The gentle sound of rain rapping against a windowpane pulls me into consciousness. I try to force my eyes open but find it's an arduous challenge. My eyelids are so heavy, almost like something is holding them shut. And it takes but a moment to realize that not only do my eyelids feel as solid as bricks, but so does my entire body. It's like my muscles are made of hardening cement and there's molasses slogging through my veins. I can barely move.
I manage to open my eyes enough to allow me to see a tiny sliver of my surroundings. I'm lying on a comfortable mattress, tucked beneath silken sheets, wearing nothing but undergarments. The room I'm in is dark and silent, aside from the rain drumming against the glass. I strain to turn my head. There's a large window to my right that's coated with raindrops. It looks like the middle of the night outside. Except, through the speckles of rain, I see glimmering lights in the distance that light up the night sky. Even through the dense fog clouding my mind, I know it must be the skyscrapers of the Capitol, twinkling like fireflies on a dark evening.
There's a mask over my nose and mouth. It's pumping cool air down my throat every time I take a breath. I must not have been breathing, or at least not very well, while I was out. I struggle to lift my arm and see that a series of tubes are embedded in my skin. Although it's nauseating to think about all those needles, I can't help but focus primarily on how little my right arm hurts. It feels as good as new.
An idea strikes me then. I wiggle my left fingers, try to bring my hand into my sliver of vision. A dull wave of excitement courses through me when I realize there's no pain with my movements. There's not even a scar anymore to remind me of what happened to it. It's like I have an entirely new hand.
Thunder rumbles outside and rattles the windowpane. I'm already exhausted, completely worn out by merely turning my head and lifting my arms. I don't know what they injected into my system, but it's still streaming through my blood. I can't move. I can barely think a coherent thought; it should probably come as no surprise to me when I pass out again.
The next time I wake, I feel even worse than before. My throat is dry and scratchy. There's still a mask over my face. My stomach churns, muscles feel like the cement in them has finally hardened. Judging by the soft orange hue painting the ceiling above me, though, dusk must be approaching. So it looks like another whole day has passed. I thought the Capitol's elaborate medicine would make me feel better by now, or at least not like a walking corpse, but apparently not.
Faintly, I hear a conversation. I don't think I'm completely conscious because it sounds like I'm underwater. The voices are garbled and muffled. I force my eyes open, but only just a crack, and see the indistinct outlines of two people standing at the foot of my bed. I fight to clear the fog in my brain, struggle to wake myself up. As my fuzzy vision slowly comes into focus, my spirits begin to lift when I realize one of them looks like none other than Bobby Singer. I start to feel a smile pull on my lips until I notice the person he's talking to is wearing a white coat.
A white coat.
Cas.
How could I forget? How did I not make the connection when I looked at my clean hands, my perfectly polished and filed nails? They were no longer stained with his blood, and yet all I could register was the fact that my own pain, my own insignificant injuries, had been fixed. Guilt claws at my heart. How could I forget about something so horrible? While I've been lying in bed, dazed and marveling at my recoveries, he's probably been put through so many distressing tests and surgeries and who knows what else while the Capitol doctors desperately try to save his life. If he's even still alive, that is.
Dread weighs down on my chest. Suddenly I'm thankful for the oxygen mask strapped to my face. I hadn't even considered the grim possibility because not a single tribute has died at the hands of the Capitol doctors, but there's always a first for everything. His wound was mortal. The mere thought of it paralyzes me, like a toxic venom pouring through my veins.
I must fidget or draw a sharp breath or something else of the like. Bobby glances over and realizes I'm conscious. Whatever amount of solace I felt when I first saw him at the foot of my bed is overshadowed by my fear of Cas' fate. Still, all I can do is watch as our mentor abandons his conversation with the doctor and approaches the side of the bed. Even in the dim lighting, it's impossible to miss the small smile adorning his face.
"Hey, son," he says, his voice surprisingly soft and soothing as he clasps my hand between his own. It's oddly comforting. "How are you feeling? Doc said you're making a pretty speedy recovery after everything that happened out there."
I don't care about my recovery. I care about knowing whether or not my district partner is alive. But my throat is so shriveled that I'm not even sure if my voice works anymore. I open my mouth, try as hard as I can to croak out a word or two, just enough so that Bobby understands what I'm saying. I need to know; all I manage to rasp is a feeble "Cas."
There's a fleeting pause before Bobby nods. "He's alive," he says. "He's okay. Don't worry."
The relief that crashes down on me is overwhelming. I fog up my oxygen mask with a heavy sigh of alleviation, one that makes my sore shoulders shudder. It's like the weight of the world is lifting off them. It's like I can finally breathe normally again for the first time in a number of insufferably long days. Cas is alive, and I never thought that such a short, simple sentence could cause the pressure in my chest to dissipate as quickly as it did.
But before I can get too excited, Bobby goes on. "You'll be able to see him soon," he reassures me, giving my hand a pat. "For now, though, you should get some more rest. We'll talk later."
I don't have a chance to protest before a cold liquid shoots out of one of the tubes and into my vein. It knocks me out instantaneously.
When I eventually come to yet again, this time I think it's for good. Of course I don't know for certain, but the fact that the oxygen mask is gone, as well as all of the tubes in my arm, gives me a conceivable hunch. I manage to open my eyes all the way without any difficulty. The sluggishness, the painful fatigue, is nonexistent. It's a blissful sensation, but it doesn't stop my heartbeat from quickening as I sit up and glance around the room. I'm alone. The silence rings in my ears. But that's not what freezes me in place.
I'm back in my room in the Training Center.
For a long while, I'm completely dumbstruck, rendered speechless by the mere sight of this room. Have I been here the whole time? No, I can't have been. Surely I would've recognized it, but then again, it's been weeks since I last set foot in here. Still, it only takes seconds for all of the memories to come flooding back, just as clear as the time they occurred. My outburst after interview prep with Bobby. All the showers where I was afraid of pressing a wrong button on the complicated wall panel. My meltdown the night before the Games began. Cas comforting me, spending the night with me, curling up into my side while we tried to fall asleep.
My heart aches. The room is so empty without him, so cold and lonely. His absence after weeks of being in his company is nothing short of torture. Is he okay? Did the doctors fix him? I hope so. I desperately hope so. The temptation to get out of bed and risk leaving my room to find him starts to become more and more favorable the longer I ponder it, but I know I shouldn't. I'm sure I'm on lockdown. My every move is undoubtedly being monitored by the Gamemakers or doctors or other Capitol officials, and if I try to leave, who knows what could happen?
The rules subsequent to the Games have always bothered me, but experiencing it firsthand is an entirely different story. I understand that the few days between the end of the Games and the celebratory interview are crucial. Most of the tributes they pluck from the arena are so broken and destroyed—some, of course, are horribly injured—that this time is necessary for the doctors to put them back together and make them look human again. But after that? Why put them on lockdown? I haven't known the taste of freedom in weeks, and glancing out the spotless windows and gazing at the sunny day outside makes my skin itch. I want a breath of fresh air, and not air that's being generated by the trees of a battle arena. But I can't get it, because I'm positive that I won't be able to leave this room even if I tried. We won the Games, yet we're still at the mercy of the Capitol.
Although, now that I think about it, I suppose that's just another painful reminder that no matter what happens, no one—not even the victors of the precious Hunger Games—can ever truly escape the iron fist of the Capitol. It makes me sick.
I peel the silky blankets off me and swing my legs over the bed. The floor is pleasantly cool beneath my bare feet. When I start to stand, there's a split second where I'm afraid I'm going to lose my balance and topple over, but I find that my legs are steady and bear my weight well. That's always a good sign. Whatever the doctors did to me while I was out must've worked a treat. I feel strong, rejuvenated, like a whole new person.
Like I did before the Games stripped me down and tore me apart.
The doorknob jiggles. The sound is so sudden and jarring that it makes my heart leap up to my throat. Panic surges through me. Should I not be up and wandering around? What if my treatment isn't done like I anticipated? And I don't have clothes on, either. A thousand different thoughts storm through my head as the door starts to open.
But then, much to my relief, another familiar face strides into the room. Just looking at him, perceiving his presence, makes my knees wobble, makes a smile twist onto my lips.
"Allow me to be the first to say congratulations," Crowley says with a smirk as he shuts the door behind him. He hasn't changed a bit; I couldn't be happier about that. A little familiarity after so many days of fear and uncertainty is certainly a warm welcome.
I think I surprise him—I even surprise myself—when I rush forward and wrap my arms around him. It's a little strange, especially considering I'm borderline naked, but at this point, I couldn't care less. The gentle comfort that envelops me when my stylist gives me a reassuring squeeze is more than I could have asked for. I guess I missed him more than I thought.
"It's so good to see you," I say when I let him go and take a step back.
"Right back at you." Crowley flashes me a wink. "And might I say, you're looking rather up to the mark, all things considered. Doesn't seem like the prep team and I will have a whole lot of work to do before tonight."
The joy of seeing my stylist after so many days slowly starts to deflate as his words sink in. The celebratory interview is tonight? I hoped I would at least have another day to recoup, if I was lucky. Apparently that's not the case. Apprehension seeps into my bloodstream at the thought of being out on that stage again, under the blinding spotlights, while the roaring crowd screams and cheers their lungs out.
"Don't be nervous," Crowley says, thankfully interrupting my derailing train of thought. "All the focus will be on you this time. Just you and your victory. No one is going to be rooting for your death anymore."
Leave it to Crowley to be so blunt and direct that it somehow, in a bizarre way, lifts my spirits. I can't suppress a weak chuckle at his remark, but it does nothing to stop the flood of nerves from taking control of me. I know the crowd won't be rooting for my death anymore. That's definitely a plus. But thinking about having all the attention, all the spotlights, on me makes me want to burrow under my blankets and hide away until the interview is over. They're going to bring up sensitive topics. I know they will. The people of the Capitol have grown so used to seeing and cheering for violence that they don't ever stop to wonder how it might affect the poor tributes who barely escaped the arena with their lives. They think it's entertaining. They think everything is entertaining.
Cas crosses my mind as the interview continues to plague me. At first the thought of him is comforting, but I'm more galvanized by the idea that pops into my head.
"Have you seen Cas?" I ask my stylist, abruptly changing the subject.
For what feels like centuries, Crowley merely stares back at me, his expression indecipherable. The only thing I can hear among the suffocating silence is my own pounding heart. My anxiety continues to strengthen until he finally speaks. "Yes," he answers. "He's next door with Meg."
"Can I see him?" I'm chomping at the bit.
This time Crowley's response is immediate. "No."
I'm so taken aback by his brusque rejection that for a second, all I can do is blink at him. Then my blood begins to boil, simmering inside my veins. "Why not?" I demand. If Cas is up and about and just next door, why can't I see him? Is it against some halfwitted Hunger Games rule? That only fuels the fire of my growing frustration. I need to get out of this room. I need to see him, to know if he's really okay, to hug him and kiss him until he can't breathe. The last time I saw him, I thought he was dead. I need to see him and reassure my paranoid mind that that's not the case.
"Because that's what we were told," Crowley says calmly. For some reason, the fact that he's so okay with separating Cas and me makes my stomach tighten, makes my fingers curl into fists. "You'll see him soon, Dean. Trust me. Right now we need to focus on you."
It takes every last bit of restraint I have in me to keep myself from lashing out at him. I don't want to be angry, but I can't help it. It's like everyone and their mother are trying to prevent me from seeing my district partner. After everything we've been through, don't I at least deserve to see if he's okay with my own two eyes? Even if it's just for a brief moment?
Apparently not. Crowley starts talking again, though I'm too irked to give him my full attention. "I'll get an Avox to bring you some food," he says. "Eat up and get showered, and then I'll send the prep team in. After that, it'll just be you and me again before the interview. Does that sound okay?"
There are so many things I want to spit back at him, but I bite my tongue and nod instead.
And that's that. Crowley turns and leaves the room, making sure to close the door behind him, sealing me away in silence once more. I wait until I hear his footsteps fading away before I tiptoe to the door and place my hand on the doorknob. I give it a turn, disappointed but not very surprised when I find it's locked. Of course. Why wouldn't it be? I really am a prisoner in my own room. They certainly don't want me wandering around before showtime for whatever reason.
I stalk to the end of the bed and sit down on the plush mattress, crossing my arms over my chest. I'm sure I look like a pouting child, but this is far from fair. Seriously, who would I be hurting if I left this room for a short time?
It doesn't matter. I can't do anything about it, and soon enough, an Avox comes into the room with a tray of steaming hot food. I thank him as he hands me the tray and leaves just as quickly as he arrived. The smell permeating the air is absolutely divine. It makes my mouth water, makes my stomach grumble. I wonder how long it's been since I've eaten. Really eaten, and not just receiving nutrients the doctors pumped into me through those tubes. I'm famished.
Before me sits a massive plate of noodles swimming in a creamy white sauce. Long cuts of tender chicken lay on top. There's also a roll of bread, a cup of sliced oranges, a glass of water, and what looks like a chocolate chip cookie. Probably freshly baked. Just gazing down at the meal makes me worried I'm not going to be able to finish it. No doubt my stomach shrunk in the arena, what with only eating snack foods for weeks. I haven't eaten a meal this large in what feels like ages.
Well, here's hoping I don't get sick onstage.
I chow down like a starved animal. At times I try to slow my pace, to make sure I don't upset my stomach, but it's nearly impossible. The food is like magic to my deprived taste buds. All of it. The noodles, the chicken, the bread, the oranges, and the cookie. Oh, the cookie. How I missed dessert. For a while, I start to forget about the prepping and the interview and every bit of stress that comes with it. I eat until I'm afraid my stomach is going to split open, and there's still plenty of food left on the plate.
As I tear off a piece of the fluffy bread and dip it in the white sauce, I'm suddenly struck with a thought that almost makes me drop it onto the noodles. Why did both Bobby and Crowley hesitate when I asked them about Cas? They assured me he was alive and well, but their hesitancy to speak at first makes my paranoia believe otherwise. My brain goes into overdrive in an instant, and I can't stop it. What if he's dead? What if he didn't make it, and both my mentor and my stylist didn't want to tell me to, what, protect me? Keep me from going insane? They have to know I would find out one way or another, and insanity would most definitely happen regardless. But I have a hard time believing they would lie to me like that. It doesn't seem like them. Then why did they wait so long to answer me when I asked if my district partner was still alive?
I'm not very hungry anymore.
With a deep breath to soothe my frayed nerves and calm my shaking hands, I get up and head to the bathroom. Maybe, with enough luck, a hot shower will distract me and make me feel marginally better about what's going on. I turn the sleek handle, strip down the rest of the way, and step under the gloriously scalding stream of water. The temperature makes my skin red and blotchy, but I don't care. Breathing in the steam is invigorating. Washing off weeks worth of sweat and muscle tension and pure anxiety—even though I'm sure the doctors hosed me off while I was out—is a blissful experience. I blindly press buttons on the panel and soak myself with a citrus foam, a mass of sweet-smelling bubbles. There's even a button that makes high-powered jets gush beneath my feet, massaging them until they tingle. I'm disappointed I didn't find that one before.
I'm not sure how long I spend in there, letting the hot water and various shower amenities cleanse me of the muck from the arena, but I do know that when I finally step out and dry off with a soft towel, I feel like a walking blob of gelatin. It's amazing. And I smell fantastic, of course. Can't forget about that.
I notice there's actually a small smile on my face as I stride over to the fogged up mirror. I take one end of the towel and wipe away the moisture. But the second I see that smile reflected in the glass, it vanishes without a trace.
I look like myself. Obviously. But the last time I stared back at my own reflection was on the hovercraft, and I looked like a rabid, feral animal ready to attack anything that moved. Now, I look nothing like it, and the sudden change makes a rock drop to the pit of my stomach. There are no scars, no cuts, no blemishes on my face at all. It's like everything has been erased. My hair is so healthy and clean that no one would ever guess how matted and disgusting it was just a few days ago. My left hand is as good as new. My right arm is fully healed. They completely fixed me while I was unconscious. Scrubbed me clean, removed my scars, made everything about me perfect, pristine, flawless. It's like I have an entirely new body.
The only things that still truly belong to me—the old me—are my eyes. Those green-flecked eyes that have seen so much. They may have polished my skin and destroyed every mark inflicted by the Games, but they couldn't do anything to erase the affliction shining behind my eyes. The pain and the trauma will always remain. I can do my best to hide it, but I've always been told that the eyes are the window to the soul. And my soul is damaged.
It's difficult for me to believe that the boy staring back at me is the boy who survived the brutality of the Hunger Games. He doesn't look capable of it. I have to pinch the skin on my arm, just to make sure I'm not dreaming. When nothing happens, I know that somehow, against all odds, this is real. It's not just some vivid hallucination. I should probably feel more excited than I do, considering I'm not dead like I was so terrified I would be, but I can't help but fret about what comes next.
The interview is a given. It's mandatory. I'll have to sit on that sweltering stage and relive the nightmares from the arena while the Capitol cheers. Then it'll be time to get on a train back to District 9, which is, of course, incredibly reassuring. I'll finally get to see my family again. Charlie, too. Thinking about them and hugging them and seeing their faces makes my heart swell. It's been so long.
But after that? What's to follow once we return home? My life has been dictated by structure, a strict schedule. I worked almost all day, every single day, to put food on the table for my family. And these last few weeks have been completely dominated by the Capitol. What am I supposed to do with a fancy new house and so much money that I'll never have to worry about us going hungry ever again? Discussing possible hobbies with Cas was one thing. It was speculation. We weren't entirely sure if we were going to make it out of the arena or not. Now it's certain, and I don't know what to do.
I'm scared to realize I'm not sure who I am anymore. I was a farm boy. I was a protective older brother. I was a tribute in the Games, a pawn, a sacrificial lamb for the Capitol's entertainment. But what about now? I find myself gazing into the eyes of the boy in the reflection, desperately trying to figure out who he is. Who I am.
I will always be one of the boys who won the Hundredth Hunger Games. Nothing is ever going to change that, no matter how hard I try. I will always be a celebrity to the Capitol. I will always be a victor to District 9. And I will always be a murderer to the other districts who lost their tributes to the cruel game of entertainment. I've earned many labels over the course of a few weeks, but I can't find one that makes me feel like the normal human being that I am.
Thinking about my life after makes me realize something I wish I hadn't. Next year, I will be a mentor, just like Bobby. I will have to help, train, get to know the tributes from District 9 and hope and pray they make it out of the arena alive. Every single year. Every year I will have to return to the Capitol and participate in the Games, just on the other side of the cameras. Every year. All over again. My stomach twists into knots. I might be sick.
I shouldn't get ahead of myself. I know that. The celebratory interview is creeping closer and closer by the second, and I'm far from ready. But it's impossible to push those harrowing thoughts from my mind when my entire life is forever going to be haunted by the Capitol and their appalling excuse for amusement. I will never escape the Hunger Games. Not really. I thought I did when I survived the arena, but I was naive.
No, the Games have only just begun.