| The Jabberbird | THG |

Chapter 5

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 and every time they screamed/ they sounded like machines to me.

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Katniss

My scream cuts off sharply when the man kicks me in my ribs, I look down, and see the blood from his shoe staining my gown, so much that is starts to wet my bare skin underneath.

I lift my eyes to his face, his visor is lifted, I guess he couldn't see through all the blood on the glass. His eyes are black, giving the impression that he only has one, huge, pupil. The thin strip of white around it is bloodshot, they stare at me, unfeeling, with no hint of emotion save humour. Humour? He just tortured two people, saw their blood pool around the steel chair and stain his boots, and his expression is more like one who just got the punchline of an old joke. 

I guess this is the manner of the capitol, they see so much violence, so much death each year in the games that the reality of it doesn't compute with their brains. They're so cut off from the people on screen, barely even recognise them as people. When you are in the districts, and someone you love, even your neighbour, or someone who goes to your school, dies, you feel it, really feel it. Not here. They have never met the people in the games, never even knew their names, and don't have to worry about people or themselves being reaped. So they see the blood, enjoy it, but don't understand what it really means.

I shuffle backwards on my hands and knees and hit a wall. He advances towards me, his gloved arm outstretched, I think they used to be white. I can't tell anymore.

I know there is nothing I can do to stop the inevitable, this man is huge, strong, and armoured. And what am I? Skinny, concussed, and injured. But it doesn't stop me struggling to get out of his arms when they lift me into the chair.

The steel is ice against my legs as I push my elbow towards his face, he brushes it away lazily, his hand drawing the metal chains over my lap like a seatbelt, securing them at my side. He clamps metal cuffs over my wrists attached to the sides of the chair, next to my thighs. I shout and try to get them out, but these cuffs are small enough to accommodate my tiny wrists, I feel blood trickle into my clammy palm.

He brings out the club, his expression menacing, and strikes me once on the shoulder, the impact throbs, but it hasn't broken the skin. I realise that it's in their best interest to torture me so it hurts, but doesn't show, so they can still paint me all pretty for the tv.

He does it again, and again. I wildly try to think of something to latch onto, to picture, to use to tune out of what's happening. My mind scoots over various images as he hits me on the other shoulder, but my conscience goes past days hunting with Gale, my father's singing, and Rue's smile, and instead lands on a pair of blue eyes.

I close my eyes and hold onto that as they shoot the electricity through my body.

At intervals, he shouts demands into my ear.

"What are the rebel's next plans!?"

"Who is their leader!?"

"When do they plan to strike next!?"

"Where!"

"Why!?"

"What!"

"When!"

"Tell me and you can save them all, you can save yourself" I can feel the smile in his voice at that one.

I can only scream at his requests, because am horrifyingly clueless, and am in no state to come up with plausible lies, before the pain comes again, and Peeta's eyes are all that keeps me sane.

A/N-Again, short chapter, but i thought this was a good place to end it, (chapter) otherwise it would've gone on for a while) Please vote and comment, it means a lot and doesn't take that long. Message me if you think i could do better and know how, i like constructive criticism. 

quote (if you didn't know it already )- Hunter- San Cisco