing his mouth to my warm bare skin and follows the path of his fingers, tasting their journey.

My left hand twists in the bed sheet. I swallow hard and let my lifted knee fall to the side.

The scent of cinnamon and vanilla fills my senses and suddenly I want more.

My mind and fingers fall deeper.

Suddenly my hips crave the weight of his, my neck his lips, my breasts his hands.

He's said my name a hundred times, but what would it sound like in my ear? Breathless and hungry?

Katniss.

What would it feel like to have his teeth graze my neck? His nails rake across my back? To have the eloquently spoken baker's son ravish me? To fuck me? Surely he can't be as pure as the white flour.

I pause for a moment, startled by the path my thoughts have taken. How could I think of Peeta like that? He's kinder than that. He's gentle. I shake my head and I hear him again.

You okay? Does that feel good?

I nod and my mind and fingers move faster.

Flour, sweat, lips, flowers, touch.

Katniss, you're so wet... I want to taste you.

No longer am I able to hold onto one thought, or one picture. My pulse thrums a rhythm of unknown desires. My teeth chew on my tender lip.

Breath, dust, trees, meadow, wet, hard, soft, white, dark.

Suddenly that something I have been missing begins to build. I hold my breath and I don't want to let go.

Rough hands, blue eyes, hard floor, white hair, pulled hair, yellow paint, orange bubbles, vanilla, cinnamon. Coffee.

I shake my head and clear my throat. For some reason, I keep getting mixed up.

Control. Control.

Focus.

Breathe.

Blue eyes, soft hands, vanilla, smile, yellow, orange. Slow.

But I don't want slow. I am close to whatever that something is and I don't want to slow down. My fingers move faster. My core tightens and I lean forward, my head rising off of my pillow. I want his blue eyes in the dark above me. I want the sound of his moans.

I want...

I...

I want his fingers...

Around my throat.

I gasp at the thought and cry out as a sudden heat rolls over me. It leaves me breathless and trembling at the instant relief and clarity of Johanna's remedy. My left hand is still twisted in the cotton sheets, my right too afraid to move from its embrace as I try to catch my breath.

It wasn't supposed to happen like that.

The ceiling comes back into focus, but as fast as I came undone, it is blurred by tears.