I can still do this

chapter 5

Everything around me fades out. I barely feel awake, like I'm sleepwalking through the whole trip out of the arena. Cato helps me up into the hovercraft, and then we're separated.

They take me away and make me into a human again, cleaning off the blood and smoothing out my skin. There's only one thing I refuse to let them change - when they start to fix the claw marks over my eye, I twist and scream and generally throw a fit until they leave it alone. But I let them do whatever they want to me besides that, stick those tubes into me wherever they want, put me in horrid-smelling baths, because there's really no reason to fight. Everybody's going to hate me at home. I killed Peeta. He's dead. And for some unfathomable reason, I'm not.

Once we're back on the ground, I'm whisked away to a sterile room where Flavius, Octavia, and Venia are waiting excitedly. They chatter about the state of my nails, my hair, my everything, working themselves into an over-excited lather. I don't have the energy to be annoyed with anything they say, because all I can think of is that Peeta's dead.

Then Cinna walks in while they fuss about me in a chair. "She looks great," he says firmly. I glance at myself in the mirror and realize I do. Somewhere along the line while they were complaining about me, they put my hair up in a complicated series of loops, swept dark makeup over my face, and made me look radiant, even though all I feel is dead. Even the four parallel scars over my right eyebrow and cheek look good, giving me a battle-hardened air that is so appropriate I can barely believe it. "You can leave now," Cinna says politely, but it's obviously an order.

Now we're alone in the room together. I can't look at him. He knew Peeta, too, and I killed him. "Katniss," he says gently. "How are you feeling?"

"Nothing." I keep my eyes on the ground.

"I know losing Peeta must've been hard on you," he began to say.

"Not losing him. Killing him," I correct him. "I killed him."

Cinna nods solemnly. "The makeup is waterproof, just in case. Stand up." I obey robotically, and then he takes my head in his hands like he did before the game. "He was a wonderful boy. But I bet on you," he says slowly. "You came out of that alive. And I couldn't be more proud of you."

His words are kind, as usual, but I don't have enough left inside me to be comforted. "What am I wearing?" I ask woodenly.

He regards me thoughtfully, then lets me change the subject. "I made the perfect dress for you," he says, smiling a little.

And he's right. The dress is spectacularly sad. Instead of hot and fiery, this dress is dark and muted. The skirt is black as pitch, fading into a soft grey in the bodice. No sleeves, but semi-opaque lace trails down my arms like tendrils of smoke. I'm wearing what I am: a burned-out, broken remnant of my former self.

He makes a few final adjustments, then puts his hand on my shoulder. "You can do this," he says, and escorts me towards the stage. I walk stiffly, like I'm surrounded by fog, doing my best to not think, because I have no idea how I'm going to talk and answer nosy questions about how I feel about these damned games. And then I register belatedly that Haymitch is standing backstage with Cato and his mentor, waiting for me.

Maybe a victor should show more restraint, more superiority, especially when she knows this will be on tape, but I don't care. I run for them and surprise even myself when I launch into Haymitch's arms and start to cry. When he whispers in my ear, "Nice job, sweetheart," it doesn't sound sarcastic.

"I'm a terrible person," I hiccup into his shoulder. "I can't do this. I can't."

"You can, and you're going to," he says firmly, then adds, "Though it would've been easier if you'd just killed that Career while you had the chance."