Suffocate

The stage is set up, fully lit. A bounding dark blue Caesar moves past me, shooting a look close to sympathetic. I know why, I catch sight of myself on a screen, several cameras across the way.

The make-up couldn’t hide how physically bruised and swollen my face is, how damaged my hand is, the fingerless lace gloves can’t straighten my broken fingers, the dress can’t add weight that seems to have melted away.

The only part of me that looks half normal is my hair, although it’s darker, deprived of the sunlight I was so used too. My skins fading as well, although it almost looks orange from the amount of liquids and products applied to hide bruises on what little of it is visible.

I don’t look passable. Anybody who saw me would know how very wrong I looked.

There are three chairs in the set up stage area, and the minute I see them I realise I’m not dying, not yet. They wouldn’t kill Peeta, they need him to hurt Katniss, the very threat of his death is probably what keeps her in hiding.

I hadn’t heard a thing.

“Keep her there until we decide if she’s needed.” A man demands the captors keeping me between them and they nod, batons in spare hands in case I step out of line.

It’s another interview, a way to what? Show that we were still alive, that we wouldn’t be for long if something didn’t happen? I don’t know, I don’t know anything.

I'm blindsided even more so once Peeta, sweating and shaking, sobering up from the last bout of tracker venom no doubt is tugged past me, barely able to nod comfortingly before he’s sat and the interview begins.

He’s aware of what’s been happening, or rather, what he’s been told has happened away from here, but it must be true. He’s speaking to Katniss like he does in the moments where he’s sane, almost himself. But what he’s saying is shit, wanting to stop the fighting, for a peaceful agreement, claiming tragedy after tragedy is down to the rebels.

There’s a flicker on the screens behind him, a warp in the image and he vanishes, replaced by Katniss, standing in rubble, dust. It’s there and she opens her mouth but as quickly she’s gone.

Someone in hacking into the system, Thirteen is hacking into the system.

Peeta looks at me desperately, but Ceaser tugs him back into conversation, the bombing in Twelve I had no clue about, other things when that flicker ripples again and I’m face to face with Finnick.

I freeze, it’s unnecessary when the guards hands grab around my wrists, the pain’s a throbbing nothing in the background.

He’s sitting, he looks fine, absolutely fine and I let out a breathe I didn’t know I had been holding, those easy tears gather but he’s gone, it’s back to Peeta who struggles.

Spouting out facts twisted with lies, trying to stop Katniss, trying to stop everyone fighting for freedom.

I know he doesn’t mean a word of it, he has to be saying it for some other reason, for some deal.
But Finnick is okay, he’s well, he looks better than well. Jealousy and spite snaps at my relief.

Ever so often Thirteen breaks through, I see Katniss singing beside a tree, a man in uniform.
I see Beetee hunched over weapons, Finnick talking again, it’s mostly Katniss but it floods with me with a sense of hope I haven’t had at any moment in here before.

They are trying to do something, they’re trying to turn people, make them see that they’re strong, alive. Peeta mentions an attack in Eight the day before, Caesar had him on stage the night before. Another thing I had no idea about.

The battle for control over the footage shifts back and forth until there’s a slam and the lights dim for a moment, the Capitol seal showing on ever screen.

“They won’t get through that.” Someone calls, and the voice is directed to the men beside me, “If they do, orders are to kill her, that’ll stop them.”

The same order is echoed through the control room. Somehow in the mix of signals the Capitol had given Beetee a way to access their commands, Snow’s commands.

Everyone knows exactly who they mean by she.

Thom can’t speak quick enough, can’t explain to those who don’t seem to care. It’s back to Peeta, Elenia is there, somewhere there. The camera had moved during the trouble and there’s an edge of another seat. She’s not on it. She must have been supposed to be on it.

Orders are to kill her, that’ll stop them.

Thom knows it won’t. Only two people in this room care enough for that to happen.

The Capitol regains control, his palms are sweaty, smearing onto the grey trousers, his heart is racing, aching for any sight of her. He knows Finnick is the same, Katniss peeking at the two of them worriedly, Haymitch as well.

Beetee doesn’t break through, not until Peeta has finished and Snow demands an ending.

“Dead by morning!” The reaction in the room is instantaneous, but now Beetee steps in, flashes of Katniss overlaid over frantic sound and footage.

Blood splatters the ground where Peeta falls, bodies blocking the view as fists meet flesh. In the background there’s a scream for him.

Elenia screams out his name and Thom’s hands form fists, his calves pumping with adrenalin, desperate to get out of the room whilst Finnick seems frozen, trapped.

Snow had directly threatened her life, and now Peeta had betrayed them, given them information as Haymitch was screaming and ended up bloody. What were they going to do to her?

His hands move over his face and block his eyes.


If they showed any more footage I didn’t see it. I was too distracted by the way three of them leapt on Peeta, the gloved fists smacking against his body, the baton striking bone on his thin legs.

I scream and scream again.

If Thirteen showed any more footage Snow didn’t go through on his threat. I’m not dead, not killed on camera. I feel close to it, beaten to within an inch of my life. I know I’m not, I know now that the threat is there, that Snow will do it properly, as he planned, as the threatened.

There are no loose threats here. Nothing promised that I don’t believe will come true.

The rebels breaking through the network system has only made them all angrier, at all three of us. Sometimes I dread to think who else is in these wider walls. What others they deemed worthy of a traitor status who were less involved than any of us. Other victors, other stylists, servants...

The list could be endless.

My family is safe. Clinging to that doesn’t make me feel selfish anymore.

I need that anchor, that buoy. Here all I have is that blinding light, the aching that blazes with any movement and leaves me wheezing, working fingers into claws into the metal underside of the bed. The bed is my boat in the storm, an island surrounded by miles of dangerous waters.

I used to have a book about it, a story about an island, much further south then Panem, surrounded by sharks who ate all kinds of colourful fish. On the island lived Mermaids, lonely because nobody visited them anymore, since everything had happened to the world before.

They sang, and their songs were so honest and beautiful some of the nastiest sharks felt guilt, and became dolphins.

I don’t remember how exactly what was supposed to happen. The answer I always got to that question was magic, a magic we didn’t know. My Father would always finish off the book with a grin, slotting it back in the small bookcase. It was old, his father’s father’s, practically an heirloom, older than the games themselves.

“That’s how dolphins came to be.” He’d explain, tucking me up, sometimes Luka would be in the room, my bedroom took on the role of a spare room also, looking for something to go out with his friends, rolling his eyes at the story. It didn’t matter what Luka thought because at that age I believed it.

I believed my father when he said he saw a mermaid once, when he was young and working on a ship that had gotten caught in a storm. He said he’d heard the song, seen one from afar and then the clouds parted and the sun shone. They looked overboard and there was a pod of dolphins.

“I wish I could see a mermaid.” I’d always say, thin sheets up to my chin like I was caught in a trap.

“When you’re bigger and you can work properly we’ll go out. Right out as far as you can and we’ll call some.”

“Will they come if we sing the songs?” He’d always nod, enticing my fantasy further, making it a reality, a promise a man like my father never broke.

“Definitely. We’ll practise when I get back from fishing okay?”

Fishing was never a day job, not with what he had to catch, it could the two days, up to a week depending on a bunch of variables at that point I didn’t know or really care about.

I’d nod whenever that happened and he’d tell me to ensure Luka took Thom and me out, swimming or to meet up with friends.

Thom always argued, he was twelve, he didn’t need babysitting or to be doing it.

Luka was sixteen and he had better things to do then watch me he’d always say, he had school three days a week and worked two. Luka had always been interested in girls, especially then.

But my father made them promise, and they did.

The last time he told me that story, we had that same old interaction, was the last time he went out fishing and the last time it felt like my mother could bare to look me in the eye.

There was another storm, it was hot, a couple of weeks after the latest games, I didn’t watch it then, my father wouldn’t let me.

There was a storm and mermaids didn’t save him a second time.

They’re planning another broadcast. The guards discuss it as they walk past loudly, so loudly even I catch most of the words.

Another broadcast.

They didn’t say interview, and they won’t. Peeta has betrayed them, given something away. At first I was too hysterical, too bloody and in flashes of pain to understand his words, why they had cut him off.

He’d revealed an attack on District Thirteen.

Even half mad he’d tried to save her, to save all of them. I like to think it was for all of them. Although now, I suppose she’s all he has left. Has it been one or two days since the interview? I had an idea at first, judging it from the evening that had been. Now I wasn’t so sure.

I should have been used to it, but not knowing the time, on top of not knowing how long I was going to be breathing or where I was seemed to be the last straw, the final bit to drive me over the edge. I flipped onto my back, staring up at the white tiles, probably two days, it seemed to work out every three they fed us, and water came at the same time or a little more regularly.

Water was a treat we didn’t deserve in their eyes at the moment.

I was trying to straighten my fingers, to work through the clicking and fizzling ache. It just left me swearing under my breath.

It wasn’t worth it. It didn’t matter, I’d said that enough. I knew it was true.

I lay there until they reappeared, dragging another large water container, they placed it in the center of the room, right next to where I knew the drain would appear so they could empty it easily.

I waited for Luine, someone else to dress me, trying again, to get my head around my imminent death.

I’d done that a lot since the announcement of the Quell.
Kuine doesn't come in, the men mutter lowly and a third peacekeeper stalks in.

I noticed the dried blood on the side of the tub too late and I have no time to move away before they grasp me, wrenching me over and shoving me on my knees.

I couldn’t have gotten anywhere anyway, couldn’t have put up a fight when my torso is a watercolour, decorated with black, blue and purple.

I take a breath and they plunge my head under.

Not panicking is the key, I’ve had enough close encounters to know that’s the worst thing. How sick is it the closest I ever came to drowning was in the arena? Not that Peeta can save me now. I want to grab my nose, block it but hands are keeping my arms painfully back, the hand on my head pushing it so far I’m scared my neck will snap.

Don’t panic, don’t panic.

Something you realise watching the games for so many years is how nobody is brave when they know they are about to die. No-one is fearless, valiant. Everyone has that look on their eyes when they realise.

It’s worse when someone is hunted down by an alliance and trapped in some sort of corner, the darkest possibility is the career pack.

I would know.

People seem to freeze, unless they die suddenly, with no idea of it coming they’re rigid.

You can almost hear their heart, see their eyes darken as their lungs constrict.

People say please a lot when they’re caught, when they know what’s about to happen.

I’m saying please a lot now. Please stop holding me under the water longer and longer until I have to gape, until I can’t control the reflex anymore and I breathe desperately and water floods my mouth and down my windpipe.

I throw it up, choking on it, feeling acid join with it as it splashes on the floor.

“Again.”

“No,” cough, “Please, please don’t-“ I’m silenced when water reaches my shoulders again.

I’m drowning, suffocating. And then I’m breathing again, hard ragged breaths that don’t do enough to fill my lungs or make my head feel less fuzzy. I don’t know how long it lasts but each time seems longer, time is slower, it’s harder to hold my breath and more exhausting to choke up the water.

My vision is blurred and covered in dots, I can feel the vomit sticking to my chin, my dress is clinging to my skin in damp patches.

“Enough.” I can barely even express relief, I can barely even think straight, think at all. I retch again, little more than water greets the tiles. “Strap her back on the bed.”

I’m still dripping wet, I can feel it on the thin sheet, the nervous sweat and tears on my face is indistinguishable from it. I know what’s coming, and I know the water will make it worse.

Conductivity, I can almost hear Beetee again as the equipment is dragged down behind me, as the circular metal plates press on either side of my temple.

There’s more this time, it’s like tape with wire entwined and the front of my gown is ripped off, letting them place them all over my chest and torso.

I gently test my hands and ankles to no effect. I’m bound tight. I want to cover myself up, not enjoying any of their eyes roaming my danged body. "Looks bad." One of them comments with no sympathy.

“I don’t know anything you don't already know.” I say again weakly.

They know that, they don’t care and the volts take over my body, cramp my muscles and burn my flesh.

I’m injected once more, that now familiar flame that starts in the crook of my elbow and erupts over my body.

I can’t move when it’s over and they pack up, un-strapping my limbs.

I can’t even hear, the world is a sparkle, rocking side to side. Where am I? Here, here I have to tell myself. I can’t even work out where here is. Keeping my eyes open is too difficult, it feels colder in here than usual.

My hearts beating oddly, is it? Skipping a beat here and there.

It’s the bugs again, that’s what it is, crawling over my organs, digging holes in my ribs and laying their eggs.

Peeta yells out, not pain, not agonising pain but a terrifying anger. The terror is building in me, the eggs cracking, more bugs spilling out, more posion. I clench my eyes tighter, but I can feel them on my skin.

My chest is too tight, my breathing still staggered, I cough up more water, it’s thick with bile and spills over the side of the metal.

Every muscle in my body seems to have been stretched too far, and now it's cramping, contracting back into place, jerking, twitching, my eyes so heavy yet unable to close.

My hand is practically flailing, it’s the nerves damaged by the volts, or simply still containing the electricity and sending the wrong signals, confused signals.

The bed isn’t still, the moans from far away are echoed, dancing around my cell.

Do they leave Johanna twitching like this?

Without too much permanent damage

I didn’t know much about electricity, but I knew it was a lot more harmful that I’d ever given it credit for, especially when with a strike of lightening Beetee had managed to collapse the whole arena. If my muscles and nerves were the same fragments that created the cage of the arena I was collapsing too, it seemed like that.

Concentrating on facts, memories is too hard. The venoms soaking into practical thoughts and twisting them.

My hope falls as easily, there’s no smear of a rainbow just darkness.

I cry and wail until I can’t breathe, then a terrified sleep full of monsters I’ve known, morphed by the venom, greets me finally.

I wake up when I can hear muffled yelling and hissing, confusion covers up the pain at first, my fingers still in weak spasms. Something’s coming out of the ventilation system; I can see it, puffs of a silver coloured smoke.

That was new.

The tracker venom’s wearing off I reckon, I can’t tell. But I still feel like I’m on a ship, but it’s mixed with a sense of nausea, a building headache. The wall isn’t straight, the tiles are curved, blood dripping where they connect.

The effect of it is uneven, impossible to predict, I’ve learnt that by now, whenever you think it’s worn off it can strike again.

Sitting up makes me groan but the yells louden, the lights flicker and dim. There are several loud creaks as the lights go off completely for a few seconds, fizzling as they flash, come on weakly. I don’t make any effort to move, part of me is certain I wouldn’t get far, my legs feel like jelly, like weak sticks that would snap with any weight.

The rest of me is too confused.

This isn’t meant to happen surely, the shouting in the hall is louder and I can see the smog of silver lowering in the air, creeping towards me. What if their easy solution is to gas us all? I hear no screaming, just feet stomping, the light above me flashing still.

I can see two of everything, I could even be imagining the smog for all I know, some odd side effect of the shock, of everything else.

A warning. I push myself awkwardly onto the ground, pulling the bloody and damp sheet off the hard bed, wrapping it around me, ensuring some cloth covered my mouth and nose. The silver continues to creep further down, there’s finally a scream, but it sounds odd and stops suddenly.

I press my shaking hand more firmly over my lips and nose, trying desperately to think of what to do.

The clicks happen again but the silver is upon me. It doesn’t choke me like I expect and when I lift my hand it moves, swirls that form shapes, a skull, that familiar snake.

My stomach twists but I’m not sick, it’s a knockout gas. It battles against the venom still in my system and almost wins; each blink seems to take twice as long, my head feels heavy, my limbs anchors sinking into the sea surrounding my island.

There’s no whoosh as the door opens, there’s dull thuds and its forced heavily to one side. I am a statue once again, sinking deep. The figure that enters isn’t a man, not to me, a thick black mask coats it’s face, giving the impression of a giant bug, it’s covered in a stark red, the only colour in the room, bleeding from one jagged shoulder.

It rasps my name.

It’s come to kill me.

There’s beeping again, slower, steadier.

I can hear talking this time, soft, slowly, the shadow of a body is imprinted on my eyelids. I’m scared to open my eyes, I don’t trust it, any of it. “Elle?” I feel my brows furrow at the sound, it’s familiar, so close, something touches my cheek, but for once I’m not threatened. “Ellie, you awake? Mrs. Everdeen, could you get...”

“Thom?”

My eyes are a struggle to open but I manage, hardly believing what I see through bleary vision. It really is him, he looks exhausted, hair greasy and untamed, his hand still on the plush pillow close to face.

He nods slowly, like I’m a small animal that would scurry in fear away at any noise. I glance around, the beeping is a monitor connected to me again, some other liquid is dripping into my bloodstream.

“I don’t...”

“You’re okay.” He hurries, words mashed in one breath, looking like he might burst into tears, “You’re okay. I promise, we had a team and...” I try to move towards him, to grab his hand, for that desperate sickening need for reality.

I can’t move much, I’m bound, strapped to the bed.

Oh god.
I’m still there.

I’m still trapped on that bed, I’m still trapped in that cell. He’s not real. I can’t feel the hysteria, it’s too overpowering, I can only feel the skin in either edge of my lips stretch as I go to scream, my arms struggling against the metal cuffs, one coated in another mess of metal. “Elenia...Elenia, stop!”

“No, no, no, no, no.” It doesn’t matter what he says, that he tries to grab my shoulders, he isn’t real. He’s like Peeta, a monster in disguise, a monster warped.

They’ve done something else to me, the drugs are worse, maybe I’m worse.

Insane, I’ve done more than cracked I’ve imploded, I’ve crumbled.

“Elenia!” He gets me to stop but weeping takes over, “I’m going to undo them okay?” I can hear mumbling, the fear and nerves in his voice, “Stay, still. Stay still.”

I do, trying to pull away from whoever he is as soon as I can and my arms are free, whimpers bubbling through my swollen lips.

He catches me before I can try to stumble from the bed, the needle in my arm tugging, “Elle, Elle. You’re here, I promise, it’s me! We came and got you, I’m real, you’re here. We're in Thirteen, you're here.”

He repeats those last few words so much they stop sounding real, the mattress a dip where he half scrambled on to catch me, my head is trapped, forehead against his collarbone. The hysterical sobbing, bordering on screams lessen.

I hear them move to increase the morphling. They say morphling.

He’s seems so real. “I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He is real.

Sweaty and scared and upset. Because of me. I grip onto his shirt with my good hand for as long as I can manage, until the drugs make me numb again and send me back into an empty dark sleep.

“Thom....”