The Hunger Games: Victor

Chapter 11

I need to get rid of it. It’s my first thought when the doctor leaves the room to make way for my stylists, a bunch of new people with strange colours of skin and oddly large brows. I need to get rid of the life growing in me. I can’t subject it to the life I’ve had. To the constant fear of fire and death and starvation and darkness.

If you can stop this revolution, you can spend the rest of your lives together here in the Capitol. Your children will never be in the Hunger Games, you will never starve or do hard labour. You will live the life that you deserve.

Is Snow lying? Will my children and I be free from everything? Will Harry?

My gut says no. I look at the oddly coloured people prodding at me and all I can think about is that they’re artificial. Artificial people have no room for truths, and Snow is as artificial as they come. I know there is no way he will stand by his word, even though I desperately hope he will. There’s a dryness in the back of my mouth when I think about what Snow will do to Harry. He’ll kill him, no doubt. He’ll kill him, and Niall, and everyone else that dared to cross him. He’ll even kill me for becoming the replacement of the bird whose wings he had already crushed.

I’m no longer a mockingjay, I’m just a sitting duck.

The stylists hand me a dress to put on, and one of them says something that is inaudible in their gruff voice.

“Pardon?” I say, barely a whisper.

“Put this on and be ready to go on live in 20 minutes,” they repeat. I nod. Live. Live broadcast. Live broadcast begging Harry and everyone else to end the revolution. The broadcast where I have to tell everyone that I’m expecting a child and I’m desperate to end the war. That I’ve seen Snow’s side and agree. That I’ve betrayed them, and my morals, and Primrose and Katniss, and everyone who has died for this war and for the games and for the luxury of the Capitol.

I slip on the dress and ignore the pit in my stomach making me nauseous. Pit or baby? I can’t tell the difference.

The dress is a pretty little thing, a very light yellow in colour. I look in the mirror to get a full glance at myself and the dress. It has floral patterns on it, tiny pink spirals of petals and vines dancing around the fabric. It’s the longest dress the Capitol has donned me with. The make-up job too is incredibly different from the past. My eyes are not adorned like a fierce warrior or a nymph; they are soft and sweet like a mothers. My hair is up in a bun, with curls framing my face. My cheeks are rosy and gentle. Then I look down more at myself and notice a new feature I did not have before. Sewn into the dress is a push up, though not on my breasts as the Capitol usually does. The push up is on my abdomen, making me look pregnant.

Well, further along than I am.

It makes me even more sick to my stomach, but I force myself to smile. I have to fool them all.