A Ride in the Dark

Even during fainting, I can feel my ribs seem to press against my chest. The longer I lie here, the harder it is to breathe. At some point the pain becomes so unbearable that I have to force myself to stay awake and not drift away. Because any fainting would mean having no control over my body. As long as I'm lying here sane on the cold, bloody ground, I can try to keep my movements as little as possible.

Every time when I wake up from another unconsciousness, my torso has turned sideways, or my hand is resting on my chest. It then feels like my ribs are going to pierce my skin at any second. That's why I have to stay awake.

So here I am, somewhere in a Capitol prison, probably way underground. The floor of my cell smells musty. I've lived here for quite a while, but nowadays they don't tell me how much time has passed anymore. I had thought that I would be able to judge the time better if I didn't spend it in the dark, but I was wrong. The food comes at irregular intervals and seldom rather than frequently, probably to keep me weak and puny. Still, I killed a guard.

Thinking about Adrian makes me sick. So bad that I can feel what little remains of my stomach press against my ribs, pressing them harder against my skin. I can't lose control. One wrong move and I could have a hole in my chest. At least that's how it feels.

I wonder how much time has passed since they brought me back here. My eyelids are getting heavier and heavier. I feel like I've been awake forever, even though it's only been a few minutes since my last faint. My breathing is getting shallower. Breathing through my nose is no longer enough, I don't get enough air. But just when my breaths are too deep, my ribs hurt. I don't know how much longer I can stay conscious with the low oxygen levels. I'm afraid I won't wake up again.

At that moment, the iron door of my cell swings open. The metallic scrape makes me flinch. A pained sound escapes my lips. Almost automatically, the view blurs before my eyes and I feel my eyelids threatening to close. Stay awake! But the pain is unbearable. I vaguely make out several white figures entering the cell. To my surprise, I hear them whispering. I don't understand what they're saying, but they sound excited. As if something significant has happened.

As soon as they try to pull me to my feet, I stop thinking. A loud scream escapes me, and my eyes fill with tears. The pain is tremendous, my last energy reserves are almost exhausted. I just feel my legs buckle under my weight and my ribs press against my stomach. Then I drift off into the darkness.

Amazingly, I wake up soon after. They must have given me something because I can no longer feel my body. I can move my joints, but each nerve only throbs dull in the distance. The pain in my chest is completely gone. It feels like I'm in remote contact with my body without it really being a part of me.

Even though I can barely feel the nerves in my body, that doesn't mean the damage to my tissues is gone as well. It must still be there. What they gave me must be a narcotic.

I slowly raise my head and feel a pounding behind my temple. Two peacekeepers press their fingers into my upper arms and drag me through the corridors of this death facility. As rough as they treat me, my internal injuries will take on even greater proportions. Who knows how long I'll have to live after this ordeal they're going to put me through.

Once again, I wonder how the enthusiastic Effie Trinket became this half-dead wreck. I think of Katniss, of Peeta, of Cinna, of Haymitch. I now know that it all started with him. I think further back, to our first year together. Even then it had become apparent what might now cost me my life. At that time, I hadn't been able to see the truth. I had been too naive, too young and too influenced by all the colorful things that had been part of my life. At the time, I hadn't understood Haymitch's reaction. Today I finally understand why he rejected me all those years ago. Not because he didn't like me. He was afraid. His actions were for my protection, because if he had allowed what had happened between us, I would have been targeted by the Capitol much sooner. And then they probably would have killed me outright. Because back then, Katniss and Peeta didn't exist.

A sudden wave of sadness grips me. In another world, at another time. My eyes blur with tears. We could have been happy together. If we hadn't been living these goddamn lives in this goddamn reality, we could have been happy. But who knows what kind of people we would be if we didn't live these lives. A life without having to survive the horrors of the arena would have made Haymitch a completely different person. Likewise, I would be a different person if I hadn't been forced from the beginning of my life to follow ideals and views without being allowed to question them. Not that I would have liked to think about it back then. When you're up to your neck in luxury, you never dream of the sacrifices that must be made for the system. You become blind to the pain of others. You live a life in trance. You accept things. Questioning things would only have led to having to deal with reality.

The Peacekeepers start me out of my thoughts with their murmurs. A large, high room opens in front of us. It looks like a theater hall. Me and the two peacekeepers stand behind a dark curtain. A podium can be seen in the middle of the stage. Bright spotlights shine down from above, and in the background hangs an iron emblem of Panem and the Capitol. The hall, which is kept in white, may seem unobtrusive to normal people, but the white tone only seems threatening to me.

There is a crowd of people in front of the stage. I have to look twice to register that they are wearing the everyday Capitol clothes. The bold colors of their wigs and dresses hurt my eyes. Only now do I notice the cameras, microphones and holopads that some are holding in their hands. Reporters. Where am I here? What is this event?

I'm so focused on what's happening in front of the stage that I don't notice one of the Peacekeepers taking something out of a suitcase sitting on an iron table. Without saying a word, he rams it into my neck. I jump, startled, and try to get up, but the other Peacekeeper grabs my head so I can't pull it to the side.

It doesn't hurt, but I can feel something cold coursing through my veins. As soon as the Peacekeeper pulls it out of me, I turn my head to see a long crystal-clear instrument in his hand. It's an ampoule that must have contained an orange liquid just a moment ago. A few drops of liquid can be seen at the edge. There is a needle at the bottom of the ampoule. I carefully raise my right arm to my neck and place a finger over the puncture site. Something warm squirts out and when I lower my hand again, the tip of my finger has turned dark red.

"What was that?" I try to get out of my dry throat, but it's a single croak. It's only now that I realize how long I haven't heard my own voice. No one who knows me would recognize me like this.

The Peacekeepers don't answer me, I didn't expect anything else. Instead, they grab my upper arms again and drag me onto the stage. I don't scream this time, I press my lips together and stare wide-eyed at the reporters, who all fall silent at the sight of me and face the stage.

When they drop me off to the right of the podium, they just turn around and leave the stage. I stare after them in confusion. A dizziness sets in all of a sudden and I'm unprepared. Air rushes through my open mouth into my lungs, making a sharp breathing sound. I have to support myself on the ground to keep from tipping over. Slightly turning my head to the audience, I see their cameras pointed at me, hear their whispers and smell different, expensive smells like Mirus Creatura or Deus Similis. How ridiculous I feel that I can probably distinguish between a dozen different smells and name them. It shows that I was like them myself not so long ago.

I kneel on the stage, defenseless and unguarded, and everything around me slowly begins to spin. My lungs aren't getting enough air, I don't know why.

A Peacekeeper announces himself with heavy steps. I stare at his feet as he takes the stage. He stops a meter in front of me and stands behind the podium. The dizziness gets so bad I can't look up. I have no choice but to look down at the motley crowd in front of the stage.

"Dear citizens of the Capitol, thank you for coming in such large numbers," the Peacekeeper begins to speak, and his voice sends a shiver down my spine. "We have invited you to this press conference because today the trial of one of the key defendants in the case of the confidants and accomplices to the crimes of some conspirators against the Capitol and the people of Panem will come to an end."

It's quiet and it takes me a few seconds to understand what the man just said. An end to my process? They call me a confidant to crimes and conspiracies against the people of Panem? If I wasn't feeling so bad, I might have laughed. This charge is ridiculous, and they know it themselves. Only the people of the Capitol don't know it.

The reporters point their microphones in the Peacekeeper's direction, as if afraid they might miss important words. "Before you stands Euphemia Trinket, former escort of District Twelve. She has been proven guilty on various counts of secrecy against the Capitol, as well as aiding the escape of key criminals like Katniss Everdeen and Haymitch Abernathy."

I jump at the sound of his name as if he hit me, but a relieved smile breaks my lips. He said his name. It means he exists. It means he's not one of my pipe dreams. What happened is true. In some dark moments I began to doubt it. I wasn't entirely sure anymore because as time goes by the memories of all of them become fuzzier. Their voices, their faces, their smells. All distant snippets in the depths of my brain that I can no longer place as time goes by. The fact that they seem to find me guilty of everything doesn't surprise me as much. If I've learned anything down here, it's that the Capitol always embellishes the truth as it sees fit.

"In relation to these serious crimes, the Independent Panem Supreme Court saw no choice but to deliver the following verdict." Theatrical pause. The active part of my brain doesn't understand on what basis they want to judge me now. Everything here is punishment enough, how can it get any worse? This must be a major cover-up. They want the world to think they're sentencing me just now, when I was actually sentenced months ago. At that time, even a delegate of the President was present.

"Euphemia Trinket," the Peacekeeper continues, ignoring me as he announces my verdict. "You are hereby sentenced to death. The enforcement of the penalty will be carried out immediately."

I want to breathe, but it feels like every atom of oxygen around me is gone. A distant gasp is heard, and I can't turn my head away from the crowd. Some open their eyes in surprise, others nod in agreement and smile maliciously at me, others whisper excitedly to one another. But nobody really seems to care. Their reactions all seem artificial and superficial. Suddenly I feel the need to throw up.

Sentenced to death. Only now are the words really seeping through to me. How many times have I wished for death in the last few weeks. Now that it seems inevitable, all I want is to run away. I can't breathe, no matter how hard I gasp for oxygen, it doesn't reach my lungs. My heart begins to race in my chest, pounding so hard it seems to drown out every other noise in the room. If I weren't sitting here on the floor, frozen to the ground, I would have ripped my clothes off. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck and the palms of my hands are wet. I try to wipe it off on my clothes inconspicuously, but the moisture doesn't seem to decrease.

That must be a mistake. They still need me. They can't just kill me. He said himself that I'm a prime suspect; I matter. But that was just a big lie, he had to put it across like that to justify my death. I know the truth. They know as well as I do that I cannot answer any of their questions. So I'm just a liability, not a potential source of information. I am expendable.

I slowly wake up from my trance. I try to sit up, but the dizziness won't let up, tearing at my limbs and forcing me back onto my knees. Adrenaline surges through my veins to fight it. I can hear the reporters asking questions in the background, but each one goes unanswered.

Just as I almost manage to get up, a strong, hard pair of hands pushes me back to the floor. "No," I croak in panic and want to defend myself against the power, but I don't have a chance. My eyes are wide and darting around the room at lightning speed.

"No," I blurt out again. I try to throw myself backwards, but they just kick me in the back, and I jerk forward again. The anesthetic is still working because I only feel a dull pressure. I want to fall forward, but my limbs are too heavy. I can't even move an inch. I lost control of my body. Yet again.

"Look at you," a voice invades my ear. It sounds gentle and amused.

The last bit of resistance vanishes into thin air. I freeze to ice and my cervical vertebrae crack as I move my head up. Despite the foggy vision, I recognize him immediately. Adrian is standing in front of me in a white polished uniform. His eyes are hard, staring down at me as if I'm more object than human.

The shock of seeing him alive is great. He's not even missing an ear. I can't hold back the images that are now flashing in my mind's eye. My vision turns blood red and a moment later I've emptied the last of my stomach on the floor in front of him. A hard grin covers his face, and he takes a step closer, stepping on the vomit.

His right hand slides to his belt and he unsheathes his pistol. It's dark and sits heavy and powerful in his hand. Adrian unlocks the gun with a quick hand movement.

That can't be. This can't be real. Adrian is dead. I killed him. I felt the life drain from his body. I felt his heart stop beating. I saw his skin slowly blanch. It can't be. The Capitol has advanced medicine, but even their best scientists can't bring the dead back to life. Or can they?

The blood in my ears is pounding so loud I can't hear the reporters talking or my panting for air. My gaze is irrevocably fixed on his face and every imaginable nerve cell in my body seems to explode. It's not pain, it's not a real feeling, more like a state my body wants me to be in.

"Any last words?" he asks, and I feel the barrel on my forehead. My body still shaking, I slowly catch my breath and close my eyes. I clench my teeth in panic and don't make a sound. In my mind's eye I try to evoke all the beautiful things that have happened to me in my life ...

I hear an almost imperceptible puff of air as his thumb moves toward the trigger. What will Haymitch say when he sees this on TV?

I breathe in one last time.

The sound of Adrian pulling the trigger sends a last shiver down my spine.

The bullet breaks free.

I don't feel any pain, just the force with which my head is being thrown back. My vision goes black. I no longer feel my head hitting the ground.

-

What is Adrian doing there? Any theories? 

Will Effie die? Come back next week to find out! ;)

Skyllen