Suffocate

Everything is measured in weeks, days are too short a ruler, too unimportant.

Six weeks in the Capitol.

Three weeks in that cell with Peeta. That doesn’t seem right, seem real. They ask again and again what they did, and in between the times now labelled as panic attacks triggered by post traumatic stress, I try and explain as well as I can.

I explain what I can remember. Sometimes it’s hard, what was real, did we eat? Did we sleep there, and when, was the screen playing certain clips, were Katniss’s screams merged in the ones that blared through me?

Memory loss and confusion is a side effect of the tracker jacker venom.
It stretches as far back as the arena itself, those twisted and hot days.

Finnick does what he can, coaxing me gently to eat, doing his best to calm me down whenever the air gets a little hard to breathe. He keeps me above water, most of the time. He’s no longer in a hospital gown, instead he’s coated in the same bland grey shirt and trousers, although he leaves the matching shoes on the tiled floor, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows so his new scar, from the tracker he managed to remove is in broad view.

He spent nearly five weeks in the hospital. He won’t say properly why, blames the electricity, he was close to Katniss when she took out the arena, he jokes that it frazzled his brain. It doesn’t explain the friction burns on his hands.

I don’t ask.

We barely speak at all. We don’t need to.

I just need him there, squashed up on the small bed, the morphine lowered so that it’s comfortable without the added confusion and drowsiness. Every time Thom comes in I pretend to be sleeping, I don’t know if he buys it but he accepts it, not that he can hide the scorn lacing his voice when he addresses Finnick.

I don’t pretend to sleep when Rita comes. I don’t do much when she takes one long look at me and bursts into tears. She makes my shoulder wet, repeats orders back from nurses she must have spoken to about me needing to sleep, needing the quiet. Her and Phillus will bring the children in a few days.

I haven’t seen natural light in seven weeks. Not in the arena with its pink sky, not purple as Finnick corrects, his eyes hesitant. I know the odd lapses in my memory scare him, they scare me.

I want to get out of bed, you can go outside, even though the rest of the district is deep underground and goes even further. I’m not allowed through, I’m bed ridden until further notice.

I could walk easily. I know that. In spurts of confidence I want too, I want Finnick to lead me up and out of here, so I can see the sun, feel a natural breeze, taste air that hasn’t been processed and pumped through vents. He won’t.

They’re strict, he claims, punishments.. He doesn’t want to disconnect the iv, the drip pumping vitamins and more, all the things I’ve been deprived of for that six horrifying weeks. He’s not risking any aspect of my health or safety, not again.

They may stop him from seeing me as one.

It’s the last thing I want but his resistance still upsets me.

I pretend I’m asleep the rest of the time he’s there that afternoon.

One week since I was saved and brought to District Thirteen.

They do have to re-break the bones in my hand, they want to set them again. My hands’ out of the metal for less than an hour before the operation but I’ve been neglected of morphling since the night before, to reduce any risk of overdose, to allow them to give me the correct amount just for the operation itself.

I almost can’t control it; I’ve felt the jolts up until now but no movement, just a sting. With no compress, no cage I can’t stop my finger as they curl, twitch or shake. My whole hand is the same, each judder makes me grit my teeth, the half healed bones in protest.

I don’t hurt as much as I think I did before. Doctors have been checking on me multiple times every day, my bruises are fading, the red raw flash of my wrists and ankles it thick with scabs, now coated in a soft bandage smothered with some sort of healing cream. The bandages are still thick on my chest as well, but apparently my ribs are healing well, the random headaches are a different matter, a mix of the trauma and electricity they claim.

I don’t mind the headaches, I’d live the rest of my life with my whole body beaten and broken if they could just fix my mind.

Whenever I have fallen asleep naturally the nightmares wake me up every few minutes it seems, and they’re worse. Not just morphed memories like they used to be, now it’s just horror, twisted figures and monsters, the screams.

Mags death plays out in a lot of them.

I can use days for that scale.

Six days since I woke up here. Six days since I first saw Thom and Finnick, since I met President Coin.

Five days since I ate my first hot meal since before the games.

Four since I saw Rita, four days since I started ignoring my brother.

Three days since Finnick kissed me, three days since he seemed to be scared to touch me in any way which could be seen as intimate.

Two days since he finally caved and answered my questions.

“Where’s Mags?” She should have been to see me, should of been pottering about, respected but not overly helpful, admired by all. She should be here with me, able to calm me.

She should have been on the hovercraft that picked up Finnick, Katniss and Beetee.
She was doing none of those things.

She was dead.

Two days since I’d spoken apart from to sob, to curse him, all of them in-between breaths so painful I want my chest to explode to lessen them.

Plutarch comes to see me. He’s been told I know, he’s already been once a few days before, given a load of shit talk about how glad he was to see me, how happy I was alive, could recover.

Plutarch and Haymitch let her down. I have my own control on the level of morphling, when Plutarch comes I lean over, ignoring the ache and press up the flat screen buttons. I’m out by the time he’s half way through some pre-planned speech. He doesn’t come back.

“You’re safe here.”

I’ve heard the three words so much they link and dance around inside my head.

If they’d done what they were supposed to, she’d be here safe too. Finnick knows more, more he kept from me, more they all kept from me. She never left the Capitol; there was a problem with the three getting away, Mags stayed, in some way to help.

She was never put in the cells, she was never tortured.
They killed her instantly, one shot.

In my nightmares she’s tortured, she croaks for help. I’m there, the walls moving in and in until I barely fit, the cold, wet surface crushing my body. I can’t reach her and her blood pours onto the ground, she screams and the drain opens up. She’s gone. When I wake the damp tiles are my skin, clammy and cold.

The night before the operation they make Finnick go back to his room, they say I need proper rest, as if that wasn’t what I tried to do even when he was here. As if that wasn’t impossible. I fall asleep, hand still moving independently.

“Even with the operation and physiotherapy...well,” she stumbles, Nurse Forror, whenever a higher level of staff is around, “We’re hoping for the best but we’re not sure you’ll ever have complete use of that hand again, nerve damage is near possible to eradicate and heal completely.”

Her words catch me in the cell, this time everyone seems to be there, Peeta, raging, cursing me, raining strikes and bloody fists over my body. Mags doesn’t try to help, she just sits there, staring at me. Then she speaks finally, her words clear, but not her, not her voice.

“Every time that cannon goes off, it’s music to my ears. I don’t care about any of them.”

It’s Finnick and I can see the moment, the clip on the screen. He’s crouched with a panting Katniss and Peeta, wet with the salt water and sweat. The cannon sounds. He smiles.

Any of them means me.
He doesn’t give a fuck.

I wake up, not upset, not scared. Just full of anger, aimed at the one person I love the most.

“I don’t care about any of them.” I whisper. “Music to my ears.”

I can’t stop repeating the words to myself, drilling it in.

“Any of them...Music to my ears.”

It’s not true. I know, I know deep down it isn’t true. He proved in there he doesn’t mean that, it was bravado, an act.

The words continue to taunt me, long through the night. They only stop when I’m wheeled into an operating theatre, finally getting a glimpse of the world outside the small room I’d been in. It’s still too bright, too clinical.

I stop hearing his voice when I can hear the surgeon counting back from ten and all I can hear is static.



I wake up to Thom and it’s unavoidable, although the pain killers bide me time, the metal seems to puncture the skin of my hand this time, although it’s blurry and unclear. Pins, that rings familiar. They had pins connected to the metal contraption. I don’t care, it doesn’t hurt, again everything is too foggy too.

I’m getting oddly used to be completely out of it. And at least times like now, when the amount in my bloodstream is so large I can barely feel I can think of the Capitol without my usual ‘panic attack’.
Through the mess there’s clarity, I still can’t tell what parts of it are real, but it’s just like watching somebody’s else’s nightmare, not my own.

After a while he speaks, must be a couple of hours as something that resembles lunch is brought in.

“Are you hungry? They said you might be a bit nauseas when you first wake up.”

“I’m fine.” I push the button, lifting the top half of the bed up slightly and go to take the bowl. Raising my left hand even an inch from the moulded plastic now attached to my bed makes me whine.

“Yeah brainless, you’re not supposed to move that for a while.” He scolds, and there’s some annoyance in the poorly concealed joke. I let him place the tray in my lap, thanking Nurse Forror and accepting his own bowl and slab of bread.

“Apart from the ocean the thing I definitely miss most from home is the food.”

He doesn’t seem to expect an answer and I don’t give him one, starting to nibble at the bread, taking a spoon of the thick stew. I understood what he meant, I’d only been eating here for about a week and it was tedious and mostly tasteless.

Not that I said that, or admitted that I wanted to lurch as my stomach churned savagely.

We eat in silence but I can’t finish, letting him take my bowl and wipe it clean with the last of his bread. I sip some water as the quiet stretches. I’m exhausted and lean back a little, rubbing my good hand over my eyes. My other hand is tingling, that pin pricking feeling returns. I don’t want to deal with this.

I’m tired from the lack of sleep the night before and suddenly remember why.

“Every time that cannon goes off, it’s music to my ears. I don’t care about any of them.”

Why would he say that? Why... I sigh, leaning to turn up the morphling and Thom catches my wrist extremely carefully. “Don’t do that.”

“It hurts.” I half lie, trying again and making his fingers curl tighter. The pressure on my still damaged skin makes me frown more deeply. “Thom....”

“No.” He says simply, getting up and dragging the piece of equipment just out of my reach. I huff, slamming against the mattress, shockwaves down to my arm making me regret the move instantly.

“Why have you been ignoring me the last few days?”

I suck on the inside of my lip, “I haven’t.”

“Don’t bullshit me Elle.” His own hand rubs over his chin, the stubbles gone and his hair has been trimmed. He looks a lot more together but also like he make crack visibly. “What have I done?”

“Nothing.” I murmur, fingers fumbling the top of the thin sheet.

It’s music to my ears That insatiable anger is growing in my gut, the drug cant numb that, no chance of it.

“If it’s nothing then...”

“It’s exactly nothing.” I snap, although it makes my ears ring, “Nothing. No one here did anything, you all did nothing! For six fucking weeks!” I detest the sob that breaks my words, but he looks taken aback, his forehead is suddenly completely smooth, his eyebrows lower. “Six weeks Thom, and you were here, all of you were here and fine and I...” I wipe hard under my eyes, I shake my head, “You didn’t even come for me did you? Not for me or Johanna...”

He’s wordless for a few seconds before he clears his throat, avoids my eyes and rubs the back of his neck. “I pushed so hard for us to act earlier.”

“But they didn’t. Because we weren’t important.” His jaw tenses visibly, “Just tell me Thom. I am fucking sick of being lied to.”

“They agreed to the rescue for Katniss. She broke down when she realised why Snow was keeping Peeta.”

They came for Peeta.

He opens his mouth once again but I’m not done, I’m cruel and I say the worst thing I have ever said to my brother, “It’s fine, I know I’m not important in the grand scheme of things, but still, nobody told me about Luka and nobody told me about Mags and both of them got their fucking heads blown off for no reason! And both times you did nothing to stop it! And nothing to even try and get me out of that fucking place!”

I’m panting but he’s a statue, fingers digging into the metal side of the bed.
I want to be sorry. I should be sorry but I’m not.

Thom just sends me one long look before he stands, chair scraping on the floor and walks out. I let him even as I realise I’m wrong to a degree. It wasn’t for nothing, so many people, Luka and Mags included; the tattoo on my brothers’ arm.

They all died for Katniss Everdeen.

She wasn’t here. I’d be told that, she’d scurried off with some soldiers to a different district when they’d released her from the hospital.

She wasn’t special, that was blatantly obvious, I may have once thought she was.
She’s been a spark as Snow claimed but that was it, she had made no real difference.
I understood how Peeta could hate her.

“Every time that cannon goes off, it’s music to my ears. I don’t care about any of them.”

Any of them.


Another two days and I can leave the small room, enter the main hospital, where beds are closer to one another, where I don’t have to be alone.

I think I’d prefer to be alone. Sometimes at least.

Finnick kisses me again in those days. I’m helped with washing, cleaning my body, hair and teeth. Nurse Forror, stuck with me permanently it seems asks if I want to see myself, if I want a mirror.

I can see all I want too, the scars from that final electrocution dart over the front of my body, I don’t want to see those on my back. I can feel the rough skin on either side of my head, just above the end of my eyebrows. My hips still jut out too far.

I don’t care how I look, Finnick doesn’t seem to when he kisses me. When his hands cup my cheeks and move down to catch in the ends of my hair, sometimes they go lower, tickling over my ribs gently. Just nine days of decent food has put a little flesh back over them, not enough by far but it’s a start as the doctor says during physiotherapy.

I’d care how I looked if Finnick did. Because then it would mean he didn’t want me.

He didn’t want me in the arena, the words float in the air behind him, he wants me now. If he wants me now it’s all okay. I pull his face closer so his chest brushes against mine. It’s awkward with my arm, not stuck flat against the bed now, but it’s still clumpy, large, the metal still stabs and sinks into my flesh.

I don’t hear his cruel words when he’s here. Because I can just push them back, I can want him, enjoy him.

While he’s here it’s fine. I understand what’s real, and nothing else matters. With him here I can pull it together, connect the pieces that make a person.

Without him I crumble into fits of confusion, nightmares and hatred.
Hatred towards the people closest to me.

Thom hasn’t come back. Phillus has a few times, her, Rita and the kids. They’ve been told not to ask certain things, you can tell by the constant concentration on Annie’s face especially. But shock was still registered on it the first time she saw me.

I’m still not sorry for what I said.

It’s still true.

One of Finnick’s hands slip down to my chest, cupping almost timidly. I moan into his mouth in encouragement but I know he won’t go any further and his kisses shorten into pecks before they stop, his hand fiddles with curls again.

We meet eyes and he speaks, asking if he should fetch the doctor, if I’m ready to go. Of course, I’m walking the short distance out of the room and down a patch of hallway. I barely hear him, I see him in that jungle, I imagine that phrase that haunts me.

“Why did you say that?” I blurt, cutting him off, his brows furrow in confusion and I swallow hard.

“Every time that cannon goes off, it’s music to my ears. I don’t care about any of them.” I pause in the right places, replicating his loss of breath.

The real Finnick seems to pale a little, although now his tan is fading from the lack of sunlight as it is.

“How do you-“

“I remember, one of the things they played when I was with Peeta. I remember it.” He glances down to his hand, trapping in knots. “Did you mean it?”

“Of course not.” He breathes, “I was trying to get Katniss and Peeta to want me, so I knew I had to make them think it was them or nothing...” He looked back at my face, observing me. “Please don’t think for second I meant that. It was a stupid line, like everything else, it was for the camera’s, for them. You know how much we needed them.”

“For the cameras.” I repeat. Knowing full well that’s the truth. I was the one who didn’t go with him, I was the one who pushed him away before the games, and during. Who was too preoccupied with some stupid idea he’d been safer without me.

That makes sense in my head but my emotions don’t go along with the logic. “You didn’t have to say it.”

“I know. I’m sorry...I didn’t mean it, you have to believe that.” I nod, rewarding with his lips brushing against my forehead three times. Once in the center and then on either patch of scarred skin. I flush.

He meets my lips once again but pulls away suddenly, face darkening, “Wait, they put that on when you two were together?” He bit his lip, tongue darting over his lower one in a quick movement, “That wasn’t to hurt Peeta was it? That was...for you, for you to see it.”

Something clicks.

“They wanted to make you hate me like he hates Katniss.”

I nod slowly, it’s something I’ve come to understand since that phrase came back into mind, broke through the gleam of confusion. “Yeah, I think they did.”

I’m scared a tiny bit of me does.


“They won’t be far from the stream, not this late in the game.”

“The game?” I lift a brow, smirk stretched over dry lips. “All about the game.” He searches for hidden meaning in my words, there’s a bit there, a bit of hate aimed at the Capitol, about who forced us in here.

“My Dad used to tell me it was the taking part that mattered.” He leans down, fiddling with the thick laces on one boot. I have a sword in my hand; if I wanted to I could end him now. Another number eradicated, one step closer to the winning and going home. My fingers tense but I force myself to turn away, glaring at the Cornucopia in the weak light.

“I’ve never been one for second place.” I reply, grabbing the flash strapped to my thigh and taking a sip, the water cool, almost cold.

It is cold in here.

“I imagine you haven’t.” He’s finished, standing up to his full height, running a hand through his greasy hair. “I don’t much like losing either.” The threats barely concealed but still I laugh.

If it comes down to the two of us he’d have a good chance. I know that.
It shouldn’t get to that though.

“They’ve been gone a while.” He comments almost lightly, the curved sword with a name I can’t remember in his grasp.

The light from it bounces onto my face. “How many are left again?” I know the answer, I just want him to think about it himself. “Eight with us.”

“I think it might be time to pull away.” His expression turns to shock, “That was always the intention wasn’t it?”

“Once everyone else was dead and it was just the pack...we agreed in training.”

“The pack is the problem, we know that. We get rid of the others it’s easy pickings. Who else is there?”

“Seven, Nine and both from Eleven.” I can see the idea is appealing to him. “So you want us to kill the others when they get back?”

“You say that like you have any loyalty to her.”

“Should have more than I have to you.” I twist, stabbing the sharp sword into the ground so it stands upright.

“Why, are you and her plotting to kill me as well?”

He doesn’t take the bait, “No more than you are me.” His face is almost hurt.

I roll my eyes, “I had to get her to trust me.”

“Do you think that would stop her killing you?”

“Definitely not. But all you need is one second of hesitation.” I watch his fingers curl a little tighter. “This is why I’m glad we don’t have that issue Tyger.” They loosen.

“That’s your master plan then is it? We wait for them to get back, kill them and make a merry little tour of murder?” I shrug, “And when it’s just me and you?”

I almost falter, clearing my throat to keep the confident mask up, “Hopefully you’ll give me a head start.” He smiles properly, as if we were discussing anything but our likely deaths.

“I’ll count to ten and close my eyes.” My expression mirrors his.

“That’s sweet of you.”

“I do my best.” We snigger, voices low in the large green area. The woods are thin, sparse, a mountainous range covers almost a third of what is visible. I know people are hidden there, even though there are less supplies, less water until you risk death and clamber down deep ravines. The water near us is drinkable, just. It wasn’t originally, and a few people seemed to go mad from a couple of sips.

Two days ago we were gifted with a pot and some form of purple liquid. A few drops and it’s no longer toxic. But we’re running low on whatever antidote that is.

“Fine.” He speaks again finally, “They come back, we take them out. You’re right, saves us trouble in the long run.” He looks a lot more intimidating than I realise he is, he wasn’t a volunteer, it was odd for his district to have had none, but a terrible slaughtering the year before had put people all over Panem off.

Killing is numb to me now. The first day the amount of blood had horrified me, the sight of what truly lies inside a person, the organs and flesh that makes them, and unmakes them.

No weakness, not for a second. I got the Careers to want me, trust me, formed deals with each. Jaxus and I had a similar deal to Tyger and my own.

It didn’t matter. I wanted Tyger on my side more. “You take Jaxus and I’ll take her.”

There’s a tiny speck of light he notices, face less tense instantly, smile widening as he jogs to bring back the parachute. “Guess someone likes the sounds of that.” I nod as he pulls out a box, they would, the Capitol audience. We’re backstabbing, plotting murder of allies.

Nothing get’s them more excited.

They’ll be playing it on their highlights if we do well. This early a turn in the Career pack is unusual.
He opens the box and glances over the note, shoving it into my hand. “From your lot again.” He mutters a thank you up into the sky, slipping out a knife from his belt to tear open the oysters. Such an amateur.

I’m not as excited.

Don’t want you going hungry. Too risky.

I screw the note up and chuck it pointedly, reaching around Tyger for the bread tainted green from home. Too risky. His notes were getting less and less coded, too obvious.

It wasn’t going to take long before people realised that the oysters were a message of their own.
I was never a massive fan, he knew that.

They were Finnick’s way of saying he didn’t like what I was planning.

Fuck him.