This Isn't Me ↠ Sequel to INWYTIA ↠ Team Crafted and Hunger Games Fanfiction

Chapter 5: Secret Mister

Jason

"How's she doing?" I asked Thalia nervously.

"Fine." Thalia was scanning all the recent Capitol News tapings. 

Thalia and I didn't necessarily hate each other. Here in District 13 where everyone was all about teamwork, it was hard to openly hate someone who was in your training group.

Yet everyone but me managed to do it to Vena anyway.

Jerome also openly hated me, but Mitch and Thalia simply put up with me to a certain degree. In cases like this, I went to Thalia to vent about my worries. She understood better than Mitch about my worries concerning Snow.

"Are you sure?" I asked for the twentieth time.

"Yes Jason. She seems to be eating fine and there's no sign of torture." Thalia paused. "She just seems...not like herself."

"Not like herself how?"

"She's just, I don't know, she's more angry than confident."

"Okay?"

Thalia glared at me. "That's unusual for her." She snapped. Her tone was condescending. 

"Okay." I said simply.

"You're impossible." Thalia groaned throwing her hands up in exasperation. She stood and walked away from me briskly. No doubt she was going to find someone to rant to about my stupidity.

"Nice seeing you too." I muttered under my breath. I watched the Capitol News Tapings myself. 

Snow did seem weird. 

Almost like she wasn't herself.

Snow

"How are you Miss Pristeen?" A Capitol attendant rushed into the room nearly seconds after I woke up.

"I'm fine." I said coldly.

"Can I get you anything? Water? A change of clothes perhaps? Order breakfast or-"

"I said I'm fine." I snapped as I put on my black training gloves. All of a sudden, my left side twitched violently. "Thank you. Please leave now." I heard myself say. "Tell Coriolanus I'll be in the training room in twenty minutes. I don't want an attendee in there."

"Yes Miss Pristeen." The attendant bowed before fleeing the room. 

I walked over to the mirror on the other side of my room and stared at my reflection. If you looked carefully, you could see scars on several places. A few peeked out from beyond my gloves on my knuckles. A small one ran across my left temple. If I turned around and moved my hair to the side, you'd notice the long, not quite healed scar that traced my neck. 

With a low sigh, I picked up the dagger that lay on my bedside table. My nerves tingled as I turned the blade in my hands. Like before, my hand twitched slightly. The doctors here called it PTSD. They said that even though my mind couldn't recall the memories of the arena very well, my body remembered every last detail. I'd seen the tapes though. I watched I had gone through. Heck, President Snow had shown me the videos of the Games so often they were practically my memories. For weeks I'd analyzed my competitors in the arena. Tracking their strengths and weaknesses so I'd have the upper hand. 

Slowly, I put the dagger down and instead picked up the pen next to it. My skin became my canvas as I doodled over it. Of course the Capitol had actual professional canvases I could use, but I preferred my own body. It seemed more personal that way. 

I glanced at the clock frequently, careful to not lose track of time like I had done many times before. When I was left with five minutes, I put my pen back next to the dagger and stood.