Suffocate

The muttering wakes me again, the beeping has stopped. I feel worse, fog deep in my mind, trapped in the crevices of my brain, thick between my eyes. Something touches my arm, near my elbow again.

I forget where I am and jerk upright, greeted by several half sympathetic faces I don’t recognise.

“Your brother’s just gone back to his room to clean up.” A middle aged woman says instantly, dressed in dull grey clothes that I see all of them wear, some sort of uniform. I nod mutely, lifting my hands to my face, shocked once again at the metal coating one.

“It’s to try and repair the bones,” the same woman speaks, she must be a doctor so I try to listen, desperate to reach through the fog, “It will straighten them out at least, unfortunately the nerve damage is more trouble, but we’ll deal with that when it comes to it.”

I repeat the movement and she murmurs to another who steps around the small bed, fiddling with dials close to the drip. “Lowering the morphling level will make your hand hurt, but you’ll be able to think a lot more easily.” She smiles, it doesn’t reach her eyes.

I want Thom here.
No, more than that, I want him and Finnick here.

I feel myself search for him, almost subconsciously. He’s not here in the small room. He must know I’m back, surely, he must be aware of our...

“Who did you get?” My voice is thick and slurred and they share another look.

“Yourself, Peeta and Johanna.” The answers curt, “Peeta is...” The man is cut off with a deep frown and the woman sits on the edge of my bed. She’s right about the morphling.

I can already feel the painful tingle in my covered hand, like tiny needles stabbing in my fingertips and along the bone. “Here.” She presses something and the top of the bed lifts slightly, an apologetic smile at my hiss of pain as I reach a more seated poison, still reclining slightly.

“Miss Volute we need to ask you some questions.” That isn’t one.

“Is...is e...ev...everyone okay?”

Another look spreads around the small group. “In time Miss Volute, let’s just answer the questions first.” It’s like she’s scolding a child and all I can do is agree, answer meekly, feeling a stammer return as my mind sobers.

It’s simple stuff, my age, my brother’s names, where I lived.

Luka’s name has returned to being a stab deep in my gut.

I don’t understand why they’re asking me things, they know Thom, Thom has been here for...how long? I don’t know. I ask.

Close to six weeks.

My stomach drops.

I choke the words, they don’t seem right, it can’t have been so long, over a month, six whole weeks. I’m being strangled and the world is squeezing in, crushing me.

Six weeks, forty two days there. Longer than I ever had ever thought.

My back curls over, lungs compressed, desperate for air I can’t gulp in quick enough. All that’s running through my head is the amount of time, that massive amount of time trapped, hurt, so hurt for so long.

“Boggs, take care of...”

“No.” I all but retch, “No, no don’t.” My hand’s a fist on my chest, as if I can somehow push my heart back into place, slow it down just by that action. It doesn’t work.

I find myself repeating the words I fell asleep to, my brothers determined voice, breaking.

“You’re here. You’re here. You’re here.”

Six weeks. Six fucking weeks and no-one else can even be here for me to wake up.

Anger’s ignited with the dread and panic. I swallow hard, trying to make myself feel better. It doesn’t work.

“I need Thom.”

“Boggs. Get him.” A second woman says, standing tall, looking bored at my discomfort. Her grey hair is perfectly straight, such a vast contrast to how mine could ever appear. She waves the man away, keeping a safe distance from the bed as if the germs or pain could leap into the air and cling to her.

She reeks of authority. “He’s in the next room. Someone see if Mr Odair is conscious as well.” She says lowly, face tight at her subordinate’s confusion.

It’s the first time I’m aware of being lied to in District Thirteen.
And the first time I meet President Coin.

“Conscious?” At the time the lie flies right over my head, but the tightness of my chest is an elastic band and it’s stretched again. “What do you mean?”

I’m cut off as Thom re-enters, no more clean than he seemed to be before, but frowning deeply, instantly sitting heavily beside me on the corner of the bed, unaware of my grimace.

“Okay?” He glances at me, scared I’ll collapse again before he leans over and grips my hand tight.

“W...why would Finnick be unconscious?” His face darkens and my stomach twists, wrapping tight, “Thom?” Coin introduces herself quickly, not that her calm demeanour acts the same upon me.

Especially not with the words that follow.

She doesn’t mention Finnick, she speaks of Peeta’s attack on Katniss, trying to kill her, screaming vile things. They knew we’d spent time in the same cell, what did they do?

The simple question stumps me, what did they do?

The circle of venom and clips, the lack of sleep, the beatings, the quiet suddenly blaring with loud noises. His screams ring in my ears and all conversation seems to drop. The white is burning my eyes, making me squint, the darkness of the palms on my hands not enough, I can still see him, hear him, feel his rage and pain and...

“Hey, hey breathe...” There are hands rubbing the top of both of my arms, delicately, careful of bruised skin. “Elle? Listen, Elle... I told you this was a bad idea. What the fuck did you think was going to happen? That she’d be perfectly fine, they were there for six weeks!”

“Watch your tone Soldier Volute!”

There’s a snap, Peeta’s screams are fading away, replaced in part by my rapid heartbeat, breathing quick and light, urgent. The hands keep moving.

“If she was like Peeta we’d know by now wouldn’t we? You’ve mentioned Katniss and him and nothing!”

“There were high levels of tracker venom in her blood, amongst other things. We need to assess the likelihood of her posing a threat...”

“Does she seem like a threat? Look at her!” The shout ripples through me and he’s full of pointless apologies again, my face in my palms. Count to three between each breath, make them just as long.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

After a while, I don’t know how many minutes pass, but I lift up my head, dabbing under my eyes.

“She’s not displaying any signs of irrational behaviour or loss of control President Coin, and her bloodwork was less dramatic than Mr Mellarks...” It’s the first woman leaping to my defence. “I wouldn’t say there’s much of a risk of any violent behaviour towards any particular individuals, not in her current condition. The post traumatic stress is enough.”

I feel Thom relax slightly.His chest now pressed gently against my back. I can smell the sweat on him, the general tint of dirt, mixing with a sweet smell which must be coming from myself. My skin feels cleaner than it has in a long time, and I touch my hair gently, it feels clean and almost soft.

More time passes.

“W..wh...wha...w...”

“What happened?” A voice breaks off my pathetic stumbling, and I nod, more weakly than ever, still in need of my brother’s presence.

He’s real, I don’t know these people, they don’t matter. I need Thom to stay here, to stay real.

Already the cell is building around the bed again, tile by tile, the drying blood sticking. I shiver, unable to block the whine this time, although my hand tries. I realise I haven’t heard a word that was spoken and Coin looks exasperated, although the woman from before, frowning at her, shifts closer slightly.

Thom pulls his feet away in something I could only describe as disgust.

Not at her, I know that. At everything.

Probably at me.

“We sent a team into the Capitol yesterday, to rescue the three of you as stated. Yourself, Johanna Mason and Peeta Mellark were brought here to District Thirteen.”

“With two casualties.” Someone else mutters. More bodies on my conscience.

“Johanna is in another room, her physical injuries were quite severe. Some of yours are similar in regards to the electrocution.” She’s not looking at me; she’s looking at my brother, testing how much she can say.

She continues, “Other injuries,” Her voice took on a clinical professional edge, she wasn’t even speaking to me, judging from Thom’s appearance we couldn’t have been here for too long, she was giving him details he probably wasn’t aware of. “There’s bruising on the ribcage, but thankfully nothing more than a few cracks, no chance of any other internal damage due to their condition.”

She isn’t saying anything I wasn’t aware of, the bruises coating me, my broken hand they are trying to straighten, although they may need to re-break my fingers to do so. The damaged skin on my forehead from the shocks, and the worn away skin on my wrists and ankles, all covered in thin, cooling bandages.

“The most interesting development is what appears to have been done after the arena, as I’m aware there was a severe altercation.” She waits for agreement, “Both the spleen and right kidney have been removed. No doubt due to damage which would have resulted in death.”

The word seems to linger.

“We’ll have Doctor Wyere speak to her when she’s ready to try and establish the mental damage and what can be done.” Coin’s voice hasn’t softened at all.

Mental Damage.

Bodies heal and minds don’t. I’ve heard that somewhere before and I’m petrified it’s true.

I already know it is.

Coin mutters more and most of the group leave, the healer, she must be one, at the foot of my bed stands, moving around the bed to take my pulse and checking over the attached equipment.

“Let me know if you want an increase in the morphling, if it’s wearing off you’re going to be in a lot of discomfort shortly.” She nods one last time before leaving the room cautiously.

Thom’s waiting for me to cry. I can tell, his body language shifting slightly as if to curl around me.

“You stink.” It’s a morose attempt at a joke now we’re finally alone and it falls completely flat although he forces a slight laugh, pulling my scrawny form back a bit further into him.

“Sorry.” He says it blandly but I know in that simple sort word I’ve said so many times he’s apologising for everything, things out of his control, every moment since I left home.

“It...” I try to force back the stutter that seems in time with the quivering of my left hand, “N...None of it’s your fault Thom.”

“Tell me that when you’re not hooked up to three different machines.” He’s bitter; I get that, annoyed at the situation, annoyed at how powerless he had been.

But he’d been through nothing.

Six weeks.

I bit my cheek to stop the tears from welling up again, although my chest instantly strains and I have to clear my throat to breathe. Mental Damage.

It hurt more that I felt angry that he was upset himself, he had no reason to be, he’d been here, safe, tucked up wherever the fuck this living section of District Thirteen survived.

They were here, doing whatever the hell they had been up to.

“Why didn’t anybody come any earlier?” The healer was right and the pain in my side seems to be spreading to my whole body.

“I...” His hand moves from mine to rub over his chin, “I don’t know. I tried but...”

They had more important things to do was the unspoken end of his sentence and I move a little, hissing again and making him burst into action. “You need to be back on the pain killers.”

“Thom.” He lays me back against the angled bed.

“I’ll go get someone.”

“Thom, please.” I grasp at him but he escapes my grip easily, vanishing from the room and out of my vision.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
Six fucking weeks.

I break, just like I always do and Thom can’t talk me out of when he returns. Even the morphling can’t do that, it just dulls everything to a point where my state of consciousness is doubtful. Something suddenly strikes a chord, although I’m so numb I can’t move, am I asleep? I’m not sure.

Conscious.

The word is there, trapped in my mouth, on the tip of my tongue. I can’t figure out why it’s important, until I work out who is.

Finnick.

Someone see if Mr Odair is conscious.

I try to break through the barrier of the drug, but it’s too thick, too hard, impossible.

His name is a chant inside my head until my body gives up and the morphling wins.


“Sleep is one of the best ways for the body to heal. Another healer said all three of them showed signs of severe sleep deprivation and dehydration and the scans agree.” There’s a prick close to my hand, “Good, hopefully we can encourage a natural sleep, I’ll have food prepared for when she wakes fully. But I want to reduce the morphling levels...”

“Already? It’s only been nineteen hours.”

I imagine a man with no distinct features nodding his head.

“Yes, apparently there have already been three breakdowns calmed by a large excess of morphling to force sleep. Wyere is rightfully under the impression this will not help at all physically or psychologically. The morphling is to lower physical distress, but we can’t simply force her asleep every time she reacts in such a way.”

“You weren’t here earlier in respect Doctor G-”

“Pumping someone full of drugs to silence them rather than dealing with the matter at hand is both a waste of resources and time. We all know that Nurse Forror.”

I can feel the smirk on his mouth, the purpose of pointing out her lower rank has the wanted effect and I can feel her closer, starch fabric brushing over the thin blanket shrouding me.

She mutters an apology and an “Excuse me.” To someone.

Thom?

I suddenly pinpoint the feel on my good hand, it’s another, avoiding the smaller needle stuck too close to a tendon. The hand’s under mine, fingers larger and rougher. The thumb is the only part touching the back of mine, drawing delicate swirls.

I know them, the tentative touch of skin, dabbing and dragging the same shapes.

I recognise them from the same design across my shoulders, across my ribs, across my other hand and wrist. Any time I’d been nervous, needed comfort, or simply any time his touch had been on me more than a few seconds.

I recognise Finnick from his fingertips.

They pause for a moment as the weak argument between the Nurse and Doctor continue, how soon exactly to remove the glorified poison numbing every cell within me.

Days is the final answer.

So I can face those demons the man speaks of.

He has no idea.

“Her pulse is increasing.” There are shoes creaking against the ground.

“What, why?” I hear him, finally, in person, not warped hard words blasted through the air, not screams so true and loud even now they make me want to clamp my hands over my ears.

“She’s panicking. Nurse Forror, go and see if you can find Soldier Volute.”

“You don’t want me to increase the level of morph-”

“I feel like we’ve just been through...”

“Stop it!” Finnick breaks through the bickering, and now both hands encompass mind, trying to massage it out of a fist, “Just wake her up!”

“She is waking up, that was the point.” The body’s close to me, leaning over. I can see his shadow in my eyelids, twitching with the urge to open.

I’m still terrified if I open them I won’t be here. Finnick won’t be real.

The screaming is the only real thing and I’m back, pinned down, there’s pressure on my forehead, the metal band holding me down.

The band slips and cups my cheeks. I feel it break into warm fingers again, moving, not in those swirls but back and forth, wet smearing over me.

He’s not talking, he doesn’t have to, he’s never needed too. I see his face, so blurred it’s almost pixelated, but the tiredness in his eyes is clear. His face as tight as it had been after the jabber jay section of the arena.

The thought sets off a switch, buried deep in the scarred consciousness of my mind I can't turn off.

The drip in my arms tugs again and I’m pulled back slightly, another prick and I’m free.

Free to move but I don’t.

I bury myself further into Finnick’s chest. He’s still silent, arms somehow managing to be tight without hurting around me. I can feel my spine pressing into his forearm.

His lips brush against my head, as always I barely sense it through the mass of curls.

We stay in that position until my legs are numb from the carefully balanced weight he’s put upon them, until all I can feel is the coursing pain that travels through most of my body in waves.

My hand is the worst, the metal contraption straightening the bones is doing as promised and I feel like they’re going to split through the skin. My whole being is sore, full of aches and any slight movement, his arms sliding up and down, to his chin on my crown makes me frown.

I don’t think he notices, he doesn’t give any sign of it. Not at least until my bodies notices how hungry I am, and my stomach lets out a loud growl. He tenses slightly before his arms go loose and drag around my ribs more softly than ever.

The same tear tracks etched on my face are mirrored on his.

I feel like I’m staring back at someone who doesn’t know me anymore.

He moves back onto his knees, his calves tensed and protruding. He’s in a hospital gown as well, hair in disarray, his hand moves through it almost subconsciously but the tiny movement makes me hold a breath.

He leans back in, the room is empty, not that any other people would even register and he brushes hair out of my face, rubs across the residue of tears.

My eyes flicker down onto the white sheet.

I search desperately for something to say, even if my body is craving the relief of the drug. I’ve been drugged up enough, my mouth dries.

I want to feel, even if it hurts.

“Hi.” I expect a quaver in his voice but there isn’t one. He’s as confident sounding as ever, as if six weeks haven’t passed since he saw me, rather that it’s been a day, and he appears at my front door at home, demanding a swim, some form of weak entertainment from me.

It’s so familiar it makes my chest swell rather than contract like everything else, I don’t stutter.

“Hey.”