Chapter 34
I wake up, numb.
The first thing I notice is the glaring hospital lights, blazing through my hair, which is plastered to my face.
Thoughts return in erratic spurts. The arena. The Careers. Weapons, the park, the killing. Rob, acid, starvation and injury. Corvid and Izzie. Rats, a chase, a feast.
The final day.
Rubis.
Pinty.
I wait for emotion to kick back in. Before, an unstable Wi-Fi connection would have brought the familiar prickle of tears to my eyes. But now, there is nothing.
I have faced agony beyond anything I have ever put my character through in Super Smash Bros. I have seen death first-hand. I have caused it.
But as horrific as these memories should be to me, they have no more effect than if I were watching them played out on a stage.
I search for at least some kind of feeling. Anger, sadness, anything. When I find nothing, I focus on physical pain.
My burns are gone, my skin is clear. Not even a patch of bruise or scarring is visible on my bare arms, which lie on top of the white bedsheets. A thick, leather strap crosses over my torso, pinning me to the bed. It really isn't necessary.
Only the slight pinch of tubes stuck in my veins, attaching me to an IV-drip, tells me that I'm even still alive.
Shame.
I grimace despondently, realising with too little relief that I can now do so without cracking blisters on my face.
I really am good as new.
Not that it matters.
The door to my small hospital room swishes open with the beep of a keycard.
I barely bother to glance at who enters. Then I wish I hadn't.
Haymitch paces to the foot of my bed and looks down at me. His eyes are sunken and bloodshot, no doubt from the premium spirits he had access to, here in the Capitol, while he was watching me choke down Bakewell-tart cider.
"Two weeks." He tells me.
"What?" I mumble, scowling.
My mouth feels like it is full of cotton wool, and I hardly get the word out.
Haymitch sits on the edge of my bed. I can't be bothered to move my legs away from him.
"Two weeks." He repeats, "That's how long you've been out. Isn't that what you're wondering?"
Maybe it would be, if I gave a damn about anything anymore.
I maintain my scowl in silence.
"You won, Midnight." Haymitch says, staring at the wall. Then he mutters, "I'm proud of you."
"Yeah, you sure look it." I spit.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
The disappointed-father tone is back.
I crab, "Well you sure didn't seem to want me to win. Where were my sponsors? And what about even a smidge of encouragement before I went in? I bet you're only here now because you're the mentor for Twelve, and they're paying you in booze."
Haymitch slowly turns his head to me, expression masked behind his overgrown, blonde curtains.
He says, "I've been sober since your first day in the arena. I thought I would be able to deal with you being taken from me if I got hammered and told myself you were scum. And you were. But then you made alliances and your odds didn't look impossible, somehow. And I realised that I couldn't stand by and do nothing, when you had a chance."
I blink a couple of times, trying to amend the scene that my eyes are showing me. It looks like Haymitch is crying.
He says, unsteadily, "I'm sorry, Midnight. It shouldn't have taken the Hunger Games for me to realise that I had more of a duty as your father. Don't get me wrong, you are a terrible person; but that's because of me. Because of the way I raised you."
I start to zone out.
I get what he's saying. I suppose some part of me appreciates the sentiment. But he didn't raise me to be an attention hog, or a pervert, or a narcissist. It doesn't matter whose fault that was – Haymitch, my parents, or dumb luck. I'm eighteen and I have a responsibility not to be a total bastard.
A responsibility that I failed to fulfil.
Haymitch sees that I'm not paying him the slightest attention. I don't mean to blank him – I just don't care how anybody feels anymore.
With a sigh, he gets up and leaves.
A stream of liquid flushes down the thin tube attached to my arm.
I don't get time to wonder what it is before it knocks me out cold again.
When I next wake up, I open my eyes to see Minnesota Don'tcash staring at me, coldly. They look exactly as they did weeks ago – short, brown hair, round glasses, an oversized button-up shirt and plaid trousers, with a stud in their nose.
A couple of nerves in my brain spark, telling me I should throttle them. I should launch out of bed and tear them to shreds, for what they put innocent kids through on a yearly basis.
Even if it weren't for the restraining leather band around my chest, I wouldn't bother. The gamemakers would just replace Minnesota with another entitled crackhead.
I close my eyes again, hoping the anaesthetic will take back over.
Minnesota says, "The morphling drip has stopped, you can't pretend to be asleep."
Yes I can.
"Midnight." They persist impatiently, "I need to talk to you about your upcoming performance."
My eyes snap open in a glare.
I say, "Upcoming? Wasn't everything until this point a performance?"
Minnesota laughs. A foreign sound that makes the scene even more surreal.
They say, "As soon as your name was drawn in the Reaping, you started your performance. It doesn't end until you die. For the rest of your life, you are an actor in a show, whether you like it or not."
"And if I don't do what you want me to?"
"We will leave you with no reason to resist."
"Meaning you'll kill me? Gotta break it to you, Don'tcash, I've tried to do that three times myself."
"Then you're already a typical victor." They state, "But we won't let you die. You are a figurehead, now. A connection between the Capitol and the districts. An idol for the unfortunate citizens, who believe they should be more than our little worker-ants. You will prevent rebellions for us, just like your predecessors and the future victors you will mentor."
"And how are you going to make me do that?"
"There are people you care about, are there not?"
"Only people who are already dead. And definitely not Haymitch; he hates me." I scoff, "And for good reason."
Though, I am suddenly uncertain if that is true. Could his bleary eyes really have been from exhaustion and stress? Well, it doesn't matter. He has put me through too much for me to love him now.
Minnesota registers my bitter tone.
"You would do well to amend your attitude." They state, "It wouldn't do to have a broken, defeated tribute as our victor. You should behave triumphant, jubilant, and most of all, grateful towards the Capitol."
"You expect me to be happy?" I grumble, irately, "You don't know what I've been through. I have nothing to be happy about."
Minnesota says, "On the contrary, I know exactly what you have been through, being the lead person to orchestrate it, in case you forgot. And as for being happy, I think you might change your mind about that."
Ridiculous. I don't gratify them with a response.
Minnesota says, "When I asked if there were people you care about, I happened to know that there are."
I say, "I guess I'd care if you killed Haymitch, but hardly enough to be your puppet in exchange for his life."
"Not Haymitch." Minnesota smiles, "Your real parents."
A moment ago, I was contributing to the conversation in the hope of ending it quickly and getting a stream of morphling back into my veins. Now, Minnesota has my full attention.
"My p-parents?" I stammer.
"That's right." Says Minnesota, "Now that you're a victor, they have seen fit to free Haymitch from the burden of being your guardian. Take that as you will. Regardless, they are waiting to meet you."
My parents.
The people who couldn't look after me, for whatever reason, and palmed me off to Haymitch as an old debt he owed them. I should be mad at them, but all I can think is that I have finally proven myself. They want me back in their lives – the son they never knew, but has shown himself to be worthy of their love.
Minnesota pauses long enough for me to think. When I make eye-contact again, they lay down a deal.
"If you want to meet your parents and live with them as the family you always wanted, you will put on a show for the Capitol and live up to your title as victor. You won't question my orders and you will continue to play your part, every year, until the day you die."
I glare.
"That's blackmail." I state, "You can't keep my family apart if we all want to see each other."
"I can do what I want." Replies Minnesota, "And if you refuse your role, I will kill your whole family."
I am taken aback. I want to go back to being numb; I don't know these people. They gave me away when I was born. Why should I act the fool to save them?
But, as apathetic as I am becoming, I don't want to go back to District Twelve.
It isn't even the Wi-Fi, or the bullies, or the abhorrent humidity that puts me off. It's as though, if I went back, I would be discounting the last couple of months. I would be returning to the Victors' Village, in my own house – a replica of Haymitch's – and forgetting all about what I have been through. About Pinty, Rubis, Corvid, Izzie, Rob and all the others.
I can't do that.
After a long pause, I state, "Fine. I'll play along."
Minnesota doesn't even smile. This wasn't a victory for them; it was a given that I would comply.
Even worse, soon after the head gamemaker leaves my room, doctors enter and disconnect me from my morphling drip.
Hours later, I relay the entire conversation to Anomaly, as she grumpily fusses about with my post-game interview outfit.
Anomaly laughs, "You've been judging Haymitch all this time, for his white-liquor addiction, and now you're craving morphling?"
I snap, "I wanted advice and comfort, not to be mocked for my pain-killer dependence."
Anomaly pouts, "Do I look like I'm in a position to comfort you? I can barely put your outfit together."
Anomaly leans precariously on one crutch, with her leg in a cast and her neck in a padded brace.
I thought about asking her how she got hurt, but the sharpie scrawled across her cast tells me more than I wanted to know:
Get well soon, my good little sub, so we can do it all over again. Love Mommy Connie xxx
Anomaly huffs, "Honestly, screw Minnesota for making me work while I'm inj-"
"Oh shut up." I say, "I don't care about your sex injury."
Anomaly scowls and continues to struggle, one-handedly, to pin my outfit to size.
I look down at myself as she works, flinching each time she stabs me with her safety pins.
On about the fifteenth time, I decide that I don't give a damn about my bumbling, self-important stylist and I kick her broken leg.
The pain that shoots up my foot is nullified by the squeal she makes when she hits the floor.
Anomaly lies there groaning, as I make my way to my room in the training centre.
I flump face-down on the bed, praying for the plush, downy bedding to suffocate me.
I lurch up, choking, feeling something tickle the back of my throat.
Gagging, I plunge my hand into my mouth and manage to extract a singular corkscrew of orange hair.
No.
Not this. Any sign but this.
This foreshadows the coming of a demon.
Fear pounding in my chest, I slowly turn to the doorway.
A hundred yellow eyes glint back at me, from within a forest of ginger hair.
Elspeth's face peers out from amongst it, like a singular egg in a haybale.
Bickett peeps out from the top, having to duck under the doorframe.
"Congratulations." Says the guineapig, "We hear you put on quite the show. We've been asked to keep the entertainment going."
He grins, sinisterly, showing his bucked teeth.
Around him, the hundreds of eyes of his rodent offspring flash with excitement.
"W-what are you talking about?" I cower.
"We heard you put your stylist out of commission." Bickett replies, "So we've been asked to prep you for the post-games show instead."
"N-no… What about my prep team?" I stutter, preferring even those three malformed psychos to Bickett and his litter.
"They're in prison now." The rodent replies.
Elspeth shrugs, as though that was always bound to happen. I have to say, I'm not surprised either.
Before I can protest, Elspeth, Bickett, Burger, and their dozens of rat-guineapig spawn spring on me.
I try to shout, why, out of all the stylists and side-characters, are you the one that's still alive?!
But my screams are muffled by fur and orange hair.