Hijacked

Chapter 19

DISCLAIMER: This is another chapter in which I will be using text from the book as the basis of my dialogue. This will continue through the next two chapters, so I apologise. The dialogue is therefore Suzanne Collins’s and not mine. Thank you and I hope you enjoy the chapters.

That night I hear the faint sounds of people laughing and singing at the Odair’s wedding. I’m not there, of course. I’m sat in my room, surrounded by doctors, whilst I’m asked for the millionth time whether I want to do this, because I can always back out.

“Are you quite sure?” one asks

“Yes.” I reply

“Because, it’s perfectly understandable if you don’t wish to continue with this.” Another tells me and they all nod.

“I’m not backing out. I’d like to do this.” I repeat once again.

They exchange a look and my doctor nods at them.

“He wishes to do this, so he shall, and we shall support him in any way we can.” She says kindly

I smile at her gratefully.

“Thank you.” I say gently.

So, they set to work attaching tubes to my arms and waist which will pump a knockout drug into me if I lose control. I wince as they inject me with a painkiller so they can insert the tubes, and relax back against the bed as the painkiller takes effect. I watch in a daze as the doctors mill around me. I feel a slight pressure as the restraints are tied to my limbs. I’m so sleepy with painkillers and sedative that I’m starting to question whether I’ll be able to stay awake to see - let alone speak to - Katniss. The doctors leave, making reassuring sounds. My doctor leaves last, shutting the door behind her.

“Good luck.” She says softly and the door clicks shut.

By midnight, Katniss still hasn’t made an appearance. The painkillers have worn off, though I’m not in any pain. The drugs that relaxed me have worn off, but I’m not particularly on edge. I feel…fine. My main concern is that I keep hearing the clocks chime the hour, but Katniss is still not here. So I lay awake, wondering why. Is she scared of me? Does she think I’ll hurt her? Does she just hate me? The thoughts swirl and reverberate about my mind, keeping me awake. The clock chimes midnight and I give up. She’s not showing up. I close my eyes and let my head turn to the door as I start to drift off.

Then there’s a click, a recognisable click. The door. My eyes fly open and lock on her face. There she is. Katniss.

She comes into the room, pulling the door shut behind her. With careful, quiet steps, she comes and stands by the bed. Well, a metre or so away. I eye her warily, though not particularly angrily. There’s a strange heaviness in my chest. It’s an odd feeling; not quite anger. Something else, something I can’t place. Katniss crosses her arms over her chest in a way that comes across as pretty defensive. Her stance puts me on my guard, too. Though, frankly, I’m not sure why.

“Hey.” She says.

Hey. Hey? The first word I’ve heard her say since the arena – and I can’t even remember that – is “hey”? How on earth do I reply to that?

“Hey.” I reply.

What else is there to say?

“Haymitch said you wanted to talk to me.” She tells me.

“Look at you for starters.” I decide, raking my eyes slowly from her head down to her toes and back again.

I don’t remember her looking quite like this. She’s smaller than I remember, not quite as striking. Is it possible that my own adoration of her actually changed what I saw? Was I seeing her through love-blurred eyes? Maybe…

“You’re not very big, are you?” I point out. “Or particularly pretty?”

She scowls at me, looking utterly hilarious. I fight back a grin.

“Well you’ve looked better.” She retorts.

I laugh, suddenly. The glower on her face is comical and I smile. She’s angry, and it’s quite amusing.

“And not even remotely nice.” I grin. “To say that to me after all I’ve been through.”

“Yeah. We’ve all been through a lot. And you’re the one who’s known for being nice,” she reminds me. “Not me.”

Yes, clearly not, I think to myself. Because you don’t seem even vaguely friendly. However, she does look a little guilty, though still angry. She starts to back away, towards the door.

“Look, I don’t feel so well.” She tells me. “Maybe I’ll drop by tomorrow.”

Then a memory surfaces, vivid and clear and colourful. A memory I need to talk to Katniss about, right now. Because no one – no one – else will understand.

“Katniss. I remember about the bread.” I whisper.