The Hunger Games: Retold

Chapter 7

I have trouble with the shower again this morning. Why would anyone even want this gritty, brown, puttylike scrub to ooze out all over them? I scrape it off and think at least Portia will be pleased by how smooth it makes my skin feel. Warily, I eye the control panel and poke at it hopefully. No luck, my rinse is definitely a brisk, peppermint wash. It smells alright but stings my freshly scrubbed skin mercilessly. I yelp a few times as I try to get all the grit without feeling flayed alive. Finally rinsed, I hop out, grateful to have escaped, and step onto the drying mat with relief.

Today's outfit isn't up to me, apparently. I pull on a pair of black pants that fit more snugly than I'm used to, but the long-sleeved burgundy shirt is comfortable and the leather shoes hug my feet perfectly. This must be the training outfit Cinna and Portia picked out. This will be good for the workouts. I try a few twists and bounce lightly on my toes. I glance at myself in the mirror and I'm taken aback because I don't recognize myself. Not because of the clothes, or the stylists' treatment, but even my eyes don't look right to me. It takes a minute, but I figure it out. I've accepted my death. How else could I be so detachedly thinking about how the stretchy pants will provide ease of movement when I'm learning to lunge at someone with a spear? I feel like I'm looking at a different person and I turn away, spooked.

Is this what Madge was alluding to as she bid me good-bye? I sit down on the edge of a soft, deep chair and put my hands on my knees. Closing my eyes, I think carefully about what's ahead of me. After a brief time training, and, to be frank, trying to beef up some of the more pathetic looking tributes, we'll be taken to an arena and expected to slaughter each other until only one of us survives. For the entertainment of the citizens in the Capitol who see it as a grand game. Who view us as little more than animals. I've never thought of it as more than a tragedy, an inescapable fate for an unlucky few who sputter briefly then blaze out forever. Now I wonder if I've been missing something. Has the terror, sown by the Capitol, kept us from realizing a larger tragedy? The Capitol can force us to die, but can they force us to change who we are as people? Will I die as Peeta, or as an unrecognizable playing piece of the Hunger Games? And worst of all, how far am I willing to sell myself out to get Katniss home? The questions whirl endlessly through my mind and I jump up, rattled. I pace the luxurious room and suddenly feel stifled by the decadence, dragged under by the weight of the extravagance. Feeling twitchy and on edge, I start at the knock on the door.

Haymitch stands in the hallway, a flask in his hand but clear-eyed. "What's eating you, Bread Boy?" he jeers. But his eyes meet mine and darken seriously. "Don't let it get to you," he says firmly. "If you get distracted, you're dead."

"Like it's a choice?" I retort. "Why not get it over with before I have to do something awful?" I sound petulant, I know I do, but I'm pleading here. "How did you do it, Haymitch? How could you-"

"You just do," he overrides gruffly. "Are you going to let your mother watch you roll over and get your brains beaten out without a fight? You just do it."

I desperately want advice, want an answer, a way out. But there's nothing. And he knows it. He looks at me with the same emptiness I feel. "Fine. Whatever. Let's go get this horror show over with." I start down the hall toward the dining room.

"That's the spirit," he praises hollowly, taking a long swallow from his flask. We enter the dining room where Katniss is already eating.

"Morning," I offer as I help myself to a plate of fruit and eggs. I add a few bread rolls and a slice of ham for good measure. The avox next to the table makes me a little sick. I'm on edge and sit quietly to eat while the others concentrate on their meals as well. Haymitch polishes off a truly heroic amount of stew and pushes back his plate with a leaden sigh. He tips up the flask for a long moment and then leans forward onto the table, all seriousness.