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Do I still taste of war? Can you still feel the battles on my skin stitched across my back? Am I still rebuilding bone by fragile bone?
The train was the same in all its extravagance, but Cassia could not bring herself to rise from her bed. She ate dinner in her room the night before in the Training Center and now in the train on their way to District Four, she lay with her head on the pillow, staring at the chandelier above the bed. Her lunch of a turkey sandwich and creamy tomato soup was left untouched by the bed.
It must have been an unspoken rule that the victor have some alone time. No one came to retrieve her. They left her alone, even Finnick, whose gaze said more than the words he said to her. Every time she caught his eyes, she felt like she was on trial.
It was evening when she finally slid out of bed. Her body was sore. She pulled off her clothes and got into a pair of loose black pants and a thinly knit sweater. She threw her messy hair into a ponytail.
Walking into the corridor, she welcomed the dimly lit hallway. A few orange lights were attached to the wall, leading the way to the living room. She had never gone to this part of the train when she was a tribute. It was made of plush carpet and leather sofas and chandeliers and silver dining carts with bottles of amber liquid and tea trays of desserts.
In the silence of the train, Cassia went over to the cart. Her fingers brushed the glass bottles, listening to the faint clink as they knocked together. She grabbed a short glass and pulled the top off the decanter, filling the glass with the amber liquid. She could smell it immediately; strong and caramel and yeasty.
Alcohol was something she never felt the need to try before now. It seemed like a waste of time, and time was everything when you were a starving girl trying keep your family from dying. She knew of people in Four that walked around the square, reeking of alcohol and spewing nonsense. A part of her felt bad for them.
Staring at the liquid sloshing around in the glass, she sat down on the couch and, feeling her anxiety awaken, tipped her head back and drank. It burned like she was eating fire, but after a moment dulled to a nice ache.
"What are you doing?" Finnick's voice came from the entrance of the living room.
Cassia twisted her neck. He wore a t-shirt and sleep pants. His golden hair appeared dark brown in the low light. "Having a drink," she muttered. The effect of the alcohol was already making her feel loose and airy. She took another gulp that made her eyes water.
She didn't hear him saunter down to her and stand in front of her. "You'll get sick at the rate you're going. Give it to me."
She looked up at him. "No."
He held out his hand. "Cassia, please."
"Why should I? This is what I want." She curled her legs to her body.
