Splintered

Chapter Twenty-Six: No Rest For The Caged

The ceiling texture of her bedroom-shaped cage was much less interesting than that of home. Even then, she could only marvel at it for so long before her mind moaned in sheer boredom and sleep deprivation. Yet, the actual rest felt as distant as District Seven. Hazel repositioned in the foreign bed, but no matter how often she moved, she found no reprieve.

Whiffs of animal hides and game furs filled her nostrils each time she twisted her depleted limbs. It had her longing for the aroma of wood grain, pine, and a fiery hearth.

Rolling onto her side again, she gaped at the door. The only benefit of being locked inside was she didn't have to contend with Sable watching her all night.

Snaking her hand into the coolness under the pillow, she mindlessly ran her fingers over the stash beneath it. She petted the items like they were her companions, from the sturdy leather handle of the knife to the plasticky surface of the pill bottle, the smoothness of the poor man's diamond, the metallic edge of Grace's coin, and finally, the bulky cassette player.

I am becoming a hoarder.

A bittersweet scoff escaped her.

Alder would be so proud.

The last one toyed with her mind. Its smooth structure was chilly against her skin, but more so, the contents of the cassette secured within made her shiver.

She hadn't dared play it again since her panic attack with Leo. Hell, she wasn't even sure it still worked.

Dragging it free from the pillow's underbelly, she toggled the play button. After a lengthy pause, a horrid screech rushed out from the machine. It was an ear-bruising mix of a cat-like shriek and grinding gears. Slamming her finger against the button, the sound died though her pulse was immensely alive. Despite the noise, her door remained sealed.

Regret prickled at her rash reaction the last time she played it. At least sound had been something. Now, she was left with silence, which meant her mind could conjure its own horrors. Without answers, the unknown would haunt her more than the truth ever could.

And that was a torture that guaranteed numerous more sleepless nights of ceiling observation.

The pills rattled against the container as she adjusted once again.

Maybe Bellona was right, and I should just take one.

Forget about all of this, at least for a few hours.

Despite her resistance, they did promise a harbor from her obsessive thoughts. They spun through her mind like a wheel, rotating over and over the same territory: the tape, her ghost visitors, Augustus's anger, Indira's disappointment, the day's events overall, and, of course...Snow.

He extolled the virtues of truth yet kept it from her.

He insisted on their little game but became like a cornered wolf when she played in ways he didn't predict.

He was hungry but reluctant to eat as if even nourishment had to be taken on his own terms.

He hated cabbage but ate it anyway.

He upheld their charade, yet after the kolaches—after his questions and answers—the line between real and fake was fading. Yet he was the one to comment about boundaries being lost.

The man was a walking contradiction with perfect hair.

Returning to her staring contest, the ceiling, and the patterned texture, something fiddled in the back of her mind. She memorized the swirls and patches that had been left there by the trowel.