GONE (The Hunger Games)

Turn me into something I'm not

It’s been a few days since the interview, and I’m back in my horrid cell. Three days to be exact. The only way I can tell the time and amount of days that pass is by the tiny little window at the end of the prison corridor, where the sun peeks through during the day, and the moon peeks through during the night. According to the window, it is currently around midday. I’m sitting here bored and once again injured, with the small meal of a banana and a glass of milk left untouched by the right hand wall of my cell. The Capitol gives us only this meal twice a day, but right now, my breakfast is left alone as I’m too frustrated to eat anything, even though my stomach says otherwise. 

I look around the prison and cell for what seems like the thousandth time, and my gaze falls over to Darius, who is taking a small sip from his glass of milk uneasily, due to the absence of his tongue. How horrible it must be, to have no tongue and no hand. All the discomfort and effort into doing just the smallest of things. The Capitol’s doings just make me even more sick because of this.  

To look at him like that just makes me feel so hopeless, that I can’t be part of the rebellion that’s working to stop all of this because I’m stuck in this hell room. I lay down onto my back, the hard cold concrete floor jamming into my scapula bones. I wince slightly at the little burst of pain but before I know it I fall asleep, quite oblivious to my exhaustion from before. 

*

I am rudely awakened by a strong hand pulling me up to a standing position. I stumble slightly due to the obvious fact that I just woke up! I turn around to see two peacekeepers already grabbing me again and starting to half drag, half pull me out the prison and down a hallway. Great! I think bitterly. This is definitely going to be a torture session, because I’ve recognised the route we are taking, and it leads right to the “interrogation room”. 

Now that I’ve woken up slightly more, and have taken control of my buzzing thoughts, I quickly shrug off the peacekeepers arms that painfully drag me to the room so I can walk by myself without all their caring support. Once we arrive outside the room, the peacekeepers open the door, and shove me in, locking the door from behind. In front of me another peacekeeper brings me over to the centre of the room, where there is the same hard metal chair, with manacles at the arms and legs that keep me bound to the chair when they ask me all I know about the rebellion the many times I’ve come here. She (the peacekeeper, I can tell by her slight feminine posture, because her face is covered by the peacekeeper uniform mask)  thrusts me onto the chair, and I quickly try to scramble into a slightly more comfortable position before she roughly binds my wrists and ankles in the manacles that are attached to the chair.  I don’t try to fight her off because I know it will be completely useless.  Once she has fixed all the manacles securely into place, she walks back to a corner of the room silently, and stands there with her hands behind her back and her head fallen on her chest- a type of posture that would make them look unnoticed, but still there if anything happened. 

I sit there limply, my eyes darting around to see what’s going to happen next. A full five minutes pass before the main door that I entered through swings open, and my interrogator/beater walks in, followed by a peacekeeper, President Snow and another peacekeeper, the two peacekeepers there, obviously, for the old snake’s protection. But President Snow does not usually come to these interrogation sessions, so his presence is enough to have my eye brows raised. 

“President Snow? Again? Why is it that I am having your presence owed to me a lot lately?” I ask with a strong sarcastic edge to my voice.