Suffocate

The glances are instantaneous the moment we enter the room. “Ignore it.” Phillus soothes instantly, “It’s just because...”

“I know why.” I almost snap but stop myself, just letting her guide the small group of us, Samos propped in her arms, so close to speaking now his gurgles sound like words, to the set table. By the time we sit most of the looks have gone, people have realised who I am, whatever they’ve heard, rumour or truth will flash quickly through their heads. If it’s interesting, they’ll whisper it to a neighbour on the simple long tables.

It probably isn’t. I know they watched the games here; they had that connection to the Capitol even if they didn’t partake in it. I was a simple cog, a little part whose only true redeeming feature was Finnick. Wyere has been asking if I wanted to watch the clips of it, originally I had, to see the truth, past what the Capitol tried to free me, to remind myself and break through the shrouded confusion.

I’d decided against it watching Finnick’s remembrance video, and I hadn’t changed my mind.

I didn’t want it anymore, any of it.

I wanted to forget it all, let whatever was happening happen. Let them take over Two and the Capitol, kill Snow. Form Plutarch’s darling council, whatever that truly meant. I look for Coin but can’t see her amongst the sea of strangers, although I catch those faded colours and Venia shoots me a small smile.

They remind me of Luine too much to return it and I stare back down at the tray, the pale bread and lukewarm milk. “Annie, stop messing around and eat your food.” My niece shoots me a pained look, chewing over dramatically on the chunk of food, as if it’s the most repulsive thing in the world. “Aunty Elenia isn’t eating it.” Eyes catch on me again.

“Aunt Elenia isn’t hungry.” I half lie, my stomach is still twisting with nerves, uncomfortable at the long gone looks, hurt that I was sat with just my sisters in laws. That was unfair, a few weeks ago I had never thought it would happen at all, I should be more thankful for them both, how much they’ve looked after me, helped me, how much they’ve gone through themselves with the children, Luka.

I have to mutter the words to myself, “You’re here. You’re safe.” Annie and Frey both glance to their mother, but I need to cut the pity out. “If anybody wants any of my food that’s fine.”

A stranger down the table takes my offer to glares, and Rita, they’d sat either side of me, trapping me in place, catches just above my metal brace. “You’re not supposed to give food away. They get real funny about that.”

I just shrug in response, “And you should be eating as it is.”

“I ate earlier.”

“Don’t lie to me. You’re not as good as it as you used to be.” I don’t argue with her, it’s completely true, all I offer again is a shrug. “Look,” She twists mid way, demanding her daughters start to eat again and waiting until chatter falls around us, “I know you’re upset about Finnick.”

“I’m not upset about Finnick.” I reply through gritted teeth, “I get it, Thom said he’s busy...They’re busy.” She pouts, her face looks thinner lately, although I try to recall noticing it before and can’t. “I’m fine Rita, honestly.” The noise she makes is obvious she doesn’t believe me and she shouldn’t. “If Finnick is stuck with Boggs...”

“Can’t be that stuck since Boggs is right over there.”

I follow her gaze, Boggs is there, next to a woman as bland looking as himself. Finnick is nowhere in sight.

I stand and I leave, heart thumping hard against my ribs, attracting a lot more looks Finding my way to a elevator is difficult, harder now I seem to be looking for one. After a few minutes I spot the sliding metal and storm towards it, feet slipping in my oversized shoes but I don’t get to slam my palm against the button, bodies rush past me, heavier feet slamming and I quickly dodge out of the way, back brushing against the wall.

I hold my breath, tongue darting nervously over my lips as I watch.

It’s Boggs, looking worried, face as grey as the bland outfit, several others I don’t recognise are with him, but he keeps my interest as they wait for the lift, muttering harshly into his communicuff. I hear a lot of mumbles but two words are clear and repeating, “Katniss” and “Shot”.



When the lights in Thirteen go down, a signal for bed, for people to return to their quarters, it’s never totally dark, even being so deep underground. Along the lower edges of the hallways, the walls in the hospital and compartments there’s a glow, almost blue from weak inlaid lighting. The news of Katniss spread quick and finally roused Finnick from wherever he had been, his bashful apology not enough to make the hurt in my stomach settle, even though I smiled.

“Shot in Two.” Thom explains, still irritated he wasn’t there. To him taking over is more than a duty, than a necessity for Panem, it’s a vendetta. We all know that but no-one will say it. “On film as well, doing some propaganda, a speech, someone an idiot had let out of his sight shot her.”

“But she’ll live?” I hold in a sarcastic remark, jealously flooding again at the look of concern on Finnick’s face. Of course she would live, anything they had to do they would. Plutarch would, although doubt hits me as easily. I shrink further into Finnick’s side, his arm behind me, a barrier between my back and the wall.

“I think so. I’m only going from what Davro told me, I wasn’t in the meeting.” Everyone is waiting or more information so after a few seconds he continues, “She’s in surgery now, luckily the amount of protection meant the bullet didn’t actually penetrate.”

“She’ll be fine then.” Rita said simply, hovering by the door, she’d left the girls asleep and was anxious to get back to their apartment...I suppose now, my apartment. “Should be, just a while in the hospital, but from the sounds of it they’re close to taking Two.” He pauses again, this time with purpose, although he just spits out the words, “I’m going there tomorrow, clean up duty more than anything.” Phillus’s face drops and I imagine mine must look the same.

“You’re going to Two?” I let her repeat, almost stunned into silence, although the dread is more powerful.

Here he’s safe, as safe as he could be. In Thirteen he’s safe and he wants to go running into a battlefield, into danger. He could end up like Luka, the thought rings in my head along with the gunshot that ended his life, the words build, a scream and my spine curves, a hand on my head pushing me down towards my knees. My damp hair is seaweed around my face, helping me to drown, I refused a shower, the jets too like the ones that cleaned the cell to be safe, and had washed in the smaller bath meant for children.

“You can’t....so unsafe....selfish.....look at her.....” Phillus drifts in and out, but the voice in my ear is far more important, coaxing me back into the room, above water. I let him, “Anything the head doctor has said to you think through that, breathe properly okay, Elle....”

I hate the panic attacks, but all I can see is Thom in Luka’s place, is the thought of being alone. My words catch me all at once and what I blurt is indistinguishable. I don’t want him to go, he doesn’t need to go. The fighting is close to over so let others deal with it. Everyone waits for me to repeat my words more slowly, so they make sense but I can’t. I stand waverly, pain fluttering through my body as my shoulder hits my brothers chest, slamming the button that releases the door and lets me move into the hall.

As ever I have no idea where I’m going but Finnick is following me, steps light although his shoes click, in a rhythm whilst mine are sporadic. “Elle.” His legs are longer than mine and he draws even quickly, I don’t look at him, I glare forward at the grey and white in the poor lighting, I run away from the issue as best I can. “Elle, stop.” He repeats the request twice until it becomes a demand and his arm loops around me, tugging me back into his chest, his forearm level with my collar bones. “Elenia,” My teeth press harder against one another, “Elle, calm down.”

“Stop telling me to calm down!” I spit the words through them, pressure hurting my jaw, my nails claws close to his wrist.

“I’ll stop when you are.”

“I am calm.” It’s not convincing and he holds me in position, a dip in the wall, an in-dent with several boxes is what greets us when several of the men with communicuffs come back. We sink into the darkness, no lighting just here and all he is is a silhouette, a net with what he considers a prized catch. “Finnick let go of me.”

“Are you going to run away again?” I shake my head, nails still pressing into his skin, breathing over dramatically when his arm slithers back to him. “Thom won’t get hurt.” He assures me after a few minutes.

All he seems to do is assure and attempt to comfort me when I’m about to crumble. I’m glued together, the parts that form me stuck together how the metal holds my bones. Metal corrodes, everything breaks and rots.

“You can’t promise that.” He tries, and that horrible hateful parts of me rears its head, “You promised nothing bad would happen in the arena. You told me you didn’t break promises.” I’m still not looking at him, but he’s so close I swear I can feel the vibrations in the air as he stiffens.

“You broke that one.”

My voice is a whisper; a scream would have been less painful for both of us.

“Did they show you that conversation when you were with Peeta?” He sounds hollow and I shake my head silently, hair sticking slightly to a wet cheek. “No?” I repeat the movement, anger draining from me, loathing taking its place and filling me to the brim.

“I meant what I said...all...” a deep sigh leaves him, dances over the back of my head and makes me quiver, “All you had to do was stay with Beetee by the tree.” He catches me off guard and a strange sense hits me I had never expected from him, blame.

Anger is building up in his words, “All you had to do was stay by the fucking tree and I would come back with Katniss, you’d be in the perfect place for them to pick us up. I told you to stay there.” I can tell his jaw is locked, that his teeth are as clenched as my own are. “You didn’t have to run off after fucking Peeta.”

“I knew we had to keep Peeta alive for her.” I don’t know how he hears me; I can barely hear the words myself.

“You think...” He exhales harshly through his nose, and one of his hands hit against the wall, “You think at that point I cared a bit where Peeta was or what happened to him? Why would he matter in those last moments? We would have had Katniss, that was all we needed! And more fucking importantly you would have come back with us.”

“I...” I’m lost. “But you didn’t get Katniss, she destroyed the arena by herself.” I’m searching desperately through memories, warped and fogs, to separate fact from lie. He takes my statement as an insult.

“No, because I heard you scream for me, the complete opposite direction to where you were supposed to be! And the cannon shot and...” Something in him snaps, and hands meet the top of my arms hand, spinning me hard and fast, “I am sick of talking to the back of your head, just look at me!” I do, I move my eyes to meet his, wide and enraged.

I’d be scared of him if every word he was saying wasn’t true.

If it wasn’t things I’d gone over time and time again, hating myself to running after Peeta, being so stupid.

“All you had to do was stay with Beetee, just stay there and be safe where I knew you were.” He’s crumbling, as easily as I ever had, my eyes are adjusting so I can see him, see his eyes brimming. I can feel his hands tight on me shaking. “Why...” He bites the inside of his lip, eyes ripping from me and away from me. His voice falls to a desperate whisper for which I have no answer, “Why couldn’t you just have stayed there?”

I don’t have an answer for him. What can I say? That really, through it all, I liked Peeta? That I selfishly thought I could help him, stop him. Or that I didn’t think at all. My tongue feels too big for my mouth and I stumble over it, “I...I...I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Hands release me and he rubs his palms hard over his eyes, “Neither do...nothing. There’s...” He blinks hard, suddenly looking twice his age, I can’t peel my eyes away from his face. “I’m sorry.” I nod weakly, “I...I think we need to talk about things, Doctor Wyere said...”

“I don’t want to talk about things.” I rush again, and I don’t. “I can’t...”

Any sense of agitation seems to have left him and struck into me, the panic builds instantly, so strongly it’s hard to stay still. “Okay. I’ll talk. I need to talk.” I mute when I open my mouth, so dry it’s painful, and again I’m reminded of the arena. “Do you want to go talk to Thom?” I croak back a no and he frowns but drops it, “In the morning...” I manage and he accepts that.

“You want to stay in my room?” I know there’s no real choice. The conversation he wants to have is so long overdue it’s painful. I’ve been here three weeks, just over that. I was stupid to think everything in that six week period could be ignored, that we could just leave it and focus on now.

When he tentatively takes my hand, testing that I’ll let him I can feel the rough skin on his fingertips, where friction burnt had laid and damaged the top layers of flesh. I grip onto him tight, there’s no way of escaping the inevitable.

Finnick wants to talk so I’ll let him talk.

My eyes are sore when I steal into the bathroom, breathing still raspy, standing on tiptoes. I’d feigned sleep until he had eventually fallen into it himself. Head still reeling the clinical light was a comfort, although it made me wince, squint hard until my eyes stopped burning. I had no idea what time it was, but by now it had to be closer to morning to night, closer to dawn.

Finnick’s conversation had lasted for hours, and as reluctant as I had started it, I was thankful. Neither of us could claim to understand the others perspective of the last few months, nine weeks since the Games had ended now. Nearly ten since they had started.

For Finnick they had ended with the explosion, ended when the world that created that jungle collapsed and he was free. Free to suffer through the pain of the electrocution alone, with nobody here close to him. My brother too angry, his mentor and one of the people he held dearest dead before he could even see her. The games had ended but he’d entered something else, the thick skin on his fingertips was from rope, something Doctor Wyere suggested, making knots he knew, making and holding something so certain and real. Because I wasn’t here and he spent all time he had cognitive thought imagining what was happening to me. He tore himself apart, inside and out, games or no games.

He’d left them but I had entered another stage. Another fight for survival, the lying, the desperation to cling to realness. Pain that was almost as physical as mental. Speaking about it I tried to be callous but had failed, shaking, permanently close to weeping into his shoulder. I could never explain half of it and he didn’t push me. The nightmares had lasted for weeks, only broken to be tortured, to watch Peeta sink further into madness.

He’d kissed me then. I knew it was more to stop me crying and to calm me than because he wanted me to stop talking. He wanted to know everything; he wanted me to know everything.
I wanted to forget as much as possible.

That wasn’t and had never been an option. That was my problem, I was longing for resolution I would never had. All I could have was Snow dead he claimed, the knowledge it would never happen again, to us, to anybody else. That was worth fighting for.

When I’d asked if that’s what he was training for, combat, not show, not propaganda but because he wanted to be a part of it. He wanted a hand in destroying the Capitol, everything it stood for, Snow.

“How could I want anything different? After everything...” We were sitting by then, my back against his chest, feeling his heartbeat judder, out of sync with my own. His hands moved downwards, brushed over the thick skin of scarring on my knees. “You can thank Brutus for that. Not Snow.”

“Peeta took that pleasure from me. Katniss has already claimed Snow, as a part of her agreement to become the Mockingjay. Part of her deal with Coin.” His hands moved, catching the hem of one of the bedding t-shirts of his I was wearing.

“Do you have a deal with Coin?” I was scared of the reply.

“I have a deal with my conscience.” He pauses, lowers his voice, “I could have saved you and I didn’t. I wasn’t quick enough to stop them taking you...”

So easily he shifts the blame back to himself, “Finnick...”

“Let me finish.” I drop silent, “I can help to make it so nothing bad ever happens to you again, so it never happens to anybody. You know Plutarch’s idea, the council, a democracy.” Again the phrase doesn’t give me any comfort. I don’t trust Coin, and Finnick’s admission that Plutarch changed the rules of the Quarter Quell, persuaded Snow to make it victors that went back in doesn't help. He did it so this could happen, so there would be a reason for everyone else to rebel. He used us as puppets in the same way Coin was trying to.

“And what if you get yourself killed? What if you’re just another piece of propaganda?”

He takes a moment to respond. “I won’t. I...I promise.”

I have to trust this one, just like I trusted the others at the time.

But finally he slept and I took my chance to get into the small bathroom, white tiles reflect the light back over me. I’m going to see Thom before he goes, head there as soon as the morning alarm rings at seven. Wish him well, or rather, demand he is well and comes back soon.

Finnick says we can ignore the timetable, it won’t matter, not so soon after I’ve left the hospital, and people will understand where we are. I agreed, both because I need him, and because maybe I can persuade him to stay in Thirteen, let the fighting happen elsewhere. If Katniss, when she recovers, wants to hunt down the President, let her. She has as much reasoning, more so perhaps, than anybody else.

I want him dead but I don’t want to risk anybody else I care about for it. Thom is the last person I will let leave, and that’s only with the assurance he will return. They used to have Gods before all the catastrophes, before Panem. I read of it in school, and my father was always a wealth of knowledge with his illegal books. They used to pray, ask these invisible beings for favours, for help. I almost wish that was real. I’d pray for Thom.

Instead I’ll sink back into bed, avoid everything as much as possible. Just what I used to do. My life is a cycle but it always starts and ends in the same place, with the same person. Maybe it was worth doing something to break that, who knows? I’m mentally unstable, officially and I agree. I still see danger in every shadow, sometimes it feels like the tracker venom never fully left my body, that it sunk deep into the crevices of my brain and lingers there.

The self pity has never helped, it never will.

All it will do is trap me, watching others do more, risk their lives. The tiles are cool against my legs, calming but my eyes catch on the mirror, from my position only the edge of my shoulder is visible. I haven’t seen a true reflection of myself in as long as I’ve missed natural light. I’ve seen hints, marred versions on surfaces but I’ve avoided it.

Johanna had asked why and I’d had no real reason. I could see the front of me, feel the scars on either side of my forehead. I could imagine my back. Maybe that was worse, that I was imagining it rather than accepting reality. I’d never accepted reality, even when I was clawing for it through the hallucinations.

My tongue darts over my lips but I’m already awkwardly removing the shirt, short sleeve catching as I drag my still useless and coated arm free. I make a note to ask them to remove it as soon as possible, if there’s any other way to speed up the process. Nurse Forror has already said multiple times the nerve damage is the main issue, I could learn how to move my fingers properly, close to properly but I’d never have complete control. That seemed preferable to being part machine, amputation had been another option fired at me, a prosthetic, best they could do.

I wanted to keep as much of my flesh and bones as possible.

I walk to the mirror, shoving hair backwards as I come face to face with myself. The face isn’t too much of a shock, my cheeks are still a little too gaunt, tiny scars, already nearly gone, just short light lines adorn one cheek. Brutus and the peacekeepers were all right handed it appeared. My freckles are all but gone, completely faded and morphed back into normal skin that seems a little too tight over my nose and cheekbones. Even my lips seem pale, another scar follows the curve of my lower.

The main differences are the patches from the electrocution, where the skin burnt away at the rapid fire of the current. They can’t be bigger than coins, but they’re squarer, even with the edges of my eyebrows and perfectly in between them and my hairline. They were worse in my head, I’d imagined them a harsh red, a smear of blood colour. Instead they were pink, a light pink, the dimpling of the skin was more evident than the colour.

They’d be far easier to cover with make-up now then when Luine had tried. Marck joins me on the floor of the bathroom and I dig my nails into my palm until he leaves, staring hard into my weak blue eyes, my reflection looks as unsteady and scared as I feel.

I wait until I can breathe properly again and manoeuvre the mirror down, so I have a clear view of my chest. The same small square scars are dotted under my collarbones, over my breasts and ribs, they’re nothing, insignificant. The scar is the largest thing on my torso, from directly after the games. It stretches slightly around my side, big enough to remove my spleen and kidney.

They could have done it more neatly, with no mark, I know that. It clearly wasn’t their top priority and the scar is uneven, tinged a darker colour around the edges from the cauterization, the way they sealed me up. At least they did. I’m grateful now. Not just for myself, but because now I truly know how broken Finnick was, how much worse he could have become.

I wait a few minutes again before I twist to check my back. If my imagination of my forehead was worse than the real, surely this is the same.

It isn’t.

I take a sharp intake of breath when I spin, pull my hair over my shoulder. It’s every bit as bad as I imagined, although there is none of the blood which haunts me. The lines are thick, ridged, uneven and still pink, even with the mass of healing creams and injections I’ve suffered over the time here. It’s the pure amount that shocks me, and I search desperately, try to see if I can remember each one, can recall the time. For many I can’t, but the slices criss-cross all over my shoulder blades, down over my spine and ribs, some are thinner, starting to turn right but those redder ones are what I stare at, twist awkwardly to touch. I imagine a pain which is no longer there, my skin is healing, it will heal.

But the scars will remain.

Luine must have been horrified when she and Trix had seen me. I pinch the top of my arm to keep me present. Many should have had stitches, but instead a map of misery is laid out over bones and thin skin. My spine is practically stripy, each bump of bone bears its own vicious mark.

There’s three sharp raps on the door.

“Just a second.” I garble, forcing myself from my reflection and grabbing the t-shirt, just tearing it over my stomach as the door opens. I can tell from the careful way he positions his face he’s been there for a while, and he’s instantly drawn to the mirror behind me. “You okay, what were you doing?”

“Toil-,” I let my mouth slip back shut; that was the end of the conversation, something we had both decided was vital. We didn’t lie to each other, we’d try as best we could to explain anything the other asked, we had then and we’d carry that on. Finnick didn’t get to be a part of any secret plots without telling me, and I didn’t get to let things overwhelm me without him. I tell him I was trying to see, that I hadn’t looked properly, that I wasn’t sure why.

He nods slowly, still so delicately; all anger from earlier that evening, yesterday now is forgotten, swept away with the new tide. “And?...”

I shrug, although my throat closes up a little, “I knew it wasn’t pretty. So...” the pathetic attempt at being nonchalant doesn’t trick him for a moment, “I didn’t know...my back...I...It doesn’t matter, does it? Not...like the doctors were saying, I’m fine, excluding the hand, so scars d...don’t matter.”

“No,” he replies quietly, “No they don’t.” He smiles through my blathering and I can’t help but to return it, even if every time I blink I see every harsh line. “You want to come back to bed?”

“Yeah.” I breathe, and he smiles again, mouth closed and strained as I brush past him, crawling over the bed and lying firmly on my back. The room is uncomfortably dark again in contrast to the bathroom as he joins me, mimicking my position for a moment before he sits upright, as his face comes properly into view I can tell he’s thinking. “Come here for a second.”

“No Finnick.” I’ve had enough intensity for the day, “Go to sleep.”

He huffs but does as I ask, curling behind me so instinctively I twist onto my side, his arm resting gently on me for a second before it starts to move, catching the hem of the shirt again. I go to fight against him but he speaks first, rendering me immobile, “I don’t want you to be upset because of a few marks,” his fingers tingle up my spine, tracing over the worse ones still risen.

“I’m not.” I lie miserably, he acts like he doesn’t hear me.

“They’ll fade.”

“Not enough.” I finally answer, my heart in my throat, “None of it will fade enough.”

“No.” He agrees, “And it can’t. Otherwise it was for nothing. I won’t let any of it be for nothing.”

We’re back to this, his need for revenge. I roll onto my back, closer to him now, him leaning over me, looking down, “But you won’t get hurt.” I have to say it, to hear it again, “You promise.”

His eyes are intense, burning through mine, through me. “I promise.” I reach up and connect our mouths, this time nobody comes to interrupt us, he doesn’t stop himself through fear of hurting me.

I don’t think I would let him stop, not now, not after everything said. I cling to his promise, and the knowledge he’ll be here, with me. Properly now, if the rebels just do what they aim, if Finnick can keep his promise... There’s too many ‘ifs’ and I push them away, focusing purely on him, his sounds of pleasure are enough to make me forget anything else even exists.

And afterwards, my arm aching from being at an awkward angle, the other still spasming occasionally, he makes a show of kissing practically every scar on my sweaty back. He tells me that he loves me, more than he’s ever loved anyone and again falls asleep.

I don’t, I lay there rebating myself.

How pathetic, that my happiness, that my ability to feel alive, to truly feel like a person rather than a damaged shell is reliant on one person. It’s exhilarating and terrifying. But it’s true.

Without Finnick...it’s a world that doesn’t bear thinking about, I’ve spent many long hours believing in that world. I twist to distract myself, facing him again, admiring him. I awkwardly adjust my caged arm and wake him again with my lips.