61st Games Post-Death Reports [Clover's gift]

To Claws:

Or, if you prefer, To Louse. Depends on how attached you are to the rhyme scheme.

Well, what do you want, a congratulations? Yeah, right. Honestly, you were probably my third guess for victor. I mean, it obviously wasn't going to be Baby Rey, with his ridiculous anchor, or Mini-Mace, that big softie. And, hey, it was nice of me to get rid of the girl who held the spot above you (but obviously below me) wasn't it? Yeah, you're welcome. I've had some time to dwell on it, and came to the conclusion awhile ago that killing Penelope was my undoing and, by the same token, your salvation. The key there, of course, was that Fish Ripley.

You know, I'm actually a little surprised that you turned on him the way you did; they way I saw it in the Arena, the two of you were a matched set. Of course, the whole of your little gang was a little nauseating with that whole we're-family-no-I-swear-we-love-each-other bit, but even beyond that, you two were a pair, weren't you? Friends or buddies, or soul mates, or whatever crap you cooked up. Court jesters was the theme, wasn't it? But that's how it was in my head, anyhow, I remember that. It was Fits and Claws. Louse and Fish. Whatever. Anyhow, I did you a real favor getting him all riled up the day before you killed him. You noticed, I imagine, how he wasn't quite in his right mind, how he hesitated just long enough for you to go in for the kill? Yeah, like I said, you're welcome. While I certainly didn't mean for it to save your ass, that was still my doing.

Anyhow, I deviated from the point a little bit. The point is, I am — to some extent — proud of you, winning the way you did. I don't know if you turned on him because he was obviously the biggest threat (clearly he's capable of great things if he managed to take me down — though, in my defense, I'd been through hell and back already; he practically didn't have a scratch on him when we met up) or if you turned on him because you wanted to ensure that your district won, or if you turned on him just because you're the same kind of wretch that I am, but I certainly applaud the treachery. It makes for a great show — and so what if you're the bad guy? Audiences eat that betrayal garbage up like it's tesserae grain. It breaks their wee little hearts to think of how much hurt you must've caused Fishface in his last moments — and I'm not talking about how you couldn't even bring yourself to lop off his head or something humane like that. How you just cut him and let him bleed. Good Ripred that was delightful, how you devastated him like that.

So, yeah, whatever, good for you and all that obligatory bullshit. Enjoy your Stark Harper seal of approval; I'm sure, from our few run-ins — the Bloodbath, the Feast — you can imagine how rare they are.

I hope you're enjoying your sleepless nights.
— Stark Harper

There are some days when I forget that I’m dead.

The afterlife is an endless blur, an infinity that spins on and on through summer heat and autumn colors and winter winds all in one day. (There’s never spring here. Spring means rebirth, life, and that is the only thing we may not have.) I often go down to the market, though I’m not really certain why. It’s nice down there, though. The people don’t even look like I imagined ghosts to me, their skin warm and solid rather than frigid and transparent, cheeks brightly flushed rather than hollow. My age varies when I skip down the path canopied by trees - some mornings I’m five years old and doing cartwheels, and others I’m ten and skipping, and others still I’m seventeen and happier than I ever remember being when I was alive.

When I was alive. I don’t really think about it that often. In this eternity, my life feels like a single instant, a snap of the fingers that lead to this bliss. Mother doesn’t mention it, not ever. No one does. I think they’ve forgotten, but that’s okay. There was nothing significant about the lives we lived save the fact that it was a test that led us here. And here is far better than there - here there are summer mornings when I read on the porch swing while mother makes lunch inside, and autumn afternoons where I climb high up into the trees with some of the friends I’ve made here, and winter nights spent telling stories with old friends in front of the fire. Occasionally at the market some people will strike up a tune and everyone will dance, spinning and laughing until they are breathless. I like to climb up onto the rooftops and watch when that happens.

Today, though, there is no dancing or storytelling or climbing or reading. Today, it rains, a thunderstorm that drags its crystalline fingers down our windowpanes and whispers above us. I light the candles throughout the house while mother vanishes into the basement to read. I choose to sit by the windowsill, a sphere of warm light illuminating my face while I watch the showers beyond our house. It doesn’t rain here often, so it’s not a sad thing, like it was back when I was alive. Instead, it is fascinating and beautiful and quiet, a cleansing of the afterlife. Usually it means the arrival of another young soul, like myself. Mother says it rained for many days before I came. That’s how they know when the Games have arrived - the storms come and don’t leave for a long time.

A knock sounds suddenly at our door, quick, neat raps causing it to bounce on its loose hinges. I glance over at the stairs across the room, but Mother must not have heard. I rise to my feet and hurry over, tugging at the stubborn doorknob and then ushering the wet stranger inside. That’s another thing about this place - you trust everyone. They wouldn’t be here if they were bad. Without turning to face our guest, I gesture toward the sofa and begin to head toward the basement. “Please, sit down. I’ll get my mother.” I haven’t been dead long enough for any visitors to come for me.

“That won’t be necessary, Ms. Lenstil,” a cheerful, oddly familiar voice replies. “I’ve come to talk to you.”

Frowning, I turn slowly and peer through the dim light. I can recognize a deep blue suit and odd hairstyle, and my eyebrows shoot up. “... Caesar Flickerman?” But then I see the angles of his face are somewhat different, the shape of his face slightly altered, and I realize that this isn’t him. A dead ringer, but not him. “Sir, I’m sorry, but, ah... who are you?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, Destiny,” the man replies enthusiastically, as if that answers my question. “An interview, if you will, about the 61st Hunger Games.”

My eyes flicker closed and suddenly my life isn’t just a moment before forever - it is minutes, hours, days of torture that strike painfully into my chest. My lips press together firmly and I sigh, shaking my head before gazing at the man evenly. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to leave now.”

“I’m afraid I can’t, Ms. Lenstil,” he says brightly, straightening his back slightly and glancing back over his shoulder at the window I had been sitting at moments ago. “You see, it’s raining, and if I leave now I’ll dirty the afterlife and this whole process will have to start all over again. Don’t you know that?”

I didn’t, but I pretend otherwise, nodding and sitting down stiffly in one of our kitchen chairs. It creaks under my light weight, the only sound besides our voices and the quiet hum of the raindrops hitting our roof. “Fine, then. You may remain for now.”

“And the interview?”

“The Games are a past I’d rather not dredge up at the moment, sir,” I say, my voice steady though my hands fidget, fingers twisting in my lap. “I’m perfectly happy here, where I don’t have to remember them.”

“The Games are not something you should forget, Ms. Lenstil, if you don’t mind me saying so,” all the while he keeps a light, polite tone, as if we’re talking about something beautiful and happy. But we’re not. We’re talking about blood and agony and betrayal. “It is good to remember the pain. To know why you’re here.”

“You were not in them,” I’m angry, now, though I’m not really sure why. My voice rises slightly. “You speak of what you do not know. The Games were horrible, and if you were me you would do everything you could to banish them from your mind.”

“I think they’d be quite exciting,” he says, smiling. “Quite an adventure.”

“An adventure?” My pitch raises as I stare at him, wondering just how much of an idiot he is. “Exciting? Do you have any idea what it’s really like? What I went through?”

“No,” he says brightly. “That’s why I’m here, Ms. Lenstil. We all know that you went crazy in the Games. That you fell apart. But what we don’t know is what it was like for you, truly. All we ever heard were the crazy ramblings of a strange little girl. But there was more to it, wasn’t there? There must have been.”

I pause. Yes, there was more to it. So much more. There was heartbreak and betrayal and fear and anger and brokenness, something the Capitolites would never understand unless I told them directly. Unless I told him directly. I hesitate. Maybe this is my chance to become someone other than the girl who went insane in the 61st Annual Hunger Games.

“Alright,” I sigh heavily, running my palms up and down my thighs to warm them. “I’ll do it.”

“Fantastic,” the strange man grins from ear to ear, stretching his freakish figures and making him look almost grotesque. “Let’s begin then, shall we? FIrst and foremost, how do you feel about your killer and former ally winning the Games?”

I shift and the chair creaks again. At least the first question is somewhat easy, although it forces me to remember lying in agony upon the sand while my head rested on Klaus’ lap and we watched the sunset together. “Klaus still is my ally. Killing me didn’t change that. I was the one who asked him to do it. And I’m glad he won. He... he was good, in a way that I don’t think any of the rest of us were. Brave. He held it together when I fell apart.”

“So you aren’t angry about losing?” Surprise is clear in the man’s voice and his eyebrows climb close to his hairline. “You don’t wish it had gone differently?”

I turn my head toward the window, trying to join together the right words. “I’d like to say that Klaus deserved it more than the rest of us, but that’s a bit tricky. Surely someone could say that the mother should have won, or the twin, or the girl who lost every person she ever loved. But the truth is, none of us were... I don’t know, pure? Not like him, anyway. He was like... like the sun. And we were just tiny stars in comparison.”

It’s a horrible metaphor, but I’ve never been good with words. The man nods, though, as if he knows exactly what I’m talking about. “Are you glad he killed you, then? Do you like being dead?”

It’s the most ridiculous question I’ve heard, insensitive in it’s ignorance, the kind only a Capitolite would ask, so I can’t help but give a snort of laughter. “As much as anyone can, I guess.” A pause. “I mean... dying wasn’t pleasant, and I wouldn’t encourage anyone to do it willingly, but the afterlife’s really nice. It’s like the home I never had.”

“Indeed,” he nods again, like he’s known all of this before I’m saying it, but before I can be annoyed by that he’s asking another question. “Now Destiny, when you fought Pandora Woodard’s alliance, Klaus didn’t attack the boy you loved. And yet, you can’t say the same. You nearly killed the person he loved. How does that make you feel?”

I chew on my bottom lip, frowning. “Guilty, of course. Just another reason why Klaus is a better victor than I could ever be. That’s one of the reasons I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had killed me in spite. He didn’t, though. He did it because he felt sorry for me. I guess that makes me all the more despicable, doesn’t it?”

“So how do you live with yourself here, then?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug, drawing my legs up onto the chair and hugging my knees close. “I forget, I guess. That’s all I really can do anymore.”

“If you could have done anything differently in the Games, what would it have been?”

I stare at the worn floorboards. There are so many things I know he expects me to say. I wouldn’t have fallen for Pan, I would have left my alliance to be with him, I wouldn’t have killed the boy Klaus loved, I would have left with Fitz the night before I died. But the truth is, those aren’t the things I regret the most. “I wouldn’t have lost myself. I wouldn’t have gone insane. Maybe people would have seen more to me if I had kept my head. I was weak, and I think I hate that more than anything.”

Suddenly I notice the absence of the whisper around our house, and look outside to see the rain’s stopped.

“Well,” the man says, standing up and brushing himself off. “I suppose that’s my cue to leave. It was very nice speaking with you, Ms. Lenstil.”

“Likewise,” I say, though that’s a blatant lie. I show him to the door politely, closing it firmly behind him and then leaning against the framework, dipping my head down. I want to cry. I want to cry, but I don’t. Maybe he was right. Maybe I need to remember what happened, the reason I’m here. But as rays of sunlight begin to burn through the clouds, I realize that even in the afterlife, in the choice between what is right and what is easy, I always choose the wrong thing.

I open the door again, run out into the puddles, and forget.