CHAPTER I:
VERBICIDE
It feels like forever since they've seen anything but gray; walls, sheets, skies. The world seems to be stuck in some sluggish misery, buried beneath an unshakeable blanket of dreariness.
Beyond the panes of their window, there is a nothingness. They know it's snow, fresh and unbroken in the watery morning light. Snow used to be an exciting thing, in the past. Yet now, they cannot bring themselves to rise from bed. The last few weeks have been spent stuck here, weaning off the medication.
There was a sense of methodology in taking their prescriptions. The pills were always easy enough to swallow. Easy enough to forget. Without them, their mind feels like it's tearing at the seams, tattered stitches stretching to hold together in a storm of incoherence.
They tell themselves it's better this way. At least they remember.
Shattered glass, scattered like crystalline waves across the floor. Sheets ripped from the bed, doors slammed open and hands around their throat, squeezing— like broken fragments of a dream, the thoughts collect in a pool of their consciousness.
Since the Games, nothing. There are vague memories— the fluorescent white of the hospital, the warm, wet feel of blood against their skin and the feeling of nausea at the back of their throat. The memories feel like water, rising against the edge of the void before ceasing into nothingness once again. The sedation seems to have done enough to ease their mind, and though it feels fractured beyond repair, they know the thoughts and memories will come back soon.
Whether that's a pleasant notion or an awful one, they aren't sure.
Such a dreamlike state has been soothing, if a little empty. They aren't sure if they're ready to leave it behind. It feels like hanging on the edge of a precipice, knowing how it will feel to fall yet struggling to find the courage to do so. They're haunted by the thought of such viscerality— should their mind return to its previous sharpness, they worry about what they might see. Doctors gave them a brief. It wasn't pretty. They inhale sharply, trying to avoid the feeling and finding they don't quite know what it is anyhow. They haven't felt much of anything since… since… the thought fades away, just as everything else has. Their eyes drift back to the snow.
From behind the window, it seems possible to create an imaginary distance between themself and the misery of the outside world. It's hard not to allow the feeling to settle inside their chest. Their ribs are a birdcage, and their heart beats like a death toll, ringing their life away.
It never mattered what they did, in the end. It was always going to come back to bite them. Living with it is their own curse, a unique burden for the things they were willing to do to ensure their own selfish survival. The sound of screaming chases them into sleep now, and forever.
Their eyelids grow heavy again, grateful to leave such a perversion of reality.
They wake to a ringing. It takes entirely too long to find the phone.
They don't question its existence in this house. Though their parents had one for work, they had never been permitted to use it. Somewhere in the in-between, they must have learned. Pressing the button to receive the call, they hesitate, waiting for the caller to speak.
"Hello," the caller says. "This is Dr. Okusanya."
The doctor is met with silence.
"You may better know me as Agnes?" she probes, pausing to give them a moment to reply. The truth is, they don't know how. They recall the name, and the positive connotation they have with it must be good. But they cannot recall a face, nor anything specific.
"How are you feeling?"
They try to speak, but their throat feels full of sandpaper. "I don't know," they manage, their voice raspy. They wish they did— their mind is once again intact, but parts of themselves feel missing, cold, as if buried in the snow outside.
"Drink a glass of water," the doctor suggests. "Slowly, but drink. You need to get some kind of fluid back into your body. It will help."
They trudge into the kitchen. Their brain and body know the way, even if the house feels foreign. The kitchen is small, but elegant in a simple enough way. The appliances are all stainless, with butcher block counters and a slate gray paint on the walls. The only light fixture offers a mild warm light that, while unnecessary, they leave on for the sake of disturbing the dreary ambiance.
The window overlooking the sink offers a fantastic view of gentle, sloping hills and row upon row of scraggly, frostbitten vines, their shoots already pruned. The view makes them feel melancholic, like the heavy gray skies that are blocking out the sun.
They rummage through the dark-stained cupboards for a moment and find a stemless wine-glass. Mechanically, they fill it from the sink and drain it. They can feel the water move through them, a sensation that makes them feel strangely once again, as if disconnected from their own body. By the time they refill their glass, they feel more connected to it.
"I'm going to talk," the doctor says, startling them, "just keep drinking until you feel right again. You'll need to get something to eat, as well. One of your new neighbors might be happy to have you over for dinner, or you might want to venture into town. Be warned that if you do the latter, you may receive some unwanted attention. The adjustment period is always hard."
"Okay," they murmur, glad to focus on the glass instead of holding a conversation.
"I can't be sure how much of the past few months you'll remember, but in time the rest of your memory will be fully intact. On behalf of the Capitol, I want to apologize for the protocol we put you through," Agnes says, sighing heavily. They can hear her crumpling a sheet of paper on the other end of the line. They don't think it made it to the wastebasket.
"It isn't something commonplace with our victors, but we had to be sure. Typically the violence wanes once we pull someone from the arena… but this was a different case. We've been having some… issues, lately, that required an executive call to be made to neutralize any threat of injury or vilification. Your cooperation, especially moving forward, is important."
Agnes hesitates. "And I'm telling you this as a friend. They had to edit a lot of your Games; I think if you were to watch it again, you might not recognize parts of yourself. You have to play nice. They want you to be a monster."
They sigh in turn, turning the glass over in the sink and bracing their arms against the countertop. They can see the outline of buildings, further past the vineyard. A large bird, maybe a hawk, flies lazily overhead, circling the field a few times before disappearing from view.
"Where am I?"
"You're back in District One," Agnes tells them. "Victor's Village, to be specific. Hopefully you're getting used to the new house. You've been there for about a week, I think? I stayed with you for the first few days, but thought it would be better for you to wake alone."
They nod. "I don't remember much. I don't remember you."
"We'll see each other again," she says. Her voice sounds sad, and they feel guilty for it. "We don't usually have victors in the Capitol as long as your stay was," she notes. "We had to be sure. It's not every year that someone takes such an active role in the Hunger Games. You were quite popular, too. For good reasons and bad ones."
"Why are you calling me?" they ask, confused to realize there was never a given reason.
"I figured your medication was wearing off. Enough for you to hold this conversation. I hope you remember it," Agnes warns. "I'm proud of you. Your district is proud of you. Everyone else might not feel the same way. A lot of funerals. A lot of fear. You can hate us as much as you want to," she says offhandedly, "but you can't be as vocal about it as you have been. It made waves. Little ones," she adds, "but little ripples make big waves. We'll talk soon, Valor."
There is a click. Then, all they can hear is static.
They sit at the kitchen table, and steeple their fingers in front of their face. Questions race through their mind, and they aren't able to make sense of any of them. They have the distinct feeling of being watched. Dr. Okusanya was kind to call, but her words were strange.
Her advice feels like a suppressant, a suppressant to a rage yet to be unlocked. The way she spoke of them makes them feel like a monster, yet they don't want to believe they are. The feeling of rage, the access to violence, feels familiar, if tucked away. They wonder what it means to have the capability to make such waves, to create such fear.
They test their name, speaking it into the emptiness of the house. The name feels strange on their tongue. They taste it again, the words sounding like nothing. Valor. Valor. Valor. Valor. Valor. Valor. Valor. Valor. Valor. Valor. Valor. Valor. Valor.
Valor means courage. Worthiness. Not the wretched being they've since become, with hands tainted an indelible red and a mind pushed too far past the breaking point.
(They aren't worthy of such a name— perhaps they never were.)
The name means nothing to them. The word is insignificant. This existence means nothing to them, either. To be so close to death and live is to walk the line for an eternity. They try to push thoughts of their Games away. They don't want to feel the rain of blood against their skin, or feel the weight of steel behind their hands. They don't want to feel anything at all.
Nothing means anything. Nothing feels like everything, all of the negative spaces inside and outside of their head. Maybe it's verbicide to kill the meaning of it all, but if there was any meaning in the before, they've lost it now. Anything would be better than this empty ache. Everything feels wrong. This wasn't what they wanted— their family still hates them, and they feel worn down to the bone, trapped in a game they never decided to play.
They used to be a normal kid, with a family that loved them. They made average grades, stayed mostly out of trouble. They were nothing before the Games, and even in the after they feel like a nobody. They didn't ask to play this game. They'd rather ignore the hunger, crawl back into bed, and allow themselves to rot there, undisturbed, until the nothingness became physical, too. Mentorship is a game they will never be able to win. Managing an impression is a dangerous variable, and if what she said was true, they've already left a sour taste. There might not even be a life worth fixing. Valor Novikov isn't a monster.
(If they've already been painted as one, what would they have to lose by playing?)
Hello all! Watching TBOSAS on-screen recently reignited my past Hunger Games phase and I'm super hyped to be writing here again. Back in the day I did fully write and complete a story, but I prefer to let the past be the past. It will be either a partial or a full, dependent on how many people are interested. As my semester has recently ended, I am motivated to get started before the next semester begins. I have the rest of the month to write in advance so I can stay consistent, so do please give me a chance and communicate interest if you have any! I will begin writing as soon as I receive characters.
Please only submit if you are willing to read this story. Writing a SYOT is a collaborative effort and it can be very hard without proper interest. You don't have to review every chapter but some effort from submitters is always extremely appreciated. Submission information is on my profile. Thanks in advance for any interest! :)