Chapter Text
“How do we stop this? It won't just be district eight for long. Her face is everywhere. The people are constantly reminded of what she did. The rebellion will call upon her. They will manipulate her. They will use her, and it will not be so easily stopped.”
The President stood looking out the window into his rose garden, at the gray rain falling on the white petals and dark green leaves. He turned to Heavensbee, a small smile growing on his face.
“We distract her. Fray her nerves. We make her so scared, so alone, that she is incapable of thinking clearly enough to be what the people need her to be. We isolate her, make her loved ones question her. We make the most of her fear . . . And oh, yes, she has plenty to fear.”
When I finally work up the nerve to cross the threshold into the office, I find President Snow sitting in the wing-backed chair behind the desk, and he hasn't disturbed so much as a mote of the dust that has gathered on the surface. None of us has found a reason to use this room, so we simply keep it closed. Until today, that is. I sit in the chair opposite him.
He's smoking from a pipe, intricately carved with thin swirls and curved lines. A memory of Effie comes to mind, our first train ride, her exclamation when I stabbed the dining table with my knife. And Haymitch, his warnings, I hadn't guessed how right he was. I'll tell him later, if I make it out of this room in one piece.
“Is that mahogany?” I blurt out, bringing my mind back, I know I must be careful or this visit could go from an unpleasant surprise to something much worse.
Snow tilts his head to one side for a second, a look of open curiosity on his face. Then he barks out a laugh that sounds almost sincere. “I'm sure Effie Trinket would be very proud of you, Miss Everdeen. Yes, this is mahogany. I do so love the rusty shade of the wood.” Rusty. The color of the blood that dried on Rue's shirt.
The smoke begins to fill the office, for all its space and high ceilings. It smells spicy, green and wet, entirely different from the smoke rolls that the miners light so quickly upon emerging from the ground. The president seems perfectly at his ease, waiting on some cue, some word from me. As the silence edges on, my head starts to feel fuzzy. It must be the smoke. I do not run from the room, I know I should say something. I need to know why he is here, so far from the comforts of the Capitol. But I hesitate. My heart has started beating a rapid rhythm, the sound drumming in my ears. I don't know if he can hear it. He chooses to end the silence.
“Before you speak, I think we can make this situation much simpler by agreeing not to lie to each other. What do you think, Miss Everdeen?”
Unable to think of another response, I nod my head.
“That's my good girl.” I visibly shiver at the thought of being his anything, but I don't think he sees, so he continues, “I had wondered if you would make this difficult, what with your penchant for breaking rules... But no. That would be a waste of the gift given to you at the end, in the Arena.”
I blink several times, incredulous. The words come out before I can stop them. “What do you mean, gift? That was no gift. It was a checkmate.” I only hope my memories of chess haven't been rendered incorrect over the passing of years, those memories of my father's coal-stained fingers gently toppling the queen.
Stop. This is what he wants. I can hear Haymitch inside my head, “Focus, sweetheart.”
Snow laughs again, the sound bitter as he rises from his seat and saunters to my chair. He positions himself in front of me, leaning back against the desk. He looks down at me. He's taller in person than he seems on the television. Whatever frailty his age implies is dashed when the lines of his body are seen up close. Despite his medically extended years, his body remains sturdy and strong. My instinct is to flee, and I'm afraid that he really can hear the almighty sound of my drumming heart. The fear of the Arena pales in comparison with this moment. Here, I am unarmed, my family surrounded by his agents. Their lives depend on how I deal with this situation. Before I can look up, he reaches down with his free hand, firmly grips the tip of my chin, and turns my face up to his, close enough to smell his breath.
“A gift of two lives, a gift that Seneca Crane paid for with his own. Of course, I think he got the short end of the stick, as they say.”
The smell of blood and roses assaults my nose, more intense than anything I've ever experienced. He moves quickly out of range as I double over, dry heaving, and I understand that whatever he has burning in that pipe is not just for his pleasure; it is meant for me as well. It must be meant to subdue or incapacitate me, but it has also heightened my senses, and the cloying rose sweetness on his breath has struck a nerve. It is so artificial. I smelled it once long ago, when my father bought some of the dearly priced blooms for my mother. I remember him telling me that they had been grown and bred so long that they only smelled vaguely like the wild roses of generations ago. That perfume, and the metallic scent of blood, and I am back in the forest, my hands covered with crimson and I am screaming over Rue's broken little body. I shudder and heave, steeling my body for stillness as I sit back up. He's behind me now, leaning close to my ear, whispering. I hold my breath this time.
“Are you frightened, Katniss? I think fear would be wise right now. Fear could save you. Bravery could hurt you. Maybe not today. But someday. Maybe during one of your Sunday romps in the forest. Or while you walk from the Seam to this house, those places where you think you are safe and unheard. Are you scared enough to listen to me, girl on fire?”
“Yes. Yes, I am frightened.” My voice sounds dead, flat. I feel as though I've floated above my body, watching from a spot near the ceiling.
“These uprisings are because of you. Because of your little checkmate, as you so cleverly put it. Your selfish, albeit strategic, attempt at justice in the Arena has put us all in a very tight bind. The very idea of you, of those berries, fuels that same idea of justice in the people of my country. People who, left to their own devices, would fight until we reached the ruination of our land, of our existence. I cannot allow that kind of self-destruction, especially when it parades among the people under the veil of self-preservation.”
He has moved back to his spot in front of the desk, and continues to puff on the pipe, one arm across his chest, the other holding the wooden piece close to his face. The spicy sweet smell of earth continues to fill the air around me. “You must stop fighting. You must fade, your fire must be put out. Do you understand that? Does your fear tell you what your mind will not?”
I don't know what to do. My head is cloudy and I only know that I want it to stop. I don't want to tell him any more about my fear, about the fright so constant that I can't even sleep for the nightmares. I don't want to beg. But it's not that easy. It never is when the Capitol is involved.
“I will tell you, Katniss. What I want you to do. Ask me. I will save your precious Peeta, I will feed your -” he pauses, the smirk unseen but nevertheless present - “cousins. I will remove Prim's name from the reaping ball. Just ask me. Get down on those sturdy knees of yours and beg me.”
I slowly stand, not wanting to increase my humiliation by getting dizzy and falling over. Before I can move to the floor, he is upon me, the mouthpiece of the pipe shoved between my lips, his left arm around my back to keep me from falling, ordering me, “Inhale.” The speed of the onslaught has made everything blurry, and I obey before my mind recovers. The smoke burns the back of my throat and I cough, making the pain worse. He moves far enough away for me to double over, sucking in a breath through my nose, holding it in until my sides stop shuddering. I immediately feel a change, the direct smoke so much more potent than what I got secondhand, earlier.
He still stands before me, so close, but I refuse to play along, to fall into a pitiful heap at his feet. With a caution that makes it seem an eternity, I kneel onto my knees, placing my palms on the tops of my thighs. I feel the weave of my soft woolen pants under my fingers, and as I duck my head down, my unbound hair slides down to shutter my vision. All I see is the ornate pattern of the carpet, and it's swimming. I close my eyes, trying to avoid my senses as they overload. I hear a rustle and know that when I open my eyes, I will see his face. They open. His irises are a cold, pale blue. If he were not my enemy, I would call them beautiful.
STOP THIS NOW, I tell myself, you are in danger, Peeta, Mother, Gale, Prim. They need you to pay attention.
“Please. Tell me what you want me to do. I will do anything. Hurt me. Make me lie. Don't make anyone else pay for what I've done.”
Snow doesn't breathe, doesn't move, for several seconds. My head continues to swirl in confused loops. “What's in the pipe?” I ask, unable to stop myself. My mind and body seem disconnected. I feel myself losing whatever small bit of control I had. Fear no longer describes what I'm feeling. I am terrified of this man, of what he might want. All the depraved rumors of Capitol practices come back to mind, the whispers of what happens to victors like Finnick O'Dair who aren't allowed to return home, the tricks more grotesque than dyeing your skin green or tattooing yourself with gold eyeliner.
“It has many names... Catnip being one.” He is still kneeling in front of me, and he knows what Gale called me that day in the forest. What else does he know? What has he seen? “Do you like how it makes you feel?” He reaches his hand out, and instead of the violence I expect, he lays his palm on my cheek. It is cold and the skin is smooth, almost too smooth, but for a moment I lean into it, the cool feel of it soothing my fevered cheek. The small movement is not lost on him.
“Do you like how my skin feels on yours?” I catch myself, and feel disgusted, but before I can move away, his other hand comes up to the back of my neck, so quick and strong, his face so near, his nostrils flaring for the scent of my hair.
“Oh yes, it does feel good, doesn't it? Your young body so full of promise, and you have not even allowed yourself the time to consider how good it can make you feel . . . You see, the human body is simply a physical thing. It will respond to pleasure and pain, seeking more of the former to stave off the latter. Sometimes pain can be pleasant, as well. Our bodies so readily respond to these stimuli, it is nearly impossible to fight, especially in your intoxicated state. Not that you would, my dear girl. Am I correct? I would hate to spill your blood on this beautiful carpet, or tarnish any more rooms in this house than necessary.”
My mind, however muddled, fills with images of Prim being tortured, of my mother in agony, of Gale strung up on that post, Peeta and Haymitch restrained and forced to observe our pain. I can't allow it to happen, but how can I succumb to what Snow is ordering of me? I breathe. I try to bring order to my words. I have to agree before I kill us all with my reluctance.
“Is this all you want, then? Me? My body?”
“Yes. And your silence. We can work through your – shall we say – public relations plan at a later date. I think this is enough for one day.”
“Will you remove Prim's name from the Reaping?”
“Yes.”
I suck in a breath before asking the last question. “Does my family know that this is why you are here? Will you tell anyone about this?”
He chuckles. “My dear, would you tell anyone?” I shake my head.
“No, I didn't think so. Your family is unaware of my purpose here, although I'm sure they have some suspicions related to the Games. I myself have disclosed my true purpose to no one.”
I hesitate only a moment. “All right. I will do what you want.”
“Thank you,” he says quietly, and I find those words of gratitude to be the strangest thing that has happened in our entire encounter. He gently, softly pushes me to the floor, to my back, and positions his body over mine. He brings his mouth to my throat, his lips such a startling sensation that it almost burns, and his sweet metal breath hits me, and it takes everything in me to lie still, not to fight. He begins to move me as he desires, and I stay stoic, remain quiet, as long as possible.
But he was right. My body is responsive. I do what he wants. In the end, I find myself seeking out his touch instead of simply allowing it. I find myself begging. And I hate myself, because it feels better than anything I've known before.
Later, after he finishes with me, he gets dressed. I start to move and he orders me to lie still before walking to the door and opening it, stepping briefly into the hall. I don't move, but I hear his one or two whispered words, and shortly after, a woman in clean, crisp white clothes comes before me. She positions a pillow under my hips and tells me to lie still like that for several minutes. She finds a vein in my arm and injects me with some mysterious substance. She reaches down between my legs and I close my eyes, ignoring the violation of the area, biting back a cry, it still feels so sensitive. She withdraws, wipes down her hands, and covers me with a thin, folded linen blanket from her case before leaving. President Snow stands across the room, and as my head clears, I begin to feel vulnerable in this awkward position.
He stares down at me, breathing. No more pipe, no more bargaining. After a few moments he walks to the chair where he had placed my clothing, and brings them over to me, kneels down next to my prone body.
“Katniss, I am going to leave now. After I close the door behind me, I want you to count to three hundred, and then you may rise. Get up; get yourself dressed. Leave this room; close it off forever if you like. Once you come out, my agents will leave your home with no further words or action. Go about your day. Pretend, if you like, that this never happened. Or perhaps you will find yourself remembering, in your bed, in the lonely hours of the night...” He stands once more, and I hear him walk to the door. “Goodbye for now, Miss Everdeen. And may the odds . . . be ever in your favor.”
I don't understand his last statement, so I simply do as he bids, and once the door is closed, I count to three hundred.
I stand up, wincing at the unfamiliar pain between my legs and in my abdomen. I dress slowly, quietly.
I look at myself in the mirror until I believe the calm mask of my face.
I open the door, and follow the Peacekeepers down the stairs, out of my house. I don't speak. My sister and mother rush to me, embrace me, and I let them. I go about the rest of my day. Later, I go to bed. I lie still in the dark, not sleeping, because I am afraid that what I dream tonight will scare me more than anything I've seen since being chosen for the Games.
Three weeks later, I find myself ill. After the third straight day of not being able to eat anything without it coming back up, it finally clicks. I know what is happening. How the president knew all of my fears, how well he has this all in hand.
He times it well, the phone call. He doesn't bother with an actual visit. He doesn't need to be in my home to instill fear in my heart. His plan is beautiful. The pregnancy will remain a mystery – but of course, my family can count, can they not? The seeds of suspicion will be well planted by the time I begin to show, and I expect his threats before he speaks them: that, should something cause me to lose the baby, he will not hesitate to place Prim in the Arena, will find Gale, hunt him down in the woods like the game he chases.
He sounds like he is smiling when he alludes to future plans, to the child, what it will mean to Panem. I stop caring about his words. I stop breathing, I don't try to ask him what he means. He lays out all my fears like playing cards, one by one, trick after trick.
I had wanted the fear to end on the floor of that office. I had begged for it. But I understand now that it was only the beginning.