Johanna and I sit on our bedroom floor, giggling and laughing like school girls. We know tomorrow there will be more training, especially with the airing of Thread's execution. This will give Coin the momentum she needs to push forward in her plans so we stay up past lights out all the same. Ceremoniously, we have slammed a chapter of our lives shut, burying the villain away deep in the dark pages of our past. This victory gives passage to venture down old happy roads of memories that were once blocked by a thick oozing fog of abuse, threats and violence.

I share with Johanna the cast of characters from the Hob and she is amazed by the 'shit we got away with.' She tells me of her own that seem more fitted for a circus; acrobats that fly in the trees, strong men that lift tree trunks, pyromancers that control the fire lines in the forest, and even a bearded lady. It saddens me to think of the huge walls that lie between our Districts. What histories and stories are tucked away only for a small population to hear and experience? What was it like before the Dark Days? There had to be some ability to share information or even culture.

She never speaks of herself or her family, yet I see deep in her eyes a blanket of tragedy that shrouds them. I don't inquire about the scars of her past. Instead, I cherish her stories as much as my father's songs, something I know I will never hear again, so I hold on to her words as tight as I can.

Having been awake for roughly twenty-four hours now, with only one blue pill four hours ago, an appetite satiated by a meal of real food that I manage to keep down, and no threat of a reemerging migraine, Johanna gives me permission to tuck into bed and finally sleep. I am thankful the trauma this time to my brain was minor compared to the one inflicted by Johanna in the Arena.

Our conversation lingers though and in the darkness we stare at the ceiling.

"Here's a weird one," Johanna says, "besides Peeta's sexy loaves of bread, what else is your favorite smell?"

I have to admit, anything food related is an easy pick for a favorite smell. It brings comfort and knowledge you'll survive the day. I think of our little town, so packed full of sour and dank smells caked with coal dust and suffering. So, I venture as far out as I can in my mind and find the lake a few miles away from our electrified fence. Fresh, cool air always stirred there, rustling the leaves of the grand maples and ash. Springtime brought the sweetest of smells, but my favorite was in the early morning just as the sun started to stir the landscape awake.

"That lake I told you about, just outside the District border fences I would sneak out to. Something about the sweet water and fresh soil reminds me of home more than any pile of coal," I say, shifting into a more comfortable position. Hospital beds tend to keep me in a supine position, so I relish the opportunity to lay on my belly and hug my pillow.

"Ah, that's right. The lake. So that's how you could swim so well in the arena," Johanna says, recalling my secret. "Cheater."

I can't help but giggle at her accusation. Thanks to the faulty electric fence, I had survived not one, but two Games. I take pride in my accomplishments and in my secret skills acquired through overcoming very illegal and oppressive means.

"I wasn't joking before," Johanna continues, "I miss the smell of home. Not the shitty pine wood chips and compost smell, just the pure pine." She shakes her head before she continues, "I miss my sticky hands from climbing those damn things. Plucking their needles from my hair and shoes." I can see her hands reach out above her in the darkness.

I think back to Bonnie and Twill and their pine needle tea they brewed in that little house by my lake. I think of the bark I chewed to quiet my stomach. The smell of old shelters made from their sturdy wood.

"I know just what you mean," I say softly, following those feelings into a dream.

Rue's Mockingjay leads me through the forest again. This time, sunbeams pierce the canopy and warm my face. I have no feeling of a schedule nagging at me so I wander aimlessly through the trees. Dressed lightly and enjoying the breeze that flows over the lake, I arrive at the little house with its concrete structure that has allowed it to stand so many generations longer than its wooden neighbors. I admire the location that was so thoughtfully picked out. It stands about three hundred yards from the lake and I take in the view of flowing sheets of tall grass dancing in the wind. I think back to those who passed through here long ago, the solace they must have felt, just as I do.

I can hear my father singing in the little house, his voice floating through the broken windows.

I start to move, but suddenly come to a halt, unsure of the sweet sound. Before, Jabberjays lured me into a trap, but how could that happen in our secret place?

Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be…

My Mockingjay led me here, not a mutt.

If we met, at midnight…

I push open the creaking door, sweeping old crumbling leaves aside.

"Dad?" I call out, hoping for a reply.

The moment I step inside, I am blinded by bright lights which make me cover my eyes with one arm.

"Dad?" I call out again, only to be met with a cacophony of laughter. My eyes adjust to the flood of lights and I slowly lower my arm, revealing a studio audience. They're pointing and clapping and laughing at my entrance to the stage.

Suddenly to my left, I hear Caesar Flickerman give an impromptu introduction for me, "Well, look at what the cat dragged in! It's our very own Katniss Everdeen!" The crowd erupts in applause which lasts only a few seconds before it comes to a halt, leaving a deafening silence. The audience have their hands in their laps and their mouths shut, awaiting my next move.

I look to Caesar for some kind of direction, but he is frozen in place with his huge, plastic white grin, as if someone hit pause on the video program.

I survey the crowd again - not a single shift of movement. Not a single cough or shrug.

"I was looking for my dad," I say, addressing the audience and cameras. My words conjure another wave of laughter, which is immediately cut short again.

"You're not supposed to be here," I declare. "This place doesn't belong to you." The crowd stares blankly at me on the empty stage.

A crack rings out, startling me into a crouching position. The crowd cheers and Caesar is animated again.

"Head Peacekeeper Romulus Thread, everyone!" Caesar announces the arrival of his newest guest who is clutching a whip in his hands.

"I'd say the same to you, Tribute," Thread says as he crosses the stage to me. "You're not supposed to be here."

He is in full uniform, the same as when I was first introduced to him in the town square.

"No, this isn't right," I whisper as I slowly stand up. "You're dead. I know it!"

Thread cracks the whip again, making me flinch. "I knew I'd catch you in the act, Tribute. You know you're not allowed beyond the fence," he growls as he steps closer towards me.

"You're dead!" I yell again.

"You're dead!" Thread echoes my cries with a wicked smile. He lashes out with the whip again, this time wrapping it around my body and pulls me to my knees. I struggle against the leather vine that binds my arms at my side and Thread steps in front of me. The crowd is at their feet cheering and whistling, their fists pumping in the air.

"The execution," I stammer, my head filling with confusion. "It was supposed to be all over."

"You never killed me," Thread says before punching me square in the face.

When I open my eyes, I find myself hanging by my wrists, shackled to some kind of chain hanging from the studio overhead catwalk. Every stitch of clothing had been torn off of me, baring me to all of Panem.

Caesar is at my side, microphone in hand. The audience has returned to their seated positions, on pause again. "Oh my, Katniss, Katniss, Katniss," Caesar says with a chuckle and shakes his head. "It's quite a night for you, isn't it? You know what they say?" he asks, looking to the crowd, "third time's a charm!"

"Third time?" I say hoarsely, trying not to gag on the blood flowing down my nose into my mouth.

"This is the third time we get to have a little chat before you die," Caesar says cheerfully. He's right. Caesar has acted as my shepherd into that arena twice where my odds were tipped in such a way I was never supposed to live. And now, he's leading me again for the final time.

"Let's have a spin, shall we?" The crowd erupts as Caesar turns my dangling body around. My feet kick and swing, trying to find solid ground to stop the spinning, but they fail to interrupt Caesar's performance. Around and around. Faster and faster. The crowd grows larger. I see surrounding me that several whipping posts are planted on the stage. With each revolution, I recognise a face.

Rue.
Cinna.
Mags.
Tributes and Victors.
My father.

All chained and bloodied to the posts - lifeless.

When my body finally stops spinning at the end of the chain, Thread appears in front of me again.

"Forty lashes, girl," Thread proclaims. "They are already placing bets to see if you'll live past seventeen."

"I thought you said I'd get the firing squad," I manage, wishing this to be over as quickly as possible.

"New procedure," he hisses as he slides the handle of his whip between my bare breasts, making me shudder. When he steps behind me, I see the audience in full view. Several cameras reflect the stage lights like beacons.

I hear Caesar again from my left, "Ladies and Gentlemen, President Coin!" A spotlight chases his upturned hand to a balcony where Coin is occupying.

"Here before us is Katniss Everdeen. A failure and a traitor! I sentence her to death!" Coin cries to the sea of pink and purple wigs which then begin to morph into a solid being, swelling and breathing with excitement for the next act. The jewelry and accessories chatter and buzz like a swarm of insects.

And then Thread begins. Lashing at my body, over and over. Somehow I feel no pain, but I know that my flesh is being torn from my back. My body cramps at the anticipation of each strike and my wrists are on fire bearing the weight of me, however, my mind is somehow accepting this punishment. I am so tired of fighting and with death being certain - I allow it to come. Caesar chimes in with his commentary and comical reactions as blood trickles down my legs and backside and splashes to the floor. At times, the coarse leather snake wraps around my body and tears at my hips, at my breasts and it pulls at my ribcage. As if opening a faucet valve a little more with each strike, a steady stream of blood pours out of me, widening the breadth of the pool beneath my feet.

The pink and purple monster shudders in delight, anticipating the crimson sustenance to reach its mouth.

Forty lashes must have been administered, because Thread suddenly stops.

"Who had forty?" Caesar asks, waiving a little piece of paper at the cameras. "I bet a lot of you did, because we all know that this girl has a lot of spunk, doesn't she?"

Caesar turns to Thread and says, "Why don't you take a little breather while we welcome a special guest and you get ready for the next part of the show?" The molten ooze of wigs and jewelry vibrates eagerly. Lumpy appendages latch onto the edge of the stage, suckling whatever blood that had journeyed close enough to its mouths.

A spotlight directs itself to the opposite side of the stage where Peeta steps out from behind a velvet blue curtain. In his hands is a small white towel like the ones he uses to wrap fresh bread with, but the contents look to be raw meat of some kind. His mouth and chin are stained red, as is the front of his fine white suit he wore at Snow's side back in the Capitol.

Caesar trots across the stage to Peeta, excited to meet his favorite guest.

"My dear boy! What a pleasant treat!" Caesar sings out. Peeta gives a coy laugh and leans into one of Caesar's big chummy slaps on the back.

"What have you got there?" Caesar asks, poking his fingers into the mangled package Peeta is holding.

"Oh, just a little treat I cooked up," Peeta replies humbly, "would you like some?" He lifts the towel to Caesar to which he obliges, taking a chunk for himself. Caesar gives an exaggerated yum! and claps his hands to his belly.

"It's quite the delicacy! Where did you ever come up with this recipe?" Caesar asks, sucking the tips of his fingers clean.

"Oh it was easy. Katniss helped me make it."

I want to scream, but I heave instead, making the chain jerk and swing above me. I feel Thread wrap his arms around me, taking my face in his glove.

"I told you, I wanted to bleed you for everything you got if I had the chance," Thread whispers in my ear. Then, without turning his mouth away he yells, "You ready, Caesar?"

I hear Caesar guffaw and turn to the crowd, "You ready folks?"

More multicolored tendrils slap onto the stage, reaching for me, for its prize.

At that moment, Thread plunges a dagger into my chest and jerks downward, opening my belly onto the floor.

I wake, screaming and clutching my stomach. I tear at my wet shirt, flinging it off of me believing it's covered in blood. My hands return to my flesh, only to find white skin with its familiar purple and yellow blotches.

I look around the room, trying to regain my bearings and I see Johanna sitting at the corner of her bed against the wall with arms wrapped tightly around her knees and her head bowed - I see a mournful eye peeking out over her shoulder at me.

My mouth turns sour and I turn over just in time to throw up on the floor.

This provokes Johanna to lift her head and say, "I haven't had one of those kinds of nightmares in a while. Good job."

I cough and spit and wipe my mouth and then look at Johanna. "I need you to come somewhere with me."

The stingy lights in the hallway begrudgingly luminate our path, certainly exhausted from the drain today's events put the grid through. After Johanna cleaned me up again, we started on our journey through the labyrinth of 13. Deep into the bowels of the District to the incinerators and furnaces.

"What's going on?" Johanna asks in a whisper, "I can't tell if this is the concussion or just your brainless ass getting us into trouble."

"I have to do something," I whisper back, keeping my eyes on every directory we come across.

Soon, we come to an intersection of passage ways. I stop Johanna so I can check down the hall to the right. As I suspected, a guard is sitting at the door and by the looks of it, he is bored out of his mind. The dark haired guard, who must be in his early twenties, is toying with his baton by using the end of it to twirl a set of keys. We watch as he spins the set as fast as he can until the ring slips off the end of the baton, sending the keys clattering to the floor several feet away. He gets up, retrieves the keys and returns to his seat. This time, he tries sliding the keychain as far as he can to the end of the stick and suddenly tilting it back up before the keys can fall off.

I turn back to Johanna and give her a huge pleading look, begging for help.

"I'm not gonna kill him, if that's what you need," she whispers.

"No," I shoot back and slap her arm. "I just need you to distract him for a while."

Her eyebrows raise at this request. "So, like, distract him with this?" she points to her fist. "Or, with this?" she moves her raised fist up and down in a stoking motion.

"Oh my god! Ugh, I don't know. Do something!" I say, trying desperately to keep my voice down, "I need him away from that door." Johanna tries to giggle through her nose but she ends up coughing. This stirs the guard and he looks up in our direction, letting the keys fall to the ground. We dip back behind the corner and I plead with her again.

"Oh, I'll do something alright," Johanna says with a wink and bumps me with her hips before she steps around the corner. "Finally, some fun. He kinda looks like Gale, too."

I stay in my place, keeping my left ear to their direction. It's not as good as it was in the Arena, thanks to the lightning strike and bombings in 8, but it's still better than my right.

Johanna and the guard are chatting and she's giggling about something. At this point, whatever she can do to get him away from the door is fine, no matter how crude, I think. There's an office door just a few feet away from the entrance the guard is assigned to. Even though he says this sector is typically a ghost town, Johanna is clever enough to insist they find a little more privacy elsewhere.

When I hear the office door open and then close, I run to the double doors and push through them, entering a cold white room.

Metal tables are scattered about the room, some are in neater rows than others. Most are empty except for six and all have a white sheet covering the bodies that occupy them.

A shiver runs through my spine. This room is supposed to be sterile, but how can death be so clean? My nose wrinkles at the pungent smell of chemicals which try their best at covering the stench of dead flesh. I slowly make my way through the room, lifting a few veils to confirm these bodies have no chance of coming back anytime soon. Since my nightmare, I don't leave it to chance. I arrive at the last three tables, drawn close to each other as if meant to be a packaged set. At the head of the group, I lift the left sheet up first, revealing an intact skull, but the skin is such a deep purple, it's almost black. This was the man who was hanged in his cell he shared with Thread. The next one, I only have to reveal a few inches before I know it's the man whose head was smashed in by Thread to attract the guards.

This means the last one is him.

The room is fairly clean, save for a few work benches that contain various tools that one would expect to find in a wood shop. Saws, both electric and manual, hang on the wall above one bench. After rummaging through a few drawers, I find a satisfyingly large knife and return to Thread's assigned table.

I take a deep breath and throw back the sheet that covers his body, exposing him down to his hips. I have seen mangled, burned, broken, bloated and rotten dead bodies before, yet in this environment, it unsettles me. Thread's skin, which was already pale from the lack of sunlight down here, is at least a few shades lighter. At least where the blood hasn't stained his skin and lips, he now resembles a statue more than he ever did.

His chest, torn apart by Finnick's trident, lays open showcasing bits of bone, muscle and what I hope to be a severed heart. Good choice, I think. What he did to Finnick certainly deserved his method of consequence. I don't need to see what Johanna has done. It was satisfying enough watching it happen.

Johanna and Finnick had made their mark on this man, sealing their vengeance in blood. The only evidence that I had even interacted with this man was a broken nose and a light bruise on his jaw. Barely a scratch compared to what my peers had done. My fingers grip the handle of the knife - now it is my turn to make my real mark.

-'-

The next few days are finally free of nightmares and headaches, except for the one induced by knockout gas from training. With Coin upholding her promise to allow us to partake in the execution ceremony, we follow through with ours and dive into our training harder than ever. Save for my failure to actually hit my mark, Plutarch says that the event was a success thanks to Cressida's editing. Our presentation prompted waves of activity through the Districts. Gallows and stocks installed to be used against citizens are now being repurposed against any Capitol official they can get their hands on. Not only did I spark a rebellion, our District brothers and sisters now had a spark of creativity to embellish their cause.

At dinner in the mess hall, Johanna, Finnick, Annie, Gale and I are at our usual table when Cressida joins us with her food tray. Everyone greets her, even Johanna - not as enthusiastically as everyone else, but a verbal salutations is better than her usual scowl.

Cressida takes a seat at the end of the table so she can interact with all of us equally. Small talk is made through our meal along with encouragement of how well we have been doing for the propos. When she sets down her fork gently and precisely next to her plate and dabs her mouth with the single allotted square of a paper napkin, Cressida clears her throat and I stop midway from taking a sip of water, readying myself for an unpleasant announcement.

"I want to discuss this with your group before Coin springs this on you tomorrow," Cressida says, adjusting herself in her seat and sitting up a bit straighter.

"What now?" Gale asks with a huff as he drops his fork onto his plate.

Cressida takes a moment and finally says, "They want to start bringing Peeta out for training."

Groans erupt from the table.

"What a fuckin' joke that will be," Johanna says, rolling her eyes.

"Is that safe?" Finnick directs his question at Cressida quietly, leaning forward in his seat.

"It's just for the propos," Cressida interjects with her hands raised. "It's not like you'll be working with him directly. But if you see him tomorrow, I'd rather there be no issues or surprises. That's why I wanted to tell you tonight." Cressida looks across the table to me, obviously pointing that last comment in my direction.

I think of all of the hoops Coin has made us jump through to get even this far. After already being assigned to an additional class that is training specifically for urban warfare, I think, what is one more mentally deranged hoop?

By the look on her face, Cressida seems surprised at my reaction. My glass still hovering in front of my face, I sigh and shoot back the remaining gulp of water, reminiscent of Haymitch when he encounters inconvenient news.

"Whatever," I say and excuse myself from the table, taking my tray with me to dump out.

I am halfway to my compartment when Cressida finally catches up to me.

"Katniss, wait," she says, trying to catch her breath. "There's something else you should know."

"What? He shoves dough in his ears? Wears loaves of bread on his feet? What?" I ask, already annoyed at yet another hurdle I am expected to jump over.

"The doctors have some new developments. Something they can't figure out. Haymitch asked me to tell you they need your input," Cressida says, concern flashes across her face. "I need you to talk to them before we bring Peeta out tomorrow."

Within the hour, I am seated in a small office waiting for another white lab coat to come in and have a chat. The room has a typical desk and a handful of chairs in it. It is the large mirror on the wall that has me anxious, because I know with the flip of a switch, I will see Peeta on the other side of it.

By the time I have counted every ceiling tile four times the doctor finally comes in. This one I haven't had the pleasure of meeting yet. Doctor Cornice makes his dry clinical introductions as he sorts through a stack of manila folders. He is a tall man with wide shoulders and a funny little grey patch of a beard at the tip of his chin. Judging by his size and obvious education, I peg him for a District 2 expatriate. I am curious what made him choose to be a scholar instead of a miner or even Peacekeeper.

"Hello, Miss Everdeen. I am sorry to have you come in at such a late hour. I am sure we will get you back before lights out. If our meeting runs long, I will be sure to have someone escort you back to your quarters safely," Doctor Cornice says, placing his hands over the folders.

"Thank you," I say, simply, even though I want to roll my eyes at his mention of safe passage. I have no idea why I am here and I am not about to make assumptions out loud.

Doctor Cornice clears his throat and leans back in his chair, moving his hands to his lap.

"I have been monitoring Mr. Mellark's case for some time now. And some new behaviors of sorts have come to light that we just can't make sense of. As you know, he likes to draw and paint. Over the past weeks it has all been relatively the same kind of imagery; mutts, blood, the arenas, you," he says pointedly. "What I am going to show you are some new drawings he has come up with. Like I said, most of his artwork has been graphic in the sense of violent or grotesque. These here are quite the opposite. Well," he pauses to adjust his collar and places his palms back on his desk, "they are still pretty graphic. Since we note patterns as to which are real life scenarios or images introduced through the highjacking, we are curious about your input on these recent renditions."

From the top of the pile in front of him, Doctor Cornie picks up a folder and clears his throat again, pondering for a moment. He must change his mind, because he hands me the folder instead and sits back in his chair.

This yellow folded cardstock has obviously been repurposed at least a dozen times. The side tab has a layer of labels placed one over the other, keeping record for who knows how long. The most recent label reads: Mellark, P Psych.

"Tell us If they are, ahem, real or just another implant," Doctor Cornice says, gesturing to the folder in my hands. I take a moment, studying his face, looking for some kind of trick or trap. Frankly, all I can see in his brow is a hint of embarrassment and possibly even sympathy. I decide, whatever it is, it isn't dangerous.

"Ah," Doctor Cornice interrupts me just as I slip my fingers between the covers of the folder. "It's up to you, but after viewing these illustrations, we are hoping you could have a talk with Mr. Mellark about them. See what comes to the surface."

I nod in agreement and open the folder.

At first, I find myself amazed by the detail of his talents, but then the subject matter hits me and I slam the folder shut.

Inside are five or so of his drawings, so masterfully rendered, in such a way I think I am looking at photographs at first which sends a twinge of fear through me because photographs mean other people have them. But these, these are one of a kind, intensely graphic depictions of our night together at the Sponsor's Ball.

My skin breaks out in a cold sweat and the back of my neck tingles. I think of the time I was reprimanded by my father when I was a child for leaving a pair of soiled pants tucked behind the bookcase hoping no one would find out about my accident. It left me feeling ashamed and embarrassed and most of all - in trouble.

Color flushes over Doctor Cornice's face when I look up at him, my eyes wide in utter shock. The doctor shifts in his seat, trying to create some kind of comfort in this situation, at least on his end.

"Now, as I mentioned before," he breaks the silence by continuing with details of their psychological study, "his other works have a theme of heavy lines, blood, mutations, violence. Anytime he draws you, he ends up scribbling over the face. However, these," he says, leaning forward stretching his arms out over the desk to point at the collection in my hands, "these have none of those key elements."

They're almost beautiful, I think. I am in awe that I could have ever looked that way to someone, without a single intention to. On the same coin, I am absolutely mortified that any mention, even images have found their way out of that red room, and I fear who else has seen these. The wandering hands of supposedly unknown participants at my waist. The position of my exposed hips. My interaction with certain body parts. The activities I am depicted doing would even make Johanna blush.

"Now your records from the Training Center state that you had been sexually active at the time so we have reason to believe that at least some of these images hold some truth," he says, laconically. Really, there is no other way for him to discuss this than just flat out, just like in any doctor's office. There isn't room for much emotion here when it comes to the wellbeing of someone who is so desperately broken. Yet, the temperature of the room drops at the mention of my medical records from the Games and I swallow hard, remembering the double lie I had to tell the doctor for his forms.

"We have some insight from Haymitch that whatever was televised between you and Mr. Mellark was all for show," the doctor says, trying to reassure me that he has perfectly good reasons to believe these images were maliciously concocted. "But these images suggest there may have been something there at one point in time." He must be as nervous as I am, I think, because he is talking a lot. "However, Mr. Mellark, as of late has been mentioning the Victory Tour train. Still very confused on the specifics, but he states you two shared a bed. If you can confirm or deny that these images were implanted, or what kind of timeline we are dealing with, it will help our course of treatment for him greatly."

I shake my head furiously when he mentions the train. Peeta had it messed up when he tried to piss Gale off in the dining hall, and now the doctors think there had been an opportunity as well thanks to Peeta's toxicity.

My eyes shift from the doctor to the folder, then to the large mirror on the wall. My face is so rugged compared to the soft, open mouthed girl in the drawings. My slouched posture and unkempt hair makes me question if these images were even real.

"Can I get a look at him first?" I finally ask, tilting my head to the mirror.

The doctor obliges and flips the switch, transforming the mirror into a window, letting me view the other side unobstructed.

There sits Peeta, in a room just like this one, heavily entranced in another drawing at his desk. He seems calm enough and if I were to go in there would be an obstacle between us along with a guard just outside the door. I agree to meet with Peeta and discuss the origins of these images he is now so obsessed with.

Before I enter the adjacent office, Doctor Cornice steps inside to speak with Peeta, explaining calmly what is about to happen. To the doctor's satisfaction, Peeta's lack of outburst or change in behavior at the mention of my name is enough for me to enter the room on my own. Doctor Cornice whispers some reassuring words to me before he closes the door behind him.

I sit down cautiously in my chair, afraid any quick movements will set him off again. I think back to the mess hall when he was baking bread and how friendly he seemed then. I force myself to relax a little and take a breath.

Peeta remains engulfed in his sketch. Rough lines on the paper outline what is to take place. I clear my throat and softly announce my arrival and that I am here to help him by helping the doctors.

I repeat Doctor Cornice's words to Peeta about how his drawings have started to look different. What each one meant before, and now, he must be drawing real memories.

"Real?" Peeta asks, never looking up from his work. "Who are you to say these are real or fake?"

"I mean, they are pictures of me, right?" I ask, keeping an eye on his pencil, making sure it stays pointed at the paper and not at my throat.

"I've drawn lots of pictures of you."

"And what were those like?" I ask.

"Disgusting. Bloody," he says plainly and then sighs. "Mean."

"They haven't shown me those pictures. But they did show me your new ones and they feel that these, Peeta, are important enough to call me in," I say softly.

"Yeah? Why?" Peeta asks, still sketching long soft flowing lines on the scrap piece of paper.

"You tell me. Why - how are these different?"

Peeta thinks a while as he sculpts a line of detail with the graphite pencil. This particular writing implement does not have an eraser, yet he gets along just fine without it. Somehow, by laying out the foundation of the sketch as softly as possible, the framework will soon disappear under harder and harder layers of detail.

"You're not a mutt."

I sigh in relief at his words. "The doctors say that these kinds of drawings mean you found a real memory," I say again, trying to get him back on track to figuring out this breakthrough.

"So, that actually happened?" he asks, pausing for a moment, his pencil at the ready for its next action across the page.

I can feel my face turn red and I shift in my seat. I know for a fact this conversation is being recorded. "Yes, Peeta. That actually happened. You were there. I was there. And two other people were there."

"Oh?"

"Yes, our Sponsors from the first time we were. . ." I hesitate, unsure if certain words or timelines will trigger him, ". . .in the arena."

His pencil resumes its journey across the paper unphased, sketching with a bit more pressure for the next layer to become a shade darker.

I see no point at keeping these details hidden anymore. They will figure it out eventually, so might as well set the record straight. The Capitol has forced us all into worse positions than this, and my truth could actually help Peeta, wherever he is in that black fog that fills his mind.

"I'm surprised you remember that night at all," I say, rubbing my sweaty hands on my knees. "They drugged us, Peeta. Made us do things they paid for us to do."

"Uh-huh," is his only response.

"I think that champagne you had that night was laced with the same tracker jacker venom they used to hijack you. That's why your memories are so clouded. But with the help of the doctors, they have been able to clear out all that venom so you can start to see clearly," I say, convinced I have this puzzle figured out.

Peeta pushes the paper to the edge of the desk, not lifting his head and waits for me to take it. I slowly pick up the sheet, anticipating him to lash out and plunge the pencil into the back of my hand.

Although rough and unfinished, there is enough detail to depict me straddling his lap from his point of view, with Acantha seated behind me while her hands are wrapped around the front of my body. One of her hands lifts my shirt and cups my exposed breast, while the other explores my center, obviously eliciting a wave of ecstasy in my upturned face. Garret has made an appearance in this scene as well - his body in profile shows him kissing Acantha. However, Garret's hands are busying themselves on his own body, stroking his erection.

I have to shove another wave of emotions and embarrassment down which are demanding to bubble to the surface. "Yes, this happened. I told you, we were both drugged and forced to do this. We didn't have a choice," I say with a shudder and quickly wipe my eye before a tear falls. "Even though this is a bad memory, this is real."

Peeta never looks up from the desk, still clutching his pencil.

"Uh-huh."

"I wanted to tell you. I couldn't because," I pause, unable to find the words. "I was so ashamed. You had this beautiful image of us on the rooftop. We were going into the Arena. I couldn't," my words trail off.

"Uh-huh."

"You don't think I'm a mutt, do you?" I ask, placing the paper on my lap, taking my fingers away from the filthy scene.

Peeta shakes his head and sighs. He makes a twirling motion with his finger. "Turn it over."

I do as he asks and turn the sheet of scrap paper over, revealing the other side which has an already completed sketch. This drawing, much like the other ones, is explicitly graphic in detail and content. However, the subjects on this side are of me and Gale in a completely naked embrace.

Suddenly, his grip tightens around the pencil, snapping it under his thumb. I ready myself, unsure of his next move.

"No. I don't think you're a mutt," he says, finally looking up at me. "I think you're a whore."