| The Jabberbird | THG |

Chapter 9

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I don't need a new love or a new life/ just a better place to die

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Katniss

Before he died, whenever he came home, my father used to tell me about the mines he worked in. His stories varied, but one was constant. That he lost track of time.

I never understood what he meant. Now, in the caverns of the capitol, I do. I haven't seen the sun or the moon since my last day in the arena. I never understood how disorienting it is. Up in the world, everything changes on the ground, but the days and the stars were always constant. Somehow I think I found that comforting, in the mess of everything, but it also gives a sense of stability, something I've somewhat lost. But my senses are intact enough to know i've been down here a long time.

They change my room (and my gown) promptly each day, afterwards. I'm not sure why. They could hardly think clean clothes and a clean room will wash the blood from my mind. I wish I knew what is going through their heads. I hate not knowing.

I hate not knowing if Prim is alive, I hate the way they can control me with her. My mother, Peeta and Gale too. I hate not knowing how empty Snow's threats are, when he can so easily puppet me with them.

But I wouldn't be able to live, or otherwise, with myself if I knew it was my words and actions that killed the people I love most. And wasn't that always the case? Protect my family first and foremost?

It's not just them anymore, a voice in the back of my mind whispers. 

I try not to think about it. 

I shift my weight on the cold marble. I've found that the corner of the room preserves my body heat the best, so that is where I am. It's also the furthest I can get from the eerie steel chair in the centre of the room, which seems to leer at me. If I knew where the door was I might try to stand next to it and jump the guard when he next comes in. But even if I did, I doubt I'd be able to stand for that long.

The one before the last was terrible. The last one was the worst so far. I think they're getting worse. The bruises are beginning to show, on my neck and arms. Deep green and purple things bulging out of my skin. I haven't seen my reflection since the prep for that first interview, but I'm pretty sure it would be covered with cuts and welts, and my eyes would be saggy from no sleep. Since then, they also tied my hands and feet to each other with high-tech stretchy rope, worried I'll give myself another concussion on the hard walls, I suppose.

I hear another one of Finnick's screams from next door, muffled by the stone in between us, but still grotesquely intelligible. I cover my ears with my fingers and try to think of different medicinal plants, where they are found, and what they are used for. It's a distraction anyway.

After some time, someone foot nudges me from behind, My muscles seize up and I jump to my feet, but the throbbing pain forces me to fall back to the ground. It's one of the guards. No. No. I think frantically. They just came, they can't come again. No.

I scramble back on all fours

"Get away!" I try to shout but my voice cracks and it becomes a hoarse whisper.

He crosses the distance in one great stride and lifts my in his arms.

"No! No! You can't!" I bring my knuckles back to hit him, but my weak blow glances of his helmet like it was made of smoke. He pins my arms underneath me and continues to walk. Out of the door.