Charlotte POV
After I first woke up and saw Dan again, I've had nothing else to do. I feel broken. They've been telling me that they're going to show me my Games, that it is the only way to convince me to believe "what really happened".
The truth is, I don't remember much of anything. All I can remember is that Dan dragged me into this with one stupid decision. I'll admit I was gullible enough to go along with it, but still. That's why I believe both of us should be dead.
I then look down to my wristband, and it reads:
Charlotte Faye. 15 years old. No known allergies/ailments.
Last I remember, I was fourteen. However, I guess that my birthday came and went while I was in the Capitol. I wonder how much my dad cried that day.
After a while, the padded shackles that they have me locked in make me feel like I'm still in the Capitol, even if here they aren't hurting me. The sound of only a heart monitor and nothing else is very disturbing, and so I force myself back to sleep, trying to hold onto whatever good memories that will make me drift off.
Dan POV
I eventually find the room, and I discover that the only deviation it has from a normal hospital room is the lack of windows. I ponder for a moment whether I should even enter the room, whether I should risk doing something wrong or getting caught.
I gingerly turn the door handle, and then I slowly enter the room. I'm surprised to see that Charlotte is asleep, but then I assume that she's been drugged like I was.
I pull up a chair next to the bed, trying to make as little noise as possible. I can feel my morphling wearing off, and with no supply coming to my veins, I begin to feel the true pain of what Charlotte did to me.
Her face does not look relaxed; she looks as if she's concentrating. Still, the steady rhythm of the beeping monitors and her slow breaths make me feel a gentleness that I haven't felt since before the Games. I reach out with my good hand, holding onto one of her hands like a lifeline.
Alive and safe.
I sit there for a few minutes, just gently stroking her hand, not daring to disturb the shackles that bind her. I wonder what it must feel like for her...the idea that she doesn't know what's real and what's not. Perhaps she doesn't even know that anything is wrong with her.
Suddenly, I hear the pace of the heart monitor speed up, and Charlotte's hand goes stiff in mine. Slowly, I lift my head, and I find that her eyes have opened, and that she's staring at me.
She looks scared.
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
"I wanted to see you," I whisper plainly.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispers back.
"Why not?" I ask.
"Because all I can do is hurt you."
"Well, since you're quite literally bound to the bed, you can't this time."
"Why did you leave me?"
"It wasn't my choice. Believe me."
"Well it wasn't my idea to break out of the Arena."
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I say, feeling the guilt creep back up on me.
Charlotte then says in a small voice, "You look at me and you can see a thousand memories. I look at you and I can't give you the same."
"You don't remember anything?" I ask.
"No."
"What about before the Arena? What can you remember from then?"
She sighs. "Home."
"That's a good place to start. Do you remember Reaping Day?"
"Vaguely. I remember being on the stage and I remember hearing your name being called. Pretty much everything between then and the end of the Games is a blur."
"Pretty much?"
"I get fragments sometimes. Just a few little things like the elevator with the girl from Two, seeing the city lights, waking up in the beds."
I scrape my mind for something she could remember. Something that wasn't broadcast or talked about...something behind closed doors...
"Charlotte," I ask, "Do you remember the night you came to my room?"
"What do you mean?" She asks, perplexed.
"I had a nightmare and you came to check on me," I explain, "That's something that only you and I know about."
Charlotte closes her eyes and thinks hard. "Your room?" she asks.
"Yes."
Then, she opens her eyes, which now are wet with tears.
"I remember," she whispers. Now, I'm crying too. I let out a grateful sigh, and I put both of my hands over hers.
"That's a good start," I whisper back, mimicking my own words from earlier.
"Will we ever be able to go home?" she asks.
"No. According to the world, we're dead," I explain.
Her face turns to stone. "What will happen to our families?"
"My family is here-" I blurt out, not realizing what the consequences of this may be.
"Dan..." she questions, "What about my dad?"
