A Soul That Misses a Piece

Peeta's chest rises and falls in steady breaths. Every now and then, his closed eyelids flutter as if he's dreaming. I wonder how, after everything he's been through, he can be such a peaceful sleeper. Perhaps they have sedated him, though. When the tumultuous mix of emotions leaves his features, he looks just as peaceful as before. If I didn't know what had happened in the past few months, I could think he's still the same. Only the restraints on his wrists testify to a different reality.

Johanna didn't want to accompany me here. She hasn't visited Peeta a single time since our arrival in District 13, hasn't even approached his room. When she heard that I wanted to visit him, she just shook her head in annoyance and quickly disappeared down the nearest corridor. It led in the opposite direction of her room in the medical unit, but I don't think it would have been a good idea to tell her that at that moment. After Katniss was shot in the short propo, she had already been on edge.

News of Katniss's death is spreading like wildfire in 13. A shot to the chest is enough evidence for many to believe she didn't survive. On my way out of the canteen, I caught a brief glimpse of Hazelle's face as she sat with the other refugees from 12. She looked like she couldn't decide whether to vomit or rip someone's head off. If Haymitch manages to make it back to 13 safely and something has happened to Gale, she will surely follow through on her threat. She seems like a woman who sticks to her word.

Haymitch. I have no idea if he was actually there. My only glimmer of hope is that the cameras didn't provide any evidence of his presence. The thought of him being injured or worse makes me feel like I'm losing my footing because fear is completely blinding the view in front of my eyes.

I didn't know where else to go. Going back to my quarters, where Haymitch's empty bed would remind me that something is wrong, wouldn't have been a good idea. While my panic attacks have steadily decreased in the past few weeks, his absence isn't helping my fragile mental state. There are days when I can barely get out of bed because the tormenting, nauseating feeling in my stomach prevents me. I didn't want to go to Finnick either; Annie seemed distraught enough. And Johanna has become unbearable most of the time due to her withdrawal, and I'm not sure I could listen to her for the rest of the night without losing my composure.

So, I went to Peeta. Someone needs to keep an eye on him. It must be late if he's already asleep. Maybe they let him sleep longer than the prescribed eight hours here. I would like to know more about his recovery, but no one answers my questions. Not even Dr. Jennings, who probably understands my conflict best because she knows how much Peeta means to me. She has no choice. As a Capitol refugee, you're at the bottom of the food chain in District 13. I have no idea how Peeta is doing or how his recovery is progressing. The same goes for Haymitch. No one wants to give me any answers. They don't even let me finish speaking; they brush me off with excuses I can see through immediately. I've worked long enough with the most influential, cunning people in the Capitol to know when I'm being lied to.

He could be dead, whispers the voice in my head that didn't exist before those months in captivity. He could be lying in a body bag next to Katniss, just like the girl from Twelve who cost Adrian his life. I squint my eyes and try to push the memories away that flare up in my mind. I still have trouble coming to terms with myself. Coming to terms with the time in prison. It's hard for me to accept what happened back then. A part of me misses the old Effie; envies her for the carefree life she led without knowing the privileges she had. I try to close this chapter, but it feels like there's one last puzzle piece missing, preventing me from finally turning the page. I want to try to let go of the old Effie. And even though her life had its ups and downs, all I remember is that she was happy. Johanna says I'm slowly turning back into her, but I don't notice it. I'm better, but the emptiness doesn't leave my stomach. Maybe it never will. Sometimes I stare at myself in the mirror, hoping to meet the gaze of that old Effie, but all I find is weakness and melancholy. I've distanced myself so much from her that she now seems like a stranger to me.

I want her to come back. I want her to come back and heal my wounds, just as she has done for all those years. But she's dead, the voice says in a cold tone, and my grip on the metal railing in front of Peeta's window tightens. She died in the Capitol. You're stronger than her. You survived. The thought that I'll never be, can't be, the old Effie again chokes me.

The person you were before all this shit, continues to eat everything up like it has for the last eleven years. I'm afraid it might soon be too late to get you back. Haymitch's words keep echoing in my head. He believes that the old Effie is still alive. He can still see her, even though I can't. Even though she seems to be getting weaker and weaker.

I know Haymitch is right. I have to learn to deal with the pain; I have to allow it in order to heal. But healing doesn't mean forgetting. And all I want is to forget. Sometimes I want to go back to the time when I was blind to all this chaos. It's cowardly, it's wrong, but I'm not a hero. I'm selfish and self-centered and I'm so afraid of the pain that on dark days, I'd be willing to trade my soul a second time, this time consciously.

I've lost myself, my family, my possessions. I can count on one hand what keeps me from going crazy like Johanna. The thought of Haymitch is usually enough to bring clarity back to my mind. If he can get through this, so can I. He's lost what I've lost and so much more. He chooses to fight every day. I can't help but admire him.

The clearing of a throat behind me makes me startle, and I bump my head against the window, which only adds to my jolt. I must have fallen asleep with my forehead against the cool glass. Stumbling, I turn to the side and blink against the light that has automatically gone on through the motion sensor. For a moment, I catch my breath as I recognize Haymitch leaning against the doorframe, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his gray uniform. He looks tired, as if he might collapse from exhaustion any second. And yet, he's here. Alive. A grin creeps onto his lips.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, sweetheart," Haymitch says, and an overwhelmed laugh escapes my throat before I take slow steps toward him to get a closer look. He doesn't appear to be injured.

"We saw Katniss being shot," I manage to say, my voice choked, and I can't hold back the tears running down my cheeks. "I was so afraid they might ... you, too ..." I can't bring myself to finish the sentence. The words hang between us in the air as my trembling hand moves over his right arm to make sure he's okay.

"I'm fine," Haymitch whispers, and his fingers brush away the tears from my cheeks. "Don't worry about Katniss, Cinna did a great job with the Mockingjay suit."

I lean against Haymitch's hand for a moment before pressing my forehead against his chest and wrapping my arms around his waist. My muscles relax as the familiar scent of pine and soap fills my nose. Haymitch doesn't hesitate as he wraps his arms around me and runs the back of his hand over the back of my head. "How are you, princess?"

My shoulders give a slight shrug, but I can't bring myself to detach from the scent of his clothing to look into his eyes. I open my mouth but then close it again because I have nothing positive to say except for the relief coursing through me at this moment. Haymitch seems to understand me without words. He presses his lips against my forehead and then leans away from me without loosening his arms behind my back.

"Let's go to sleep," he says in such a casual tone that you would think things were never different between us. I nod and take a graceful step back to not look as lost as I feel. A smile graces my lips as I link my arm with his. Haymitch gives me a scrutinizing side glance, and I suspect he sees through me, but he remains silent.

It's the first time we shared a bed. The thought of having him a few meters away from me, without being within his reach, makes me so uncomfortable that after minutes of aimless turning, I slip under the covers next to him. He lets me, even though I know he hesitates. Not because he doesn't want me close, but because of his nightmares. Haymitch never left his arena, at least not in his dreams. He can't control the battle with his demons easily, and I know he fears hurting me if he were to wake up from one of those fights without regaining his orientation.

But just like me, he seems to lack the strength to resist each other's presence. In the dim light of the bathroom, my fingers run through his hair. It's meant to be a comforting gesture. The question is, who is it meant to comfort; me or him? Haymitch reaches out with his arm, and I feel the mixture of scent and warmth from his body pulling me into the darkness as he strokes his fingers across my back. He turns to his side, his head a few inches from mine, while his other hand goes under his pillow. The dull thud of the knife startles me as Haymitch misses the second bed and the metal hits the floor. A blurry memory of the few times I tried to force him out of bed on particularly bad days comes to my mind. After the first encounter with his knife, which almost ended badly, I've since taken care of moving the weapon out of his reach before waking him up.

"Sleep," I murmur against the crushing exhaustion that will fully overwhelm me in a few moments. Haymitch's muscles are tense as if he might jump out of bed any second. Instead of a response, he takes one of my strands of hair between his fingers and twirls it around his thumb. My brain tries to gather enough strength to scold him, but I'm already losing myself in the endless nothingness that fatigue brings.

At some point, Haymitch starts speaking, his voice barely louder than a whisper, more to himself than to me, but I still hear it. "You are the only exception."

Sleep has already pulled me too deep to respond.

oOo

Haymitch runs his fingers through my hair, and I blink once before closing my eyes again. The alarm hasn't gone off yet, and I have no idea if it's already morning and there are only a few minutes of peace left, or if it's still the middle of the night, and Haymitch has managed to resist sleep until now. I turn to the side and rest my head against his upper arm. After hours of my weight, he must be completely numb. He doesn't seem to mind.

Haymitch's fingers in my hair come to a halt. I feel him hold his breath, listening to my breathing. "Are you awake?" he asks into the silence of the room after a few moments, his voice rough from hours of silence.

A hum escapes my lips, which should be confirmation enough. My brain is too foggy to form actual words. Haymitch's body beneath me trembles in a silent response as he laughs. "You move a lot in your sleep; I just wanted to make sure you're really awake this time."

I don't respond, wondering how late it actually is now, as his alarm clock begins to trill, making me flinch. My limbs are so drained that I'm not sure if I have the strength to get up on my own. Haymitch leans over my head to turn off his watch. Then he settles back into the pillows and presses his lips against my ear. His stubble tickles my skin as he speaks.

"Let's stay here and forget about the damn war for a day. Pretend you're sick; no one will care anyway. We can visit Katniss later. Until then, I have nothing on my agenda."

I roll my eyes in the darkness but can't prevent a thin smile from spreading across my lips. "They gave you time off?"

"Something like that," says Haymitch without removing his lips from my ear. "So, what do you say, princess?"

I turn my head so that my mouth is now where my ear was just a moment ago. Haymitch leans in to accept the invitation, and I sigh inwardly as our lips meet halfway. My body, which was pleasantly warm under the covers until now, starts to heat up. Before either of us can deepen the kiss, my head comes between us, tugging at my tired mind. You're too old to participate in games like this, whispers the horror-stricken, paranoid voice and makes my muscles tense. He may be attracted to you, but how deep do those feelings really go?

It's a question that has kept me awake night after night in his absence. I know Haymitch feels something for me. I see it in the looks he gives me, in the way he touches me, and in the tone he uses when we're alone. Like now. Yet, his confessions were never more than a few sentences that sounded exhilarating and overwhelming at first but were actually nothing more than hollow words without deeper meaning. After everything we've been through, no matter how long ago, I couldn't leave without you knowing the truth.

I asked him what the truth is. A kiss was the answer. And as overwhelming as it was, I still have no explanation. A kiss can mean or imply many things. What are we? What are his plans? Does he even plan with me, or are the current circumstances between us nothing more than a temporary arrangement? Haymitch has never been one for strong feelings, always avoiding them and the responsibility that come with them. Even before our connection during the 64th Hunger Games, he wasn't someone who liked to let anyone into his life. Because of what happened to his family. I try to convince myself that after the end of the war, there will be no reason for him to fear that something similar could happen to someone he loves. But a trauma doesn't simply disappear just because external circumstances improve. I know that better than anyone else.

Haymitch notices my sudden hesitation and leans back to look into my face. I can't see his features in the dark, but I'm sure he raises his eyebrows. Such a typical gesture for him. I sigh and move a bit away from him, knowing that he might not want to be close to me in a few seconds. The voice in my head is right. I can't pretend to be an emotionally charged teenager without considering the consequences on the horizon. I could be digging my next grave here, only to have Haymitch push me into it – unintentionally – because I misunderstood the extent of his feelings.

I let the cool air of the room into my lungs and close my eyes as my lips part. It helps to not see him in front of me, even though it would have only been his black silhouette. It makes me feel like I could escape the situation better if it backfires. "What is this between us, Haymitch?"

Haymitch falls silent, probably confused by the sudden change of topic. I hear him open his mouth several times but not knowing what I want to hear. "Where are you getting at?"

A laugh escapes my throat, and I sink into the pillows next to him. His question feels like a punch in the gut because it sounds as if there's nothing to discuss. As if there's nothing between us worth talking about. For a long moment, I'm overcome by the shame of my own stupidity. You know Haymitch well enough to know that he's not the type for a relationship; never could be.

"Effie?" Haymitch's voice has taken on an uncomfortable, unpredictable tone, as if he senses something terrible. Now, it's his muscles that seem to be frozen in place. As if every movement would give him away.

"You know me, Haymitch," I manage to say between two breaths, feeling a strangely ancient hysteria coursing through my veins. "You know where I come from and how things work there. Just because I'm in District Thirteen now doesn't change anything about my background or culture. I can't be close to you or kiss you if I don't surely know what we are. I'm not the young woman from before who had all the time in the world to experiment. I'm too tired for casualness. I need someone by my side who won't disappear when the war is over and there are suddenly so many directions to run in. So, what are we?"

Haymitch beside me is terribly silent, his stiffness colder than before. Is he even breathing? Does he want to vanish into thin air or run away? "And you know me, Effie," he finally murmurs, his voice distant and closed-off. I can feel the wall he's built around himself, as if real stone separates us. Yet, his right arm still rests on my hip, and our faces are still just inches apart. "I've shown you what you mean to me. Isn't that enough?"

My head moves in a dejected, broken motion. "I want to hear it," I say desperately. "I need to hear it. I can't fall asleep next to you in fear that one morning you won't be there." The words sound far-fetched because there has hardly been more than kisses and touches, but my gaze is set on the long term. I've always been a planner.

"I'm sorry." The words reach my ears, but I'm not even sure if he really said them. Disappointment resonates in those three short syllables, a deep regret as if he repents the shallowness of his feelings. "I can't say it."

I can't say it because it wouldn't be the truth. Again, my head moves on its own. A nod this time. My body rolls to the side, and a breath later, I feel the cold floor beneath my bare feet. My legs wobble in the darkness, but I can't be bothered by that. The view in front of my eyes turns white for a second because I got up too abruptly. Behind me, Haymitch suddenly awakens from his immobility.

"What are you doing?" He sounds confused, as if he didn't expect my reaction. As if he hoped for more understanding.

"I can't do this," I whisper as I slip into my shoes and reach for my uniform. I don't even think about the headscarf as I move toward the door. "It was a mistake to convince myself that we have the same intentions."

In a fraction of a second, Haymitch is on his feet. Panic has crept into his voice, as if he hadn't noticed until now that the situation is spiraling out of control. "What are you talking about, Effie? Just because I can't say the words doesn't mean that—"

"If you really knew me, you would know that I'm not meant to enter relationships that don't have a good ending," I interject with a trembling voice, cutting him off mid-sentence. Haymitch falls silent so suddenly that the words pour out of me in a mixture of anger and despair. "What were you thinking, knowing that you're still the same person I met eleven years ago? I know that your inability to commit isn't your fault, but you're aware of it, aren't you? So why pretend that things are different now when they apparently aren't?"

"It's not that simple," Haymitch pleads, taking hurried steps toward me. My fingers press against the button that opens the door, and the lock disengages. "You know yourself that you can't just ... switch off your fears."

I nod and give him a sad smile. "That's exactly why you should be aware of them before dragging other people into a game where they'll only get hurt." I turn on my heel and run away. To hell with District 13 or my headscarf or the people who might see me.

Haymitch calls my name but makes no move to chase after me. Part of me sees it as confirmation of my suspicion. If I meant enough to him, he would.

oOo

"Effie, you're so damn foolish," Johanna mocks, hitting my shoulder so hard that I have to bite my lip to stifle a cry of pain. For a moment, stars dance before my eyes.

I called in sick, just as Haymitch suggested, and sought refuge with Johanna. She looks almost delighted to absorb every detail of my argument with him. She's lost weight in recent weeks, even though she gets larger portions than any of us. Where the needles of morphine pierced her arm, her skin is scratched and bloody. I'm smart enough not to comment on it. I'm too distraught anyway.

"Haymitch is head over heels for you. Given the drama level in your family, it was to be expected that you would mess it up eventually," Johanna continues, shaking her head so vigorously that I expect to hear the dull sound of her hitting the wall behind the bed any moment.

"He could have told me," I try to explain as Johanna gives me a look that seems to scream that I've messed up. She doesn't want to understand, maybe she's deliberately turning a blind eye because she wants me to be happy. "I just wanted to hear that he meant it seriously and wouldn't run away at the first opportunity."

"I don't think he's the type of man to do that to a woman," Johanna says with a more serious tone. "He wouldn't have started the whole thing if he didn't want to. Did you even let him explain?"

"I can spare myself the explanations if I know what's going on. I heard his voice, Johanna. For him, the situation is fine as it is, now that we're in Thirteen and he has a task that keeps him occupied and tired. But will he want me to stay with him when he can decide where to go? Will he again become the man who can't stand anyone's company because his trauma catches up with him when there's nothing left to distract him? I've been through too much to take the risk of being hurt by him again."

"But didn't you say that he distanced himself from you back then because Snow didn't give him a choice?" Johanna asks, sounding confused. Her eyelids flutter as if she's trying hard to keep up.

"The situation was different. I was from the Capitol, and he was from Twelve. Even if we had wanted to, there would have been no possibility for a relationship," I whisper, but my brain feels empty. I want to keep talking, to explain to her what I mean, but there are no more words in my head. It's as if I've overexerted myself, and now I lack the strength to form a coherent thought. I gave him a second chance, and I thought he genuinely wanted it.

Johanna grimaces, and I can see that she's making an effort to understand, but she can't seem to. Maybe she's not capable of it because she's repressed what it's like to love. But when she speaks her words, I believe she hasn't entirely forgotten. "I think you're imagining things or overlooking something. In all the time I've known Haymitch, I've never seen him so ... healed as he is with you. Of course, he's still Haymitch, but in your presence, he seems more alive, as if he's pushed his demons back."

I press my lips together and try to picture Haymitch. When we first met, he was a bitter young victor. Over the years, bitterness has dispelled in the alcohol that turned him into a completely different person. Someone who was so disconnected from the outside world that he couldn't have negative feelings for it. Katniss and Peeta broke the invisible lock of his cage, in which he had imprisoned himself all those years. In addition to bitterness, there were other emotions that surfaced. Anger, grief, remorse. Now in District 13, there's still anger towards the Capitol, towards Snow, but he has learned to deal with these emotions. At least that's the impression I have. He talks more about what's going on in his head, albeit rarely. He can say things that would have burned his tongue in the past, like the death of his family.

But how much of that is actually related to me? Haymitch has been sober since he came to 13. The absence of alcohol transforms him into a different person. I realize that I'm afraid of seeing him fall back into old patterns as soon as he leaves the District.

"How would you feel if you loved someone, and you weren't sure if that love was reciprocated to the same extent?" I ask, feeling like a broken record, repeating myself over and over without being heard. "I need to hear that he still wants me when the war is over. I don't want to be just a phase for him, as long as he can push away his fears of loss and relationships." The thought of being just a stopgap tears at my heart. I know that neither the new nor the old Effie is made for a casual, unconditional relationship. Our emotions tangle too quickly for that.

"I have no idea how I would feel. It's been a long time since I loved someone," Johanna says, and her voice takes on an almost melancholic tone for a fraction of a second. The look in her brown eyes is fixed on a point on the wall, as if her mind is somewhere else. As quickly as the fleeting longing appears on her face, it disappears again. Johanna shakes her head vehemently and jumps up. "We can discuss the rest of your dramatic life at lunch."

Lunch is an uncomfortable affair. Despite Coin's announcement of Katniss's survival, the people in District 13 are more restless than usual. Finnick and Annie don't even show up. Annie must be having a bad day, and I feel a little guilty for obsessing over problems that seem trivial next to her crumbling health. Johanna's mood, if anything, has dropped. She sulks with furrowed brows and seems lost in her own thoughts. I'm waiting for an explosion. With her, it's often the calm before the storm. It wouldn't be the first time in recent days that she loses her composure. So far, Finnick has always been there to put in a good word for her in front of the soldiers in the canteen, but I'm pretty sure I can't hope for the same outcome given my background.

Johanna surprises me when she starts speaking. "You should talk to him," she says through clenched teeth, as if every sound is causing her pain. It might well be the case. I don't know how addiction manifests itself beyond psychical symptoms. "Listen to what he has to say. Without drama and without interruptions. You can still run away afterwards."

I give Johanna a grumpy look and sigh, realizing she's right. Would the old Effie have run away from an argument like this? Probably not. I manage a nod. "I'll look for him after lunch. He's probably with Katniss; we were supposed to visit her together."

There's a flash in Johanna's eyes. Her lips suddenly curl into a grin, and she gets up so energetically that I startle. Before I can wonder where this sudden burst of strength comes from, she's already leaning over the table, grabbing my empty tray. "We're done with lunch anyway," Johanna says, shrugging when I give her a questioning look. "I'll help you search for him before you change your mind and chicken out."

"Are you sure?" I ask hesitantly, struggling to hide my surprise. Would I dodge? Do others see me as someone who would back down?

Johanna nods, and her expression becomes somewhat more sober. "Stop overthinking everything, Effie. It's driving me crazy." Hearing my name both relaxes and confuses me. She uses it even less than Haymitch does because she hates it, just like she hates everything from the Capitol. "I'm only helping because I can't bear your self-centered whining for the rest of our time in this hole. Wait outside; I'll take care of the trays."

Johanna leaves me standing at the table without waiting for my response. Sometimes she's truly unpredictable. As I get up, I'm not sure whether to laugh or roll my eyes at her behavior. Not even in the Capitol, where everyone tries to stand out as much as possible, have I known someone as quirky as Johanna. However, her quirkiness would probably already be considered unacceptable and out of the ordinary there.

My gaze shifts to the table of refugees from District 12 as I make my way through the rows. Since Haymitch's first attempt to familiarize me with them, I haven't tried to join them again. Today, most of the familiar faces are missing. There's no sign of Katniss, Prim, their mother, or Gale. Hazelle turns her head in my direction as if she has sensed my presence. Her dark, cold eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, I can't help but meet her gaze. Then, to my complete surprise, she nods at me before her eyes return to her plate. It's a barely noticeable gesture, but I'm sure I didn't imagine it. My legs carry me on, and I don't have time to react in any way.

The space in front of the canteen is emptier than usual. With the successful surrender of District 2, many of District 13's residents have scattered throughout the country. Most of the soldiers have moved to the Capitol, although the forces are taking a few days to rest before the final throes of the war begin. More soldiers are flown out every day, and the sudden quiet is unusual and unsettling. In the first weeks of my arrival in 13, I was afraid of the District's noise. Now it's the silence that makes me uneasy. It's strange how things can change so quickly in such a short time. The old Effie couldn't stand loneliness either.

I've positioned myself a little apart from the canteen's entrance and lean against the gray, cool wall. It's not the first time I've waited here for Johanna, so she won't overlook me. The shadow of a figure intrudes into my field of vision, and I raise my head slightly, expecting to see Johanna standing in front of me. Instead, I find myself staring into the face of a gaunt man. He's wearing the standard gray uniform of District 13, but I don't need to examine him from head to toe to know that the District is just as foreign to him as it is to me.

"Can I help you?" I ask politely, pushing away from the wall to avoid appearing rude.

The man stares at me in perplexity for a moment, as if he didn't expect me to address him so directly. He's a good deal taller than me and has black hair, so dark that it doesn't seem to reflect the bright neon light of the ceiling at all. "Are you Effie Trinket?"

His emotionless voice doesn't help me assign an age to him. His face appears timeless as well. I nod awkwardly, furrowing my eyebrows. "Why do you want to know?" If I had the time this morning to put on my hairscarf, he probably wouldn't have to ask.

I wait for an answer from the stranger, but he takes a step back and sighs in a dejected tone that, for some reason, sounds familiar to me. Memories choke me. How often must I have sounded like this while my inner self was falling apart? It's clear that it's difficult for him to articulate his next words.

"I lost my daughter in the Hunger Games. I have no idea how I managed to cope with her loss. Then I lost my wife to the war. Every day is agony, but I'm trying to keep going. I just don't feel like us normal citizens are being heard enough. Not by the Capitol, and not by the President here. I really hope you can bring us the attention we need to finally be heard." His words sound like a long apology, even though they are full of suffering. For a brief moment, I wonder what this stranger now expects from me, how I can help him, when he suddenly turns his head toward one of the corridors leading away from the square. He nods once, and I follow his gaze, only to freeze in my tracks. Several silhouettes hide in the shadows. Waiting. Then, one of them abruptly breaks free from the darkness. The man next to me turns on his heel and disappears.

Someone is approaching me. He's moving toward me too fast, and I'm too stunned by the whole situation to realize who he is until it's too late. Tall. Broad-shouldered, almost bull-like. For a split second, an image of another corridor flashes before my mind's eye. It was dark at night, but I still recognized his silhouette. My eyes scan the man, and I fixate on the silver knife in his left hand. Only then does my survival instinct kick in. Just like the other man before me, I turn around abruptly, trying to escape from the seclusion I willingly put myself in just to avoid standing directly at the canteen's entrance.

I barely manage to take two steps. An iron grip clamps around my wrist and yanks me back so forcefully that I almost stumble. A moment long, our eyes meet. My panicked shock meets his undisguised anger. How could he even think of attacking me in broad daylight? Here of all places, where someone else's Head-movement would be enough to alert. I really hope you can bring us the attention we need to finally be heard.

As it dawns on me that this won't be a lengthy process, the man also opens his mouth. "I wish I had the time to really make you suffer," he whispers to me, confirming my suspicion as if he could read my thoughts. A second later, I feel the wall at my back again and his knife at my throat. His eyes travel up my neck to my hair, and a small, malicious grin creeps onto the stranger's face. "But I never say no to a little fun."

-

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