TWISTED // Clato | ✓

Chapter 27: Terrorists Are Real

CLOVE'S POV:

Returning to my dark and ugly cell after my five seconds of freedom on TV is truly one of the hardest things imaginable. If being ripped from Cato right as we were saying farewells for who knows how long was not brutal enough, I am now picked up and tossed in my cell by the guards like I'm a convicted criminal. I don't belong in this cell. I don't belong in this city.

Maybe I don't even belong in this life.

I drop onto my mattress and bury my face in the pillow. I wish the tears would just come so I could let them out and be done with it, but instead, I just lie there with a coconut in my throat, barely able to feel anything. Maybe it's better that way.

I don't know how much time passes. The only sign of the departing hours is the gradual drift of sunlight along the concrete wall. 

Why can't I just die? I should be dead. Why won't they kill me now?

My will to live is diminishing. I will live here forever, a prisoner. Brought here for no reason, but with no escape. They will never let me out. I can try to persuade them. But if they won't even believe I'm sane, then how will they believe me when I honestly tell them that they will face wars, and even if they win them, things will change. This glorious city of New York will never be the same. It probably won't even exist, given that I've never heard of such a place in Panem.

My daily rations begin to be more and more full. I go from the scanty fare of little more than bread and water to more elaborate meals. I don't know whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. Good, because I now have better food. Bad, because it means I'm permanently situated here. That's how my keepers are viewing it, and I guess I'd better do the same.

I hear nothing about what reaction those who saw me speak have had regarding my warning. It probably barely matters anyway; to them I'm insane.

But David O'Brien said himself that he believed we were not mere psychopaths. True, he came up with this whole ridiculous alien story instead, but at least he did not attribute our strangeness to insanity.

Days pass, but I barely live in them. I am given a better bed, along with other possessions and pieces of furniture. Again, this can be viewed as comforting. Or just another sign reminding me that I am not free and never will be.

I see another inmate for the first time when Dr. Warren comes in and deposits a crazed young blonde woman in my room. "Hello, Miss Kentwell. We've assigned you a roommate. Her name is Arista Snider," he tells me.

I instantly take back everything I've wished for regarding another human being to share space with. I just wanted a companion; someone to talk to. Someone to remind me I'm not alone in the world. This woman was actually sent here for a reason. And she will not help me.

The worst part about her is her music. She's particularly obsessed with this one song, Lips Are Moving by someone called Meghan Trainor. Now, it's not a bad song. It's actually sort of catchy. But Arista plays it continuously, time after time, on the highest volume. Then she sings along at the top of her lungs:

I know you lie
Cause your lips are moving
Tell me do you think I'm dumb?
I might be young, but I ain't stupid
Talking around in circles with your tongue
I gave you bass, You gave me sweet talk
Saying how I'm your number one
But I know you lie
Cause your lips are moving
Baby don't you know I'm done

(A/N: For some reason I like to criticize stuff I actually like when I'm writing fanfictions; I actually like this song!! It just drives Clove nuts because she hears it too much. So no offense to Meghan Trainor fans)