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❝ welcome to your life, ❞
❝ there's no turning back. ❞
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
WHEN I AWAKE, I'M TOO AFRAID TO MOVE AT FIRST. THE ENTIRE CEILING GLOWS A SOFT YELLOW LIGHT, and my body is located onto a single, narrow bed. I notice tubes going in and out of my arms, holding me down, and the sharp smell of medicine travels through the room.
A gown drapes over my body, caressing my skin that somehow feels smooth, unscarred. I lift my hand up in awe, because not only has it been scrubbed clean, the nails are filed in perfect ovals, the scars from the burns are less prominent. I touch my cheek, my lips, my bruises, and am just running my fingers through my silken hair in shock.
I whip my head upwards when the sound of a redheaded Avox girl entering the room is made. The sight of someone sends waves of relief through my body. I'm not alone.
I want to submerge her in a million questions, but I know I'm being monitored. They're watching me, watching her.
I risk one question. "Is Cato here?" I ask, my newly raspy voice unrecognisable. The girl shoots me a discreet glance, but fails to translate any sort of message. Fright paralyses me, and I start to ponder on all that could have happened to him.
It could have been too late to save him. He could be dead, right now, while I live and breathe.
The Avox exits the room almost immediately, firmly shutting the door behind her, leaving me to face my solitude all over again.
You'd think that I'd be relieved to finally be out of the games, in this mysterious and suffocating room. But no, I want to scream, to run, to go home. Most of all, I want to get out of this bed. To see Haymitch and Cinna, to find out more about what's been going on. And why shouldn't I? I feel fine.
As I start to work my way out of the band, I feel a cold liquid seeping into my vein from one of the tubes and almost immediately lose consciousness.
This happens on and off for an indeterminate amount of time. I seem to be in a strange, continual twilight. Only a few things register. The redheaded Avox girl has not returned since then, my scars are disappearing, and do I imagine it? Or do I hear a man's voice yelling? Not in the Capitol accent, but in the rougher cadences of home. And I can't help having a vague, comforting feeling that someone is looking out for me.
Then finally, the time arrives when I come to and there's nothing plugged into my right arm. The restraint around my middle has been removed and I am free to move about.
I start to sit up but I am arrested by the sight of my hands. The skin's perfection, smooth and glowing. Not only are the scars from the arena gone, but those accumulated over years of hunting have vanished without a trace.
