The Hunger Games (Peeta's Point of View)

Chapter Twenty Six

I wrench my hand away from my mouth and splutter out the berries, watching as they tumble to the floor like marbles. With Katniss' hand still in mine, I pull her to the lake, making sure she washes out her mouth with water. I do the same, and the water that spurts out of my mouth is tainted a deep purple.

"You didn't swallow any?" she asks.

Gasping as I lie in her arms, I shake my head, and say, "You?" It's all I can manage.

"Guess I'd be dead by now if I did."

"What do you think this will mean?" I ask, thinking back over the previous Games. There has never been no victor, or two victors, before. Will things be different now? Then I check myself- no, of course not. The Games must go on.

The screams of the crowd are deafening and they drown out my words- the Gamemakers must be playing it over the speakers. They sound ecstatic. How thrilling it must be for them. Overhead, the hovercraft appears, and drops not one, but two ladders. But Katniss has no intention of using both, and she holds on to me as I climb on. It takes a few tries- a slashed leg makes movement just a tad harder- but eventually we're clinging on for dear life, even though the current freezes us in place, Katniss' arms around me. I'm grateful for that, because my hands were shaking like I'm a morphling addict before the current put a stop to it. My discomfort with heights resurges as we're lifted far above the treetops so I close my eyes- and don't open them again- for as soon as we're hoisted onto the hovercraft, my legs buckle, and unconsciousness claims me.

When I am freed from its clasp, I feel no pain. Feeling so painless is an alien sensation since that's all I've been subject to in the past weeks, either physically or mentally or both. So it's no surprise that I'm weary to open my eyes. The blackness of my closed lids is somewhat comforting because the colour is constant, as opposed to the confusion that exists outside of my eyelids. Anything could be with me- mutts, other tributes, death- and I'd rather not watch my demise. The people of Panem don't have a choice but I do, and I'd exercise that to prove I'm much more than a piece in their Games.

Then a spot of crimson invades the black, meaning someone is shining a light in my face. Instinctively I shut my eyes even tighter, but curiosity takes over, and I open my left eye, cautiously. I can see a surgeon, swathed in normal uniform instead of the gaudy Capitol garb, with a mask stretched over his mouth like a second skin. In one hand he brandishes a small torch, its bulb with a radius of about half a centimetre, and in the other he wields a syringe of pale yellow liquid. He says nothing for a second and just observes my reaction, then puts the torch on a metal table behind him and scribbles something down in a black bound notebook. With his back to me, I'm free to look around- or as much as I am able. Something is restricting movement in my neck, perhaps a neck bracer that's stronger than it feels, and discomfort rather than agony prevents my eyes from flitting about. All I can make out is a network of tubes coming in and out of my body, pumping around a variety of different substances, like an extra venous system. One liquid looks suspiciously like blood.

The surgeon turns to face me and says, "You're making great progress, Peeta." By the sound of his voice, I think he might be smiling behind the mask. "We've finished operating on you, now, so we'll be monitoring you before you get cleaned up and prepped for your makeover."

I try to nod in response but the bracer prevents all movement.

"Also, we've amputated your leg."

The way in which he spoke was so blunt that the words take a few moments to permeate the barrier that the drugs have formed. When they do, I feel the blood drain from my face. I was in no way prepared for that. A guttural moan escapes my lips.

"Your new one should work just as well, if not, better." Should. The doctor sounds suspiciously cheerful again. I want to speak, find the answers to all the questions that are floating around my head, but my lips are seconds behind my brain, and nothing comprehensible comes out of them. The doctor holds up the syringe. "But you don't have to worry about that just yet. It's best that you're not conscious for the preparation," he continues, "the body scrubs can be quite painful on new skin."